She thought of her father and the MacTavishes. The people were still refusing to pay their rents, and her father trying to manage them through force only put more space between them rather than drawing them together as clan and chieftain.
Finlay seemed to know what he was doing. He was also visibly happy that she was part of this with him today, a moment she would never have thought would come to pass.
“Come,” he said, taking her hand now. “We’ll visit some of the families you will want to know.”
They visited house after house in the small village, speaking to couples, to families, to single men and single women. The first couple had been unable to bear children, and the land was their love. They tended to the gardens and wanted nothing more than the ability to keep to what they were doing.
The father of the next family tended sheep, and was never home but always out in the fields. He told them he would rather have dedicated land to see to his duties. As it was, their croft was far from the lands where the sheep grazed, with large distances between the fields he had to herd them to and from. He would prefer they were herded on adjoining lands, where he could make his home much closer to them so he could spend more time with his family.
Kyla nodded—this had been exactly of what she was thinking.
The third crofter grew potatoes, and while he had struggled with this year’s crop, he was optimistic that next year would be different.
House after house, clan member after clan member, Finlay was patient and kind. Kyla had thought he would turn down ideas—as he had hers initially, she thought wryly—but instead, he heard out every person and truly listened, whether he actually agreed with them or not. He was practical, and would then explain his thoughts in a logical way. He allowed them to feel heard, which, she realized, was the most important thing.
She thought of her father and brother and the forceful tactics they used in an attempt to reach their clan. Clearly, their methods weren’t what spoke to people, and, if anything, drove them away. Finlay was right—a clan was about the people, and the largest responsibility was caring for one another. She knew he thought her ideas would cause a rift between him and them, but Kyla knew they would actually benefit the clan as a whole. It was a matter of putting her ideas into practice with his methods and values so that everyone approached the change together. She saw now how it could happen, and was energized by the idea.
Finally, he led her to a small croft at the end of the lane. He told her it belonged to a man and woman about his age, who now had five children. The last baby had been a difficult delivery, and they had been worried about the mother, Moira, for some time. Finlay had called on them a few times in the past weeks to see how they were and what could be done to help.
There wasn’t much space within the small, crudely built cottage, but it was clean and warm. There were three small children playing in the corner of the largest room, while a woman and an older girl who must have been her daughter ladled porridge out of a pot. The room was filled with peat smoke from the range, a loom dominating one corner, and a cradle sitting next to the table which the family had just set for dinner.
Kyla apologized for interrupting their meal, but the woman waved them in.
“Finlay!” the woman cried as she placed her bowl on the wood table and enveloped Finlay in an embrace. “How good of you to come. Sit, what can I get for you?”
“Nothing, Moira, but thank you,” he said. “I’m not sure if you’ve met my wife?”
Kyla smiled and nodded at the woman, who she had known through the years, though not particularly well. Moira was not much older than Kyla herself, yet had much more pronounced lines on her face and her eyes yearned for sleep. She had lived a hard life, and yet her smile signified all of the joy she held within her. It was admirable.
“How is the wee one?” Finlay asked.
“Oh, she’s doing quite well,” answered Moira with a warm smile. “We were afraid for a while there that we were going to lose her, but all was well in the end.”
Kyla recalled hearing of Moira and the trouble she had had during childbirth. Her husband worked many hours in the fields, and she was often alone with her children. Luckily the oldest was ten and often helped her mother care for the baby and the young ones.
As the baby began to squawk, Moira went over to the small cradle. She picked up the tiny bundle, bringing her over for them to see.
“She’s just so beautiful,” said Kyla breathily over the newborn, who was still pink and tiny, with fingers that curled around one of hers when she moved to stroke her face.
“Would you like to hold her?” Moira asked.
“I would absolutely love to,” said Kyla, and Moira handed her the baby. Kyla took her gently, cradling her against her chest.
“Her name is Stacy,” said Moira. “She was a miracle baby, she truly was.”
Kyla held the baby as the other children clamored for attention. She smiled and laughed with them, but didn’t want to put the baby back down. She felt too good in her arms. She closed her eyes in contentment at the warm little body cuddled against her chest. Stacy tucked her head under Kyla’s chin and fell fast asleep.
Finlay looked over at her and smiled before swooping down and lifting up the oldest boy, swinging him around the room to give him the thrills he was looking for. He soaked it up, squealing with delight. Of course, the second boy wanted the same treatment, and before long, he
