The horse clopped into her cottage. There was barely room to maneuver around the animal and the warrior. They filled the tiny interior of her home.

She hastily untied the ends of the sheet and then set about getting the horse to go back the way he’d come. The stubborn horse evidently decided he liked the warmer interior of her cottage. It took half an hour to budge the stubborn beast.

When she finally had him outside where he belonged, she slammed her door and leaned heavily against it. She needed to remember next time that good deeds often went unrewarded.

She was fair exhausted from her efforts, but her warrior needed tending if he was to live.

Her warrior? She snorted. Her pain in the arse, more likely. No need in entertaining stupid, fanciful thoughts. If he died, she’d likely be blamed.

Upon closer inspection, he obviously wasn’t a McDonald. She frowned. Was he an enemy to the McDonalds? Not that she owed them her loyalty, but she was a McDonald and as such their enemies were her own. Was she even now saving the life of a man who was a threat to her?

“There you go again, Keeley,” she mumbled. Her flights of fancy often veered dramatically to the absurd. The tales she spun in her head would make a bard look boring.

His colors were unfamiliar to her, but then she had never been farther than McDonald land in her life.

She had no hope of getting him to her bed so she did the next best thing. She brought her bed to him.

She arranged the blankets and pillows around him so that he would be comfortable, and then she added wood to her dying fire. Already the room had gone chilly.

Next, she collected her supplies and gave thanks that she’d traveled into the neighboring village a few days past to replenish her meager stock. Most of what she needed, she gathered herself. And thank the good Lord that she had superior healing skills, because it was all that had sustained her for the last years.

Though the McDonalds were quick enough to toss her out of the clan, they had no compunction about seeking her out when one of them needed healing. It wasn’t uncommon for her to stitch a McDonald warrior after a training mishap or a wee one’s head after taking a tumble down the stairs.

McDonald keep had its own healer, but she was aging and her hand was no longer steady at stitching. ’Twas said she did more damage than good when putting her needle to flesh.

If Keeley were more mean spirited, she’d turn them away just as they’d turned her away, but the occasional coin they provided for her services kept food on her table when hunting was lean and it enabled her to purchase supplies that she couldn’t gather herself.