Page 121 of A Scot in the Storm
“In my time, there are medicines. Hospitals. Things that would sound like magic to you, and sometimes they are miraculous, and sometimes they still aren’t enough.”
Her voice shook as the wind pulled at her scarf and the lighthouse beam passed over the snow beyond his shoulder.
“Sam has cancer. A sickness in his blood. He got better for a while, then it came back, and now he needs a donor. Someone whose body matches his closely enough that doctors can use healthy cells, pieces of them, to rebuild what the disease destroyed.”
Rory listened without interrupting, his gaze steady on her face.
“I was tested,” she said. “I wasn’t a match.”
The words scraped coming out. “I can’t save him.”
Rory stepped closer through the falling snow as she wrapped her arms around her middle, grateful for the beautiful warm shawl he’d bought her.
“When we found out I couldn’t help him, Sam smiled and told me my bone marrow had poor manners.”
Rory’s brows drew together.
“Never mind. It was funny at the time.”
“I believe ye.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No,” he admitted softly. “But I believe he made ye laugh.”
And that was worse somehow. She pressed a hand over her mouth, breathing through the pain until she could speak again.
“I left him,” Abigail whispered, the words fogging white into the cold air between them. “I thought I was going to Scotland for six months. Catalogue some letters, send him every bit of money I could, argue with him over the phone about eating vegetables and whether gas station burritos counted as a food group.”
Her laugh broke apart completely. “I didn’t know I was going to fall through time.”
Rory went very still as Abigail’s heart hammered so hard she felt each beat in her throat.
“I’m from America,” she whispered.
“Aye, so ye said.”
“But not…” She shook her head helplessly. “Not the America you’ve been to.”
Abigail drew one breath, then another.
“I’m from the future.”
Silence answered her then. Not empty silence. The kind that alters the shape of a life.
“The lighthouse already existed,” Abigail said, because now that the truth was out, there was no way to stop the words from flowing. “In my time, Kinnaird Head is history. The light was decommissioned thirty-five years ago. It still works and looks almost the same, but now an unmanned small light serves as a beacon. I knew about the light because I’d gone there to study it. That’s how I know what was wrong with the bearing, how I knew about the Isabella, and wreck of the Ardent, and Murtagh, because your names are listed in the records.”
Shock and disbelief filled Rory’s face.
“Murtagh’s remembered?” Rory asked quietly.
Abigail’s throat tightened.
“Yes,” she whispered. “So are you.”
“Christ preserve us,” Rory murmured softly. “All this time I feared ye might be fae-touched.” He drew one slow breath. “How far?”
She blinked. “What?”
