Page 13 of A Healer for the Wicked Highlander

“Me maither,” she said finally, setting her spoon down. “She was a healer. Taught me everythin’ I ken.”

Wasa healer. That was the most difficult thing to say, although so many years had already passed. People lied when they said that time healed all wounds. Some would always be left unhealed.

Almost as if he sensed her profound pain, he didn’t ask for more clarification. Instead, he offered his own.

“I wish the lad’s own maither taught him more before she left,” he said.

“Oh…” Freya said softly, wondering if it was her place to inquire more deeply.

Then, he himself continued. “There are many things a lad needs a maither for, things I cannae teach him.”

She could imagine that to be true. She could also hear the notes of regret in his voice. She wondered if he missed his late wife as much as his son missed his late mother. But she knew better than to ask.

“Ye’ve been doin’ yer best,” she said instead.

“But sometimes, is one’s best enough?” he asked, and his question caught her off guard, for it was the question she had been asking herself with her sisters. Could she ever fill the shoes of those who were not there, those who were supposed to guide and protect?

Then, she thought of the perfect answer. “It has to be, me laird.”

Her words made him smile. They finished the rest of the meal in silence, though the atmosphere between them felt slightly less tense. Freya found herself stealing a glance at him now and then, curious despite herself. There was something about the laird’s intensity that made it hard to look away, even when she knew she should.

About half an hour later, Freya leaned back in her chair. She glanced toward Cody, his small chest rising and falling in a rhythm that was steady, if not entirely reassuring. The laird sat near the bed, his large frame seeming to dwarf the simple chair he occupied. His eyes were closed, and his face, usually so stern and controlled, appeared softer in sleep.

Freya’s gaze lingered on him for a moment longer than she intended. She had to admit, even grudgingly, that his devotion tohis son was admirable. No matter his gruff exterior, the laird was clearly a man who would do anything for those he cared about.

Freya rested her head against the back of her chair, intending only to close her eyes for a moment. Her mind drifted despite herself, thoughts tangled between worry for Cody and the unexpected presence of his father.

Sleep stole over her before she could fight it, but one thought lingered.

Come back to us, Cody. We’re all waitin’ for ye…

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Who are ye?” A soft, curious voice pulled Freya from her slumber.

Her eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, she was disoriented by her surroundings—the small, sparsely decorated chamber, the lingering scent of herbs, and the warmth of the morning sun filtering through the window. Then she remembered.

Cody. The laird. The desperate night before.

Turning her head, she saw Cody sitting up slightly in his bed, his wide, pale blue eyes fixed on her. His cheeks still carried the pallor of illness, but his fever had broken, leaving his skin cool and faintly flushed. Relief flooded through her chest like a tide.

“Good mornin’, Cody,” she said softly, offering him a reassuring smile. “I’m Freya, a healer. I’m here to help ye get better.”

Cody’s gaze flickered to her cautiously, but he didn’t recoil. Instead, he reached a small hand to touch the edge of the blanket, his fingers toying with it nervously.

“Where’s me da?” he asked in a small voice.

Freya leaned forward, her voice gentle. “He’s right here, lad. Sleepin’ just over there.” She glanced toward the laird, slumped in the chair near the bed, his arms crossed and his head tilted awkwardly.

Freya hesitated for a moment before deciding to wake him. “Laird McEwan,” she called softly at first, then more firmly. “Laird McEwan!”

He jolted upright, his hand instinctively reaching for his sword at his belt, though there was none. His dark eyes snapped open, darting around the room before landing on Cody.

“Da,” Cody whispered, his voice weak but steady.

The laird was on his feet in an instant, striding to the bed and dropping to his knees beside it. “Cody,” he murmured, his hands cradling his son’s small face. “Ye’re awake.”

Cody gave him a faint smile, his fingers brushing against his father’s larger hand. “Aye, Da.”