Page 50 of Winter Longing
“Wagers have been placed, lad,” the laird called out, “most saying ye fall again, thrice in one morning.”
Cole shot him a dismissive glance, adjusting his posture in the saddle. “Wagers placed, lad,” he mimicked to himself, employing a cartoonish voice to caricaturize the mighty laird.
It drove him nuts, the way Tavis called himlad. They were not only possibly the same exact age, but Cole was certain he might have a full inch and twenty pounds on the laird, but then that was only a guess since he’d yet to see Tavis without many layers of wool plaid and fur.
He really wished he’d managed to keep his riding lessons—and any semblance of progress—a secret. Roibeart, a solid guy—salt of the earth,Aunt Rosie might’ve said—had decided Cole was ready for jumps. Unfortunately, the only suitable fences were out in the training field.
This meant Cole had to endure the daily ordeal of pretending he didn’t notice the constant scrutiny of never less than a hundred nosy, big-mouthed soldiers, who were all pretty good at judging and ridiculing.
He ignored them now, nudging Dùghall into a canter. The rhythm of the horse’s gait thudded beneath him, and he focused on keeping his movements fluid, absorbing the motion ratherthan fighting it. He circled the field a few times before guiding Dùghall toward a low wooden barrier. His heart thudded as they approached the jump, as Tavis had not misspoken, and Cole had indeed fallen off the horse three times in the last half hour. At the last moment, he shifted his weight forward, and the horse sailed over the barrier with an ease that staggered Cole for how easy it seemed on that occasion.
“Hah!” he shouted as the horse landed cleanly, and to his relief, he stayed firmly in the saddle. He swung his gaze round to the watching Roibeart, who slowly clapped his hands, about as much congratulations as he was likely to receive from the quiet, unexcitable man.
Next, he looked to his left, where Tavis and his army were supposed to be training but were apparently otherwise occupied. betting against him if Tavis was to be believed. Feeling vindicated, Cole pumped his fist in the air. “Hah!” He called out again, louder this time.
“Dinna let it go to your head,” Tavis shouted from thirty yards away. “Ye’ve still got the grace of a three-legged deer over jumps.”
Cole curled his lip.Screw you, Tavis.
Buoyed by his first success, Cole circled back, preparing for another run at the waist-high barrier, confident he’d have his second success today
He did not.
As the horse sailed cleanly over the jump, Cole promptly went flying in the opposite direction, landing with a bone-rattling thud on the hard-packed earth. Pain shot through his body, and his head smacked against the ground with enough force to leave him dazed. Thank God for the helmet—a precaution he’d stubbornly insisted on, though he wasn’t entirely convinced of its medieval efficacy. He’d been toying withthe idea of padding the inside with something softer, but so far, he hadn’t figured it out.
Groaning, he lay flat on his back, staring up at the sky, willing the earth to stop spinning. Somewhere in the distance, he heard Tavis and many others laughing.
He stayed as he was, only lifting his hand to give a thumbs up for Roibeart and just in case when the laughter died down on the other side of the field, anyone worried that he might actually be hurt since he didn’t feel like moving right now.
He heard Roibeart give a low, familiar whistle, wrangling the horse that had dumped him.
Flat on his back, Cole stared at the clear blue sky, a rarity here—either in Scotland or in this century, he hadn’t figured that out yet either—and thought again of Ailsa. He’d bet anything that her blue eyes would be even more stunning under sunlight like this.
He sighed, wishing she were here to share this little victory. Ailsa had been the one to teach him the basics, patient despite his clumsy beginnings. She had every reason to mock him back then, especially given how wary he’d been of the horse and for how slow had been his progress then. But no, she’d smiled at him—bright, generous, and full of pride—whenever he managed even the smallest accomplishment.
Cole tried to picture her reaction now. She’d have cheered his first successful jump, probably teasing him a little about his subsequent swagger. And then, of course, she’d have laughed as well at his spectacular crash. He grinned faintly, wishing for both her company and that smile of hers.
He wondered what she’d think of his present appearance, though. Father Gilbert had very kindly—surprisingly—gifted both Cole and Tank with a stack of folded clothes, with a pair of leather boots tucked beneath them. After presenting them with a complete set of medieval attire, right down to the underwear—braies,as Father Gilbert called them—the priest had gone further, arranging for their modern clothes to be laundered.
The stack of clothes smelled faintly of a sharp but clean soap, and of the outdoors, suggesting they’d been aired recently. Thebraieswere loose linen shorts that tied at the waist, not entirely different from old-fashioned boxer shorts, but somehow very different indeed. Over these went woolen hose, which he tied at the knees with simple garters, the rough wool scratching slightly against his skin.
Next came the tunic, a long, knee-length garment of undyed wool, simple but well-made. It fit loosely over his torso, cinched at the waist by a sturdy leather belt with a plain iron buckle. Father Gilbert had even provided a linen undertunic, which he wore beneath for warmth, as well as a plain hooded cloak to shield him from the biting Scottish weather. The pants he’d been given—breeches, he’d heard them called several times by now—were much thicker but then more comfortable than jeans and fit him well. The ensemble was topped off with a pair of leather boots that laced up to his calves, surprisingly comfortable once he got used to the feeling of them.
At first, he thought he looked ridiculous, but pretty quickly he felt just the opposite, that he fit in so much better, and stood out so much less. Would Ailsa think he fit in better now? Would she look at him and see not a stranger thrust into her world, but someone who belonged?
Presently, he sighed and forced himself to sit up, grabbing the back of his thighs to make rising easier since his body continued to suffer bruises and aches, even after another full week of training.
He was missing Ailsa like crazy, but the week had not been wasted. Christ, he couldn’t even keep track of everything he’d learned. A few things stood out, though. He’d mastered cleaning the horse’s tack and now knew all about their feeding schedules—information he hadn’t expected to find even remotely interesting. He could start a fire with flint and tinder now, and at his first success, he and Tank had reenacted theCastawayfire-making scene, dancing around and pounding their chests like triumphant cavemen.
He’d even picked up a bit of the language. Now, he could confidently say words like “water,” “sword,” “shield,” “bread,” and “fire.” He’d also learned “God’s blessing,” a polite greeting that doubled as both hello and goodbye, making him feel slightly less out of place.
Most surprising of all, the soldiers they trained with had warmed up considerably. Hostility gave way to camaraderie. A few had even become downright friendly, going out of their way to speak English in his and Tank’s company, even though it was clearly not their first language. Small gestures, but they went a long way in making Cole feel like he might finally be finding his footing here.
The most shocking realization of the past week was that as much as he wanted to go home—back to good ol’ Buffalo, New York, in 2024—he’d prayed every morning since Ailsa had left that today wouldn’t be the day.
Heneededto see her again. He wanted, desperately, to apologize. He still stood by his actions—stopping the kiss, stepping away when he had—but he regretted how he’d handled it. He could have been gentler, kinder. He should have been honest with her, told her that while he understood why kissing her—or anything else—was a bad idea, he didn’t like it one bit either. He’d felt just as she had seemed to feel in that moment: bereft, as if something vital had been ripped away.
He hadn’t wallowed, though. Not at all. There simply wasn’t time.
