Four generations of Scottish Highland women live in Glen Affric. Their stories intersect through Ena Rose””barely past childhood, not yet a woman””who faces choices she cannot understand, and a love that changes her life forever. Ailsa Rose is content in her familiar home, until she recognizes the turmoil she has refused to see, the pain she can help heal””in away she never imagined. She calls out across the world to her half sisters: Wan Lian, struggling to outlive the shadows of her past in a small country town in France; and Genevra, back in India, searching for her future among the multi-colored patterns engraved in her soul. Together again in their Glen Affric sanctuary, they learn that they are strong enough to face any challenge”¦as long as they hold on to one another.
Excerpt–
Glen Affric, Scotland, 1895
The air was still as Ena Rose crept along the brae, grateful for the soft turf that muffled the sound of her movement, grateful the wind had not risen, so it could not carry her scent to the animal crouched in a nearby thicket: wary, in pain and dripping blood into the moss.
Ena could just see the wildcat’s head from where she paused, holding her breath. It was a week after the first spring thaw; the air was bitingly cold, the ground slippery with mud and dotted with patches of snow in small shadowed hollows where the sunlight could not reach. It had not been easy to follow the wounded animal’s erratic path, except for the trail of blood left behind. She was fiercely determined to get this animal, no matter that the chase had been long and grueling, no matter that her body was soaked in sweat turned to ice by the cold. No matter that her muscles ached; her face was flushed, and her breath raw and ragged.
“Just a little farther,” she murmured to Connor Fraser, who crouched nearby, trying to muffle the sound of his harsh breathing. “She’ll soon find a place to burrow in, and then we can catch her.”
“Weel then, what’s to do next?”
Ena hugged him so tight he felt her exhaustion. “Bless ye. You’re a rare, true friend, Connor Fraser.” She paused. “I didn’t want to do it alone.
“If we let her corner herself, which’s bound to be soon, she’s so tired and hurtin’, we can catch her easily. But we’ll need a basket and old blanket.” She was thinking out loud, but Connor snatched at the excuse to return to paths he knew and purposes less arduous. Ena had a natural “feel’ for the chase that her friend did not share.
“Are ye certain “tis safe?” he asked again.
“Aye, so long as ye know how, and ye never look her in the eye. She’d think that a challenge and fight ye, even if she was too weak to win.”
“Then I’ll go for the basket and blanket. I know where ye keep your winter supplies.”
She clasped his hand as he turned away. “Thank ye, Connor.”
“Ye’d do it for me, would ye no’? Weel then.” He started back the way they’d come. Or so he thought. He turned several times, trying to determine where he was, then thought he recognized the sound of the river and the leafless larches that crowded its banks.
Suddenly he saw fresh blood on the grass and stopped short, holding his breath. He knew the wildcat was near. This time, like Ena, he could smell it, hear its low growl, its ragged breath. Then he saw the cat crouched in a clearing, its sides heaving, its eyes dull with pain.
So long as ye never look it in the eye…. Connor’s mind raced. He could do this. He could immobilize the cat and solve at the least half his friend’s problem. He’d felt how weary she was. “Tis for her sake, he told himself silently. Tho’ it’d be excitin’ bein’ the one to take such an animal.
His heart thundered in his ears as he began to move through the cotton grass, staying to the side of the wounded wildcat, taking care to avoid its gaze. He took off his overcoat, intending to use it as a blanket, but the animal saw the movement. It stiffened, hissing, and Connor felt a jab of apprehension. Lungs aching with the cold air, he pounced, attempting to wrap his coat around the squirming cat. Without thinking, he looked down, saw the copper gleam of its gaze just before it swiped at his arm and blood welled from four parallel scratches ripped through his shirt. Stunned by the shooting pain, he loosened his grip. The cat twisted in his arms, scratching Connor’s neck and trying for his throat.
He dropped it, watching, dazed, as the cat burst from the clearing into a thicket of ferns and bracken, sending greenery flying. Even dragging its back leg, it was faster than Connor, who would not have followed anyway.
Shivering and humiliated, grateful Ena had not been there to see, the boy wrapped his coat tight around him, concealing the marks of the wildcat. The leather was thick enough, lined as it was with wool, to absorb the blood. He could hear Ena coming, tracking the trail of blood. He ducked into the trees and slowly, painfully, went in search of a basket and blanket.
Hair stuffed beneath the cap she was rarely without, skirt split down the middle and re-stitched into full trousers which did not restrict her movement, Ena crawled on hands and knees to the dark hollow where the wildcat had found refuge. It was half hidden in a burnt-out oak surrounded by gorse and broom, where the shadows were long and the animal felt safe. She could feel in her own body the heat and coiled strength, the hot, dry breath, the pain that seared the wildcat’s side. Her own fear and the warning beat of her heart she refused to recognize.
Staying well out of the animal’s sight, she approached from the side, half singing, half talking in a slow, soft cadence that would calm the injured cat.
Often, that cadence cast a spell upon the wounded, lulled into acquiescence by the soothing clarity of the song, by an instinctive understanding that the girl wanted to help.
Ena was waiting for Connor. It seemed he had been gone a long time, but she could not really judge, so intent had she been on following the cat. Then, at last, she saw him at the top of the hill, standing stiffly, the basket in one hand.
Connor felt sick, but he kept his face blank when he spotted Ena’s cap in the bushes nearby. He could hear her chanting, murmuring as she often did; he could see the cat was not frightened, that its breathing had eased, and he felt twice the fool.
Ena stood carefully, indicating he should circle to the other side and pass her the basket and blanket high above the cat’s head. She knelt to arrange the blanket so a long corner hung over the edge. “So long as we come from behind and above, she won’t fight us. She’s too weak and in pain for one thing, and so long as we don’t come head on, she’ll no’ see us as a threat.”
Connor looked skeptical.
“Cats are very intuitive, ye ken. She’ll soon see we want to help. I’ve the basket ready. Can ye help me lift her in?”
For a terrible moment, he thought he couldn’t do it, but he didn’t want his friend to know. Reaching out inch by inch from either side, they scooped up the cat and laid it in the basket as Ena whispered and murmured, murmured and sang.
She was so busy trying not to hurt the cat further that she didn’t see Connor wince in agony, or how quickly he drew back, though the animal offered no resistance. She covered the basket to keep out the cold, crooning and chanting all the while in the Gaelic. Only then did she reach from the side, letting in just enough light for the wildcat to see. The cat’s heart was beating strong, and its breathing, though labored, was distinct. She slid her hands out, letting the blanket fall back into place.
Looking up, she grinned. “Mayhap we’re in time.” She regarded him steadily. “I know I’ve asked a lot of ye today, but I can no’ manage this alone. Can ye take one side of the handle and me the other?”
He nodded, and took up the right side, while she took the left. They began to walk home slowly, the basket swaying slightly in a soothing motion, while she sang and murmured to the cat.
The boy raised his head, blinking back tears at the searing pain in his arm and neck, fascinated in spite of himself. Ena always walked as if on air and not earth, so easily did she move through the glen. But now she seemed to float — an odd contrast to the careful, strong rhythm of her footsteps, meant to soothe the cat. She grinned, unable to hide her elation at their success, her optimism that she could save the wildcat.
She glanced sideways, offering a triumphant smile. “We did it, just ye and me.”
Connor smiling thinly. “Aye. But then why’re your hands shakin’?”
“Weel, I hope I’m no’ fool enough to forget the hazards of such a thing. I’d read about it, aye, and I know a bit about animals. But in the end, ye can never be sure what might happen. I’m tremblin’ with relief, is all.”
Connor gaped. “Ye touched a wounded wildcat, and did not know if `twould sleep or turn its claws on ye?” Shaken, he let his coat fall open.
Stopping short, Ena stared in horror at the inflamed scratches on his neck. She went so pale her skin was translucent. She set down the basket, and he had no choice but to do the same. “Oh, Connor! How did ye — when — why did ye no’ say –“
Before he could move, she drew him among a group of pines where the snow had not yet melted. “Take off your coat. I must tend to those at once.”
“What about the cat?”
She was already pulling things out of her pockets, but she stopped to stare at him, appalled. “The cat’s only a cat. You’re Connor, my friend, and you’re bleedin’. Come.” Her hands trembled so badly she wasn’t certain she could do what she must.
When she saw his bloody arm, tears burned her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said over and over. “I’m sorry.” She found she could not look at him. ” I never meant ye to be hurt.”
“Tis nothing to fret over, Ena. Only a few scratches.” Trying to comfort her, Connor shrugged in unconcern, but his wince of pain gave him away.
“Only a lad’d say something so daft. Don’t ye know what muck is on a wildcat’s claws? “Tis serious, this. The wounds could get infected and leave awful scars.”
Connor quirked an eyebrow, a gesture he’d perfected just the day before. “Girls like scars. They like the feel and love the excitin’ stories that go with them.”
Lips pinched together, Ena packed snow on the wounds to cool them and clean away what dirt she could. He’d frightened her so much she wanted to shout at him. Instead, she picked out bits of wool that had stuck in the deep scratches, and though her hands had been steady and her voice firm as they moved a wounded wildcat, now her fingers were clumsy and she could not speak at all.
Removing the vial of tincture of iodine from the collection of herbs and paraphernalia she carried in her pockets in case she came upon a wounded animal, she frowned. Fortunately, many herbs worked on man and animal alike. “Twill hurt like the very devil, but ye hold my ankles and squeeze when ye must.”
Carefully Ena spread the iodine along each scratch, and with each movement, felt Connor stiffen another muscle. But he did not squeeze her ankles.
“Tis all right, I’ll no’ shatter, ye ken? Hold them as hard as ye can.”
The pressure did not increase. Ena sighed. “You’re a man and can no’ admit weakness; is that it?” She daubed iodine on a new gouge. He clenched his teeth but made no sound. “At least the animals let ye know when they hurt,” she muttered. “Unlike people, who’re too stubborn and proud.” She paused, feeling woozy. “Why did ye no’ tell me ye were hurt?”
“Because ye would’ve ended the chase.”
“Of course I would’ve. Do ye think me daft or heartless?”
“Neither.”
She chewed dried kelp to moisten it and packed it on the wounds, then ripped strips from her shift to use as bandages. She was face to face with him now and could see the pain in his eyes. “Then why?”
“Ye would’ve mourned and blamed yourself if ye’d given up. I could no’ do that to ye. I had to let ye try.”
About the Author
Kathryn Lynn Davis was born with what the ancient Celts called “the fatal gift of the imagination: a crown of stars and a stinging sword.’ With an MA in History, she has published eight historical novels. The first, The Dakotas: At the Wind’s Edge, received nationwide attention when it was banned in Medora, North Dakota, the town where it is set. Her New York Times bestseller, Too Deep For Tears (Book 1 in the Too Deep for Tears Trilogy), rose to #5 in seven weeks on the list, as well as appearing on many other national bestseller lists. Her short story, “Clouds Across the Moon,” appeared in Mother (Pocket, 1996), ed. Claudia O’Keefe — an anthology of short stories and poems by authors including Maya Angelou, Amy Tan, Joyce Carole Oates, Barbara Kingsolver, et al. Twice she received the University of California Riverside’s Creative WritingAlumni Award for Fiction, as well as Romantic Times awards for best Scottish Historical Fiction Child of Awe, Career Achievement Award, & Best Historical Novel for Somewhere Lies the Moon.
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