Free The McKinnon by Ranay James Page B

inch of her life. Things said in the heat of battle, and their encounter could certainly fall in that category, should not be held against someone.
    She let it go.
    However, what she could not let go was the call of nature.
    She loathed asking him to stop. Nevertheless, her discomfort was just about at critical levels as she tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to the woods.
    He stopped. What else could he do?
    She was not sure if it was for her benefit or the horses, but she slid from the horse and headed for the trees. When she reappeared he spoke.
    “Because of your little encounter earlier today, and the time it cost us, we will not make the King’s Court by nightfall unless we ride our horses until they drop.” 
    “Well, my bath is surely not worth the death of your precious warhorse, my Lord,” she said tossing the sarcastic comment back at him then doing a perfect curtsy.
    It was then Morgan realized she had spoken as her hand involuntarily flew to cover her mouth. No shoving those words back in where they came from, she rightfully reasoned. And now he knew she wasn't mute.
    She looked into Nic's eyes, and their gazes locked. She heard him laugh softly as he turned away from her.
    He had known, but how could he? Then she remembered her telling him to go to hell.
    "So I see the cat no longer has your tongue." Nic went on before she could comment. “We will bed here for the night,” he said as he began to unload the horses of the necessary supplies. “It seems a good spot and I believe there is a pool of water close. Take the horses there, Morgan.”
    Again, it was a beautiful place. Trees on three sides ringed the open area and large, ancient boulders dotted the new spring green grass carpeting the clearing. The sun was setting, a beautiful display of orange tinged with pink and deeper shades of red. Loving this time of day Morgan felt it had a peace all its own, a finality of a sorts. As if to promise that sleep would come and bring peace.
     
    Morgan waited for the horses to drink their fill. The pond was not large, but did have clean and clear spring-fed waters. That cleansing water called to her with an invitation too promising and strong to resist. The late afternoon was still warm and she felt filthy. 
    She smelled of him, of blood, and death. She smelled of something more primal: fear.
    The need to get clean overwhelmed her as she stood there. The debate was short.
    After securing the horses, Morgan tore her clothes off, not caring that the action was destroying them. That was done with full intent. She would never wear them again. Quickly stripping down and moving to the horses, she reached into the saddlebag to pull out the bar of precious hand-milled soap found one night while exploring her mother’s old rooms. She clutched it to her and closing her eyes as she remembered the night she first discovered the treasure and how she had hidden it away from her uncle for fear he would take it from her. Sometimes, she would pull the bar out just to smell it then her Mother’s face would swim before her mind’s eye. The soap's sweet aroma was fading with time along with her memories of her mother's young and beautiful face. 
    It was all Lester's fault, she thought. He was really the bastard in this circumstance and not Nic. Her losing her memories and her losing faith was squarely on her uncle's shoulders. He could take her physical wealth, but he was never going to take her spirit.
    "Keep the faith, heart-of-my-heart."  
The soft voice whispered just before Morgan opened her eyes. "It's hard, Mamma, but I'll try," she promised, softly.
    Knowing time was short, Morgan walked into the cool waters beckoning her. Dipping beneath the shimmering surface the water caressed just as it had as a child. She reemerged on the opposite bank then dipped back under to return to the bank closest to the horses.
    Coming out of that water felt like a rebirth, she felt the cleansing, emerging a stronger woman for what