Thorn in My Heart by Liz Curtis Higgs Page A

A plaid on rocky ground and stale bannocks from a pouch were good enough for one night but a poor prospect for several nights in a row, even if he still had such things in his possession, which he did not.
    Behold, I am with you.
    The hairs on the back of his neck rose to attention. A remnant from his troubled sleep perhaps. Or the lingering taste of Jacob's ladder. It was decidedly of the God of Abraham and Isaac, not the God of his grandfather Archibald and his father, Alec. Only a dream at the end of a wretched day. He was alone and must fend for himself, without silver or copper, without map or compass. Taking hold of the horses reins, Jamiedescended into die glen, toward the opposite side of the loch from Glentrool. He would head due east through the mountains. Not the longer, more civilized route south, then east through
clachans
and burghs, as he'd planned. Rather, the shorter, wilderness trek toward the Rhinns of Kells and across Raploch Moss, with only his horse and the rising sun to guide him.
    It was rough going, dodging boulders as he threaded through the ancient forest of oak and hazel. An occasional break in the trees gave him a last look at Glentrool. He slowed, finding it hard to bid farewell to the place he'd called home. There was the island he and Evan had paddled out to as lads. The steep falls of Buchan Burn, whose rushing waters had lulled him to sleep on warm summer nights. By day the twins had often shoved each other into the Buchan's turbulent linns, arriving home cut, bruised, and laughing. Whatever brotherly relationship they'd once had, it was gone by the time they were grown, ruined by greed, pride, envy, anger—he no longer knew which to blame.
    Jamie rode across the meadows beyond the loch, pausing at Glen-head for a final backward glance before resolutely turning east, swallowing hard as he rode. The sun arced across the sky at an autumn angle, its warmth a welcome hedge against the stiff winds blowing down from the Merrick range. Now and again he spied a fox darting through the undergrowth though nothing edible crossed his path. Walloch was well satisfied with the bubbling water of Glenhead Burn and the abundance of grass along its banks. Jamie's stomach was not so easily appeased. As the day wore on, it ceased growling and merely ached. He scoured the ground for berries and searched the sparse woodlands for a wild apple tree. Thoughts of food consumed him.
    The woods gave way to stark moors and rocky fells. Above him, brown-and-white goats perched on craggy shelves no wider than their hooves, looking down at the intruder on horseback. Their staccato bleating sounded as if they were laughing at his plight.
Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.
Across the vast track of moorland, the distant call of red grouse taunted him.
Go-back, go-back, go-back.
The hours dragged on, gray andcolorless as the landscape. His seat ached from riding, his hands from gripping the reins. By late afternoon when a shepherd's bothy came into view, Jamie offered up a grateful prayer and urged Walloch forward toward the low cottage. The walls were made of rough stone without mortar, the roof thatched with heather. A bright-eyed shepherd came out to greet him, bearing a brimless Scotch bonnet on his head and a kind smile on his weathered face.
    “D'ye ken whaur ye're goin, lad?”
    Jamie waved vaguely toward the moors. “East to New Galloway, then south along the banks of the Ken.”
    The older man appraised horse and rider, eyebrows arched. “Not a path the
gentrice
usually favor.”
    Jamie only shrugged in agreement, hoping to discourage any further questions.
    “Names Gordie Briggs,” the shepherd offered, jerking his head toward the cottage. “Join me for a bit o’ supper? ‘Tis naught but broth and barley, hardly what ye're used to eatin, but—”
    “Aye.” Jamie had already dismounted, not caring how eager he appeared. “Much obliged, Gordie.” He followed him inside, noting the freshly swept earthen floor and the stone