Page 4 of The Dragon Laird’s Obsession

“I have men set to clear the ditch,” the old man rushed on. “I swear it. We lost two oxen in the last frost, but I’ve sent lads to help the ploughin’, and if the gods grant us better weather, we may yet⁠—”

“Tam,” Gordon said, and when the man flinched, Gordon felt it in his own bones. He drew a slow breath through his nose and loosened his grip on the reins before the leather cracked. Beside him, his guard shifted in the saddle, but Gordon did not look at him. “I daenae ask for excuses.”

Tam’s face went white.

Gordon cursed himself inwardly. Even careful, his voice came too hard and low. Too much like his uncle’s.

The man who taught me that there was nay room for weakness in leadership.

Gordon swallowed hard as the pinch of that memory left him with an ache. He moved to walk around again, and the nearest children scattered behind their mother’s skirts. Gordon stopped with one boot in the mud.

Am I so fearsome, then?

He was a large man. He had always known that. Broad in the shoulder, grim in the face, and never trusting.

When his uncle’s rule ended with his death, Gordon had taken the lairdship because someone had to rule. Someone had to make the people feel safe again, and he had believed that he could.

I have tried me best, but somehow, they daenae seem to trust me still.

Tam, the village head, still trembled as Gordon stepped close to him.

Does he think I will strike him down? Blame him for what is wrong?

“Show me the ditch,” Gordon said.

Tam blinked. “Me Laird?”

Gordon nodded toward the field. “Show me.”

The old man hesitated only a heartbeat before turning. Gordon followed on foot, leaving the guard he rode with to hold the horse.

At the edge of the field, the trouble showed plain enough. The ditch had filled where stones had shifted loose from the upper bank. Water pooled thick and brown beside the young crop, drowning one side while leaving the ridge beyond too dry. A poor arrangement and costly if left.

Gordon crouched, heedless of the mud, and dug his fingers into the wet earth. He rubbed it between thumb and forefinger.

Tam stood rigid beside him.

“How many men can ye spare?” Gordon asked.

“Six, maybe seven if the miller’s lads come.”

“Not enough.” Gordon rose. “Send word to the keep. We will bring ten men on the morrow. Stone the upper side first then clear the silt. I will have two oxen sent from me own herd for the ploughin’.”

Tam stared at him, blinking wide-eyed.

Gordon’s brows drew together. “What?”

The old man’s mouth opened then shut. “Naught, Me Laird.”

“Speak.”

Tam twisted his cap so hard, Gordon feared the cloth would tear. “We thought… that is, folk said…” His gaze dropped. “We feared ye would take the loss from us.”

Gordon’s chest went tight at the accusation. He was not surprised they thought him cruel. For a moment, he did not answer.

The wind moved over the field, carrying the scent of wet soil, peat smoke, and sheep. A raven cried somewhere near the trees.

Gordon’s hand curled into a fist at his side, and his voice came out just as tight as his clenched fist at his side.