Free A Maxwell Maligned (Laird of Lochandee) by Gwen Kirkwood Page B

bleak hills and moor where rocks seemed more plentiful than sheep and cascades of water sprang from nowhere to fall down the sides of the hills. He felt his spirits sink but the train puffed ever onward away from Ayrshire, away from Windlebrae, away from Rachel. Why did he have this awful feeling of dread when he thought of her and of his home?
    As the train headed south the drizzle gave way to patches of blue sky and the hill and moorland became greener and more kindly again. Little whitewashed farmsteads nestled into the lea of green slopes, sheltered here and there with the darker green of woodland. Ross began to daydream. Maybe by next year he would have established himself with a few cows and a couple of pigs, some hens and a pair of good Clydesdales horses for the ploughing and carting.
    He sat up straight, frowning. His mother had not mentioned how he would stock a farm of his own, even if Jim MacDonald could get him one for a year without rent, as she believed. They ought to have discussed it with his father. Surely it would be easier to have a farm nearer to Windlebrae so that he and Willie could share some of the tools and implements? His mind raced, but his thoughts kept returning to Rachel. He felt vaguely troubled without knowing why.
    Could she be seriously ill? His life had taken on a new light since she came to Windlebrae. She had become his friend and confidante – and more. His cheeks flushed and he felt his insides clench at the thought of her in his arms, held close to his heart.
    Ross changed trains at Dumfries without trouble. So far, so good. The see-saw of his spirits rose again. There were a number of people waiting at Lockerbie station when the train lurched to a halt but Ross and Jim MacDonald recognised each other at once.
    ‘You’re just like your mother. I thought that when I saw you at Connor O’Brian’s funeral. That’s what made me speak to you.’ Jim nodded. ‘Aye, I’d recognise you anywhere’
    ‘Like my mother?’ Ross was surprised. ‘Most people say I am a Maxwell. Maybe that’s because I’m the only one who plays the fiddle.’
    ‘Aye, that’s what I …’ Jim MacDonald floundered. He stared intently at Ross. Then he gave an exasperated sort of sigh. ‘Anyway, there’s a neighbour of mine over there. He would like us to give him a hand to get some Ayrshire stirks out of the railway wagon and turned onto the road for home. Throw your case into the trap – the big one over there with the red and green wheel boards.’ Ross quickly obeyed as Jim MacDonald shouted, ‘Here they come!’
    The stirks trotted briskly onto the wide main street, guided by an eager collie dog and Bill Murdoch’s teenage son. Ross sprinted after the animals. He caught up just in time to prevent them turning onto the wrong road. He learned later it went south towards Annan, the Solway Firth and on to Carlisle.
    Jim MacDonald drove over the railway and up a steep road out of the town. According to his mother the MacDonald family had prospered since they moved south. It seemed incredible that she was encouraging him to improve his own prospects after all the years of repressing every idea or suggestion he ever made.
    At first Jim MacDonald was silent, apparently deep in thought, as the trap jogged along narrow country roads, bright hued with the autumn leaves, some still clinging to the branches, others strewn in a russet carpet on the road beneath. They passed over a bridge and Ross saw the river below.
    ‘The land seems fertile,’ he remarked.
    ‘Aye, there’s some of the best, and some of the worst, on the estate.’
    ‘Do you live in this direction?’
    ‘No. Our land is down the road Bill Murdoch took. We are about two miles from him. The farm we are going to see has been without a tenant for some time. The Factor, Mr Shaw, will be meeting us there. He’s offering the farm for a year rent-free. He says it needs a young man, a strong one, who is not afraid of hard work. I have not seen