Oatcakes and Courage Read Free

you.”
    â€œReady to go on? We have about four leagues to go, I think, before Ullapool.”
    Anne stood. “Aye, ready.”
    Ian helped Anne to her feet, picked up their packs, and led them back to the road. They climbed a long hill, and as they crested it, the eastern horizon was smudged with a creamy glow.
    â€œSoon be sunrise,” Ian said. “It may be raining by then.”
    They passed sheepcotes and cottages. The wind picked up and began to snap Anne’s cape around her legs. As Ian had predicted, the dawn was a wet one. At first, it was a heavy mist, driven by the breeze, but soon it changed to a steady rain, hammering at the right side of their faces. Ian drew his cloak over his shoulders. They ducked their heads into their hoods and tramped on.
    Before noon, they came to an inn, The Broom. Its stone walls and creaking wooden sign looked impervious to change or the weather.
    â€œYou’re soaked to the bone,” Ian said. “We’re only about a league outside of Ullapool. Why not stop here and dry off? Maybe get a hot meal.”
    Anne clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering.
    â€œCome on,” he said, pushing her through the inn’s door. The smell of whisky and ale and tobacco smoke greeted them. A warm fire danced in an enormous stone hearth.
    Ian shook back his hood and stamped his feet. “G’day,” he called pleasantly to a rotund, red-faced woman behind the counter.
    â€œNasty day to be out,” she said cheerfully.
    â€œIt is that,” Ian agreed. He took Anne by the elbow and steered her toward the fire. “My poor sister is nearly drowned.”
    Anne gasped but Ian artfully spun her toward the fireplace to hide her surprised expression from the matron innkeeper and he cleared his throat noisily.
    The matron said, “Tsk, tsk. Hang your cloaks up to dry. Would you be wanting a pint of ale?”
    Ian hung his cloak and hat next to the hearth, then took Anne’s cloak and hung it next to his. He pulled a chair near the fireplace and ushered Anne into it. Then he turned to the woman. “Naught to drink, thank you. But do I smell a mutton stew?”
    The woman smiled. It made her wide face look like a split apple. “You do indeed, young man. Would you and your sister care for a bowl?”
    â€œIt would help warm us up, I’m sure,” Ian replied.
    â€œIt won’t be but a minute,” the woman said and she hurried through a door into the kitchen.
    â€œSister?” Anne whispered, one eyebrow raised. Ian sat down next to her and held his hands out to the flames.
    â€œWhat did you want me to say? This is a betrothed lass I’m kidnapping and spiriting away to the New World? She might not have found me so charming if I’d told her that.”
    â€œWell, you hardly kidnapped me.” Anne thought for a moment. “You could have said you were my squire.”
    â€œSorry, lass. You don’t have enough wealth to pull that off.”
    â€œWell…”
    â€œAnd she wouldn’t be too impressed if I said we were good childhood friends, either. The only other story I might have tried was to say you were my wife. And somehow I didn’t think you would like that tale. You nearly gave us away when I said you were my sister.”
    Just then, the woman backed through the kitchen door, balancing two steaming bowls of stew on a tray. Ian pulled a table next to the hearth and she set the bowls and spoons on it for them.
    â€œThere now. That’ll heat you up from the inside out. Where are you going on such a miserable day?”
    â€œHave you heard of John Ross?”
    The woman raised both hands over her head and brought them down in a loud clap in front of her ample bosom. “Now who around here hasn’t heard of him, I wonder? You’re not off to…?”
    Ian smiled. “I’m a Scot, through and through, lady innkeeper. And they tell me that in the New World,