O far far frae hame full soon will I be,
It’s far far frae hame, in a strange country
“Our Ain Country,” Jacobite Reliques
After dawn, the same inn, 1689
Bang!
Traci bolted upright, clammy confusion thickening her pulse. Where the—? This wasn’t her bed. She pressed her hands into the thick covers and blinked. Vacation. Oh, yeah. But this wasn’t their bed at the Cluanie Inn either. Pounding footsteps and strident voices charged past her door.
Oh, shit.
Her stomach heaved, and she frantically scanned the room, which was bare except for the bed, a rickety chair, a table, and a dresser. The window. She clamped a hand over her mouth, scrambled to the open casement window, and threw up a whole river of stomach-processed Scotch.
She gripped the window ledge with shaky hands and pressed her forehead to the cool sill, breaths erratic. Oh God. Her clammy skin flashed cold, and the world’s sharpest, orneriest, oh-shit-that-hurts pain speared her head, radiating from the crown.
Her stomach empty of ill-advised alcohol, Traci eased down onto her butt on the floor and transferred her forehead to the plaster wall under the window. She needed a Bloody Mary IV, stat.
Where was she? Okay, think. Glaring fact number one: she’d had one hell of a bender. Her thoughts croaked backward, lurching around, trying to piece last night together.
Oh, yeah. The bet. With her sister.
Her heart faltered.
Oh crap. Oh crap. Oh crap.
Please don’t tell me I was such an idiot as to get rip-roaring drunk while in a different era!
Her memories fractured after they’d zapped back in time and started drinking at the inn. Two handsome faces populated most of them. A name—Iain.
Her eyes bugged wide as another very telling fact registered. She glanced down. Jesus Christ, she was as naked as a damn jay bird. Her stomach threatened another revolt, and she pawed her way to the sill and threw up again until she was dry heaving.
Shit. She wiped her mouth, leaned on one elbow, bent partway around, weight on the sill, and eyed the tousled bed.
Empty.
But… More images surfaced. Her in the bed. With that guy. Iain. The impression that they’d had sex. Damn good sex. Iain laughing over something she’d said. Some snuggling.
She groaned. There might have even been a bout of blanket-fort making with his kilt, which, jeez, she’d had no idea the gobs of fabric it made up.
No surprise to find him gone, though. She’d just shove that niggle of disappointment aside. She raised her chin. This was why she preferred to sleep with flirts like him in her own time. Because they both knew, going in, that it was just sex.
She cradled her head in her hands and leaned on the sill, relishing the slight, but cool breeze from the window. Okay, so she had been stupid enough to get drunk, zap back to the seventeenth century, get more drunk, and sleep with a guy. That bet… She’d wring her sister’s neck.
She lifted her head. Fiona.
Shit. Where had she gone last night? Traci couldn’t remember. Shit. Shit. Shit.
Her gaze darted around the room. There—her clothes. On shaky legs, she shuffled to the crumpled pile on the floor and with verrrry slow movements, donned each piece of clothing. Anything faster or more jarring was just not an option with the pain pounding in her head. By the end, one question was solved that she’d been afraid to know the answer to—at the bottom of the stack lay her pouch.
Jarring be damned, she yanked open the stringed top and shoved her hand inside. Oh-thank-God—the calling card case was still there. She closed the pouch and tied it to the belt of her outfit.
A pitcher on the dresser next to a bowl caught her eye. She stepped to the battered piece of furniture, poured the water into the bowl, splashed her face, and rinsed her mouth.
Okay. She could now upgrade her health stats to 2/100. She focused on the door. Somewhere in this inn was her sister. Well, she better be.
Stomach still behaving? Check. New mission: retrieve Fiona.
She pressed one hand to her stomach and another to her still clammy forehead and approached the door, her body curled in on itself as if it were ninety years old instead of twenty-five. She put her ear to the wood and listened; she really didn’t want to bump into anyone. Except Fiona.
With half of her mind focused on monitoring her questionable stomach, she slipped out and crept down the low-ceilinged hall. Ahead lay a gap in the floor with steps leading down, but her foot froze mid-air. Footsteps. Several of them.
She spun around and stepped inside the first unlocked door. A dark shape was hunched under a mound of covers. A voice croaked from its depths, a sleepy mumbled string of Gaelic.
Her muscles tightened, but the figure didn’t move. Outside the door, the footsteps passed by, and a door slammed open and shut. She bit her lip, eased the door open, and checked the passage. Clear.
She hustled down the steps, her head protesting with each jerky step. “A Bloody Mary with all the spicy fixings. Item One on the agenda when I get back,” she whispered.
At the bottom of the stairs, she eased into the main room. Duncan—was that his name?—was huddled over a table, eating. Alone. She pivoted and headed toward the back. Asking about Fiona would be her last resort, since that risked encountering Iain. First, out back, where she had a vague recollection of a privy. Maybe Fiona had come down with Duncan and…
A harsh voice at the landing above hollered in Gaelic. Her head whipped up, and her steps quickened because, while she couldn’t understand his words, he was pointing at her and beckoning to his cronies with his other hand. They bounded down the steps, two at a time. Fear jolted through, creating a nasty mix with her hangover. Their stern faces and their alien tongue fused with another memory—these same men entering the inn last night and a subtle tension coloring the crowd’s mood. They’d glared at her and Fiona then too.
And now these men were after her for some reason?
Duncan. She hesitated, turned to dart back into the main room, but the lead man had one step left before he reached the bottom and blocked the way.
Shit.
Okay. She could fix this. Traci fumbled into her drawstring pouch and bolted for the back door. Perhaps, like in her computer games, she could return to an earlier saved version. Return to before she met Iain and Duncan, grab her sister, and come back. She slammed through the door and fell back against it. Breaths coming in sucked-in-gasps now—because what the hell?—she gripped the silver case and made her wish just as the first body slammed into the wood.
Bam.
The force jolted her forward, but she pushed back, surprise working in her favor. The world spun, and that now-familiar atom-swirling feeling swept through her. Shit. Not helping her hangover.
But then the swirling just…stopped. The door banged at her back, the impact vibrating through her bones. Heart now pounding as if she’d quadrupled her jump-rope routine, she tried again. And again.
Oh crap.
So. No manipulating whatever-the-heck kind of magic this was to be in a time stream twice. Got it.
Forgive me, Fiona. She made a different wish—the door crashed open and threw her forward. As before, the world tilted, and the fuzzy feeling sluiced through her body. The whatever-vortex spit her out the other side, and she fell onto her hands and knees.
Oh. God. She pulled a slow breath through her nose as her stomach went all queasy.
She lifted her still-pounding head and glanced over her shoulder. She buckled to the ground, relief rendering her muscles into goo. She’d made it back to her own time. A blacktop road now threaded past the inn and opposite, on a small rise, flapped the six flags welcoming tourists to Cluanie Inn from various nations. But her relief was short-lived. Now what? On its heels came a stomach-curdling thought—in her hungover state, she’d panicked. And abandoned her sister.
“Okay, this has to work.”
Several hours after the frantic phone call with Katy, Traci stood in a ravine across the road from Cluanie Inn. She tightened her grip on her cloth sack—Katy had nixed the backpack. Too conspicuous.
Oh, she’d royally screwed up. Again.
She had to make things right. Again.
She had to find—and rescue—her sister. Again.
She tied the sack onto the pony she’d purchased—another Katy suggestion—and eyed the docile mare, which was unlike any horse she’d seen. It was a shaggy Highland pony. Broad-shouldered and sturdy.
“Please go easy on me.” She listed forward, pressed her forehead to the pony’s fluffy neck, and pulled in a deep breath, the earthy scent of pony and leather oddly calming. “Okay, you with me? Let’s do this.”
The mare blinked, her ears kinda loose.
That’ll have to do. It better—the last time she’d ridden one of these things was at horse camp one high school summer. “You’re now Glenfiddich, because I couldn’t parse what he said your name was. Sorry.”
Traci had argued with Katy about her need for the pony. Because she was just popping back, grabbing her sister, and returning, but Katy kept harping on one thing: you need to be prepared. So, Traci had bought her and the antique side-saddle from the riding stables in Ratagan, thirteen miles northwest along the shores of Loch Duich. She’d paid a pretty penny to the owner, who was reluctant to part with one of his stock. He’d even grumbled about her last name. “Never trust a Campbell.”
Traci led Glenfiddich to one of the many boulders peppering the landscape and swung up into the saddle, securing her leg around the first pommel like she’d seen pictured on the web. It might be called a pony, but it was nearly as tall as a horse. God, this was like a real-life computer game—saddling up and heading to her first quest location. Except this was way too real. She shivered as chills prickled along her skin.
She clasped the calling card case and glanced around. All clear. She gripped the pony’s mane in case she needed actual contact—not just through the saddle—and made her wish.
Nausea gripped her insides, and the pony stumbled. Blood pounded in her ears, and she leaned over, squeezed her eyes shut, and murmured words to stay-calm-be-a-good-girl to her new pony.
Her ears popped, and she pried open an eye.
Whew.
She and Glenfiddich had made it. She thumped the pony’s side and led it up the incline, the oddness of riding side-saddle just one more thing keeping her off-balance that day. The stable owner had assured her the pony was trained for a side-saddle, so there was that. At the rise, she pushed out a relieved breath.
Gone was the paved road winding past Cluanie Inn. In its place was a well-trod path. She peered at the sky. The sun was a little toward the west. That would match with her present time—2:30 PM. Katy and Isabelle had figured out one rule: once a new person used the case, time passed at the same rate in both places. Which explained why Traci hadn’t been able to go back to before all this mess had started.
Now to find Fiona. Who had better have stayed put. Traci shoved aside any other alternative, because, well, those just weren’t possibilities. Though Katy had considered them, hence all the supplies she carried, and Glenfiddich.
Traci gently steered Glenfiddich toward the inn. Early afternoon light speared down through the heavy clouds overhead, and despite being in the same place, the time period was immediately apparent by something as simple as sound. Specifically, its lack.
Her pony’s hooves clomped down the emerald green hill as she trotted toward the open glen and the inn nestled within. Spanning the horizon were the green slopes of the South Glen Shiel Ridge, splashed with swaths of purple heather. Sweat slicked her palm at the enormity of her task.
That bet—oh, boy—had it gotten out of hand. When would she learn? Always, she screwed up where her family was concerned. And always, she screwed up when alcohol was involved. And a hot guy.
Her whole body flushed as images of Iain and all that they’d gotten up to flooded her brain.
Jesus Christ. Could she stop thinking about him for one second?
She’d make this right. She had to.
Up ahead, a lone groom tended several ponies in the stable yard, and Traci adjusted her course.
The stable boy caught sight of her and loped out to help her get down. Unfortunately, he didn’t speak English, so with hand signals and patience, she got him to hold her pony temporarily while she went inside.
What was “thank you” in the Scottish Gaelic Fiona had taught her? Ah, yes. “Tapadh leibh,” she said hesitantly.
She pushed open the door and stepped into the inn. The now-familiar smell of the room evoked more memories from last night. She found Maggie cleaning a table. Fearghus the dog was walking in a tight circle before the hearth fire and flopped down with a beleaguered grunt. Otherwise, the room was empty of guests.
“Hi there, Maggie. Do you have a moment?” They’d lucked out with their choice of inn—Maggie was a Lowlander and spoke English.
“Aye. What are ye after, then?”
“Last night my sister Fiona and I…we shared some…drinks with Iain and Duncan. But at some point, my sister disappeared. Is she still here?”
“You lost your sister?” Her voice held a trace of disbelief as well as a healthy dose of scoffing.
Heat crept up the back of Traci’s neck, and she crossed her arms. “Well, things got involved last night, and when I woke up, I…I couldn’t find her.”
“Well, she left with the MacCowans, didn’t she?”
Good God. Had her sister just up and left? With a group of men? Was she that kilt-addled? Yes. She was. Mom and Dad hadn’t had to drag her every October to the Highland Games in Stone Mountain, Georgia.
“Who are the MacCowans?” She was missing part of the picture, and Maggie’s thick accent didn’t help.
Maggie straightened from rubbing the table with a rag and planted her fists on her hips. “Why, Duncan and Iain and their men. At least I think it was them. Can’t expect me to keep track of everyone, can ye?”
“Did she leave willingly?” What the hell was she going to do now?
“She seemed willing enough, if ye ask me.”
“Where would they have gone?”
“I imagine they headed back to Dungarbh keep.”
Gah. Did she have to milk every single answer out of this woman? She pasted on a smile. “And where would that be?”
Maggie pursed her lips, but complied. Ride two days southeast along Loch Cluanie, then along the river down to Loch Loyne, and south to Loch Garry. Traci repeated the directions. Thank God, Katy had insisted on the pony.
“Are you sure it was Iain and Duncan? What clan tartan were they wearing?”
Maggie swiped her broom at her. “Are ye daft, woman? Now I’ve told ye all I ken, so be off with ye if you’re not paying for anything. Some of us have to work.”
Traci stormed out of the inn and retrieved her pony. “You’re lucky I already have the time off, Fiona,” she muttered. They’d been in the first week of her three-week vacation. Would serve her sister right if she left her here. It probably fulfilled all her friggin’ fantasies.
She pulled up short. But what if Fiona hadn’t gone willingly? Or what if she’d changed her mind?
The stable lad held out her reins, and she swung up into the saddle and aimed her pony east. “Jesus Christ, Fiona, what have you gotten into?”
Her throat tightened, and she latched onto the outrage now searing through her—anything to shove aside the fear and guilt and regret that had been building all day. If she’d been a better sister—if they’d been closer—Fiona would’ve known that Traci wouldn’t abandon her. Or maybe Fiona was worried about what had happened to her?
She kicked Glenfiddich into a canter. She really did feel as if she were in a real-life quest game. Maybe soon she could vent her frustration with an epic battle.
Ha. Yeah, right. Those skills didn’t translate here.
But as she rode, her mismanaged actions this morning replayed over and over. If she’d stayed, if she’d somehow sidestepped those men and shouted the inn down until she found Fiona…
She reached the peak of the first hill and reined in her pony. Almost the full length of Loch Cluanie stretched out below, disappearing among a range of mountains on the horizon. On either side of the blue loch stretched more green mountain ranges. Before coming here, she’d known Scotland was mountainous but had pictured it like either the Rockies or the Blue Ridge Mountains—a swath of land butting up against mountain ranges. But the Highlands were all mountains, or foothills and bumpy bits leading up to a mountain. As if the land were a huge green and purple paper bag that a giant had scrunched up, with the low bits filled by the bluest lakes.
Time travel achievement unlocked. Now if she could only level up her scouting abilities.
But all that rolling and craggy emptiness sent a slither down her spine.
Somewhere out there was her sister. Somewhere out there, she might be scared and in trouble.
And it was all Traci’s fault.