Aintree’s arm in a sling, Douglas carried the little lady across the street as a host of villagers watched and offered advice, something he was beginning to recognize as the Scottish way. The kitchen was full of food, reminding him how hungry he was. Brighid Dougall presided over the already weighted down table in the kitchen, with able assistance from Flora MacLeod and the MacGregor sisters. He stood still a moment with Mrs. Aintree in his arms, watching Flora. He bore too cumbersome an armful to drop to his knees in appreciation for what he saw: Flora was not focused on the food. You’re not hungry, he thought as gratitude filled his heart, even in those dusty corners that never showed up in medical textbook illustrations. “You have a houseful of friends, Mrs. Aintree,” he told the widow in his arms. She turned her face into his chest and sighed. “Get rid of them,” she whispered. “Turn Mrs. Tavish loose on them.” A few quiet words to Rhona Tavish, and a few quiet words of her own was all it took.
