Michael James Scott
1719 --- 1746
He died a man's death,
fighting for his home.
The words on the small tombstone had always seemed to her a blasphemy,
the hurried cutters finding it more important to speak of patriotism
than to give the date of his birth. These trite, inadequate words were
all that future generations would ever know of him. They could never
see him as he had been in life---the shock of curling, golden hair,
the fierce and penetrating sapphire eyes. He had been strong and
stubborn like all his blood, but with a sudden tenderness that had
long ago stolen her heart. Her friend, brother and father. And in the
most secret depths of her heart, her lover as well.
One image of him remained indelibly carved in her memory.
He stood silhouetted against the open door of the shepherd's hut, in
which they had taken shelter from a sudden, violent downpour. The play
of lightnings beyond flashed his tall, muscular form into brilliant
lines out of the grey.
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