Free Thorn in My Heart by Liz Curtis Higgs

shoulders as they transported smuggled goods inland. Jamie was grateful he had only one leather pouch to carry. His shoulders and legs ached, his seat was numb, and all his thoughts had dwindled to one: sleep.
    A scruffy lad in a tattered shirt hurried out to greet him. The boy eyed his horse, then flashed a mouthful of crooked teeth. “Will ye be spendin’ the nicht, sir?”
    “Aye, I will.” Jamie dropped to his feet with a muffled grunt. The mere mention of rest, however thin the mattress, had him digging for a copper penny to pay the lad for his horses keep. “I'll be off at first light. You 11 have him groomed, fed, and saddled, will you?”
    The boy winked, slipping the coin into his pocket. “I'll no’ fail ye, sir.”
    “And your name, lad?”
    The young man ducked his head. Shy, embarrassed, or half-asleep— Jamie wasn't sure which. “George,” he finally confessed.
    “Like the king himself, is it? Well done, George. I'll give you another coin like that one in the morning when I see his coat gleaming. Are we agreed?”
    The toothy young smile returned. “We are. What d'ye call him, sir?”
    “Walloch.”
    The lad eyed the horse's hooves. “Dances, does he?”
    “Aye. Off with you now. With any luck I've an empty bed waiting for me.”
    Convinced Walloch was in good hands, Jamie slung his pouch over his shoulder and trudged back uphill toward the inn, its whinstone walls promising dry shelter at the least. He'd passed the place dozens of times, shared a flagon or two with friends there, but never slept beneath its pitched roof. Strange to be lodging so close to home. Jamie pushed open the weathered oak door, pausing to let his eyes adjust to the murky interior. Few souls inside the low-beamed room even looked up, so intent was their conversation. Narrow benches stretched along roughly hewn tables stained by flagons past and present. Mismatched but sturdy-looking chairs huddled close to the blazing fire in the far corner where a stew cooked unattended. Along the wall a battered wooden sideboard displayed a row of pewter plates and bowls, one of which, Jamie hoped, would soon contain his belated supper.
    He stepped further inside, searching the two adjoining rooms for a suitable place to land, when his gaze halted abruptly. A familiar head of hair, red as hot coals, poked above the crowd.
Evan.
His brother sat there, plain as day, with his chair pulled up to the fire and his broad, plaid-covered back to the door. Jamie edged into a shadowy corner, his heart slamming against his chest. What was Evan doing at House o’ the Hill? Jamie hadn't breathed a word of his lodging plans to anyone. Had Evan followed him after all? Or was it ill luck and nothing more?
    A male voice bellowed across the room, “McKie! Where've you been?”
    Instinctively Jamie swiveled in that direction. So did Evan. In a half-second his brother would turn and discover him—alone and poorly armed. Jamie lunged for the door, yanked it open, then pulled it shutbehind him with a muffled bang, his breath ragged, his face hot. Had Evan seen him? Would he come roaring outside with his dubious friends in tow? Jamie quickly pulled his dirk from his boot, his gaze glued to the inn door as he backed down the hill toward the stables. Glentrool was his, and Evan could do nothing to change that. Except kill him.

Nine
     
    To that dark inn, the Grave!
     
    S IR W ALTER S COTT
     
    S ir, was there somethin wrong with Megs barley stew?”
    Jamie whirled around to find the stable lad edging toward him, confusion on his grimy features.
    “I had some o’ that stew meself and
thocht
it right
guid
—”
    “Never mind the stew!” Jamie hissed. “Where's my horse?”
    The boy fixed his gaze on Jamie's unsheathed knife and shifted from one foot to the other. “S-sir, I've b-barely started rubbin him down. Pardon me sayin, but afore ye take him out again he needs a proper feedin—”
    “All right.”
    “He's drippin wet, sir—”
    “All right, I