A Scotsman's Promise

Chapter 8

Calen arose with the sun, wanting to get an early start this morning to make up for their slow progress yesterday. He had a fire going in no time, but waited until coffee was boiling before waking up the still sleeping Will. 

Will had returned yesterday quite late and completely exhausted. He had eaten his share of the roasted game before falling asleep. Micara had also ventured out of her shelter upon Will's return, eating her dinner without speaking. She had left the fire when Will retired, leaving Calen at the flames, alone in thought.

He had brought the maple branch he had been carving on the night before, and had passed the night thinking and whittling on the whistle. He had warred with himself between finishing the whistle or going to bed early for tomorrow. The whistle was a beauty, and it was coming along exactly like he wanted. It was the exact model of the whistle Uncle Angus had taught him to play on and Calen was anxious to have something to play music on in camp again.

In the end, he had settled for sleep, putting the carving away for some other time. He was tired from carrying Will's canoe through the forest, and he could only imagine how Will felt.

Calen fixed breakfast of hardtack biscuits and bacon yet again. Will began packing the bed rolls and organizing the supplies in the canoe. They would have to carry it again this morning, though their distance wouldn't be half as far as yesterday's trek, that Calen was thankful for.

Micara emerged from her shelter while Will was filling the water skin at the river. She came forward to the fire slowly, carrying the moccasins he had originally purchased for his little sister Maggie. Her bare feet poked out from under her ankle length, sky blue dress. She looked a little worse for wear after yesterday, but still pretty.

"Mr. Donelly," she approached him, holding out the moccasins, "Thank you for your kind offer, but I cannot accept these."

Calen made no move to take them. "Why?"

"I do not need or accept charity, sir, nor do I accept gifts from men I do not know, as it is highly improper to do so."

Calen studied her, trying to decide how to handle her pride in this situation. He knew she would not last another day of walking in her ruined boots, and it looked like she was determined to do so. An idea struck him.

"Where are yer boots?" he questioned.

"By the shelter," Micara replied, watching him as he went to where they sat.

Calen picked up the boots and looked them over. The small patches of blood inside had dried to a dark brown colour. He carried them to the fire, holding them above the flames. He looked Cara in the eye. She watched in confusion. Still holding eye contact, he let the boots drop from his hand and into the fire pit.

"What are you doing?" Micara asked in disbelief, dropping the moccasins and rushing to the fire pit to save her boots.

Calen snagged her waist and pulled her away, letting the flames devour the leather footwear. He picked up the moccasins and pressed them into Micara's hands.

"The problem is solved," he stated, "now these are neither charity nor a gift, but simply me replacing what I have damaged."

Micara stood speechless, her mouth hanging open like she wished to say something but couldn't.

Calen took advantage of her silence. "I have something else for ye also," he told her.

He went to the canoe and rummaged until he found a small container. He brought it out and took it to Micara.

He opened the tin to show her its contents. Inside was a thick salve that his Ma had made specifically for his trip. It smelled strongly of herbs and Calen had seen its healing properties first hand, using the salve on several occasions.