Page 5 of The Scot Who Loved Me (A Scots Through Time #3)
Chapter
Four
H arper trudged along the muddy path toward the Institute’s tiny field office, glad she’d worn a sweatshirt and jacket.
It might be June, but it was only in the fifties, and with the wind blowing in off the sea, it was cold.
The morning sky hung leaden above Eriskay, perfectly matching her mood.
Her first official day of professional exile had arrived, and with it, the prospect of meeting her new supervisor.
She pushed open the door, wincing as it squeaked on rusty hinges. This morning the interior smelled of damp wood, old coffee, and overpowering masculine cologne. A man in his mid-forties hunched over a laptop at a desk cluttered with rock samples, not bothering to look up at her entrance.
“Dr. McNeill?” she paused, looking around at the papers piled haphazardly across every surface of the room. It hadn’t been this bad yesterday when she’d walked through to the storage room that she’d been assigned to for the summer.
He glanced up, eyes flicking over her with clinical detachment before returning to his screen. “You’re Harper Ross. The one from Boston.”
She stepped forward, extending her hand. “Yes, I’m?—”
“I know exactly who you are.” Dr. Ross McNeill finally looked at her properly, making no move to accept her handshake. “The Institute sent me your file. All of it.”
Harper’s hand dropped to her side. “I see.”
“Do ye?” His Scottish accent thickened with disdain. “Because I requested a competent geologist, not someone who fabricates data.”
The accusation hit like a physical blow. “I didn’t fabricate anything. That research was mine. Sarah?—”
“Spare me.” He waved a dismissive hand. “I’ve worked with Dr. Owens before. Brilliant woman. Incapable of the kind of carelessness you demonstrated.”
Fury burned in her chest. “So that’s it? You’ve already decided I’m guilty?”
“The Institute made that decision. I’m simply stuck with the consequences.” He tossed a field notebook toward her. “Make yourself useful. I need soil and rock samples from the western shoreline. Prince Charlie’s Bay. Try not to contaminate them.”
Harper snatched up the notebook, choking back the words that threatened to spill out. Defending herself hadn’t worked with the Institute board, so it sure as hell wouldn’t work with this narrow-minded man. “Fine.”
“And Ross?” McNeill called as she reached the door. “Don’t wander off. The weather here changes faster than you can imagine. Wouldn’t want to have to explain to the Institute how I lost their disgraced researcher.”
“It’s Dr. Ross.” She ground out. The door slammed behind her with a satisfying bang. Harper stood trembling on the weathered steps, clutching the notebook so tightly her nails left imprints in the cover. Three months. Ninety days. She could do this. She’d survived worse.
At least her boss had made it clear he didn’t expect to see her for the duration of her time here.
She was to drop off her work in the box outside the office, and if he had questions about anything, he’d leave a note.
If she needed to access her storage room, she was to come after hours.
She set off toward the western shoreline, her pace quickening with each step until she was running.
The island’s rugged landscape blurred around her as anger propelled her forward.
The path narrowed as it climbed, winding through outcroppings of ancient rock.
She slowed automatically, cataloging the formations.
Gneiss, mostly, metamorphic bedrock over two billion years old.
Stone that had witnessed the birth and death of mountains, the advance and retreat of glaciers, the rise and fall of sea levels. Stone that endured.
Her breathing steadied as she climbed higher, the familiar rhythm of fieldwork calming her despite everything that had happened over the past few weeks. This was what she knew. This was where she belonged. Her hands in the dirt, mind focused on the stories written in stone.
The path crested a small rise, and suddenly the western shoreline spread before her.
Prince Charlie’s Bay curved in a perfect crescent of white sand, the turquoise water impossibly bright against the muted palette of the island.
The sight was so unexpectedly beautiful it momentarily stole her breath as she leaned over, hands on her knees, breathing heavily.
“The sea gives back what time has stolen,” a voice said behind her.
It was embarrassing, but a small squeak escaped as she startled. Harper spun around, heart lurching. An old woman stood not five feet away, though the path had been empty in all directions just moments ago. How had she snuck up on her?
“You scared me.” Harper pressed a hand to her chest, willing her heartbeat to slow.
The woman smiled, deepening the web of wrinkles that mapped her face.
Her hair was silver-white, wild and untamed around her shoulders, and she wore a heavy cloak of rough-spun wool despite the mild temperature.
But it was her eyes that held Harper’s attention. Dark as wet stone, ancient and knowing.
“You seek answers in the wrong places, Harper Ross.”
She stiffened. “How do you know my name?”
The old woman’s smile widened. “I know many things. I know why you’ve come to this island of endings and beginnings.”
“I’m here for a geological survey.” She brushed dirt off her jeans.
“Are ye?” The woman tilted her head, studying Harper with unsettling intensity. “Or are you running from a wound that won’t heal?”
With a frown, she took an involuntary step back. “Who are you?”
“Names are such temporary things.” The woman gestured toward the bay. “Like footprints in sand. The tide comes and they vanish.”
Great. A cryptic local. Just what she needed today. Maybe she was a friend of Mrs. Ferguson, and the two of them would laugh at her later over the delicious scones Mrs. Ferguson baked. “Well, it was nice meeting you, but I have work to do.”
The old woman extended a gnarled hand, palm up. Something metal glinted against her skin, a small, ancient-looking key. “Take it.”
“I don’t?—”
“You’ll need it. When the time comes.” The woman pressed the key into Harper’s reluctant hand. “Look beneath the cairn where the prince first stepped ashore. What was lost waits to be found.”
“Listen, I appreciate the local folklore, but?—”
“Blood remembers what the mind forgets.” The woman’s eyes suddenly seemed darker, deeper. “Maps lead to more than places, Harper Ross. Sometimes they lead to who we’re meant to be.”
A gust of wind swept over the ridge, carrying the scent of rain. Harper blinked against it, and when she looked again, the old woman was gone.
She spun in a full circle, scanning the empty landscape. “Hello? Where did you go?”
Nothing but the whisper of wind through the grass answered her. Harper opened her palm, half-expecting the key to have vanished too, but it sat heavy and real against her skin. Tarnished bronze, intricate in design, and undeniably old.
“This is ridiculous,” she muttered, but she pocketed the key anyway and started down the path toward the bay.
The cairn wasn’t hard to find. A pyramid of carefully stacked stones stood sentinel above the beach, commemorating Bonnie Prince Charlie’s landing.
A plaque at its base bore a Gaelic inscription Harper couldn’t read.
She circled the monument, feeling slightly foolish for following the old woman’s directions.
“Look beneath the cairn,” she repeated skeptically. “Right. Because defacing a historical monument is exactly what I need to add to my professional reputation.” A snort escaped. “As if the world doesn’t hate Americans enough as it is right now.”
Still, she crouched, examining the base of the structure. The stones fit tightly together, but on the seaward side, near the ground, she noticed a small gap. Just large enough to slip a hand inside.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this.” Harper glanced over her shoulder, confirming she was alone on the beach, then reached into the gap, glad there weren’t any snakes on the island.
Her fingers touched something smooth and cylindrical. Leather. She frowned, shoving her hand deeper until she could grip the object, then carefully extract it.
A map case. Ancient, by the look of it, worn leather with metal caps adorning both ends. A small keyhole adorned one end.
Harper stared at it, then at the key in her palm. “No way.”
The clouds thickened overhead as she turned the case in her hands. The rational part of her brain cataloged potential possibilities. A historical society had planted it for tourists to “discover”. Or maybe someone was playing an elaborate prank on the American scientist.
But another part, a part she rarely acknowledged, whispered that something stranger was happening. Instinct. Gut feeling. Things Harper typically ignored, going on facts and what she could see with her own eyes.
Her fingers trembled as she inserted the key into the lock. It turned with surprising ease, as if the mechanism had been recently oiled. The cap of the case unscrewed, revealing a roll of what appeared to be vellum inside.
Thunder rumbled in the distance as Harper removed the map. The material felt wrong under her fingers, too supple for something that should be centuries old. Ever so slowly, she carefully unrolled it.
The coastline was instantly recognizable as Eriskay and the surrounding islands, but something about the cartography seemed off.
The style was unmistakably 18th century, with decorative compass roses and sea monsters in the margins, but the geological details were impossibly accurate.
Fault lines that wouldn’t be discovered until the 20th century were clearly marked.
Mineral deposits that modern surveys had only recently identified were annotated in faded ink.
“This isn’t possible,” she whispered. It had to be a fake. Planted for her or another unsuspecting tourist.