Reaching the end of the stand of dead trees, she headed north until the rush of water drew her attention. The ground here was spongy and had leveled off beside a thicket of fir and larch.

Satisfied that she had located their site, Elise returned to find Sammy where she had left him. He sat poking the dead pheasant’s feet with a stick. Elise tried not to roll her eyes. Roddy had been much the same at that age, fixated on the dead animals mounted on the castle walls.

“I’ve found a place to build our shelter,” she announced.

Sammy slowly rose to his feet. His bounce had gone. A pang of sympathy filled her, and she longed to give him a much-needed rest.

“I’ll carry everything if you make sure we aren’t followed,” she offered, picking up their meagre belongings.

“How do I do that?” Sammy’s body might have been tired, but his curiosity was alive and well.

“You listen for snapping branches and crunching leaves. That’s what Indian scouts do,” she added to stir his imagination.

“Oh.” Sammy scanned the forest around them, then turned back and stubbornly picked up his quiver of arrows. He had never resembled his father more. “I can carry these.”

Elise pulled the makeshift rucksack over her shoulders and piled the bow crossways over her chest. “Whenever possible, walk on moss or rocks. We don’t want to leave any footprints in the mud.”

“Is that how the Indians do it?”

“Yes. War parties used to follow each other single file through the forest to leave as wee trace as possible.”

“How come you know so much about Indians?” Sammy came abreast of her, his cowlick flapping.

“When I was your age, my brother and I read stories about them too, then acted them out until my mother made us stop.”

“Why?”

“Because Roddy tried to burn me at the stake like the American Indians did to William Crawford in the American War of Independence.”

“Your brother did that?” Sammy’s eyes bulged as though someone had squeezed him too tightly.

“Aye, he did, the wee devil. Dad packed him off to boarding school for that.”

When they reached the site Elise had selected for their camp, she set down her gear and removed the quiver from Sammy’s back.

“While I gather wood for our shelter, can you be our lookout?”

“How much wood do you need?” Sammy, it appeared, was having none of it.

“A bit.”

“I’m helping.” Sammy stuck out his chin.

“You don’t want to be our lookout?”

“You shouldn’t carry that all by yourself,” Harry’s son told her. “Dad said you were hurt. Are you?”

“I’m healing. Aren’t you tired?”

“Yes, but you’re tired too.”

His simple observation set her off, and she turned away so Sammy couldn’t see her dab her eyes. “Thank you. That’s very kind of you.”