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ROSE TURNED BACK to the pot, stirring carefully to prevent the vegetables from burning. “I was late starting my chores in the afternoon,” she replied. “After Father Ross’s burial.”

Her tone was pointed, a veiled criticism against them all. But her father merely snorted before heaving himself down on a pile of sheepskins near the fire. “A pity that … Father Ross was a good man.”

“Aye,” Rose murmured, her throat constricting. “He was.”

“What’s for supper then?” Clyde asked, his tone surly. Clearly, the priest’s passing wasn’t of interest to him.

Rose reached for a ewer of water, which she then added to the frying turnip and onion. “Pottage.” She glanced over her shoulder to see that the youngest of her two brothers was scowling. He’d never enjoyed pottage.

“No bannock with it, I suppose?” Knox asked hopefully.

Rose shook her head. “Ye ate it all this morning.”

Ignoring disgruntled looks from all three of them now, she added a handful of herbs—parsley, sage, and thyme from the garden—to the pottage. They’d run out of salt the day before, and the vegetable stew would be even blander than usual as a result.

Irritation speared her, even as she tried to stifle it.

She wanted to point out the three of them ate like plow horses, and that if they wanted bannock for their supper, they needed to restrain themselves in the morning.

Their reserves of flour and oats were dwindling, and they hadn’t yet entered the winter.

But after the sorrowful day, she couldn’t summon the energy to bicker with them.

Silence fell in the cottage, broken only by the bubbling of the stew.

Eventually, Rose went to retrieve wooden bowls and spoons. As she did so, she caught Knox’s eye. “I thought to find ye working the fields this afternoon,” she said lightly, hoping that he might reveal where they’d been.

He shrugged, pushing a shaggy fringe out of his eyes. Knox was the one she often addressed, rather than her father or Clyde. He was generally the least surly of the three and the most approachable. “The sheep needed moving.”

Rose tensed yet bit back a reply. They’d moved the small flock of sheep they tended to lower pasture just three days earlier. Knox must have read her face for he added. “They’re nearer to home now.”

“Aye,” their father snapped. “I’m not having one of those whoreson MacDonalds stealing from us … like they did last winter.”

Rose sighed and began ladling out pottage into the bowls. “Ye have no proof it was them, Da.”

“ Five of our black-faced sheep went missing,” he spluttered, glaring at her. “And I saw them in the spring when the MacDonald’s took theirs to market.” His tone was belligerent, daring Rose to disagree with him.

She didn’t. Rose had learned a long while ago, at her mother’s knee, to avoid locking horns with him over the MacDonalds. He loathed them and blamed Duncan MacDonald for every ill that befell him.

Instead, she handed out the bowls of pottage before taking a stool beside the fire. Then, with a sigh, she took a spoonful of supper. Swallowing, she tried not to wince. God’s teeth, it was bland. Like Clyde, she wasn’t fond of this meal either.

Her menfolk all started on their meals too, eating in silence. However, they were halfway through when her father snarled, “Satan’s cods … I’m sick of living like this.”

Crouched over his bowl, using his left hand to spoon pottage into his mouth, for his right had been struck off months earlier, Graham wore a deep scowl.

“I’m sorry, Da,” Rose murmured, her stomach tightening. “The pottage isn’t my finest. I—”

“It’s not yer fault, lass,” he cut her off roughly. “It’s this life.” He waved the stump where his right hand had once been around. “This family was once prosperous … but now look what we’ve been reduced to.”

“Aye, Da, thanks to the MacDonalds,” Clyde muttered. “If only a plague would carry the lot of them off.”

Graham’s face twisted, a pulse throbbing in his temple. “Duncan MacDonald and his lads are burs up our arses … if we could rid ourselves of them, our lives would be much easier.”

Inwardly, Rose groaned. Lord, they weren’t back to complaining about the MacDonalds again, were they? She understood her father’s frustration, yet her patience was stretched thin these days.

She hated how bitter he’d become, how petty.

When Graham MacAlister had moved into this cottage and taken over tending his own father’s lands, life had been good.

He’d been happily wed with three strong, healthy bairns.

But slowly, with the years, her father’s life had taken another path.

He had a weakness for drink, and whereas his father had rubbed along with the MacDonalds, Graham couldn’t bring himself to do the same.

He now resented the Mackays too, especially since their laird had struck off his hand for cattle thieving. Nonetheless, he had the wits to keep his resentment to himself. This cottage and the land they farmed belonged to Iver Mackay—and if he so wished, he could turf them out.

Rose watched her father’s weathered face, noting the broken veins in his cheeks, which hadn’t been there months earlier.

Even in his anger, he looked defeated, for he sat, slumped in the sheepskins, his broad shoulders rounded.

Something deep inside her chest twisted.

He was a broken man, beaten down by life.

Her jaw tightened as anger rose to replace her sadness. It didn’t help that he got the blame for every crime committed in the local area. There had been a period when the Dun Ugadale Guard made daily visits to their cottage to ensure Graham was behaving himself.

Kerr Mackay had it in for her father—he had for a while now.

Rose’s pulse started to thud in her ears.

Curse him, the Captain of the Guard didn’t consider everything that had befallen her father of late.

A succession of poor crops. Ewes that had died during lambing. The death of his beloved wife.

Rose dropped her gaze to her half-eaten bowl of pottage. It didn’t help either that his offspring were a burden to him. Knox and Clyde were both idlers, and Rose hadn’t found herself a man yet. Aye, she’d had offers, but none of them were from men she liked well enough to marry.

Captain Mackay was the only one to show interest in her of late—and she’d sooner marry a stinking billy goat.

Forcing down the last of her pottage, for she didn’t waste a mouthful of food, Rose took the empty bowls from her father and brothers. They were still muttering about Duncan MacDonald and his four strapping sons, yet she barely heard them now.

Knox had recently had a run-in with one of them, and his broken nose had just healed. All the same, he’d have a bump on the bridge of it for the rest of his days, a reminder of Keith MacDonald’s meaty fists.

Rose didn’t pay much attention to their swearing and growled threats as she picked up the lantern with one hand and carried the bowls and spoons with the other. It was always the same. Anger, followed by vows of vengeance. It never came to anything though, thank the Lord.

Leaving them to it, she went outside to wash the supper dishes.

Graham waited until his daughter was out of earshot before leaning forward, his gaze sweeping over his sons’ faces.

“Those were pretty cattle we spied today, weren’t they, lads?”

Clyde grinned. “Aye, Da.”

Knox nodded, his green eyes glinting in the firelight. “Duncan MacDonald’s doing well for himself.”

“He is, indeed,” Graham growled. “Thank ye for rubbing that in my face, halfwit!”

Knox’s gaze guttered, yet Graham barely noticed.

As always, it felt as if a hot ember pulsed in his gut whenever he dwelled on how prosperous his nemesis was these days.

Duncan’s wife was fat and apple-cheeked, and two of his sons had just set up on their own.

The bastard’s influence was growing locally, while Graham’s was waning.

He knew the truth of it. He was a drunk and a cripple—and nearly destitute.

Rents were due again, yet he hadn’t been able to pay the bailiff on his last visit.

Luckily, Kyle MacAlister had given him extra time to find the coin.

However, the bailiff would be passing by again soon, and they still didn’t have the money.

Graham screwed up his mouth. He didn’t like receiving charity and resented Kyle for his compassion. It was humiliating. However, it was just as well the new bailiff was a MacAlister. When Lennox Mackay had been bailiff, it had been harder to persuade him to be a little lenient.

The ember burned hotter still in his gut, and Graham reached down, rubbing his paunch. He’d been suffering from stomach pains for a few months now, although they were always worse when he was vexed.

Pushing aside worries about how he was going to pay his rent, Graham studied his sons’ faces.

They were both a disappointment to him.

Duncan MacDonald’s lads were independent and industrious, whereas Knox and Clyde lacked drive or ambition. If they were canny, they’d have gone after the daughters of prosperous farmers as Duncan MacDonald’s brood had. But, instead, they depended on him for their futures.

If only they’d been born grafters like their younger sister. Rose worked harder than any of them, but unfortunately, she was a daughter, not a son.

The weight of responsibility was a heavy one. It meant that Graham found himself constantly scheming and planning.

And luckily for his useless sons, he had a plan.

“I’ve heard word that the MacDonalds intend to sell those cattle at Carradale market in February,” Graham announced, lowering his voice as if he were afraid the walls might overhear him. “I think we need to take advantage of that, lads.”

Both Knox and Clyde leaned closer, their expressions keen. Like hounds on the scent, they knew their father was plotting something.

Someone had to.

This plan didn’t solve their immediate problems. They still had to survive the long and bitter winter ahead. But at least, come spring, they’d have coin.