Bruar's Rest

green ones for that coat of yours, girlie, but me fingers couldn’t hold a needle. I dare say you’re a dab hand with it, though.’ She was trying to get Megan’s mind off Buckley.
    ‘You must be kidding, Mother, I’m useless at sewing. But Rachel, well, she could sew clouds together, could that sister of mine.’
    ‘Where is she? Did I hear you once say to Ruth she went to America?’
    ‘Oh, it’s a long story—but yes, with her wee laddie, Nicholas.’
    Her companion smiled in a sad way. ‘Do you know that two centuries or so past, hundreds of gypsies were rounded up and sent off to America as slaves? Dreadful times they were, bad days indeed.’
    ‘Rachel was promised a far wealthier existence than a slave’s. I would imagine it wasn’t without sacrifice, though.’
    ‘And do you wish to tell me what it was that cost her so dear?’
    ‘She handed over something precious to a woman who had lost her husband when he was killed in the war. She’s a nice woman, owns a mighty big chunk of land with a castle sitting at its head.’
    ‘She sounds like aristocracy.’
    ‘Her full title is Lady Cortonach.’
    ‘What is it your sister sacrificed?’
    ‘For a better life than our ancestors provided, my sister gave her only child to the stranger, and for that I think she was wrong.’
    Mother Foy wasn’t judging, or listening for that matter: her old head lay upon the pillow and snores filled the silent night.
    This time the pee bucket sat in its corner, and as the clock on the narrow mantelpiece tick-ticked, Megan found her eyelids weighing heavy.
    But, thank heaven, whatever plans Buckley had for that night, they didn’t include the wagoners in the gorse field.

     
    New Years Eve came, and much to their relief he continued his absence from their remote campsite. Yet this did not stifle the awful memory of his presence, or the nagging fear that if a sound awakened them in the night, it would be him. While it was dark, Megan would stay forever vigilant. During the daylight hours, her thoughts turned to Beth. Without doubt Stephen had left her in good hands, but she needed to see for herself, anyway. Bull Buckley wasn’t a day person, she’d convinced herself of this. His type haunted shadows, moonlight and misty dawns.
    Mother Foy’s chest was sounding that crackle again. This worried both of them, but she too wished to know how Beth was doing, so agreed that Megan should pay her a visit. ‘I will be back in no time,’ she promised, ‘try to sleep.’
    With bedcovers wrapped under her chin, she said weakly, ‘When you return, I’ll show you how to prepare a cough medicine for me.’
    ‘All right, but keep your eye on the clock. I’ll be walking up those steps before the hour hand circles twice.’
    The weather showed no sign of mist, rain, sleet or snow, and the sky was clear blue. She could see for miles. High upon the horizon several sheep mingled with cows and munched on scattered hay. Spirals of smoke curled towards a frosty sun from faraway cottages. The silhouettes of naked trees and fence posts dominated the scene, and beyond was a church spire. Yes, it was a day to fill one’s mind with positive thoughts. ‘Us Scots look toward the coming of a brand new year,’ she mused. ‘Tonight I’ll share a dram with my old mate and toast my Bruar, and hopefully she’ll regain some strength so that I can make plans to move on.’
    Bull Buckley faded into a dark memory as she came upon the outhouses of the ranch. Beth was tied up outside in the cobbled courtyard. She called to her. The horse lifted her head and neighed back. The young man who’d been left in charge of the Irish stables came out to see who had arrived. At the same time both shielded their eyes from the sun’s glare to see each other. ‘Is that you Sam?’ She called to the young man walking nearer. ‘Is that Megan?’
    Of all people it had to be the lad from Burnstall Hall. He must have been in need of employment after all.
    ‘What of your mother?’
    ‘I was most grateful for the ten shilling, though it done little good. To tell the truth, she was already dying, but didn’t tell me.’
    ‘That’s a mother for you, always protecting her chicks. When did she pass away?’
    ‘Only last week I buried her. It felt lonely in our house—well, it wasn’t ours, it belonged to the landlord, so I had no choice but to leave. I knew of this place, and with me being all my life with horses, it was good luck the Irish took me