Epilogue

The following winter

Torr Cinnteag

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Winter draped Torr Cinnteag in a shroud of frost, though thankfully much less snow had fallen as of yet. Still, the sharp chill of the season brought with it a slower pace, one that allowed the people of the keep to savor the rare peace. Cole stood atop the battlements, the wind whipping at his Sinclair plaid, having come to appreciate the rhythm of medieval life—hard work rewarded with small but profound satisfactions. A wolf pelt was draped across his shoulders, the fur provided by a kill he’d made himself. He was no archer and likely never would be, but he’d mastered the skill enough to hunt and to be of some use—if every other assigned Sinclair archer was somehow unavailable. The sword at his side—custom-made at Tavis’s request—bore the Sinclair crest, its hilt well-worn from months of combat, from which the Sinclairs had only just returned a few weeks ago. He appreciated greatly the medieval practice of laying low over the winter, war mostly set aside in favor of warm beds, daily hot meals, and a few months to catch your breath. He’d learned well after the fact that his first battle last year, near some little burgh called Roslin, had been a rarity, fought in the midst of winter.

The echoes of men laughing and shouting drew his attention to the distant training field, where lacrosse had quickly become a favorite pastime. It had started as a way for him to share a piece of his former life with the men, but it had become much more. To his amazement, even Tavis had joined in, though with the gruff insistence that it was for the sake of conditioning his men. Cole smirked, squinting across the distance, watching now as the laird deftly intercepted a pass and slung the ball into the makeshift net. He high-fived Tank, another modern practice Tank had introduced to the Sinclairs and medieval Scotland, and which only yesterday Cole had caught two maids doing.

Cole and Tavis had come a long way. The laird had become more than a brother-in-law; he was a comrade, an ally, and perhaps even a friend. Cole thought that maybe his brave—if clumsy—fighting in that battle at Roslin had been what turned around Tavis’s suspicions about him. Shortly after their return to Torr Cinnteag last winter, both injured but recovered pretty quickly, Tavis had summoned Cole to his study, where he’d proceeded to question him extensively about the still incomprehensible phenomena of time-travel. He’d wanted to know all about modern life, which had stretched their conversation into hours. But never on that day or since, had he expressed any more disbelief. For whatever reason, Tavis had become open to the possibility, hadn’t again insisted that Cole was simply mad. It was revisited often, with Tank being included as well. They’d taken to drawing pictures for the laird. Neither one being an artist of any competence, Cole and Tank’s charcoal sketches of airplanes, modern homes, thruway systems, and armored tanks among other things looked more like a collection of kid’s scribblings. Tavis had saved them all, at which Cole raised a brow.

“Some archaeologist is going to find those one day,” Cole had suggested wryly, “and the entire working theory of when things were invented will be thrown into turmoil.”

One day, Tavis had point-blank asked Cole, “But if given the chance, to stay here or to return to your time, which would ye choose?”

“I want to be here,” Cole had answered without hesitation. This was his life now, happier and far more fulfilling than he ever could have imagined. He struggled enough leaving Torr Cinnteag to go to war, leaving Ailsa, but fought like hell each time to return to her. He didn’t want to die, and he didn’t want to imagine a life without her.

Rosie crossed his mind often. He worried for her, picturing her easy smile dimmed by his absence. He hoped she’d found comfort among her friends and his, and that the firehouse family had embraced her in his absence. Sometimes he’d send silent thoughts into the void, hoping they’d find her. If entire people could cross centuries, maybe thoughts could bridge that distance too. I’m all right, Rosie. Be happy as I am.

Cole and Tank had made the decision together, a private agreement decided after long and heated debates, that they would not reveal what they knew about the immediate future of Scotland. The stakes were simply too high. Not the outcome of the war, not the fates of its great leaders—none of it. Tank had argued passionately for intervention, his voice thick with frustration.

“We could save lives now,” Tank insisted, pacing in front of the hearth. “Good lives, important lives. You can’t tell me we should just sit back and let it happen.”

Cole, seated with one arm draped over the chair in Ailsa’s solar, watched Tank’s fervor with a quiet resolve. “And what if saving one life today means losing a hundred tomorrow?” he replied. “Christ, Tank, we’ve got no business playing God with history.”

Tank stopped mid-step and fixed Cole with a sharp look. “That’s bullshit, Cole. If we have this knowledge, we’ve got a duty—”

“Our duty,” Cole interrupted firmly, “is to Torr Cinnteag. To Ailsa, Tavis, and the people here. The future—this immediate future—has to play out as it’s meant to. If we start tampering with what we know, there’s no telling what we could ruin.”

Tank had finally relented, muttering, “Fine. But I’m writing stuff down. Not about this war, maybe, but about other things—Hitler, Stalin, all the people who’ll cause hell later. I’ll write a book, something someone could find in the future.”

Cole arched an eyebrow. “You’re going to write a book about the 20th century in medieval Scotland? That’ll go over well.”

Tank’s expression shifted into a sly grin. “Maybe they’ll think I’m a prophet.”

The gleam of satisfaction in his eyes made Cole laugh in spite of himself. “Tank the Prophet. God help us all.”

As the day waned, Cole retreated to the chamber he shared with Ailsa. The hearth crackled warmly, its glow casting golden light over the chamber. She was already in bed, her hair spread like silk over the pillows. His heart clenched at the sight of her, more beautiful every day, more loved.

He undressed quickly and slid beneath the covers, resting his hand gently on her rounded belly, awed as always by the life growing within her. She stirred, her blue eyes fluttering open to meet his.

“Remember that one time? When I told you that I couldn’t promise you anything?” He whispered. “Nothing lasting?”

It wasn’t the first time he’d brought it up.

Ailsa grinned, recalling several previous conversations that had begun the same way. “Aye, I do recall,” she said, remembering her previous response as well.

“I’ve changed my mind,” he continued, as he had on more than one occasion.

“Have ye now?” She feigned surprise but kept to the script they’d made up months ago.

“Yeah, I think I like it here,” he said. “In fact, I’m sure I’m in love with this time period.”

“Only the time period?” She wondered.

“Well not only the time period,” he admitted, rising above her on his elbows. “I love Torr Cinnteag. I love most of its people. I do not love war, but I do love those pork pies Cook makes.”

“Hm,” she murmured, her eyes gleaming, crinkled at the corner with her smile. “Ye are a lucky man. So much love.”

“I know, right?” He kissed her nose. “Oh, also, there’s this woman....” He kissed her lips.

“Mm.”

“I really love her.”

“She’s a verra lucky woman.”

Cole went still and met her gaze. “I’m the lucky one.” He went off-script then. “I love you, Ailsa. Wherever—and whenever—I am, I will love you.”

She laid her palm against his cheek, warm and steady. “Ditto,” she whispered, using a phrase he’d taught her, her lips curving in a smile.

He bent his head and captured her lips in a slow and satisfying kiss.

Their child stirred against his hip, a gentle reminder of the future they were building together. Whatever trials lay ahead, Cole knew one thing with absolute certainty: this was his place, his time, and his love.

***

The fluorescent lights of the grocery store buzzed faintly, but Rosie paid them no mind. She pushed her cart down the aisle mechanically, her thoughts far away. She thought she might or should go back to Scotland again. Her daily phone calls to the Scottish investigator in charge of Cole and Tank’s disappearance seemed to yield less results than when she was standing directly in front of him or sitting across from him with his desk between them. She’d been three times to Scotland in the last year, had pushed Detective Sargeant Butler to search more, to question more—to do more to find Cole. Not to say the man and his team weren’t doing anything at all, but since Cole and Tank hadn’t been found, clearly enough wasn’t being done. Rosie refused to believe that Cole and Tank had simply vanished off the face of the earth. He was there, in Scotland, somewhere—she knew he was. They just needed to find him.

Life without Cole had become a hollow routine, her once-bright spirit dimmed by the weight of his absence. Sure, she had plenty of friends and commitments to keep her busy, and her church and those sweet guys at the firehouse had helped her to keep her sanity—and to keep fighting to find Cole—but she lived with constant, gnawing worry over Cole. Not a day went by that she didn’t think of him, worrying about his fate.

She was reaching for a box of cereal when it hit her—a sudden, inexplicable warmth that radiated from her chest outward. It stopped her in her tracks, her arm arrested in motion. It wasn’t a memory or a ghostly echo; it was him. She knew it as surely as she knew her own name. Cole is at peace.

Tears sprang to her eyes, not of sorrow but of release.

Cole?

She jerked her hand back and looked around. The cereal aisle was empty except for her.

Had she just imagined that? That sweeping warmth that had so profoundly filled her with peace.

She stood still again, waiting for it to pass.

But it did not.

I’m all right, Rosie.

Dropping her face to her chest, Rosie let the tears fall. They heated her nose and cheeks and shook her shoulders, the weight of her relief so intense.

I’m all right, Rosie.

She felt it again. Again and again until she knew—believed without question—that Cole was reaching out to her.

It was a long time until she lifted her face and drew a deep, soothing breath.

She didn’t notice the woman approaching her until she spoke.

“Ma’am, are you all right?” Asked a young woman, pushing her grocery cart, an infant strapped to her chest.

Rosie swiped at her tears, nodding at the same time. “Yes, thank you. I’m fine.”

She looked at the woman, who then opened her mouth as if she recognized her.

“You’re Rosie, aren’t you? From the news?” The woman’s tone was hesitant, kind. “I always thought you were so brave, speaking for your nephew like that, keeping it alive, the search. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Rosie smiled, the warmth of Cole’s presence still holding her. “Thank you,” she said, her voice steady, serene even as happy tears continued to fall. “But he’s not lost. He’s at peace.”

The woman nodded, awkward now, probably wondering if Rosie had finally lost her mind, and then gave a wobbly smile before she moved away.

Rosie stood in the aisle, her heart lighter than it had been in a year. For the first time since Cole’s disappearance, she allowed herself to smile—a real, genuine smile. Wherever he was, he was happy. She just knew it.

“Good for you, Cole,” she said as she began to push her cart again.

The End