Chapter 25 #2
Chicken filth splashes his leg, darkening the fine wool of his breeches. He stumbles back, bellowing a stream of furious Gaelic.
I dart past him, outside. I bite my cheek, holding back a triumphant grin.
But Hamish is on my heels. I feel him hovering at my back, and my grin fades.
I’m alone. It’s dusk. And his father is master of this castle. Master of this whole area, as far as I can tell.
“Watch yourself, lassie. Looks like you’ve got more than you can handle.” He snatches my shoulder and snarls in my ear, “You wouldnae want to get hurt.”
I stiffen. I’m scared, but I refuse to be cowed. Tractable, eager-to-please Rose is gone, and she’s not invited back. I slip free and stride ahead, determined to continue with my chores. Determined to avert whatever it is Hamish has in mind.
He’s behind me like a shadow as I unlatch the gate and pass through, slinking past just before it shuts again.
I stop short and heave the pail with deliberate clumsiness, letting the chicken water splash behind me before I use it to water the garden.
I’m gratified to hear the slap of wet fabric and whispered cursing at my back.
Don’t mess with a farm girl.
I head to the water trough, every nerve on high alert. Hamish looms closer now. Too close. My stunt with the water was funny. It was satisfying.
But maybe it was stupid.
Dread creeps over me—a shuddery feeling of inevitability. Women through history have been powerless. Why would I be different? Because I was raised to believe in myself? Because Poppa told me I was strong and could do anything?
Poppa’s not here. And this game has an entirely different set of rules.
No. I refuse to accept that. I do believe in myself. I am strong.
There are women here who have power, surely. My mother had it. The witches and the healers and the midwives—they’re all powerful. Strong.
As though eerily summoned by my thoughts, I spot a familiar lump in the grass.
And then I know. I may not have authority here, but I’m smart and I’m strong, and that’s a start. The old me fades and a new, fearless Rosie expands within me. I drop my bucket and lean down, fingers curling around a stone—my stone. The one I threw the night of the cèilidh.
I rise, flashing Hamish a brittle, too-bright smile. “Look what I found again.” I thrust it toward him.
He flinches like I’ve shoved a cobra in his face.
“But you were so interested in it,” I say sweetly. “Remember? The night of the cèilidh?”
“Such things hold no interest for me,” he says flatly.
I ponder it at deliberate length. “I could wear it as a necklace. I’ll have to find a bit of string.” I hold it up again. “What do you think?”
He looks like he just swallowed battery acid, his mouth thinning into an exaggerated frown. “I think you should beware those things of which you know little.”
Unfortunately, he’s probably right.
But I’ll worry about that later. Right now, I need to get him gone. “You never really answered me.” I keep my tone casual, like this whole exchange has been perfectly normal. “Can I help you find something?”
Like flipping a switch, Hamish oozes back into his usual oily charm. “Are you coming in for dinner? I thought for once you might enjoy sampling what we serve at the Campbell table.”
Talk about the last thing I’d enjoy.
I smile, polite but firm. “There’s no way. I have too much to do out here. I’ve already set aside food for later.”
He hesitates, like he’s considering pushing back, but finally, with a brusque nod, he leaves.
And with him, my adrenaline.
I sag against the gate, legs shaky. The weight of the moment crashes over me, leaving me raw and spent.
Then something stronger flares to life—hunger. I swallow hard, registering the gnawing emptiness in my stomach. But I can’t just walk into the kitchen. Not after what I said. What if I ran into Hamish? I wouldn’t put it past him to track me down just to catch me in a lie.
I sigh and drag my weary, aching body back toward the cottage.
I’m halfway home when the first drops of rain hit. Fat, icy pellets sting my cheeks and instantly soak through my dress.
“Fabulous,” I grumble, wrapping my arms around my middle. “Starving and soaked.”
The rain turns the world gray and shapeless, blurring the edges of trees and buildings into ghostly shadows. Each gust of wind sends another wave of needling droplets into my face.
I break into a jog, but my shoes—these stupid, smooth-soled, old-fashioned shoes—are slipping all over the place. The path has turned into a ribbon of mud, making each step a treacherous gamble between forward progress and a face plant.
The wet wool of my dress grows heavier, tangling around my legs like seaweed.
Night has fallen completely now, making the storm feel even more threatening.
My fingers have gone numb, my teeth won’t stop chattering, and even the witch stone in my grip has turned ice-cold.
Through the curtain of rain, the hulking black silhouette of the barn materializes in the distance.
Safe harbor.
A shiver runs through me that has nothing to do with the cold.
Callum sleeps there.
I’m pretending not to think about that. I’m just being practical, I tell myself. Anyone would seek shelter in this weather. But as I veer off the path, slipping and stumbling toward the barn’s dark shape, I can’t quite convince myself that’s all this is.
The rain pounds harder. My sodden skirts tangle in my legs. But I forge ahead anyway.
Because maybe, just maybe, he’ll be there. And maybe, that’s what I’ve wanted all along.
The barn looms ahead, several yards to my right. I dart from the path. Duck inside.
The sweet scent of hay and animals wraps around me, warm and familiar. For several seconds, I just let the peace settle over me. My vision adjusts. Pale moonlight spills through the ponies’ stalls, illuminating dust motes that hang suspended in shafts of silver light.
I open my senses. There’s soft chuffing. A quiet whicker.
But I don’t hear Callum.
I picture him appearing at any moment. Imagine how it would be. How his eyes would crinkle, smiling to greet me. He’d be concerned to see me soaked through. He’d take my cloak, his hand warm and strong. The low timbre of his voice would reassure me. Rosie-love.
My heart plummets.
Who am I fooling? I did want to see him. That’s all I want.
The Hamish thing rattled me. Then came the cold rain. My hunger. And my aching back, which I hadn’t even noticed until now, sore from scrubbing, leaning over for hours.
Callum would make it okay. He just makes things better. I’ve come to rely on him.
I don’t just want to see him. I need to.
I’m clearly, thoroughly, completely crushed out on the guy.
How did I let that happen? Apparently, it’s not enough for me to be sad, disappointed, and let down in my own era. I have to time-travel to experience it historically, too.
And soon I’ll be leaving here.
Leaving him.
Adding yet another chapter of loss and isolation to the tragicomedy that is my life.
How am I supposed to go back and pretend none of this happened? Pretend I haven’t learned to start a fire without matches or felt what it’s like to go to bed hungry? Pretend I don’t know what real survival means, beyond what I’ve seen in movies?
“Crap.” I lean against the wall and slide to the floor.
History isn’t just dates and battles anymore.
It’s the smell of peat smoke in my hair.
The weight of an iron pot against my hip.
The sound of Gaelic prayers before meals.
It’s Donag’s face every time someone mentions the Campbells.
How am I supposed to return to normal? Not without feeling like I’ve left a piece of myself behind.
I’ll be obsessed with all things Scotland. Campbell versus MacGregor.
Obsessed with Callum.
I barely felt normal in the first place.
How will I tolerate my peers without finding them ridiculous?
They freak out over dead phones, while I’ve learned to track time by the sun.
They whine about cafeteria food while I’ve seen Aoife stretch a single salmon to feed twenty people.
They talk about their “crew” while I’ve seen a real clan—people bound together by more than just friendship, sharing everything to survive.
How can I possibly go back, knowing what I know? That these weren’t just stories in a textbook. They were real people with real lives.
Real people like Callum.
The thought makes my chest ache. There’ll be no looking him up. No way to know what happens after I leave. Did he find happiness? Did he marry? Have children?
His future is my past, written in stone somewhere, but I’ll never know it.
The barn creaks around me, old timbers shifting with the wind and rain. In the darkness, I make out the familiar shapes of farm life. The sharp angles of tools along the wall, the gentle slopes of hay bales, the solid warmth of sleeping horses.
How many nights has Callum spent here, surrounded by these same sights and sounds?
How many mornings has he woken to the scent of hay and horse, to the first dawn light streaming through the slats?
I press my hand against the rough wooden wall, as if I can absorb something of him from this place that knows him so well.
Somewhere overhead, a board creaks softly. I close my eyes, imagining Callum moving through the barn. I can almost hear him. His steady footsteps, the shift of hay under his weight. His presence is as much a part of this place as the beams and rafters.
“Are you finding the accommodations to your liking?”
My eyes fly open at the sound of his voice—low, amused, drifting down from above. My heart leaps, but I’m not startled. It’s as if my thoughts conjured him.
“’Tis an impressive amount of contemplation for such a late hour.”
A moment later, his head appears from the loft, hair charmingly mussed, grin flashing white in the darkness.
I can’t help but smile back, even as my pulse quickens. “I was just thinking about you, actually.”
His grin deepens. “Were you now?” His voice drops, deeper and warmer. “Mayhap you’ll come up here and tell me more about these thoughts of yours.”
I force myself to breathe.
My voice shakes as I ask, “Did you say come up? Up there?”
“I did indeed.” He swings his legs over and scampers down the ladder, fast and effortless, skipping the last several rungs.
He lands beside me with a soft thud, a whisper of heat at my side.
With a flourish, he gestures back up to the loft. “After you, Rosie-love.”