Page 34 of A Healer for the Wicked Highlander

Her chest tightened again, but she forced her smile to remain steady. “Aye, yer da is very quick,” she agreed.

She watched as he turned his attention back to his toys, the moment of seriousness passing as quickly as it had come. He picked up the carved horse again, trotting it across the rug with soft neighing sounds.

Freya stayed for a while, watching him play. There was a fragile kind of peace in the room, and she wanted to savor it, to hold on to this moment where Cody was carefree and untouched by the darker truths of the world.

“I’ll come back to see ye in a bit, all right?” she asked, lingering in the doorway.

“All right, Mistress Freya,” he nodded, waving at her.

She stepped out into the hall, closing the door gently behind her. Her heart felt heavier than before, weighed down by the knowledge of how close they had come to losing that bright, innocent boy. But she resolved to protect his peace for as long as she could.

That, at least, what she could control.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“Nay one saw a bloody thing?” Michael demanded, his voice a sharp crack in the air. His dark brows knit together as he glared at his men.

“Aye, me laird,” said Brodie, his oldest and most trusted guard, who had always been there, present but invisible, as a good guard ought to be. “As per yer allowance, I went to escort me sister back home, but everyone else should have been at their posts, as always. Still, it seems that none of them caught anythin’ out of the ordinary.”

“Nae a shadow, nae a figure slinkin’ in the trees? Are ye tellin’ me an arrow flew out of naywhere, aimed at me bairn, and nae one of ye has an inklin’ who fired it?”

Silence. The men exchanged uneasy glances, but no one dared speak.

“Ye’re all blind, then?” Michael growled, his hands tightening into fists. “A man doesnae fire an arrow without leavin’ some trace. Think, for God’s sake! There’s got to be somethin’—anythin’—that seemed off.”

Hamish, the youngest of the guards, stepped forward hesitantly. “Me laird, I swear to ye, the woods were quiet. Too quiet, maybe. But we dinnae see or hear a thin’. If there was a threat, it vanished like a ghost.”

“Like a ghost,” Michael muttered under his breath, turning his back to them and staring into the fire. Ghosts didn’t shoot arrows, but a cunning man could slip away unnoticed, especially if he knew the land well.

“Search the woods again,” he barked, turning abruptly to face his men. “And this time, use yer bloody eyes. Tracks, broken branches, footprints in the mud—there’s somethin’ out there, and I’ll nae rest until we ken who dared threaten me son.”

The guards nodded, a murmured “Aye, me laird,” rippling through them before they filed out of the hall. Michael stayed behind, staring into the flames, his mind racing.

What was he missing? He rubbed his jaw, his thoughts circling back to the arrow itself. It had been finely made, not the kind of rough-hewn weapon one might expect from a common hunter or poacher. Nay, this was crafted with purpose, precision, and malice.

Deciding to let the guards take care of the search, he climbed the winding stone stairs to Cody’s chamber, his footsteps quieter now. The thought of losing his son, his only family, gnawed at him like a wolf at the bone. He paused before the heavy oak door, running a hand through his hair, steadying himself.

When he pushed the door open, he found Cody sitting cross-legged on the rug near the hearth, wooden soldiers spread before him in neat rows. The boy’s tongue poked out slightly in concentration as he maneuvered one soldier to clash against another, the quiet sound of wood tapping wood filling the room.

Michael was relieved. Cody looked so peaceful, so utterly unaware of the danger that had brushed by him like a shadow.

“Are ye winnin’, lad?” Michael asked.

Cody looked up, his face lighting with a grin. “Aye, Da! See? This one’s the commander,” he said, holding up a soldier painted with a red tunic and a tin sword. “He’s leadin’ the charge!”

Michael crouched down, resting his arms on his knees, his large frame dwarfing the little boy. “A fine commander, that. Ye’ve got the makings of a strategist, Cody. Ye’d make any army proud.”

Cody’s grin widened, and he turned back to his soldiers, moving them into battle formations with all the seriousness of a general. Michael watched him for a moment, his heart aching with a mix of pride and fear.

“Cody,” he began, his voice gentler now, “do ye ken what happened this mornin’?”

The boy looked up, his brow furrowing slightly. “Nay, Da. Ye and Mistress Freya were talkin’, then ye caught an arrow and made us run back to the house. Did I do somethin’ wrong?”

“Wrong?” Michael shook his head quickly, reaching out to ruffle Cody’s dark curls. “Nay, son. Ye did just as ye should’ve. Ye were brave, aye?”

Cody beamed at the praise, but his little face remained curious. “Why did ye make me run, Da? Was it a game?”

Michael hesitated, his chest tightening. How could he explain the danger without stealing the innocence that still lit Cody’s eyes? He sat down cross-legged beside his son, picking up one of the wooden soldiers.