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Without an invitation, he sat on the shore next to Ian.
“Aye. I suppose a lonely life isna new to me, either,” Ian said.
“Yer father was so lonely without yer mother. He was a different man before he lost her.”
“Then ’tis in the family.”
They kept silent for a moment.
“Ye’re just like him now,” Manning said. “After the lass left. After ye came back alone. Lifeless. Like ye lost yer heart somewhere.”
Strangely, Manning had described precisely how it felt to Ian.
“’Tis what I deserve,” Ian said.
A weak breeze ruffled the almost still surface of the loch, bringing the scent of fresh water and fish. Crickets chirped, unaware of the human misery. Manning’s wrinkled face smoothed.
“’Tis a pile of horse shite if I ever heard one.”
Ian chuckled. He’d heard Manning swear countless times, but never had his words been supportive.
Manning spat on the ground between his bent knees. “Ye dinna deserve anything like that. ’Tis enough of suffering for this family.”
The old man sighed and shook his head.
“I’ve been in service to the Cambels my whole life. I havna marrit because of it—nae that I regret it, mind ye. I saw yer father as a lad, and then in his best years, and I saw him happy. But when God took yer mother, his misery began. Ye dinna ken yer father in his full strength and potential. But I kent him, and I ken ye.”
He paused as his voice broke, and he chewed on something. His eyes reddened and watered.
“And it isna worth it, lad,” his voice shook. “It isna worth it. Before ye ken it, ye’re as old as I am and stink like a fart. And all ye have is yer past. And if ’tis full of misery and loneliness and regret…ye realize nothin’ is worth it.”
He met Ian’s eyes, and Ian held his breath at the amount of pain in Manning’s gaze.
“I canna do anything about it now,” Manning said. “Yer father couldna do anything about yer mother in his time. But ye can do something.”
Ian studied Manning, speechless. Was he going mad, or was there truth in Manning’s words?
“But ’tis different for me, Manning. I let her go because I canna make her happy.”
“Why nae?”
“Because I’m broken. Some wounds are too deep and never heal.”
“Aye. I ken. And some people want ye nae matter what. Wounds, cracks, scars, and all.”
Ian shook his head. “Nae. I canna make her happy. I dinna deserve her.”
“Ye shouldna decide it for her, dinna ye think?”
Ian stiffened. Manning was right. Ian was deciding for Kate. Just like his masters in Baghdad had decided for him: who he killed; what he ate; when he went to piss. He was taking away Kate’s freedom to choose because he was convinced he would never be whole. But what if he didn’t need to be whole? Kate wasn’t entirely happy with herself, either, yet Ian loved her more than anything in this world.
What if he’d been terribly, terribly wrong? What if God had forgiven him for all the murders he’d done? What if his way to redemption was protecting his people, which he had done and continued to do?
The dreadful feeling that he’d done something irreversibly wrong bit into him.
“Nae, I shouldna decide for her,” Ian said. “But I did.”
How would his life be, had he let her stay? She’d cook him dinner. He’d get fat from all the delicious food. He’d make love to her every day until she forgot who she was from sheer bliss. He’d marry her—make her his and make honoring and protecting her his life’s mission.
