Page 5 of Winter Longing
A gnawing fear ate at him. Where was Tank? He couldn’t fathom his friend leaving him behind. Tank was the type to drag him over his shoulder if need be, not the type to disappear without a word.
Cole forced himself to stand, his legs trembling under the strain. His boots crunched in the snow as he took a few unsteady steps. He tried to steady his breathing, but his chest tightened with rising panic. He called for Tank again, louder this time, his voice echoing uselessly into the void.
Nothing. No response.
The sun—or what little light there was—was fading fast. Shadows crept across the landscape, stealing what little warmth the day had provided. Cole’s training flashed through his mind:Hypothermia doesn’t just make you cold; it clouds your judgment, slows your movements. Keep moving, keep your blood circulating, stay sharp.But where would he go? He spun in place, searching for any sign of civilization. No lights in the distance, no smoke trails from a chimney, no sound of cars or planes—nothing but an unrelenting wilderness.
Where the hell was the mountain?
He forced himself forward, each step an effort against the biting wind.
His thoughts raced as his body slowed. Did Tank go for help?
Had there been an earthquake?
Did Scotland even have earthquakes?
Could he have hit his head?
His pulse spiked at the thought of more sinister possibilities. What if Tank had been injured—or worse?
As he trudged through the snow, the cold settled deeper into his limbs. His fingers were numb, his lips dry and cracked. After about an hour of walking aimlessly, Cole realized with growing alarm that he’d left his backpack behind. But then he didn’t remember seeing it at all after he’d woken up, and he did recall searching the immediate area. Maybe it was still on the mountain, where he and Tank had first noticed the change in the air, before he’d blacked out?
Another puzzle, that. Why had he passed out? He couldn’t make sense of anything, not one damn thing. It was beyond maddening.
Presently, however, finding warmth, shelter of some sorts, needed to be his first priority. He would freeze out here in the elements. He tugged his coat tighter around him and lowered his hat over his ears, but it was no use; his body was losing heat faster than he could retain it. He clenched and unclenched his fists, stomped his feet, even jogged for a little bit, tried anything to keep his blood flowing while another hour passed.
Just when despair threatened to overwhelm him, he saw it: a dark opening in the side of a small hill. A cave. It wasn’t ideal, but it was shelter, and right now, it was his only option. Stumbling toward it, he ducked inside and collapsed against the rough stone wall. The air was stale and damp but marginally warmer than outside.
Cole’s breaths came fast and shallow as he assessed his situation. He knew the risks of staying here, but he also knew the risks of wandering aimlessly through the cold.Stay put,his training said.Make yourself easy to find.But the gnawing fear that no one was looking for him at all made him second-guess everything.
He pulled his knees to his chest, trying to conserve what little heat he had left. The darkness pressed in on him, amplifying his thoughts. The surrealness of the situation was almost too much to process. One moment, he’d been hiking with Tank, grinning over Tank’s desire to be a businessman. Now, he was freezing in the middle of nowhere, no Tank, no explanation, no idea what to do next.
As exhaustion tugged at him, Cole fought to stay awake. He had to survive. He had to figure this out.
For the first time in a long while, he felt something dangerously close to panic.
And as he closed his eyes against the cold and the dark, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something just wasn’t right, that he was missing some crucial piece of the puzzle surrounding his circumstances.
Chapter Three
Torr Cinnteag
The Highlands
1302
––––––––
She feared that the unusually frigid autumn was only a portent of a brutal winter to come.
Ailsa tipped her face skyward, closing her eyes as fine, cold flakes settled against her cheeks. The first snow of the season was gentle, each flake kissing her skin with a delicate peck before melting away. For a moment, the quiet world around her felt as still as a held breath. She opened her eyes slowly, watching the flurries fall around her, hoping the snowfall remained as soft and picturesque all day.
The Sinclairs of Torr Cinnteag could not withstand a harsh winter.
The rolling hills surrounding the keep had long since shed summer’s warmth and were now bare and windswept, with patches of frost clinging stubbornly to the earth every day. The landscape had prematurely faded to dull grays and browns, a sorry prelude to a possibly mean winter. In a year that should have allowed them peace and comfort, with the uneasy truce struck between the English and Scots, it seemed the land and nature itself had decided to defy them. Cold rains had ruined much of their harvest, and what little they’d managed to salvage wouldn’t last through any long, miserable winter season.
Already, they were rationing what little grain they had, and men, women, and children grew thinner with each passing day. If this snow hardened into a winter as merciless as the seers andsigns predicted, Ailsa wondered how many of them would still be here come spring.
