He had been riding through the Vale of Stonehaven, a rarity, as it was one of the more peaceful places of the isle, inhabited by shepherds and their wandering flocks. He hadn’t patrolled the valley since his first year as a guard, but for some reason he had taken the eastern road on his way home from a shift.

He was thinking about Maisie. She was eight months old, and Graeme was caring for her by day. But the arrangement couldn’t go on forever. Torin knew he could do better by his daughter. That he should do better.

His stallion spooked at a shadow, a play of wind in the oak branches above him. Torin was tossed from the saddle and promptly found himself facedown in the dirt, his left shoulder throbbing. He couldn’t even recall the last time he had been thrown by his horse.

Mortified, he rose and brushed the dirt from his clothes, hoping no one but the spirits had seen him fall. His shoulder was dislocated. He knew it was, and he gritted his teeth as one of the younger guards came trotting up the road behind him.

“Do you need help fetching your horse, Torin?”

“No.”

Torin’s stallion had wandered off toward one of the shepherd’s houses. He motioned the guard to go on his way as he strode to reclaim his horse.

“Ah, that’s convenient,” the guard called after him.

“What is?” Torin ground out.

“Well, Senga Campbell and her granddaughter live there.”

Senga Campbell was the castle healer. She personally attended to the laird and his family and was renowned for her skill. Despite that, Torin hadn’t known she had a granddaughter, and he failed to make sense of what the guard was saying.

“Very well. She has a granddaughter.” Torin threw up his hands and then winced.

“Her granddaughter is a healer as well, you know. I’m sure she’d be happy to reset your shoulder for you.” The guard cantered off down the road with his amusement, and Torin swore as he finally chased his horse down in the Campbells’ yard.

Their house was quiet. It seemed that no one was home, and Torin paused when he noticed their garden. He had never seen a more organized and beautiful kail yard.

He tethered his horse to the gate and walked to the front door, frightening a cat from the stoop. He knocked and waited, listening as someone moved within the house.

It was Sidra who answered the door.

She was dressed in simple homespun. A smudge of dirt was on her cheek. Her long black hair was loose and spilled over her shoulders. A stray flower was caught within the tangles. All of his thoughts unexpectedly scattered at the sight of her, and he said nothing.

“Who is at the door, Sidra?” an older woman’s voice—Senga’s—rasped from within.