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Brand stepped back a pace. He found the nearness of her somewhat disconcerting. Not unpleasant or off-putting, but rather an unfamiliar inclination or curiosity that made him uncomfortable with its presence. He could not tell if he was glad she had come to her senses and let drop her hand or if he were dismayed.
‘It was a big cat, a cougar, that attacked our camp some days back,’ he offered in explanation. ‘It was after Lady, my horse. I couldn’t let Lady be brought down by the brute, so I foolishly took the cat on. And she nearly did me in before I could best her.’ He rolled his tunic sleeves down, shielding the scars on his arm from her gaze. There was nothing he could do to hide those on his cheek. And so he simply gazed toward her with as unconcerned an air as he could muster.
And broke the brief silence that had fallen thick between them with a change in subject. ‘You know . . . I’m a fair hand at oat cakes.’ He nodded at her. ‘No, really, I am. At least Lady thinks so, as does Patch . . . my dog,’ he said with a grin. ‘And even my more well done, crispy sort are relished by my flock when we’re out in the summer pasture . . .’
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