Page 71 of Winter Longing
At the time, he hadn’t truly understood. He’d been too young, too focused on the fear of losing her, being left alone with his indifferent father. Her words, in truth, had been little comfort to him. Only now, as the weight of the future and the possibility of fatherhood loomed over him, did he grasp the depth of his mother’s sorrow. Now, he understood her heartbreak with a clarity that knocked the breath from his lungs. He imagined holding a child of his own, feeling their tiny fingers curl around his, watching their first steps, their first words—and then imagined losing it all in an instant. The pain of it was stark, brutal, as if it were reality already.
“Cole?” Tank pressed, concern creeping into his tone.
Cole forced a smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s nothing. Just a lot to think about.”
It wasn’t nothing, though.
Ahead, the faintest rustle stirred the air as a cluster of deer began to emerge cautiously from the tree line. Their sharp ears twitched at every sound, their noses testing the cold for scents of danger. The Sinclair men held their positions, the tension thickening in the air.
The hunt was on.
***
Cole found Father Gilbert inside the chapel, kneeling on the stone step before the altar, exactly where Cole had stood to be wed to Ailsa. The priest’s head was bowed in prayer, his hands clasped tightly, a picture of devotion and serenity. Cole lingered near the door, unwilling to disturb the moment. He shoved his hands into his pockets, having worn his jeans today as wash day was still another few days off and his breeches were—as Aunt Rosie would have said of clothes beyond dirty—walking.
For several long minutes, he waited, letting his gaze wander. His eyes were drawn to the tall, slim stained-glass window behind the altar, a cascade of vibrant reds, blues, and golds glowing faintly in the soft winter light. The image was of the Blessed Mother cradling the infant Jesus, her serene face tilted toward the child in her arms.
Cole stared at it, the simplicity of the scene striking something deep within him. He’d seen similar windows in churches as a boy, hundreds of them he was sure, back when his mother had taken him to Sunday Mass without fail. He’d barely paid attention back then, more interested in sneaking a piece of gum from her purse or counting the tiles on the ceiling.
Now, though, it hit differently. The tenderness in the mother’s expression, the trust in the child’s tiny grasp—it was no longer just an artistic depiction to him. It was a visionof everything he might lose, everything he might never get to experience.
After a few minutes, when Father Gilbert hadn’t moved, Cole walked quietly forward and sat in the first pew, the seat narrow, the wood cold. His attention returned to the stained glass and it dawned on him that the image depicted only mother and child. No father. He frowned, the familiar ache of disappointment resurfacing. His father had been a hard worker, a good provider, dedicated to his job as a firefighter, a hero to everyone else—but often a stranger to his own son. He was the disciplinarian, often gruff—rarely did he smile—and hardly ever did he spend time with Cole. They didn’t play catch, he hadn’t taught Cole how to ride a bike, he hadn’t gone to any of Cole’s games. After his mom passed, his father had withdrawn even further, had become even colder.
Cole remembered watching his dad sit in the living room chair, staring blankly at the TV after long shifts, as if the weight of the world—and the grief they both shared—was too much to carry. And yet, they never spoke about it. Never shared the burden. The isolation Cole felt during those years had been suffocating.
He’d vowed then, as a kid trying to make sense of loss, that if he ever became a father, he’d be different. He wouldn’t hold his children at arm’s length. He’d be there—not just in the room, butpresent.He wouldn’t let his kids wonder if they mattered, wouldn’t let them feel unseen.
The knot of dread in his chest deepened as he thought about Ailsa, about the children they might have.
“Cole?” Father Gilbert’s gentle voice broke through his thoughts, pulling him back to the present.
Startled to awareness, that the priest was no longer kneeling, but standing and facing him, Cole exhaled, taking his hands from his pockets.
“Something troubles you, lad,” the priest observed, coming to sit beside Cole.
Cole hesitated, then sat back. “I need your advice, Father. About something... I don’t even know how to categorize it.”
Father Gilbert regarded him patiently, his weathered face calm and open.
Cole took a deep breath, searching for the right words. “Whether you believe it or not, it is true. I am not from this time. I was born in 1995—that’s where I’m from. And I don’t know how or why I ended up here. But what worries me is that I might not stay. I didn’t choose to come here, and I’m afraid I won’t have a choice if I’m taken back to the present...or, what I know as the present, two-thousand and twenty-four.”
Father Gilbert’s brows furrowed slightly, but he said nothing, letting Cole continue.
“Ailsa...” Cole said softly. He swallowed hard and started again. “If we have children... what if I...?” He shook his head, his hands clenching into fists. “What if we have children and I’m moved again through time? I don’t...I’m not sure...” his voice trailed off, his thoughts jumbled beyond reason.
The priest stood quietly for a long moment, his expression thoughtful. “You seek certainty in a world that offers little of it,” he said finally. “Whether you remain or are taken, whether Ailsa bears children or not, you must live as though each day is your last. Commit yourself fully to the life you have now, or you risk losing both the present and the future.”
Cole nodded slowly, his mind still whirling but finding a small measure of clarity in the priest’s words.
Father Gilbert continued, “We’ve lost hundreds of men in half a decade, men who had hopes and dreams before they became victims of another’s greed and want of power. Even now, the war will resume, death will claim more of us, but lad, do not allow that to dampen hope. Live a life of good intention,that is all we can ever do. Do not refuse to commit because you don’t know what tomorrow will bring. Not one of us does. You are strong, as is Ailsa. If, as you fear, you might be taken from here—and her—you will survive, as will she. Ailsa is loving and giving and if...if you were somehow taken away, you cannot fear that your child would not know love, not be cherished, cared for, protected. Live purposefully, lad. Any moment not lived intentionally is only wasted moments.”
“But I’ve never...” Cole began, grimacing a bit.
“Loved another as you do Ailsa?” Father Gilbert guessed, a small, pleased smile curving his mouth.
Cole nodded tightly, with Father Gilbert having voiced what he, himself, had suspected.
“What would you do if you knewthiswas your only life?” Father Gilbert asked gently.
