n acrid hint from the distant privy, suggesting that matters there were shortly going to requirehis attention, speaking of buildings. Then he bethought him of the new tenants coming, and relaxed; digging a new privy wouldbe just the thing for Chisholm's eldest two boys.He and Ian had dug this one, when they first came to the Ridge. God, he missed the lad."A Micheal...," he murmured. Blessed Michael, protect him. He liked MacKenzie well enough, but had it been his choice, hewould not have exchanged Ian for the man. It had been Ian's choice, though, not his, and no more to be said about it.Pushing away the ache of Ian's loss, he stepped behind a tree, loosened his breeks and relieved himself. If she saw him, Clairewould doubtless make what she considered witty remarks about dogs and wolves marking their home-ground as they returnedto it. Nothing of the sort, he replied to her mentally, why walk up the hill, only to make matters worse in the privy? Still, if youcame down to it, it was his place, and if he chose to piss on it...he tidied his clothes, feeling more settled.He raised his head and saw her coming down the path from the garden, her apron bulging with carrots and turnips. A gust ofwind sent the last of the leaves from the chestnut grove swirling round her in a yellow dance, sparked with light.Moved by sudden impulse, he stepped deeper into the trees and began to look about.Normally, he paid attention only to such vegetation as was immediately comestible by horse or man, sufficiently straight-grainedto serve for planks and timbers, or so covered with thorns as to pose difficulty in passage. Once he began looking with an eyeto aesthetics, though, he found himself surprised at the variety to hand.Stalks of half-ripe barley, the seeds laid in rows like a woman's plait. A dry, fragile weed that looked like the lace-edging on apetticoat. A stem of blue spruce, unearthly green and cool among the dry bits, leaving its fragrant sap on his ...
