“He turned his head, casting a look toward the distant mountain, where the sun was coming slowly down through a scatter of fat little clouds, painting their bellies with soft gold.
We both sighed a little at the sight, and he turned back and took my hand. ‘What I want ye to do, Sassenach, is sit wi’ me here for a moment—and tell me I’m no dreaming. She’s really here? She and the bairns and Roger Mac?’
I squeezed his hand and felt the same bubbling joy I could see in his face.
‘It’s real. They’re here. Right there, in fact.’”