Page 21 of So Close To Heaven (Far From Home #11)

Ivy had not slept well. The camp had gone quiet soon enough, men rolling into cloaks and breacans, fires guttering low, but her mind refused to rest. Alaric’s words circled back again and again— Ye canna be left here.

.. I’ll see ye safe to a friend’s house.

His insistence that she remain with them, that he would go out of his way to see her to a place safe enough for her to give birth had both stunned and relieved her.

Honest to God, she had fully expected that he would seize on her suggestion to remain in the town, happy to be rid of her.

Instead, he had claimed her fate as part of his own, and that knowledge both steadied and strangely unsettled her.

He’d offered her a friend’s home—solid walls, a roof, maybe even women who might not look at her as if she were some mislaid oddity. The thought had warmed her enough to ease some of the cold in her chest, though the warmth did little to calm her restless turning on the hard ground.

By morning, her eyes felt gritty, her limbs heavy.

The camp was already stirring by the time she woke, some coughing and wheezing, others hopping to their feet and off into the nearby trees.

She slipped away quietly herself, always a bit further than the paths the soldiers took, desiring a bit of privacy to take care of her own needs beyond the camp’s edge.

When she returned, she saw a large cluster of men had gathered near the makeshift pen where the horses were kept, bodies crowding together, leaning over the ropes to see whatever had grabbed their attention.

As she drew closer, she recognized sounds of distress, not from any man, but from one of the horses.

A big red destrier stamped and snorted inside the rope pen, sides heaving, sweat darkening his hide.

His ears pinned back, then flicked restlessly, and he swished his tail in agitation before dropping to one knee as if to roll.

“Hold him!” someone barked, and two men rushed in, keeping the animal from thrashing fully to the ground. Other horses were cleared out of the way at the same time. Mathar was there, his scarred face drawn tight, one hand braced against the destrier’s neck as he crooned rough words to the beast.

Ivy squeezed through the knot of bodies, earning more than one annoyed glance, until she stood at the rope line. She didn’t wait for permission. Ducking beneath, she moved straight to the horse’s head, her hands outstretched, steady and unflinching despite the beast’s massive size.

“What’s happened?” she asked quickly, scanning the animal.

Mathar shot her a look, harsh and incredulous. “He’s gone queer since dawn. Wouldna take his feed, and he’s tried to go down thrice already.”

Her gaze flicked over the destrier’s abdomen, the sheen of sweat across his flanks, the way his hooves struck restlessly at the earth. “How’s his fecal output been?”

Mathar exchanged baffled looks with several men, one of whom muttered, “What are ye asking?”

Concentrating on the animal still, Ivy answered mechanically. “Dung. Manure. Has he dropped any since morning?”

Understanding dawned. Mathar answered. “Nae that I’ve seen.”

She nodded faintly, already moving, one hand pressing lightly against the horse’s barrel, her ear angled toward his side. She listened, frowning, then drew back to lift his lip, checking the gums. “Pale,” she murmured under her breath, then louder for the others’ sake. “That’s not good.”

Mathar scowled. “What’s nae guid? What are ye about?”

“He’s in distress. I’m examining him,” she said shortly, the certainty in her tone enough to still further questions.

She crouched, watching the horse’s restless shifting, the way he stretched his neck and pawed the ground.

“It looks like colic. But that’s only a symptom.

We need to know the cause—spasmodic, maybe, which would mean just trapped gas. That’s what we want.”

The men blinked at her as if she had spoken in riddles, but her hands never faltered. She laid her palm against the great neck, feeling the frantic pulse there. But how to measure it without any tools or a clock? She looked at Mathar again, meeting his hard gaze with steady eyes.

“Mathar, do you think you can count to one minute—quietly, to yourself—and get real close to an actual minute, without going too far over or under?” she asked.

His brows snapped together. “What sort of fool question is that?”

“Can you do it or not? I want to measure his heart rate,” she said firmly.

He hesitated. But, perhaps thrown off by the confidence in her voice, he soon gave a curt nod. “Aye.”

“Good.” She pressed her fingers tight against the horse’s vein.

“Give me a sign when you start and stop. One minute exactly,” she reminded him.

Not wanting to miscount, Ivy hugged the horse’s neck gently, putting her ear against his rough coat.

She cooed softly to him and then waited for Mathar’s cue.

Mathar pointed what looked like a finger-gun at her when he began, his lips moving slightly though he counted without sound. Ivy focused, feeling the hammering beats beneath her touch and her ear, keeping her gaze on the captain, waiting for his signal.

“Sixty-four,” she revealed when Mathar pointed at her, indicating his minute was up.

She exhaled thoughtfully. “Too high. Maybe not dangerous, maybe elevated for how he was thrashing, but still too high.” She said this more to herself, and then met the MacKinlay captain’s steady gaze.

“He’s in trouble. But it’s not hopeless.

He needs to walk—don’t let him roll; rolling could twist his gut—so if we’re moving out that’s good, He’ll need clean water, but only a little at a time.

We can reevaluate after an hour or so—you’ll know if he’s still in distress—but let’s pray it’s just gas. ”

She spoke with such surety that even Mathar nodded almost mechanically, and—as she’d noticed he was prone to do—he began barking orders for men to hold the horse, keep him upright and off his belly, while Mathar saddled him.

Ivy turned and scanned the crowd, finding Alaric among the watchers. “Are we heading out soon? If not, Mathar or someone can just walk him around until we’re ready.”

“Nae need to delay,” Alaric said evenly. “We can march anon.” His face gave away nothing, but his eyes lingered on her.

More orders were called out and the camp broke with startling speed.

Ivy had half-expected a slow scramble of men fumbling with packs and gear, but instead the MacKinlays moved as though they had been preparing since before dawn.

Fires were stamped out, weapons slung, lines formed—each man falling into place with practiced ease, the whole army shifting as one, a living, ordered thing.

She noticed something remarkable. As the column began to form, as men shuffled around, some inclined their heads to her, and a few even acknowledged her as they passed, murmuring a quiet “lass”—a simple greeting, she imagined.

None had greeted her before. One soldier she didn’t recognize—a lean man with a curly beard—appeared at her side, leading the bay gelding she’d been using, saddled and ready.

He gave her a brief, respectful dip of his head before pressing the reins into her hand and stepping back without a word.

“Thank you,” Ivy muttered, perplexed but strangely heartened.

It unsettled her, in a way, the sudden shift from wary stares to cautious civility.

Yet it warmed her, too, loosening the knot in her chest that had plagued her for more than a week.

By the time they were half an hour down the road, she noticed another shift in the MacKinlay army.

Something was different, almost imperceptible at first—the shoulders of the men not so rigid, their voices no longer hushed with that constant clipped edge of tension.

The line of soldiers moved with the same precision as always, but the mood overall seemed lightened, as if the weight of burdens had eased.

They seemed chattier, talking more freely, and there were even several instances of laughter.

For a brief stretch, one soldier somewhere behind her sang a few verses of a song, his rough voice carried on the crisp air, and others hummed the refrain until it died away into silence again.

Eventually, Ivy leaned toward Ewan, curiosity tugging.

“They’re...different today,” she said quietly. “Is it my imagination, or is the entire army cheerier today?”

Ewan glanced at her, his own expression lightened.

“Aye, and for guid reason, lass. We’re nae on the prowl, nae chasing anyone, so we dinna need to be so cautious, dinna need to mind how loud we are.

And we’re heading north, always cause for joy—on to Caeravorn Keep.

” His features became more animated. “We’ll be removed from the main roads, behind strong walls and well-guarded approaches. A man could breathe there, find rest.”

“Rest,” Ivy repeated, the word feeling like a luxury.

Ewan nodded. “The laird there—at Caeravorn—greets us as kin. Warm hearths, full tables. The men ken it well. We’ll nae find safer shelter this side of Ben Nevis.

” He looked ahead, toward where Alaric rode at the column’s head.

“Aye, they’ve more spring in their step for it. Even the laird and Captain.”

***

As was his practice, Alaric rode the length of his army, moving from front to rear and back again, pausing now and then to exchange words with the men still confined to the carts—those not yet fit to walk or ride.

Mercifully, their number grew fewer with each passing day; one by one, the wounded deemed themselves strong enough to take to the saddle or the march.

On those circuits outside the column, Alaric’s gaze strayed more often than he cared to admit toward Ivy.