Page 37 of The Scot Who Loved Me (A Scots Through Time #3)
The vision shifted again as she saw herself on a ship’s deck, the Atlantic winds tangling in her hair as William stood beside her at the rail, his hand steady at the small of her back, Angus, and Callum laughing with the sailors.
The endless horizon stretched before her, full of promise and uncertainty.
They were leaving Scotland behind, sailing toward a new world.
A blink and there was a wooden cabin nestled among tall pines in the mountains.
William returning from hunting, his face lighting up at the sight of her.
Children with his blue eyes and her stubborn chin gathered around a hearth.
She glimpsed them bent over maps spread across a rough-hewn table, plotting the unexplored territories together, his knowledge of surveying and her understanding of the land creating something neither of them could have made alone.
A life of purpose, of connection, of love.
But then the image darkened. Redcoats on the horizon. The aftermath of Culloden, whether changed or not. Danger. Uncertainty. The price of changing history. Of coming revolution.
The water darkened, showing flashes of possibilities too brief to fully comprehend.
William wounded on a battlefield, an English noose, illness claiming their first child, fleeing through the forest as flames consumed a settlement behind them.
But also... William teaching their son to map the stars, Harper using her knowledge to help their community survive harsh winters, the two of them, gray-haired but still together, watching the sunset from their cabin porch.
“The future is never certain,” the Cailleach murmured, breaking the spell.
“But know this, if ye choose him, ye choose not only love but struggle. The world ye know is ending. The Highlands will bleed before the English are done. Ye may delay it, change its shape, but not its coming. And if ye use yer knowledge to alter too much, powers beyond my own may take notice.”
As the water stilled, her chest constricted.
The modern life she’d seen… respected, accomplished, but ultimately alone, had once been everything she’d wanted.
She’d sacrificed friendships, relationships, even family connections to pursue that vision of success.
Yet watching it play out before her, she recognized the hollow ache behind her future self’s eyes, the same emptiness she’d carried before coming here.
And the other path... children with William’s eyes, a shared purpose, hands intertwined through decades.
It offered everything her scientific mind had dismissed as unnecessary distraction.
The connection she’d always told herself she didn’t need.
But with that joy came real danger. Disease, revolution, and the harsh realities of eighteenth-century life.
Could she truly abandon modern medicine, running water, and the certainties of history already written?
“Both paths offer joy and sorrow,” the Cailleach said softly as the visions faded. “As all lives do.” The Cailleach touched Harper’s cheek with fingers cold as winter. “Ye have until dawn to decide. When the sun breaks over yon hills and touches the great oak, the door will open one last time.”
The snap of a twig made her turn. William was on his knees at the edge of the trees, his face pale in the moonlight. How long had he been watching? How much had he heard?
The Cailleach didn’t seem surprised by his presence. She merely nodded to him, as though acknowledging an old acquaintance.
“The choice is yours alone, Harper Ross,” she said, her voice fading like mist. “But remember, some souls find each other across time itself. There is power in such love, power enough perhaps to change even what seems fixed.”
When she turned back, the Cailleach was gone. Only a dusting of frost on the heather marked where she had stood, slowly melting in the autumn night.
William staggered forward into the clearing, dropping to one knee in the frosted grass, his breath coming in shallow gasps, eyes wide with recognition and fear.
“William?” Harper rushed to him, kneeling beside him. “What’s wrong?”
“The Cailleach Bheur,” he whispered, making a quick sign of the cross. “My grandmother told stories, but I never...” His voice faltered. “She’s real. The Winter Hag, the Queen of Storms.” He gripped Harper’s arms. “What did she want with you?”
Harper hesitated, searching for words to explain the impossible choice before her.
His gaze sharpened. “I heard some of it. You can... go back? To your own time?”
Before she could answer, a whisper rode the night breeze, audible to them both.
“William MacGregor.”
They turned. The Cailleach stood at the edge of the trees, her ancient eyes fixed on William. She approached with deliberate steps, the grass frosting beneath her feet.
“Ye’ve the look of yer great-grandmother about ye,” she said, her voice like stone grinding against stone. “Claire MacGregor had the sight, as do ye, though ye’ve buried it deep.”
He remained kneeling, unable to rise. “What do you want with Harper?” he demanded, voice steadier than his trembling hands.
“’Tis not what I want, but what fate demands.” The Cailleach’s gaze softened slightly. “She stands between worlds, as once I did. The choice is hers.”
“And if I asked her to stay?” William’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“Would ye?” the Cailleach challenged. “Knowing what awaits yer people? Knowing she abandons a world of wonders for ye?”
His eyes met hers, filled with a love so raw it stole her breath. “I would never ask,” he said softly. “But I would hope. Every moment of every day, I would hope.”
The Cailleach nodded, as though his answer pleased her. “Remember this moment, warrior. If she chooses to remain, there will be days when ye question whether her love was worth the price ye both shall pay.” She turned back to Harper. “Until dawn, daughter of stone. Choose wisely.”
Then she was gone, truly gone this time, leaving them alone under the vast canopy of stars.
William reached for her hand, his fingers interlacing with hers. “Harper,” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. “What will you do?”
She stared at their joined hands, one calloused from a sword, the other from rock samples. Two worlds, two times, bridged by this single, fragile connection.
“I don’t know,” she whispered truthfully. “I don’t know.”
Above them, stars wheeled in their ancient patterns, indifferent to the choices of mortals below. Somewhere in the distance, a raven called, once, twice, three times, before silence reclaimed the night.