High on a Mountain Read Online Free PDF
Author: Tommie Lyn
could send her scurrying away.
“Don’t you remember me? I helped you with
your sheep a couple of weeks ago.”
A look of recognition flitted across her
face, and her shoulders, drawn tight, loosened, and she relaxed a
bit.
“My name is Ailean MacLachlainn.”
She dropped her gaze from him, stared down at
her feet, and her shoulders began to lose their hunched look. She
clasped her hands and began twisting her fingers together, still
not raising her eyes nor speaking.
“I just wanted to tell you again that I’m
sorry our cattle caused problems with your sheep.” He rubbed first
one foot, then the other, across the rough grass.
“Thank you,” she mumbled.
“I’ve told you my name. What’s yours?”
She glanced at him. “Mùirne…MacPhàrlain,” she
lied.
“Mùirne? That’s a lovely name.”
She blushed, smiled at him and lowered her
gaze again.
“So, do you live near here, Mùirne?”
She nodded, keeping her eyes lowered.
Ailean took one step closer to her and she
glanced up again, the blazing blue of her eyes causing Ailean to
catch his breath.
“Do you mind if I come to see you again,
Mùirne?”
“I…I don’t mind,” she said and turned her
eyes toward the ground once more.
“I have to go. My brother is waiting for me.”
He gestured toward Coinneach. But he made no move to leave.
Mùirne raised her gaze to meet his, and he
noticed the sprinkling of small freckles across her nose and
cheeks. She was so delicate and fragile, so small and defenseless.
He looked again into her eyes that were bluer than the sky above
her head, and he was totally captivated.
“I have to go now, but I’ll be back, Mùirne
MacPhàrlain.”
FOUR
Mùirne herded the sheep into the byre for the
night and fastened the gate. She wandered to the hearth and took
her seat, sitting on the edge of the chair, hands clasped in her
lap. Suppertime and the hours following it were her least favorite
time of the day.
Grandma and Granda MacPhàrlain sat on their
chairs on the other side of the fire. Her mother dipped a bowl of
stew from the iron pot for each of them and handed around slices of
bread. Mùirne devoured her food. She wanted to be done with it and
leave the warmth of the hearth for her bed, where she could pull
the covers over her head against the terrors of the darkness.
“Hello, the house!” a voice called from
outside.
A chill of recognition swept over Mùirne. No, not him!
Grandma smiled, gave Mùirne a knowing look
and rose from her chair. She went to the worktable, laid her bread
and bowl on it and hurried to the door. She straightened her
clothing, tucked a stray strand of gray hair under her curtch, and
raised the bar. She invited Latharn Cambeul in.
“Good evening,” he said, his voice as smooth
and soft as new-made butter, a polite smile affixed to his face. He
inclined his head in a slight bow.
“Please, sit,” Grandma said, gesturing to her
chair.
Mùirne’s stomach roiled, and she almost
retched. She wanted to run to her bed and hide under the covers but
hadn’t the strength to stand. And she knew from past experience
that Grandma would drag her back to her chair, make her endure the
presence of this…this…Cambeul.
Latharn exchanged pleasantries with her
mother and grandparents. He complimented them, ingratiated himself
further with them, then turned his attention to Mùirne. She kept
her eyes averted, wouldn’t meet his. She couldn’t bring herself to
look into his eyes, didn’t want to see past the thin veneer of
civility that covered his face like a mask and hid a mass of
ugliness beneath it.
She looked sideways at Grandma as her breaths
came faster. How could Grandma not see? How could she not know? How
could she insist that Mùirne’s future lay with this…Cambeul? Didn’t
she know that a life with him would be a living death for her
granddaughter?
The answer came as she saw a glint of greed
in Grandma’s eyes when they rested on Latharn. The money.
“Don’t you remember me? I helped you with
your sheep a couple of weeks ago.”
A look of recognition flitted across her
face, and her shoulders, drawn tight, loosened, and she relaxed a
bit.
“My name is Ailean MacLachlainn.”
She dropped her gaze from him, stared down at
her feet, and her shoulders began to lose their hunched look. She
clasped her hands and began twisting her fingers together, still
not raising her eyes nor speaking.
“I just wanted to tell you again that I’m
sorry our cattle caused problems with your sheep.” He rubbed first
one foot, then the other, across the rough grass.
“Thank you,” she mumbled.
“I’ve told you my name. What’s yours?”
She glanced at him. “Mùirne…MacPhàrlain,” she
lied.
“Mùirne? That’s a lovely name.”
She blushed, smiled at him and lowered her
gaze again.
“So, do you live near here, Mùirne?”
She nodded, keeping her eyes lowered.
Ailean took one step closer to her and she
glanced up again, the blazing blue of her eyes causing Ailean to
catch his breath.
“Do you mind if I come to see you again,
Mùirne?”
“I…I don’t mind,” she said and turned her
eyes toward the ground once more.
“I have to go. My brother is waiting for me.”
He gestured toward Coinneach. But he made no move to leave.
Mùirne raised her gaze to meet his, and he
noticed the sprinkling of small freckles across her nose and
cheeks. She was so delicate and fragile, so small and defenseless.
He looked again into her eyes that were bluer than the sky above
her head, and he was totally captivated.
“I have to go now, but I’ll be back, Mùirne
MacPhàrlain.”
FOUR
Mùirne herded the sheep into the byre for the
night and fastened the gate. She wandered to the hearth and took
her seat, sitting on the edge of the chair, hands clasped in her
lap. Suppertime and the hours following it were her least favorite
time of the day.
Grandma and Granda MacPhàrlain sat on their
chairs on the other side of the fire. Her mother dipped a bowl of
stew from the iron pot for each of them and handed around slices of
bread. Mùirne devoured her food. She wanted to be done with it and
leave the warmth of the hearth for her bed, where she could pull
the covers over her head against the terrors of the darkness.
“Hello, the house!” a voice called from
outside.
A chill of recognition swept over Mùirne. No, not him!
Grandma smiled, gave Mùirne a knowing look
and rose from her chair. She went to the worktable, laid her bread
and bowl on it and hurried to the door. She straightened her
clothing, tucked a stray strand of gray hair under her curtch, and
raised the bar. She invited Latharn Cambeul in.
“Good evening,” he said, his voice as smooth
and soft as new-made butter, a polite smile affixed to his face. He
inclined his head in a slight bow.
“Please, sit,” Grandma said, gesturing to her
chair.
Mùirne’s stomach roiled, and she almost
retched. She wanted to run to her bed and hide under the covers but
hadn’t the strength to stand. And she knew from past experience
that Grandma would drag her back to her chair, make her endure the
presence of this…this…Cambeul.
Latharn exchanged pleasantries with her
mother and grandparents. He complimented them, ingratiated himself
further with them, then turned his attention to Mùirne. She kept
her eyes averted, wouldn’t meet his. She couldn’t bring herself to
look into his eyes, didn’t want to see past the thin veneer of
civility that covered his face like a mask and hid a mass of
ugliness beneath it.
She looked sideways at Grandma as her breaths
came faster. How could Grandma not see? How could she not know? How
could she insist that Mùirne’s future lay with this…Cambeul? Didn’t
she know that a life with him would be a living death for her
granddaughter?
The answer came as she saw a glint of greed
in Grandma’s eyes when they rested on Latharn. The money.