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Greene asked sharp questions, some of which Ian could answer, and some he couldn’t, while Jamie tended to the ginger business of binding up the dog’s leg—there was a nasty stake-wound, though not too deep; he hoped the stake hadn’t been poisoned. Indians would do that sometimes, in case a deer or wolverine might spring out of the trap.

Jamie’s horse was not enthused at the prospect of carrying a wolf on his back, but eventually was persuaded, and with no more than a nervous eye-roll backward now and then, they were mounted.

“_Sheas, a cu_,” Ian said, leaning over and scratching Rollo behind the ears. “I’ll be back, aye? _Taing_, uncle!” And with a brief nod to Greene, he was away, his own horse clearly wanting to put as much distance between himself and Rollo as possible.

“Dear Lord,” Greene said, wrinkling his nose at the dog’s reek.

“Aye, well,” Jamie said, resigned. “My wife says ye get used to any sort of smell after a bit of smelling it. And I suppose she’d know.”

“Why, is she a cook?”

“Ah, no. A physician. Gangrene, ken, festering bowels and the like.”

Greene blinked.

“I see. You have a most interesting family, Colonel.”

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