Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [522]
He turned his horse’s head toward the top of the Ridge and urged it on, kicking gently with his good foot. Soon now. He had no idea what his reception might be, but that didn’t matter.
Nothing mattered now save the fact that he was here.
66
CHILD OF MY BLOOD
Some enterprising rabbit had dug its way under the stakes of my garden again. One voracious rabbit could eat a cabbage down to the roots, and from the looks of things, he’d brought friends. I sighed and squatted to repair the damage, packing rocks and earth back into the hole. The loss of Ian was a constant ache; at such moments as this, I missed his horrible dog as well.
I had brought a large collection of cuttings and seeds from River Run, most of which had survived the journey. It was mid-June, still time—barely—to put in a fresh crop of carrots. The small patch of potato vines was all right, so were the peanut bushes; rabbits wouldn’t touch those, and didn’t care for the aromatic herbs either, except the fennel, which they gobbled like licorice.
I wanted cabbages, though, to preserve as sauerkraut; come midwinter, we would want food with some taste to it, as well as some vitamin C. I had enough seed left, and could raise a couple of decent crops before the weather turned cold, if I could keep the bloody rabbits off. I drummed my fingers on the handle of my basket, thinking. The Indians scattered clippings of their hair around the edges of the fields, but that was more protection against deer than rabbits.
Jamie was the best repellent, I decided. Nayawenne had told me that the scent of carnivore urine would keep rabbits away—and a man who ate meat was nearly as good as a mountain lion, to say nothing of being more biddable. Yes, that would do; he’d shot a deer only two days ago; it was still hanging. I should brew a fresh bucket of spruce beer to go with the roast venison, though …
As I wandered toward the herb shed to see if I had any maypop fruits for flavoring, my eye caught a movement at the far edge of the clearing. Thinking it was Jamie, I turned to go and inform him of his new duty, only to be stopped dead in my tracks when I saw who it was.
He looked worse than he had the last time I’d seen him, which was saying quite a bit. He was hatless, hair and beard a glossy black tangle, and his clothes hung on him in tatters. He was barefoot, one foot wrapped in a bundle of filthy rags, and he limped badly.
He saw me at once, and stopped while I came up to him.
“I’m glad it’s you,” he said. “I wondered who I’d meet first.” His voice sounded soft and rusty, and I wondered whether he had spoken to a living soul since we had left him in the mountains.
“Your foot, Roger—”
“It doesn’t matter.” He gripped my arm. “Are they all right? The baby? And Brianna?”
“They’re fine. Everybody’s in the house.” His head turned toward the cabin, and I added, “You have a son.”
He jerked sharply back toward me, green eyes wide with startlement.
“He’s mine? I have a son?”
“I suppose you do,” I said. “You’re here, aren’t you?” The look of startlement—and hope, I realized—faded slowly. He looked into my eyes and seemed to see how I felt, for he smiled—not easily, no more than a painful lifting of the corner of his mouth—but he smiled.
“I’m here,” he said, and turned toward the cabin and its open doorway.
Jamie sat in his rolled-up shirt sleeves at the table, shoulder to shoulder with Brianna, frowning at a set of house drawings as she pointed with her quill. Both of them were liberally covered with ink, being inclined to enthusiasm when discussing architecture. The baby snored peacefully in his cradle nearby; Brianna was rocking it absently with one foot. Lizzie was spinning by the window, humming softly under her breath as the great wheel went round.
“Very domestic,” Roger said under his breath, stopping in the dooryard. “Seems a shame to disturb them.”
“Do you have a choice?” I said.
“Aye,