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Does he want to right the wrongs the old earl did here? Would he bring back those who were forced to leave the glen? He could ask Highlanders to watch his sheep for him. Has he done any of it?" She folded her arms. "Not at all, and it's very sad, I think."
    He frowned. "I can see where you might believe that—"
    "The new earl is continuing the old earl's ways. He profits from the sheep and takes fees from tourists and holiday climbers."
    Evan looked down. Rentals and tourists had been his father's idea, for a healthy profit. Evan and his sister had even considered building an inn for tourist. He shook his head slowly. He had much to learn about Glen Shee, apparently.
    Catriona looked at him. "Oh! Mr. Mackenzie, are you—"
    Had she figured it out already? He drew a breath for the consequences. "Am I what, Miss MacConn?"
    "Are you one of climbers who paid Lord Kildonan?"
    "No, Miss MacConn," he said with relief. "I am not."

Chapter 4

    Catriona stood, hands on hips, looking at the hut's interior with satisfaction. She and Mr. Mackenzie had crammed some of the fallen thatch into chinks in the drystone walls. The wind still howled and the cold was freezing, but the draft was lessened.
    "Mr. Mackenzie, do be careful," she said, turning.
    He had broken apart the wooden bench to wedge the planks between the roof beams, and now reached overhead to secure the makeshift patch to block cold air.
    "I'm—perfectly—fine," he answered, pounding the plank into place with a rock found in the debris inside the hut. Tall enough to assist him, Catriona moved toward him to hold one end of the bench while he fit it between the rafters. Mackenzie glanced at her briefly. "I always liked tall lassies. Now I know why." He grinned.
    She felt herself blush at his teasing compliment, and stole a glance at him as he worked, admiring the power in his arms and shoulders, the long tough grace of his back and legs. She saw the muscles shift and bunch under his shirt, as he had removed his jacket to work in shirtsleeves and vest. Remembering touching him earlier, when he had been unconscious, she felt her cheeks heat even more fiercely.
    She had rarely had thoughts like that before, and these were disconcerting—and persistent whenever she looked at him.
    "There," he said, stepping back and lowering his arms. He glanced at her. "A bit less drafty, at least."
    "Mr. Mackenzie, please rest. I fear you will overdo. We must have the doctor look at you back in the glen."
    He looked surprised. "There's a doctor of medicine here?"
    "Mr. Grant is the laird of Kilmallie at the other end of the glen, and studied medicine at university. His father was the earl's factor, but died, so his son was called back here. And he is a competent doctor for our needs. You could consult Mr. Grant about your head bump, certainly. Are you staying at the Torridon Inn in Glen Shee? Mrs. MacAuley runs the only inn here. Or perhaps you are staying with friends?"
    He avoided a direct answer—she would know everyone in the glen. "I may consult Mr. Grant if I feel poorly later. For now, I am well enough. There, that should hold." He stood back.
    "I do feel a difference."
    "But it is still bitter cold in here." He glanced around. "Where shall we sleep? I apologize for being so direct, but it is getting late. We need to make a bed."
    "Beds," she corrected. "There's only the one plaid and our jackets, but it's just for one night. You take the blanket, Mr. Mackenzie, and I'll borrow your coat, if I may."
    "You take the blanket."
    "But you must rest well—your injuries. I insist." She folded her arms like a stern nursemaid.
    "We will share." He knelt on the floor to spread out the plaid. "After you, Miss MacConn."
    She stared at him. "Sleep in the same bed?"
    "We'd stay warm." He looked at her. "The only way to get through this beastly night is to share warmth, Miss MacConn."
    "Share warmth! You—I trusted you!" Yet she felt no real alarm—just a deep, secret excitement. Did she