The Falconer's Daughter, Book 1

Chapter 2 - Part 2

"What if you are gone?"

"But where should I go? Lochaber? Not a chance. You saw how they nearly chased me from the merchant's stall." He tried to smile but he hadn't forgotten his shame from earlier in the day. "I'm afraid you're stuck with me, lassie. We'll be here forever, in these great mountains of ours." Kirk placed one hand on the top of her head and he could feel the tangles beneath his rough palm. "I should have washed your hair before we went to town."

"I like it this way," she said, enjoying the feel of his hand against her head. He rarely touched her, never held her. It was nice to feel him now. "Perhaps you might have to go away like Mama."

"I am much bigger than your Mama. Now sleep, child, and remember that tomorrow the sun will rise and I shall still be here, and your Culross will be here."

She lay still, again listening to the night. Far away in the distance she could hear the hoot of an owl. It sounded lonely, she thought, as she plucked at the bedcover, a strange ache filling her chest. Culross sat up and whined, creeping nearer to Cordaella. He placed one paw on her ankle and whined again. Cordaella felt another wave of sadness but did not understand why. "Papa..."

He resigned himself to her questions. "Yes, Cory?" They were inevitable. When hadn't she asked him things he couldn't answer?

"Do you ever get afraid?"

He flashed back to the scene in Lochaber today, the merchant picking up a rock and brandishing it over his head. Kirk had been glad Cordaella was busy in the street with Culross, too entranced by the town activity to see the merchant's threat. Awkwardly he patted her head, his fingers tangling in her hair.

"Papa?" she persisted. "Not ever?"

"Everybody is afraid at some time," he said slowly, quietly, feeling as if he had already failed her.

"Even you?"

"Yes." He took a breath and exhaled slowly, easing the tightness in his chest. "But there is nothing to be scared of here, especially as you have Culross near."

"He loves me, doesn't he?"

"Yes, and he will never let anything happen to you."

"Good." She was sleepier now and her eyes felt heavy. "Good night, Papa."

"Good night, Cordaella."

In minutes, she was asleep, but Kirk lay awake, her questions raising questions of his own. Should he send her from him? Should he return her to Aberdeen, the Macleod in blood even if not in name?

But for the love of God, she was seven. Just seven. How could he let her go yet? They were still so young together, he the father, she the daughter. He needed another winter, another summer, another lifetime to teach her about the great birds, the subtle but distinct personalities between the hawk and the gerfalcon, the tercel and the peregrine. He wanted to teach her the name of every plant, to help her see the differences among the wildflowers and the herbs and mushrooms which grew wild in the Glen Nevis woods. Cordaella. He wanted to touch her, to brush her soft cheek, but was afraid of the emotion bottled within him. He loved this girl more than life. Cordaella, he thought, watching her, dream.

The snow piled outside the cottage door, the night still, no wind to scatter the thick white powder that coated the roof and windowsill.

Kirk sat up late by the fire, his black hair shaggy, bangs falling in his eyes. He was determined to finish the doll by Christmas but there were only a few days left.

Culross stirred, sat up and got to his feet. He whined softly, his muzzle rising.

"What is it, boy?" the falconer asked, glad for a bit of company. The wolf whined again and Kirk reached over to stroke the animal's coat. "What do you hear?"