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But Anne had not.

Camden pressed his lips together, feeling that old, familiar ache stir, the one he carried like a scar no one else could see.

It could be that was simply the way of things for him.

Some men were meant to build families, to fill their homes with laughter and small, running feet. Some were meant to be chosen. And some were meant to stand a little apart.

He had loved once or had felt something like it. He had believed in the promise of it, in the idea that there might be a woman who would look at him and see not just the healer, not just the man others came to when something was broken, but the man himself.

Eara had taught him how easily a man could be wrong.

“Anne didnae feel anything,” he whispered. “If she had, she would have stayed.”

The fire popped softly, sending a small spray of sparks into the air. Camden watched them rise and vanish, bright for a moment before disappearing into nothing.

Marriage, he decided, was a thing meant for men braver than he was. Men willing to risk their hearts again and again, even after they’d been proven fragile.

He looked down at his hands. Steady, capable, made for binding wounds and setting bones.

Hands meant to fix what was broken.

Not to hold on to what might leave.

A quiet sadness settled over him, gentle but unyielding, like a cloak he had worn for too many years to remember what it felt like to be without it.

He drew his knees up slightly and rested his forearms on them, keeping his eyes on the dark stretch of trees beyond the firelight.

“If it is nae meant for me,” he said softly, as if the forest itself might answer, “then I will make my peace with it.”

The dog shifted, letting out a small, contented sigh in its sleep. Camden watched the slow, steady rise of its chest and felt something twist inside him. Not envy, but a quiet, aching wish.

The embers dimmed further, and the night closed in around him. Still, Camden kept his watch. Because if nothing else, he would always stay.

Chapter Twelve

Content to have company, the elderly woman, Florie, chatted cheerfully whilst keeping watch as Anne dug into the woman’s tiny garden.

“The soil is rich and always produces a hearty crop. I will be sharing with ye, for all yer hard work,” Florie said. Sitting in a chair just outside the door to her humble cottage, and with gnarled hands, she separated seeds carefully on a cloth that had been stretched across her knees.

Feeling guilty for not seeing about Florie for several days in a row, this was Anne’s second visit in two days. Unlike her outings to care for Agnes, Anne looked forward to the days she spent time with Florie.

Like most elderly, the woman was a fountain of knowledge and had taught Anne quite a lot. Thanks to her, Anne’s own garden now flourished. The woman having instructed Anne in which direction certain plants should be planted.

From cooking to tending to womanly things, Florie seemed to have the right answers for it all.

“Ye are quiet again today,” Florie said. “Something weighs on yer mind, lass.”

It wasn’t a question, but a statement. A true one at that. Anne had not stopped thinking about what had transpired with Camden.

When not distracted, she’d replay every second of the kiss. The sounds he’d made. The feel of his lips against hers. The way he’d held her close. All were like living things. Each time she remembered how his body had felt against hers, her body heated.

In her bed at night, she’d gone over what Camden had said. Dissected each word in an attempt to figure out the meaning behind the statement.

“What I said is true. I wish to get to ken ye. I wish to—” If only she’d not interrupted him.

“Anne.” Florie snatched her attention back to the present. The older woman chuckled. “I deduce yer silence has to do with a man.”

Her mouth fell open, but no sound came out. Since her hands were crusted in dirt, which prevented her from covering her face, Anne opted to turn away.