Page 99 of Owned by the Scarred Laird

“Did it work?”

“Eventually. Took Tyler pullin’ the most undignified expression I’ve ever seen on a grown man, but aye, he laughed. Loud enough that Melodie came runnin’ from down the hall to see what the fuss was.”

Edward huffed something close to a laugh himself, still crouched by the chair, still holding onto the small fist wrapped around his finger. “I will have to see this expression for meself.”

“Ye’ll have to ask him nicely. He’s rather proud of it.”

William’s breathing had slowed and, now properly asleep at last, neither of them moved to disturb it. The room was quiet around them. The fire burned low in the grate, the afternoon light streaming softly through the window—all that was left to do was nothing, and neither of them wanted to be anywhere else.

“He’s safe,” Chloe said, after a while, quiet, more to herself than to Edward. “Truly safe. I keep havin’ to remind meself of it.”

“Aye.” Edward’s hand tightened slightly around William’s fist. “So do I.”

She looked at him then, and whatever passed between them needed no further words attached to it.

He reached up and rested his free hand against the back of her neck, and she leaned into it, and the three of them stayed like that a long while, the fire ticking low, William sleeping on undisturbed between them.

EPILOGUE

TWO YEARS LATER

Chloe spread the blanket wider across the grass and lay back on it, one hand shading her eyes as she watched the clouds drift slowly overhead.

“That one,” she said, pointing. “It looks like a sailin’ ship. Look at the shape of the bow.”

“That’s nae a ship.” Angela lay beside her, squinting up with the particular stubbornness she’d clearly inherited from her brother, whatever either of them liked to claim about it. “It’s a stag. See the antlers, there, spreadin’ out on the left.”

“Those are sails.”

“They’re antlers.”

“Angela. A stag doesnae have four legs made of cloud fluff hangin’ off the bottom of it.”

“Nor does a ship have a tail.”

William, sprawled between them on his stomach with his chin propped on both fists, rolled onto his back to get a proper look himself, considering the matter with tremendous seriousness for a boy not yet three.

“It’s a dog,” he announced decisively.

Both women turned to look at him.

“A dog?” Chloe repeated.

“Aye. See.” He pointed with great confidence at a cloud that bore, as far as Chloe could tell, no resemblance whatsoever to a dog, a ship, or a stag, or indeed to anything at all beyond a cloud. “Woof.”

“Well.” Angela sat up on her elbows. “That settles that, then. William ruled in favor of the dog, and neither of our arguments signifies a whit.”

“He only says dog because Brochan follows him everywhere and he’s got dogs on the mind from dawn till dusk,” Chloe said, though she was laughing now. William, delighted at having produced laughter from both of them by whatever means necessary, rolled onto his back again and laughed too, for no reason beyond the fact that laughing seemed to be what was wanted.

“That one,” Angela tried again, pointing at a different cloud, longer and thinner, drifting apart from the rest. “That’s a sword.”

“That’s a fish.”

“A sword has nay fins, Chloe.”

“Neither does a cloud, and yet here we are, decidin’ it’s a sword regardless.” Chloe shaded her eyes again. “It’s a fish. A long, thin one. Like the ones Tyler brings back from the loch and insists are bigger than they were when he caught them.”

“Now that,” Angela said, “sounds more like Tyler’s cloud than the sky’s.”