The Runaway's Gold Read Free Page A

year, and John his sixteenth. Victoria was five, she being named, at Daa’s insistence, for Queen Victoria, who had been crowned queen of Great Britain the year me sister was born.
    As I reached across to cuff Catherine’s ear for what must have been the tenth time that day, the wind suddenly shifted, bringing a blast of damp, salty air down the hole in the roof above the fire and scattering red sparks of peat and ash over Daa and the ewe. We coughed and sputtered, waving the cloud of debris from our faces, but Daa—he never flinched. One bread-loaf-shaped hand steadied the now frantic ewe, the other was sunk up to his elbow in her warm, wet belly, searching for heads and hooves.
    When the rain started to drip through the thatch onto Gutcher’s oatcake, I began to wonder how much longer the thatch would hold. In a wind such as that, the stone weights hanging over the roof would surely need securing. For a momentI even forgot that it wouldn’t be long before Mr. Peterson came searching for his ewe. That the punishment for stealing was a nice long stay in Lerwick Prison, and if the sheriff took Daa from us, we wouldn’t have enough hands to take in the cod we needed to meet our rent.
    â€œAre there more oatcakes?” Victoria asked, casting her sweet green eyes on Aunt Alice as she leaned down to lick her fingers. The rest of us knew the answer without asking.
    â€œTuts, missy,” me aunt murmured, tucking a loose strand of grayish-blond hair back under her coarse-woven hap. “That’s the last of it, I’m afraid. But I’ll heat you some water and sprinkle it with a bit of the bere. That’ll take away the hunger. At least till morning.”
    â€œCatherine! Over here!” Daa suddenly cried. “Steady her head!” And as Catherine knelt at his side, stroking the beast’s warm nose, Daa’s well-schooled hands managed to pull out the first lamb. The second followed quickly, the rush of red-and-yellow faa spilling on the floor.
    â€œNow will you look at that—a ram and a ewe,” he announced as John and I exchanged nervous glances. “Not a bad night, this.”
    Catherine and Victoria set to toweling the newborns’ noses as they had so many times before. The wee creatures, curly fleece still wet to their skin, had just started softly bleating when there was a pounding on the door.
    â€œRobertson, you thieving haf-krak!” Peter Peterson’s voice boomed through the roar of wind. The weathered driftwoodboards rattled on their iron hinges. “Open this blasted door!”
    â€œDamn,” Daa muttered, beckoning Catherine and Victoria with a bloody hand as me heart began to race. “To the byre with them!”
    Aunt Alice handed the girls each a piece of homespun wadmal in which to wrap the lambs as they slipped out the connecting door.
    Then Daa, struggling to hold down the frantic ewe, looked at John and motioned to the tattered quilt tucked about me grandfather’s knees. Gutcher snapped his toothless gums as John whisked the quilt from his lap, mopped up the afterbirth, and then stuffed the soiled cloth behind the basket of peat.
    The ewe continued to thrash and squirm under Daa’s powerful arms, bleating louder and louder, desperate to get to her lambs, her chest rising and falling faster with each breath.
    â€œGibbie Tait saw you slipping across the scattald with that ewe!” Mr. Peterson’s voice thundered. “And may the Devil follow ya straight to Hell if you try to slip her out the back door of your byre, ’cause I’m watching!”
    â€œLor’, Sister!” Daa hissed. He raised his shaggy, reddish-gray brows as he eyed me aunt. “Get the lad a rag!”
    Wisps of hair falling across her sallow, pinched face, Aunt Alice quickly grabbed another piece of wadmal from a hook by the fire. Then she handed it to John.
    â€œHah!” John scoffed, pushing the cloth back at her.