Page 21 of Winter Longing
“From where did you come?”
“From home. New York.”
“York?” She bristled. “Ye said ye were nae English.”
“I’m not.” He paused and blew out a breath, one of frustration “New York is in America. Although, I guess it’s another couple hundred years before that’s discovered.”
Ailsa laughed unexpectedly, which she supposed was done to conceal her confusion. “Discovered? What was discovered?”
“America, another country. You know what, let’s not get into that now. That’s another discussion for another day.”
Sensing he was becoming agitated, Ailsa remained quiet for a while.
The search took the group along the rugged path between the hills and the edge of the forest, their horses picking their way over rocks and uneven terrain. The snow, having stopped falling the day before, had begun to settle, but the trail Cole had left had already been trampled by the bustle of the Sinclair army’s departure earlier that morning. They had little to follow but the remnants of disturbed earth and crushed grass, barely enough to discern any signs of direction. The landscape stretched before them—rolling hills, patches of heather, and the occasional stand of birch trees whose bare branches creaked in the cold wind.
They traveled for several miles, crossing a small stream and ascending a wooded rise, from where the valley below unfolded in shades of gray and brown. A few birds flitted through the trees, their calls sharp against the stillness of the morning. As they pushed further, the trees gave way to open moorland, where the ground was boggy and treacherous. There were no signs of Cole’s trail here or any others, only the occasional print of critters and larger beasts.
At length, they had to consider that their search presently was fruitless and that the further away from the keep they went, the more they were exposed to danger.
As it was, Domhnall and Colin had been arguing about just that—continuing or halting the search—for the last few minutes. Domhnall wanted to give up while Colin suggested generouslythat they could at least carry on the few more miles to the larger crags.
“Ye two bicker like old hounds tied to the same post,” Anwen pronounced about their discussion.
When Dersey finally called a halt to the search, Ailsa felt a reluctant sense of agreement. It was clear they had come as far as they could. Had they found even the faintest trace of the man called Tank, there might have been reason to press on, to scour the land for any other sign of him, however small. But with no trail, no indication of Cole’s friend at all, the effort was really nothing more than a frustrating, hopeless endeavor.
“I am sorry, sir,” she said quietly to Cole as she turned the horse around as did the others, “that we could nae find your friend.”
“Me too. I don’t suppose it would be possible to search again tomorrow?”
Ailsa winced, knowing it would indeed be difficult to cajole both Anwen and Dersey a second time. “I’ll see what I can do,” she promised him.
Chapter Seven
He hadn’t really expected to find Tank. Though it unsettled him, Cole wasn’t weighed down by any gut-wrenching fear that his friend was in actual danger. Part of him wondered if the way Tank’s voice and his image had blurred and grown distant suggested that Tank hadn’t been zapped through time with Cole. More than believing Tank was here in the 14thcentury with him, lost in the harsh winter terrain, Cole imagined that Tank had been left standing on that mountain in the twenty-first century, scratching his head and wondering where the hell Cole had gone.
Tank would have likely made it back to town safely, was Cole’s guess. Maybe he’d already alerted the authorities, flagged down a mountain recovery team to search for a missing hiker—Cole had seen the signs and pamphlets scattered around the hiking store about the recovery services for lost climbers. The thought of those resources being spent on him, only to end up in a futile search, made him feel guilty. How could they know he’d slipped through time itself, seven hundred years into the past?
Despite his determination to focus on the search, Cole found it almost impossible to ignore his proximity to Ailsa, his arm wrapped loosely around her waist. The steady rhythm of the horse’s movements brought him closer with each jolt and dip, and he became aware of details he hadn’t fully noticed before: the warmth of her back against his chest, the slender strength of her frame, and the way her hair, loose strands escaping her hood, brushed against him. He almost regretted putting his arm around her earlier. He should have taken his chances, should have kept as much distance between them as possible, even if it would have meant he did eventually fall off the horse
It was cold enough that his breath clouded in the air, but he hadn’t once been bothered by the temperature. And while sheseemed entirely at ease, her focus sharp on the landscape ahead, Cole wondered if Ailsa was aware of his physical presence and touch in the same distracting way he was.
He respected her skill with the horse—there was an ease about her riding and managing the horse that seemed second nature to her, communicating effortlessly with the animal with only subtle shifts and nudges rather than sharp commands and physical strength. His own lack of experience felt almost laughable by comparison, but with everything else he was dealing with, that hardly seemed to matter.
Still, even as he told himself to concentrate on staying upright and in the saddle, to keep his eyes peeled for any sign of Tank or evidence that he’d come to the past, Cole couldn’t ignore Ailsa’s steady warmth against him, the faint, earthy scent of her hair, and most improbably, the simple, disarming realization that he trusted her.
After several hours of searching, they’d turned around and returned.
Torr Cinnteag came into view.
Cole had his first real, complete view of the castle, its walls and towers looming up from the landscape as a startling scene of rugged permanence. The stone walls were imposing, not the weathered ruins he’d visited back in the twenty-first century, but fully intact and alive with activity. From the torches lit at the gate to the guards pacing along the wall-walk, Torr Cinnteag was unmistakably a castle in its prime. The stone looked newer, sharper at the edges, and though covered in moss in places, it lacked that eroded look he had seen since coming to Scotland. A clang of metal resounded from behind the gates, followed by some order barked in another language, and the growing wind brought to Cole the scent of woodsmoke and pine, marking the fortress as fully in use, not some abandoned relic.
With each detail acknowledged, the reality of his situation struck deeper. This wasn’t a scene from a movie, with set pieces arranged to look authentic. Nor was it some elaborate historical dream. In all their search today across hills and woodlands, he hadn’t seen one sign of the modern world—not a paved road, not a single power line, not the faintest hum of machinery or any trace of the twenty-first century. No plane crossed the clear winter sky, and no artificial light shone anywhere.
Ahead, the massive wooden gates swung open and they rode through into the courtyard, where men and women dressed in wool and fur idled in conversation, while others were busy with chores. One man chopped wood just inside the gate. There was nothing here but the raw simplicity of medieval life, and Cole couldn’t ignore the jarring fact: this was another time, another world altogether, one where the only thing out of place was him.
The group halted in the courtyard just as a light snow began to fall straight down, and the men began to dismount. Cole, unsure whether he or Ailsa should go first, hesitated, and Ailsa answered his unspoken question by swinging down with practiced ease. He realized, a second too late, that he hadn’t been watching closely enough to learn anything useful about getting off a horse. It seemed simple enough... maybe just swing a leg over and slide down?
“Do ye need help?” Ailsa kindly asked, unintentionally heightening his embarrassment.
