Heart in the Highlands by Heidi Kimball

Chapter Twenty-Two

The day passed by in a haze. Kate had been both emotionally and physically wrung out after spending the morning going through her sketchbook. For the rest of the afternoon she’d wandered in and out of sleep, her dreams crowded with her drawings come to life—memories so real they made her toss and turn.

It was a relief when Harriet came in and fussed over her, a brief disruption from too much time in her own head. Later, the duchess stopped in. She had what Kate imagined was a motherly expression on her face—a determination to help in some way.

“How are ye, dearie? I worried all last night and knew I couldn’t rest until I saw ye for myself.”

“I am quite well,” Kate said. “Only tired.”

“I don’t want ye to worry a bit about Charlotte. All ye need to do now is let yourself mend. That was quite an ordeal.”

Kate nodded, not wanting to acknowledge how empty the room seemed without her daughter. “Harriet is seeing to my every need. And you and Callum are seeing to Charlotte’s. We are both in good hands.” She smiled, hoping to convince her.

“Yes, please let Callum see to Charlotte, especially during the nicht. It’ll be good for him to get a wee taste of all ye’ve done for her.”

She gave the duchess a wry smile. “I am more than happy for him to tend to Charlotte when she wakes in the night. He can take over that role . . . forever,” she said, and they both laughed.

The duchess left only after Kate had reassured her that if there was anything at all she needed, she would ask.

By the time the sun had begun to set and the shadows lengthened, Kate had grown restless once more. Despite strong admonitions from Harriet to stay abed, Kate snuck out her door and slowly padded down the corridor. Last night was the first night she’d ever missed out on putting Charlotte to bed, and she couldn’t bear to miss it a second time. Her body still felt heavy, and her muscles cramped a bit as she walked up the stairs, but she wasn’t truly ill.

The door to the nursery was closed, but Kate didn’t knock. Instead she pulled down the latched handle and silently stepped inside. She was pleased to note how cozy the large room was, with a miniature sofa, an elaborate dollhouse, plenty of brightly painted toys, and a hearty fire. Her eyes were immediately drawn toward the far corner of the room, where a small oil lamp sat in the windowsill above Charlotte’s bed.

“Again, Papa!” Charlotte cried, clearly nowhere near sleep.

“Ye are a tyrant, Lady Charlotte. Do ye know it?”

“What is a tyrant? Is it one of Noah’s animals?”

Kate smiled, noting that Charlotte was surrounded by a legion of different creatures. Carefully aligned two by two, an entire ark’s worth of animals rimmed her bedframe, as if to watch over her while she slept.

“No, a tyrant is a demanding person.” Callum tapped Charlotte on the nose. “But when said tyrant is as bonny as ye, she often gets away with it. One more song, but that is all.”

Satisfied by his response, Charlotte lay down. Kate knew she should make herself known, but she wanted to watch this interaction between father and daughter a little longer. She fiddled with the end of her braid as Callum settled Charlotte back into bed and tucked the covers up around her.

“Close your eyes,” Callum instructed, and Charlotte complied, though she opened them again as soon as he started singing.

Callum’s voice filled the room, a simple and unadorned tenor, his pitch true. It was so unexpected, so sweet, that Kate felt it all the way to her bones. She melted against the wall as she listened, enchanted by the heavy Scottish lilt of each word. But the most mesmerizing thing of all was the way Callum’s elbows rested on Charlotte’s bed, his loving gaze on her.

Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing,

Lovely wee thing wer’t thou mine,

I wad wear thee in my bosom,

Lest my jewel I should tine.

Wistfully, I look and languish

In that bonnie face of thine.

And my heart it stounds wi’ anguish

Lest my wee thing be na mine.

Wit and Grace and Love and Beauty

In ae constellation shine!

To adore thee is my duty

Goddess o’ this soul o’ mine!

After he’d finished, a comforting quiet followed. Callum bent and kissed Charlotte’s forehead. “Would ye like to say goodnight to your mother?” he asked, glancing back toward where Kate stood.

“Mama!” Charlotte sat straight back up. The excitement in her voice left Kate no time to wonder how Callum had known she was there. She hobbled across the room as fast as her sore limbs would allow and pulled Charlotte into her arms.

“Are you warmed up again?” Charlotte asked, squeezing her tight.

“Yes, I am plenty warm now. Have you had a good day?” Kate set Charlotte back in bed, ignoring the protest of her aching muscles as she took a seat on the floor beside Callum. It felt strange to be near him, knowing him in a different way now that she’d read those pages from his journal.

“Yes! Archie took me to see the horses, and I got to feed them apples and carrots. And I see’d some sheeps that were so big ’cause they have lambs in their tummies.” Her eyes practically glowed with delight. She prattled on happily for several minutes, her face animated, as she described wonder after wonder.

The three of them formed a little triangle, almost as if they were a real family. Callum’s nearness had Kate itching, out of habit, to edge away, yet scooting away would put distance between her and Charlotte as well.

She lost track of what Charlotte was saying as that truth settled on her chest. Callum was becoming important to Charlotte, as he should—Kate would never want to deny Charlotte a relationship with her father. But the reality was this: it would be impossible to hold her husband at bay and keep her daughter as close as she wished.

If she’d realized that a month ago, she might not be here now. She might never have agreed to come back to Scotland. But things were . . . changing. Her understanding of Callum was changing. And because of that, a small ribbon of acceptance, even hope, unfurled in her.

“Have you washed your face?” Kate asked when Charlotte finally paused to take a breath. Such an ordinary question when her hands were trembling, almost tingling with uncertainty. It almost felt like the beginning of the family they’d started four and a half years ago.

“Yes, Papa helped me.”

Kate ruffled her tangled mop of curls. “Well, I can see that he certainly didn’t brush your hair.”

Charlotte wrinkled her nose. “It hurts when Papa does it.”

Callum held his hands up. “I did try.”

For some reason, Kate found it comforting to know there were still a few things left to her and her alone. Callum handed her the brush from the bedside table. A simple gesture, yet full of significance—a puzzle piece in their misfit family finally fitting together. She forced out a slow breath and began to brush Charlotte’s hair in long strokes, taking care not to pull at her scalp, fully aware of Callum’s eyes on her.

“I’ll leave the two of ye to finish,” Callum said and got to his feet. “I’ve a little more work tae do tonight.” He bent down to give Charlotte another kiss. Kate grew conscious of his form as it lingered over her, the heat his body emanated.

“But you’ll come back here to sleep?” Charlotte asked.

Callum ran a hand down her cheek. “Aye. I’ll come spend the night beside ye as soon as I’ve finished.”

“Good,” she replied with satisfaction.

“’Tis good,” Callum agreed. “I need ye to protect me in the night.”

“No, Papa! You are s’pose to protect me.” She cocked her head. “But only for a little more. Harriet says when I am four I have to sleep by myself like a big girl.”

Callum looked at Kate. “When is her birthday?” She could see him doing the math in his head, counting the months.

“Next month. May the twelfth.” She swallowed as she said it, the sweet memories of that day always fringed with a sense of loss, one she felt all the way down to her womb.

“Ye mean tae tell me ye’ll be four in three more weeks?” Callum asked, jaw hanging open as though it were too much to believe.

Charlotte giggled, nodding. He was so naturally good with her—it was as if he’d not missed the first three and a half years of her life. As if he were born to be a father.

He shook his head. “Impossible. Not ye. Not my Charlotte. It must be another little girl.”

“It’s me!” she crowed.

“I cannae believe it. Nevertheless, I shall have to think on what to get ye for your birthday, just in case.” He tapped his chin. “I hope ye like surprises.”

“I do!” she assured him. “I do!”

“Ye’d best go straight to bed for your mother, then.”

She nodded vigorously. “I will.”

Once Callum left, Kate took her time brushing Charlotte’s hair, lingering at her bedside, not ready to say good night. She helped her say her prayers and then tucked her in once more. Before she’d finished singing a lullaby, Charlotte was asleep.

Kate extinguished the lamp and made her way across the room in near darkness, a mere sliver of the moon shining through the windows giving her light. Fatigue had finally caught up with her, and she wanted nothing more than to go downstairs and climb into bed.

But first, there was one thing she needed to do.

By the time Callum climbed the stairs he was bleary-eyed. Exhaustion bent the line of his shoulders. He didn’t begrudge the work required of him, save for the time it denied him with Charlotte. And Katie, when she allowed it. And, truth be told, he wouldn’t mind a little more sleep. Lately he’d been burning the candle at both ends.

He might have missed the paper someone had slid beneath his door had his boot not caught on the edge of it. Candle in hand, he dropped to his haunches and came face-to-face with a drawing of . . . himself.

Or half of one. Another paper a few inches away held the other half. He set the candle down and grasped both pages, one in each hand. The page had been ripped in half at a sharp angle, the edges jagged and uneven.

But it was his face that stared back, of that he was certain. His hair was wet and unkempt, the collar of his shirt open, clinging to his skin and smattered in mud. He stood in a doorway, half of his face in light, the other half engulfed in the shadow of a dark background.

It was him, drawn by Katie’s hand.

A depiction of the very first time he and Katie had laid eyes on one another. This was how she’d seen him. Him, sodden and dirty after helping his uncle during the flood. The detail she had captured was exceptional—the look of surprise on his face as he took her in, the disappointment about Blair’s lost sheep in his eyes.

He’d given her a page from his journal, and in return, she had offered this. His pulse thumped at the prospect of seeing into her soul, understanding some of what she’d endured during those years he’d been absent.

He could only imagine the anguish that had pushed her to tear this sketch in two. Had she done it the day he’d left? Or several months later? She’d have been lonely. Afraid. Perhaps she’d known she was expecting a child. Yet she’d held on to the sketch all this time. He stroked the line between light and shadow that fell across his face, imagining her slender fingers at work, wondering why she hadn’t used it as fodder for the fire.

She’d wanted to remember him.

Dared he take hope in that knowledge?

Hope that despite all he’d done wrong, he might be given a chance to make things right?