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“Mind ye dinnae bruise the leaves,” Camden said, not unkindly. “They lose their strength if ye treat them roughly.”
Brae snorted softly. “Aye, and ye’d think I was handling a newborn babe with how careful I’m being.”
Camden huffed a quiet laugh. “Newborn bairns are nae as easily bruised.”
The young man shot him a look. “That is a terrible comfort, Camden.”
They moved deeper into the trees, the forest breathing around them. Crickets sang from the undergrowth, and an owl called from somewhere high above. Its low, hollow note echoing through the branches. The air smelled of damp earth and pine sap. Sharp and clean in Camden’s lungs.
“This is where the foxglove grows,” Camden murmured, pushing aside a curtain of fern. “But only take what we need. The forest gives, but it remembers greed.”
Brae nodded, suddenly serious, and began to gather the tall, bell-shaped flowers with careful hands.
They worked in silence for a time, the kind that felt companionable rather than heavy. Camden’s thoughts, however, refused to stay on herbs and roots. They wandered, as they had all day, back to a pair of soft brown eyes and a mouth that had tasted like warmth and restraint all at once.
He shook himself. He had to stay alert; there were thorns and beasts about that one had to be prepared for.
A sound cut through the night.
It was low and broken, somewhere between a whine and a growl.
Brae froze. “Did ye hear that?”
“Aye,” Camden said, already turning toward it.
They followed the sound through a thicket of bramble and moss-slick stones, the moonlight filtering down in pale ribbons. The whimper came again, weaker now, and Camden’s chest tightened.
Near a fallen log, half-hidden in shadow, lay a dog.
It was a mangy thing, mottled brown and white, its ribs showing beneath a rough coat. One hind leg was twisted at an unnatural angle, matted with dark, drying blood. The dog lifted its head when they approached, teeth bared in a warning that lacked any real strength.
“Easy now,” Camden murmured, lowering himself slowly to one knee. “We’re nae here to harm ye.”
Brae swallowed. “’Tis bad, is it?”
“Aye, ’tis bad,” Camden agreed softly. He slid his pack from his shoulder and set it down with care. “But nae beyond mending.”
The dog growled weakly as Camden reached out, then let out a small, pitiful sound when pain overtook fear.
Camden paused, his hand hovering. “I ken, I ken. It hurts. But I can help, if ye’ll let me.”
He glanced back at Brae. “Torch. Low.”
Brae hurried to strike a small flame, shielding it with his hand. The light revealed the wound more clearly. A deep gash along the leg and what looked like a bone knocked out of place.
Camden exhaled slowly. “We’ll have to set it. Here. In the dark. On a patient that can bite.”
Brae’s eyes widened. “Troubling. Is there another way?” The young man perhaps considered leaving the poor creature to fend for itself, or worse. But by the look of pity he gave the dog, Brae worried more about the pain the dog would suffer than being bitten.
Camden shook his head. “Hold its head. Speak to it. Keep it calm.”
Brae crouched, voice trembling just a little. “Ye’re a brave fellow, aye? Strong as any hound I’ve seen. Ye’ll be right as rain soon, ye will.”
The dog flicked its ears at the sound of his voice.
Camden worked with steady hands, cleaning the wound with water and a splash of tincture that made the dog yelp. He murmured apologies with each pained sound, his brow furrowing in concentration.
As he aligned the leg, he felt that familiar pull in his chest, almost like the one he’d felt when Anne stood before him, torn between staying and running.
