Page 8 of Here in Your Arms
Emmy returned a moment later, moving toward Rose with an easy confidence that made Rose feel even more ridiculous atop the unfamiliar horse. She nodded at Will, which sent him away, back to his own horse, and then said to Rose, “Scooch back a little. I’ll need to ride in front.”
Rose, still gripping the saddle for dear life, forced herself to loosen her fingers and do as she was instructed, hastily shifting backward, which was not so easy asscooch backsounded.
Emmy then gripped the pommel, planting a foot in the stirrup, and swung herself up with enviable ease. She settled in front of her and gathered the reins. As she was taller in general than Rose, Emmy sat much taller in the saddle. She turned her head on her shoulder and glanced down at Rose, “I’ve asked my husband—that’s my husband, Brody MacIntyre,” she said,pointing vaguely toward the brown-eyed man, “I’ve asked him to give us a little bit of space so that we can talk, so that I can explain to you what I believe—what I’m almost certain—has happened to you. But we have to move now. It’s never safe to sit too long in one place.”
Ignoring what should have been an obvious question—why it was unsafe to remain in one spot— Rose struggled to comprehend how the stunning, kindhearted woman in front of her could possibly be married to that grim, intimidating man.
“Hold on,” Emmy instructed.
Hold on?To what? Rose barely had time to process that question before the mare began to move. Instinctively, she reached for Emmy’s waist, curling her fingers into Emmy’s wool cloak.
“I don’t understand howyouknow what’s happened tome,” Rose said after a moment. “I don’t even know you.”
“I know, I get it,” Emmy was quick to acknowledge, then added, almost to herself, “God, I don’t miss this part—the confusion, my brain feeling like it’s tangled in knots.” She turned her head slightly, offering Rose a glimpse of her profile. “I know you’re scared. I remember the fear, the panic, when I first came here—”
“Where ishere? I don’t...”
“Rose, you have to be brave,” Emmy interrupted gently. “Let me ask you something. You were born in the twentieth century, right?”
“What?” Rose blinked.What kind of question was that?
“Please,” Emmy urged, “just bear with me. Everything will make sense in a minute—well, actually, I’m sorry to say, nothing will make sense for a long time. Maybe never. You’ll just... learn to live with it. Okay, before I assume anything, what year were you born?”
Still bewildered, Rose answered automatically. “Nineteen fifty-seven.”
Emmy whipped her head around. “Wait. What?”
Rose stared at her, uncertain why that answer had elicited such a reaction. She repeated it.
“Oh, shit,” Emmy murmured. “Well... what year is it now?”
Rose’s alarm spiked. This conversation was growing more surreal by the second. Still, she answered mechanically, desperate to get to the part where things started making sense. “Nineteen seventy-eight.”
Emmy let out a slow breath. “Okay. Well... that’s unexpected.” She hesitated before shrugging. “I guess this isn’t exclusive to only 2019.”
Twenty-nineteen?
Rose’s grip on Emmy’s cloak tightened. “Please tell me what’s happening,” she pleaded. “I was reading a journal in the archives at the university, and then suddenly... I wasn’t. I don’t remember leaving, don’t remember walking outside. But then I was in the woods, in the middle of the night. I found a pub, but it was closed, and after that... I don’t know. Maybe the cold has messed with my head.”
“It’s not the cold, Rose.” Emmy inhaled deeply, as if bracing herself. “All right. There’s no easy way to say this, and it’s going to be very hard to believe. But just listen with an open mind. What I’m about to tell you is true—as far as I understand it—even though it’ll sound like the most impossible thing you’ve ever heard.”
Rose’s stomach twisted.
Then Emmy spoke the words that shattered what little remained of her grip on reality.
“Rose, I’m pretty sure you’ve traveled through time.”
Chapter Three
“This is Scotland. The year is 1304.”
That’s what Emmy had just said, following her fantastic, laughable statement that she was quite sure Rose had time traveled.
Rose barely registered the slow, steady pace of the horses around her, the rhythmic jostle of the mare beneath her. The countryside, the dirt path winding through rolling hills, the heavy woolen shawl draped around her shoulders—all of it faded into insignificance compared to the absurdity of what had just come out of Emmy Carter MacIntyre’s mouth.
She stared at the woman in front of her, at the back of her head, waiting for her to say she was joking.
When she didn’t, Rose shook her head, her grip tightening on Emmy’s cloak as she struggled for words. “I don’t—excuse me, but what are you talking about? That’s insane. Why are you—?”
