Blythe Gifford - Return of the Border Warrior

His pony, trained to be silent and invisible, did not draw her eye. Then she turned her back on him and ran downstream to disappear around a bend and into the trees.

Baffled, he urged the horse ahead, slowly, uncertain whether to follow. What was she doing with—?

Before he could finish the thought, a sleuth dog in leather harness burst through the bushes, pulling Cate behind.

The beast weighed more than she, if John were any judge. Nose to the ground, the dog dragged her with him as he followed the trail she had laid, turning abruptly to cross the water where she had, and pouncing on the bundle of cloth with his tail wagging when he reached the opposite bank.

Well trained, he thought.

‘Good, Belde,’ she said, pulling a treat from her pocket for him to gobble. ‘Good dog.’

And then she petted him with more affection than she’d shown to any two-legged creature.

As they crossed the stream again, he dismounted and walked closer. But before he reached her, she heard his step over the rushing water, whirled and drew her dirk.

Not drawn for him, he realised. She was a woman wary of any sound. He held up his hands, palms toward her, a gesture of peace. ‘No enemy. Only me.’

She did not lower the blade. The softness she’d shown the hound did not extend to him. They reached the bank and the dog bounded over to him, then put his nose to John’s waist and started sniffing him up and down.

John pushed him away to no avail. ‘What’s he doing?’

‘Getting to know you.’

He took a step towards her and the dog, between them, started to growl, the hair on his neck standing straight.

‘What do you want?’ she asked. After four trips through the water, she was soaked. Only the quilted jack-of-plaites vest disguised her sex.

He raised his eyes, fighting irritation. ‘Not a kiss. I promise.’ He had told her flatly he would not bed her. Could she tell his body was not listening? ‘Call off your dog and put down your dirk.’

She sheathed the blade and her eyes flickered to the pony, standing patiently behind him. ‘You’re riding Norse. He’s a fast one.’

Her tone gentled, as when she had spoken to the dog.

‘Do you work with the ponies, then?’

‘Aye.’ She walked over to the pony and stroked his neck. Her dog followed and sat squarely between Cate and John.

Physical persuasion was futile, but the four-legged creatures seemed to be the chink in her armour. ‘You’re good with the animals.’

She threw him a look of disgust. ‘I’ve found them to be kinder than people.’

An odd statement. ‘I never thought animals had any feelings at all.’

‘At least they don’t kill their own.’

He did not remind her that she was the one ready to kill Willie Storwick. ‘What possible quarrel might one sheep have against another?’ He laced the question with a smile, bending towards her.

The dog rose, growling.

‘Sit, Belde,’ she said, grabbing his harness.

The dog looked at her, wagged his tail and sat.

John eyed him warily. Drooping ears and a wrinkled face gave the dog a lazy look, but he acted as if he would kill, if she asked.

‘He’s very protective of you,’ John said.

‘To the death,’ she answered, meeting John’s eyes. The gentleness she showed to the animals did not extend to him.

He raised his brows. ‘A sleuth dog usually has an English hand on the leash.’ And behind him, a pack of riders tracking the reivers across rock and water.

‘Not this one.’ Cate wasted no more words than his brother.

‘How did you get him?’

Something softened around her eyes, as if she was thinking of a smile. ‘Da stole him.’

John nodded. It was the only honourable way for a reiver to get anything.

Her memory, apparently, was a good one. ‘He had been tracking Da, but he slipped his leash and lost his tracker. When he found Da, he was so pleased he just sat there wagging his tale while Da rubbed his head.’

She had kind feelings for the beast, that was certain. ‘He does not wag his tail for me.’

‘He does not know whether I am safe with you.’

I do not know whether I am safe with you , she might have said.

‘You must tell him …’ He met her eyes. If he could get the dog to like him, maybe the woman’s trust would follow. ‘Tell him that you are.’

She swallowed, then looked down at the dog. Her breath came faster, but she did not speak.

‘How would you do that?’ He kept his voice soft, not wanting to force her. ‘How would you tell him?’

She did not look up. ‘I would tell him you are a …’ She glanced up, studying John, as if uncertain he deserved the label. ‘That you are a “friend”.’

Looking into the mirror of her eyes, he suddenly wanted to be worthy of the name. ‘I am.’

Though her eyes reserved judgement, she turned back to the dog. ‘Friend,’ she said firmly, then spoke over her shoulder. ‘Reach out to him.’

He held out his hand and Belde sniffed it.

‘Friend,’ she said, as the dog licked his fingers. ‘John.’ Then she smiled. ‘He should not growl at you again.’

John hoped the same would be true of Cate. ‘How long have you been working with him?’

‘Three years.’

Only the dog brought softness to her eyes, so he would talk of the dog. ‘Was he with you the night your father was killed?’

The joy that had touched her face shattered.

Fool. Speak of something else . ‘The ponies? How long have you worked with them?’ Would she deign to answer?

She shook off the sorrow. ‘Longer. I had no brothers, so my father depended on me. And once he was gone …’ The darkness returned, and with it, all her barriers. Then she faced him again, head high. ‘We’ve the finest horseflesh on the Borders. Sturdy and tireless. They’ve been known to ride sixty miles without a stop.’

Long enough to leave Scotland after sunset, foray deep inside England and return home before the sun rose. In fact, without such mounts, there would be no reiving.

Yet in her talk of the ponies, he had heard a flash of pride. Better that than fear or anger. ‘You do a fine job, I’m sure.’

Instead of the smile he had wanted, she turned back to the pony, blinking against tears.

‘There now.’ He walked up behind her, put his hands on her shoulders and forced her to turn. ‘No need to cry at a compliment.’

Belde stood to all fours, growling.

‘Quiet, beast,’ he said. ‘Friend.’

He wrapped both arms around her in a hug, thinking she would smile as most women did when cajoled.

Instead, she brought her knee up, squarely between his legs.

Hard.

He dropped his hold and doubled over, biting back a curse.

Teeth bared, the dog barked. Cate groped for his fur coat, without looking where her hand fell. Instead of his pain, he saw hers. There were no tears, but horror had replaced sadness and he wasn’t sure whether she saw him at all.

‘Cate!’ He tried to stand, barely able to hear himself over the dog’s baying. ‘What is it?’ She looked as if she were staring at spirits.

Cate knelt beside the barking beast and clasped her arms tightly around his neck. Then, as if her prayers for deliverance had been answered, her face relaxed, her eyes met his, and he saw Cate again.

She lost her parents to the Storwicks. Do you expect her to be dancing?

But that had been two years ago and death was no stranger to these hills. Her fear was beyond that.

She rose, her hand never leaving the dog’s fur, and gathered his leash. ‘I must go.’

And she turned her back, clearly intending for him not to follow.

But, with a slight limp in deference to the ache between his legs, he did.