Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [375]
“She’s like that too. She doesn’t mind being alone.”
He glanced at her, wanting badly to know what made her say so. What had Claire’s life been in their years apart to give her that knowledge? It was so; Claire knew the flavor of solitude. It was cold as spring water, and not all could drink it; for some it was not refreshment, but mortal chill. But she had lived daily with a husband; how had she drunk deep enough of loneliness to know?
Brianna could maybe tell him, but he wouldn’t ask; the last name he wished to hear spoken in this place was Frank Randall’s.
He coughed instead.
“Well, it’s maybe true,” he agreed cautiously. “I’ve seen women—and men too, sometimes—as canna bear the sound of their own thoughts, and they maybe dinna make such good matches with those who can.”
“No,” she said, brooding. “Maybe they don’t.”
The small pang of jealousy eased. So she had doubts about this Wakefield, did she? She’d told him and Claire everything, about her search, the death notice, the journey from Scotland, the visit to Lallybroch—damn Laoghaire!—and about the man Wakefield, who’d come after her. She wasn’t telling everything there, he thought, but that was as well; he didn’t want to hear it. He was less bothered at the prospect of a distant death by fire than by the more imminent interruption of his idyll with his long-lost daughter.
He drew up his knees and sat quiet. Much as he wanted to recapture his sense of tranquility, he could not free his mind from the thought of Randall.
He had won. Claire was his; so was this glorious child—this young woman, he corrected himself, looking at her. But Randall had had the keeping of them for twenty years; there was no doubt he had set his mark on them. But what mark had it been?
“Look.” Brianna’s hand squeezed his arm as she breathed the word.
He followed her gaze and saw them; two does, standing just under the shadow of the trees, not twenty feet away. He didn’t move, but breathed quietly. He could feel Brianna beside him, enchanted into stillness too.
The deer saw them; delicate heads upraised, dark, moist nostrils flaring for scent. After a moment, though, one doe stepped out, dainty, nervous footsteps leaving streaks in the dew-wet grass. The other followed, cautious, and they grazed along the grassy strips between the rocks, turning now and then to lift their head and cast tranquil eyes on the strange but harmless creatures on the ledge.
He couldn’t have come within a mile of a Scottish red deer that had his scent. The red stags kent weel what a man was.
He watched the deer graze, with the innocence of perfect wildness, and felt the sun’s benediction on his head. This was a new place, and he was content to be alone here with his daughter.
“What are we hunting, Da?” He was standing still, eyes squinted as he scanned the horizon, but she was reasonably sure he wasn’t looking at an animal; she could speak without scaring the game.
They’d seen a good many animals in the course of the day; the two deer at dawn, a red fox that sat watching on a rock, licking dainty black paws until they came too close, then vanishing like a blown-out flame. Squirrels—dozens of them—chattering through the treetops, playing hide-and-seek past the tree boles. Even a flock of wild turkey, with two males strutting, chests puffed and tail fans spread for the edification of a gobbling harem.
None of these were the chosen prey, for which she was glad. She had no objection to killing for food, but would have been sorry to have the beauty of the day soiled by blood.
“Bees,” he said.
“Bees? How do you hunt bees?”
He picked up his gun and smiled at her, nodding downhill toward a brilliant patch of yellow.
“Look for flowers.”
There were certainly bees in the flowers; close enough, and she could hear the hum. There were several different kinds: huge black bumblebees, a smaller kind, striped with black and yellow fuzz, and the smooth lethal shapes of wasps, bellies pointed as daggers.
“What ye want to do,” her father