Page 79 of Winter Longing
Cole rose to his feet. “Cole Carter,” he introduced himself, his brain still reeling. The man’s grip was firm and sure. But here was further proof, since he hadn’t seen anyone use a modern-day handshake in this time. They embraced. They clasped forearms. They nodded politely as a greeting. No one shook hands, not that he’d seen.
Tank stood and introduced himself as the man shook his hand as well.
The tension in Cole’s shoulders eased slightly, though his wariness didn’t entirely fade. And a whole bunch of questions came to mind. “How did you know?”
Reid’s shoulders shifted slightly, a bare shrug. “The way you speak. It reminded me of her.”
Yeah, Cole might have guessed that modern day English all sounded the same to folks here in this century—the same, but very rare.
“Have ye been here long?” Reid asked. “In this time,” he clarified, “nae here, tracking Segrave.”
“No,” Cole answered. “Or, what’s a long time? We’ve been here about two months.”
“How long’s your wife been here?” Tank inquired. “Shit, sorry—is your wife still here?”
“Aye, she’s here—more than a year now.” Reid said, his voice tinged with affection. “It’s nae been easy.”
Tank leaned forward, his curiosity piqued. “Has she ever thought about... going back?”
Reid’s jaw tightened briefly before he nodded. “She has—nae that she has any concept of how that might be accomplished.There’s a part of her that misses what she left behind, but she’s found her place here.”
The fire crackled between them, the weight of Reid’s words settling over the conversation.
“We don’t...” Cole began hesitantly, “we don’t tell too many people—”
“Aye, keep that close,” the Nicholson laird agreed. “Ye dinna want that getting around.” Reid frowned then, as if it just dawned on him, that they were with the army. “What the hell are ye doing here? In this fight?”
“We’re with the Sinclairs,” Tank answered simply.
The Nicholson laird’s scowl darkened. “Ye’ve nae business dying for a fight that’s nae yers,” he asserted, his hands on his hips.” He inclined his head toward Cole’s sword. “Ye ever use that? Against another man?”
Cole shook his head.
Reid Nicholson did as well, seemingly perturbed by the answer. “Stay in the midst of the cavalry,” he advised tersely. “Whatever ye do, dinna lose yer seat, yer horse. Better yet, take yerselves away—”
“We came to fight, to support the Sinclairs,” Cole protested.
“Ye owe Tavis something?”
Cole wasn’t surprised that this laird would know Tavis, imagining they were like mayors across counties in the same state. “I owe my wife, Tavis’s sister, my support,” he maintained.
“I see,” he said, eyeing Cole with more awareness now. He nodded then, as if that was all—he’d learned what he’d set out to learn. “When this is done, when ye return to Torr Cinnteag, make plans to come round to Kingswood,” he offered, rather as an afterthought, Cole guessed. “My wife will nae take kindly if I tell her I met...others of the same fate and did naught to get ye together.”
“Are there...more?” Tank wondered.
“Aye, at least one other, another lass, come from... your time.”
“No shit,” Tank mused.
Reid Nicholson, who didn’t look like he smiled too often, or at all, grinned. “Nae shite,” he confirmed. He shook their hands again. “God speed, men,” he offered before taking his leave.
As he melted back into the shadows, Cole felt a strange sense of connection—or at the very least, nearly a small sense of peace. For the first time since landing in this impossible situation, he realized they weren’t entirely alone.
“I’ll be a son of a bitch,” Tank mused, staring into the darkness where Reid Nicholson had just disappeared. He glanced at Cole. “He was real, right? And that conversation? We didn’t just imagine that, did we?”
“Nope,” Cole replied thoughtfully.
“Holy shit,” Tank exclaimed.
