Page 4 of The Scot Who Loved Me (A Scots Through Time #3)

Chapter

Three

B oston

A few weeks later

Harper stood in the middle of her apartment, surveying a space that had never really felt quite like home.

The worn, utilitarian furnishings that looked like they’d been salvaged from an old motel belonged to the company, like everything else in her life had seemed to until now.

Three years of her life reduced to a single suitcase and a carry-on.

“Is that really all you’re taking?” asked Megan from the doorway. She was an engineer at the Institute, a neighbor across the hall, and one of the few people who hadn’t completely ghosted her after Sarah’s betrayal.

She zipped her suitcase with a decisive tug. “What else do I need? My books are digital, my research is gone, and everything else is just... stuff.”

“You could fight this, you know. The Institute board?—”

“Would still believe Sarah.” Harper’s voice was flat, practiced in its neutrality after weeks of repeating the same conversation. “She has the samples, she has my notes, and she has their trust. All I have is a ruined reputation and a plane ticket to the Outer Hebrides.”

She moved to the kitchen, wrapping an antique dainty teacup that had belonged to her grandmother in a t-shirt before tucking it into the last corner of her carry-on. It, along with a small framed photograph, was the only sentimental item she owned.

Megan leaned against the counter. “At least tell me the B&B in Eriskay has internet. You’re not completely dropping off the grid, are you?”

A small smile crossed her face. “Mrs. Ferguson assures me there’s Wi-Fi, though she described it as ‘temperamental, like the weather.’ It’s just for three months, Meg. I need to... recalibrate.”

The sunset cast long shadows across the worn hardwood floors as Harper made one final sweep of the apartment.

“The Arctic was supposed to be my breakthrough,” she murmured, more to herself than to her neighbor. “Five years of research and Sarah swoops in at the last minute to—” She cut herself off, jaw tightening. “It doesn’t matter now.”

The app pinged on her phone, announcing the driver’s arrival. Harper shouldered her carry-on and grabbed the suitcase.

At the door, she paused, looking back at the apartment. No photographs, no mementos, nothing to suggest anyone had lived there at all. Just as she preferred it. Just as it had always been. The space ready for whoever would replace her to move in and start work.

“You know what’s ironic?” Harper said as she locked the door one last time. “I’ve spent my entire career studying how time leaves its mark on stone. Maybe now, I’ll finally learn how to leave my own mark on something that matters.”

Outer Hebrides

Eriskay

June

The wind sliced through her jacket, carrying the sting of salt and ancient stone.

Gray clouds hung low over Eriskay’s wild shoreline, mirroring the hollow feeling in her chest as she trudged along the narrow coastal path.

It had been three days since she’d left everything behind, not that there had been much to leave.

Her trusty hiking boots crunched on the path’s loose gravel.

The scrape of stone against stone echoed the grinding sensation that had lived in her chest since that fluorescent-lit conference room.

Betrayal had a physical weight, she’d discovered.

It pressed between her shoulder blades, making her hunch forward against the wind that seemed determined to push her back the way she’d come.

“Nothing to go back to,” she muttered, as the wind immediately stole the words and carried them out to sea.

The small cottage that housed Ferguson’s Bed & Breakfast appeared ahead, its weathered stone walls standing resolute against the perpetual assault of coastal weather.

Smoke curled from the chimney, a beacon of warmth in the otherwise bleak landscape.

Harper paused, inhaling the bracing air, trying to clear her mind before facing another awkward interaction with her landlady.

Mrs. Ferguson meant well, but her persistent attempts at conversation left Harper fumbling for responses. Small talk had never been her strong suit, even before Sarah had gutted her career and left her emotional defenses in tatters.

The memory of the woman she’d called friend and colleague rose unbidden. Harper shoved it away and forced herself forward, toward the blue door.

“There ye are, lass!” Mrs. Ferguson’s lilting voice greeted her before she’d fully closed the door behind her. The older woman bustled from the kitchen, wiping flour-covered hands on her apron. “I was beginning to worry. The weather’s turning fierce.”

Harper managed a tight smile. “Just out walking. Getting my bearings.”

“And did you find what you were looking for?” The older woman’s gaze was sharper than her grandmotherly appearance suggested, her eyes the same slate gray as the sea beyond the windows.

“I wasn’t looking for anything specific.” Harper shrugged out of her jacket, hanging it carefully on the hook by the door. “Just exploring the coastline. Professional habit.”

Mrs. Ferguson nodded, though something in her expression suggested she didn’t quite believe this explanation. “Well, the tea’s hot, and I’ve made scones.”

The kitchen smelled of butter and vanilla, mingling with the peat smoke from the small fireplace.

Heat from the oven had fogged the windows, creating a cocoon of warmth that felt at odds with the barren landscape outside.

Harper sank into a chair at the small wooden table, allowing herself to be fussed over despite her usual discomfort with such attention.

“Thank you,” she said quietly as Mrs. Ferguson placed a steaming mug before her. “For the tea. And for not asking questions.”

The older woman’s weathered face creased into a smile. “Questions have their time, dear. Some need asking, others answer themselves.” She placed a plate of golden-brown scones on the table. “Eat. You’re too thin.”

Harper broke open a scone, releasing a fresh wave of buttery aroma. Her appetite had been nearly nonexistent since the Arctic, but her stomach growled appreciatively at the smell.

“The Institute sent your equipment,” Mrs. Ferguson said, settling into the chair opposite. “Three large crates. They’re at the wee office.”

Harper nodded, a pang of bitterness rising at the mention of the Institute.

Her “reassignment” had been nothing more than professional exile.

A remote posting where her damaged reputation couldn’t embarrass anyone.

The geological survey of Eriskay was legitimate work, but hardly the groundbreaking research she’d been pursuing.

“You’ll be wanting to visit Prince Charlie’s Bay, I expect,” Mrs. Ferguson said, watching Harper over the rim of her teacup. “Most researchers who come here do.”

“Prince Charlie’s Bay?” Harper looked up from her scone.

“Aye. That white-sand beach on the western shore. Where the Young Pretender first set foot in Scotland in 1745.” The older woman’s tone was casual, but something in her gaze seemed watchful, assessing. “Strange place. The locals say it changes when the weather turns.”

“Changes how?” Despite herself, Harper felt a flicker of interest, the first genuine curiosity she’d experienced since Sarah’s betrayal.

Mrs. Ferguson shrugged, the gesture deliberately nonchalant. “Old superstitions. They say it’s a thin place.”

“A what?”

“A thin place. Where the veil between worlds stretches thin as gossamer.” A hint of something — amusement? warning? Glinted in the older woman’s eyes. “Where time itself can bend, if the conditions are right.”

Harper took a careful sip of tea, using the moment to mask her reflexive skepticism. “Interesting folklore.”

“More than folklore to some.” Mrs. Ferguson rose, gathering empty plates with practiced efficiency. “The island is a place where the past lingers and memories endure through time, holding onto its history with a tenacious grip.”

Later that afternoon she made her way to the tiny office that now occupied what had once been a fisherman’s storage shed. The weathered gray slats sported a fresh coat of paint and a discreet brass plaque. The Institute - Field Station 7.

Grateful she was alone, she made her way back to the small storage room where she set to work unpacking the crates.

Harper carefully checked each instrument and arranged it on the ancient oak table beneath the window.

The routine was comforting in its familiarity, allowing her mind to temporarily quiet its endless replay of that devastating meeting.

Rain pattered against the windowpane, soft at first, then driving harder as the wind gusted off the sea. Harper paused in her unpacking, drawn to the window by the storm’s intensity. Lightning flickered in the distance, briefly illuminating the sea.

Once she’d finished unpacking, she made herself a cup of tea and waited for a break in the storm before running back to the snug B&B and changing into fuzzy socks and sweats.

Curled up in bed, content to watch the storm, she flinched when lightning flashed so close she saw the imprint on the back of her eyelids.

Once her vision cleared, her gaze fell on the small framed photograph she’d placed on the nightstand, the only personal item besides the antique teacup and her grandmother’s ring that she owned.

The picture was worn around the edges, showing a younger version of herself, maybe eight years old, grinning widely despite missing both front teeth, proudly holding a perfect ammonite fossil she’d discovered during a family trip to Dorset.

Before her parents’ divorce. Before she became “too much work.” Before she’d learned that passion made people uncomfortable and enthusiasm made her weird.

Before they took jobs across the globe and dumped her with her grandmother.

The only person who’d cared about her. And now she was gone, too. Cancer. Six years ago.

Harper turned the photo facedown. “Never again,” she whispered to the room, the words nearly lost beneath the growing howl of the wind. “I won’t ever give anyone the power to break me. Not ever again.”