sun bleached flies
chapter one — meet me in the woods, 5.2k words
— marissa robinson, only twenty-four, has lived a hell of a life so far. significant health issues ranging from autoimmune disorders to requiring surgery to get to a somewhat "normal" body, she hasn't had a moment of peace in years. only three months post-op from a partial hysterectomy, marissa is in scotland visiting the beautiful countryside and all the rich history the highlands has to offer. when she's convinced that she's rightfully being punk'd by her tour guide at the craigh na dun, a very frustrated marissa finds out that she is no longer in 2025 but in a time unknown to her (at least, for now).
a/n: this is very specific and i do not apologize for it in the slightest. fix it fic for my life but in oc form since i am incapable of ever writing with ocs and i only ever do y/n (and i don't think y/n has ever been through what i have so keep her away for now). i'm not saying it's a self-insert because it's not my name but uhhh. i'm giving the character my health issues <3 so there is that. TW: cursing, talks of migraines, blood, health issues (autoimmune disorders, uterine fibroid, partial hysterectomy), fertility issues, etc. i mean... for now, that's it. oh, black jack randall. is he a tw? if you deal with chronic illness then you will understand the rambling thoughts that i am leaving a tw for as well. lots of recognizing just how much an illness affects your day to day life even when you try to "solve" it
masterlist
For what it was worth, Marissa had never once thought she'd find herself quite literally falling through time. She had lived a life that many would never find themselves in, and fortunately so. No child would ever come from her, let alone the pain that had haunted her for so long. Only a few months had granted her a bit of reprieve since she went under the knife to get rid of one of the many things that ailed her, scar still pink with remnants of what once was and what will never be again.
She had had a partial hysterectomy at the age of twenty-three, causing irreversible changes to her young body. This major surgery, this life-changing event—it had been such an easy decision. Such an easy "let's do it" as the pain was no longer worth the prospect of maybe having a child, of maybe finding herself a husband in the future to have a family with. A family would come if she truly wanted it, but not from her body.
Her body, still healing as it was, had never been so youthful. Many years spent in pain, spent with debilitating side effects of an issue unknown until she pressed the issue. Now, little pains filtered through the muscle that had been cut through, but nothing was as bad as it had been just months before—barely three, as it was.
It was life-changing.
And so was this.
The woman awoke with a start, blue eyes peering up at a stormy sky. Only moments before her current predicament had she been at Craigh na Dun, the tour guide discussing all kinds of relevance and history of the ancient stone circle. In the year 2025, she had been to many different places, but never had she felt such a strong pull to a location before. Never had she felt such a strong want for something as the lands before her.
The summer solstice was a perfect time to view the circle, claimed the tour guide, as it was said to be ethereal—otherworldly. Local whispers claimed that the stones themselves contained properties unknown to many, only to a few.
"Properties" of what she had not heard, too distracted by the stones themselves. Shouts could be heard, but it seemed as if she was alone in her attention. Screams, even. Battle.
Could it have been so? Battle. The political climate of her home country was chaotic at best and demonic at the worst, but this was not something she had ever truly heard before.
A "scholar," she called herself, one who pursued education rather than joining Uncle Sam's call to arms. One who had gone out of her way to go back to school just to become a teacher.
She was not familiar with the shouts that drew her in—perhaps in a movie or a television show that she binged over summer break when she did not spend her time saving for travel.
They were faint—barely there but noticeable.
As she stood, a bit too hypnotized for her own liking, she paid no mind to the tour guide who began to lead the other travelers away from the circle, citing that they needed to get a move on if they planned to see any other grand sights that day.
Marissa made no effort to follow.
She stood, motionless, brows cinched in what could only be referred to as immense frustration. To her, it made no sense. Why did they not mention the shouts? Was it some kind of bizarre reenactment just miles away, and that is what she heard? Surely there was an explanation—surely there was a reason for the issue at hand.
Marissa began to walk before she realized that she had, indeed, moved and was not stuck on some advanced moving platform that she had managed to miss. Her feet guided her through the stones, to and fro, only coming to stop in front of a rather tall, disjointed one. By the base of the stone, flowers bloomed in a delicate manner. She had not laid eyes on these particular flowers before, but they were quite beautiful. Breathtaking, even if you could call a flower that.
The woman let out a disgruntled groan, rubbing her eyes. Since her surgery, her migraines had been less and less, but they did not stop from creeping up on her every now and then. It was as if her body could not give her a moment of reprieve, even now, thousands of miles from the comfort of her own dark bedroom fit with all the things she needed for migraines.
In an effort to keep her balance, she pressed one of her hands to the stone before her, not thinking much of it—she knew she probably shouldn't do so as it was such an ancient stone and all (who knew what would cause the stone to crumble).
The shouts—they only seemed to worsen. And with the worsening shouts, so did her migraine; she pressed her other hand to the stone, fully prepared to take a few deep breaths to see if it would help when all went still.
The air around her went silent; no wind blew her curls out of place. And then, it was as if she were falling. Falling through what? Where was the stone?
She did not see much of anything—blurs of things, things unlike the stones before her, but flashes of people, animals, ...memories?
Was that what she saw? Memories? Not hers, but another's?
The ache at the base of her skull only worsened, and she squeezed her eyes shut.
Had she truly been unconscious, she did not know, but there must have been a moment in time where Marissa was not fully with it, for when she opened her eyes once more, she stared up at a stormy sky and silence surrounding her. The only sound she heard came from the wind, and even that was pretty quiet.
She did not hear shouts, nor did she hear anything worrisome. No calls from the tour guide or the travelers she had been with.
Had she just passed out? Did they leave her?
Marissa let out a frustrated huff, slowly pushing herself to sit up. She looked up at the stones in front of her, a deep frown set into her face. This was ridiculous. Perhaps it was a side effect that her doctor had yet to inform her of—passing out at random intervals of time, three months post-op.
She pushed herself to stand up without much effort. Before, it would have taken her a moment to even gather her bearings. Her body was unlike it had been, and she gave all her thanks to the magic her doctor worked on her.
Marissa patted her clothes, brushing off grass and dirt from her body. She looked around, blue eyes scanning the area.
The tour bus was missing.
Well... the road was missing.
She turned around, wondering if perhaps she was looking in the wrong direction. But there was nothing. The woman began to walk to the edge of the circle, heart race picking up. She began to walk down the edge of the hill, looking to and fro for the tour bus, the tour guide, the damned road that had taken her to the circle.
Nothing.
There was nothing.
"What the fuck?" Marissa spoke aloud for what seemed to be the first time in hours. She was typically quiet when on tours, but damn, this was a new record for her. Her voice was hoarse with disuse. It was as if she hadn't said a word in days.
Her sneakers stepped carefully on the grass once she reached the bottom of the circle. She walked in the direction of where the tour bus had been, calling out names of travelers she had been with: Carrie, Natalia, Richard, Poppy. Even the tour guide's name found its place in the emptiness around her: Ewan. She hadn't caught his last name, but what did it matter? It seems she hadn't caught anything—no hint as to what the fuck was even happening.
"Am I being punk'd right now?" she scoffed, walking toward what seemed to be a path. There was nothing much she could do. She had left her phone on the tour bus because, of course,e she had (the damned thing had needed to charge, so she had asked Poppy to take photos and send them to her, which of course Poppy had agreed).
The sun fought to peak out from beyond the dark, angry clouds. A rumble of thunder could be heard, though she saw no lightning. It did not mean it was far off, though. The wind picked up ever-so-slightly, threatening her with the prospect of a brewing storm.
"Dammit, dammit, Jesus Christ," she cursed, frustration dripping from every pore. "I swear to God if this is just some stupid prank, I'm going to actually lose my shit."
—
Marissa had no chance to lose her shit as the longer she walked, the further from the stones she had gotten. Nothing appeared to her other than a path that led into the nearby woods. It was a rather crappy path at that, overrun with branches and briars that threatened to rip holes in the thin skirt she had chosen to wear that morning. The florals in the fabric did nothing to help her, beckoning the briars to wreak havoc on the skirt.
As she walked further, she felt... well, she didn't know how she felt. Uncomfortable at best. Something was off, something was—well, how do you say that you feel as if you are being watched when your whole day has been some ungodly prank?
Marissa looked over her shoulder, brows furrowed. "Hello?"
Oh, great. Yes, of course, Marissa, go out and call for the prankster. What a great idea. Have you learned nothing from any of the television shows you binged that summer? No. No, apparently not enough to remember you shouldn't call out when you had no fucking clue what was going on.
A snap of a branch could be heard not too far from where her eyes had landed, far into the forest. She saw, in due time, the emergence of a horse and a man dressed in a red coat and brass buttons. Hair pulled back in a low ponytail, lines on his face angry but curious. His entire being was curious. Who dressed like a Revolutionary Redcoat anymore?
No, like, who did that?
Marissa huffed softly. "Look, if this is some kind of big prank, can we just call it quits? I'd like to get back to the hotel and get out of this place."
The man made no effort to answer her, though his hand rested on the handle of some kind of weapon. She did not know what it was, but she wasn't stupid—a weapon was a weapon, no matter where it was on the body.
At the sight of this man, she heard a few shouts echoing in the wind. There had been nothing but silence for some time, but that did not mean there hadn't been someone lying in wait. Waiting for a sign, a cue.
Marissa heard the sound of a horse whinnying, followed by a few more shouts and the emergence of a galloping horse—no, of galloping horses. Not just one would make a sound like that.
The man tilted his head curiously at the woman.
"Who are you?" he asked, leading his horse in her direction.
Marissa took a slight step back. "What? Who am I? I should be asking you that. This is fucking ridiculous. I seriously need to know who set you up to this."
His eyebrow quirked, a small smile playing at his lips. "What a mouth on you, my lady," he said, letting go of the reins. He stopped a few feet in front of her, looking her up and down.
The woman was by no means a small woman—years of inexplicable health issues led to difficulty losing weight and keeping it off. Years of a uterine fibroid led to less than savory weight in the midsection in particular. But now, it wasn't so bad. In fact, it was as if she had shaved off a good portion of what made her so miserable.
The man, of course, would not know that. All he saw was the woman in front of him, clad in a floral skirt, a white t-shirt, and odd pink earrings that looked a bit like ghosts.
"Who are you?" Marissa repeated, taking yet another step back.
"Very well, my lady," he hummed softly. "My name is Captain Johnathan Randall, Esquire, Captain of His Majesty's Eighth Dragoons. At your service, madam."
Marissa's brows furrowed in confusion—at his formality, at the dress, and most importantly, at his words. She was pretty up-to-date with this day and age's politics, but had King Charles really implemented the use of the Dragoons again? Weren't they... well, aggressive?
No... no, whatever this was, she could not bring herself to believe it was anything of the modern age. Perhaps a few happy-go-lucky roleplayers had finally gotten their idea out of the Discord server.
That was far too positive to be true.
"And who are you, madam? Or should I plan to draw it out of you?" he asked, eyeing her once more. She was oddly dressed, had an odd accent. "Where do you hail from?"
"Where... I come from the States," she said, frowning. "My name is Marissa."
His head tilted to the side, brows cinched, and a curious look in his eyes. "From the States?"
"Uh... yeah, like... the United States? Of America?"
He narrowed his eyes at her. "Have you hit your head, madam? A few screws loose there?"
Her eyes widened. "Oh, Jesus Christ," she huffed. "You cannot be this dense. Like, are you actually messing with me? Can you be serious for a moment, or is that impossible?"
He sucked in a breath, the sound remnant of his growing annoyance with the woman in front of him.
"You, madam, should truly watch how you speak to one of His Majesty's officers," he said, drawing his weapon and stepping closer to her. "Have you made an alliance with the locals? Find telling English officers ludicrous stories to confuse them, have them run with the insanity that you plead?"
"Insane—insane? You are drawing a weapon, and you're calling me insane? What the fuck is this?"
He tch'd, an eyeroll returning her blatant attempt to dismiss what he had said.
"I met a woman only a month prior, and she was very much in the same mindset," he said, eyeing his weapon with much regard for its abilities. The hand that held it was steady, knowing it would do exactly as it needed to. "And it turns out, madam," he paused, turning his gaze to Marissa, "that she was in cahoots with the Highlanders. How incredibly odd it is to see a woman such as yourself in the same woods she was in not too many weeks before."
"Right, right, so you're actually insane. This is insane."
Marissa felt as if she was about to lose her shit and for real this time—it wasn't just a silly thing she said in the bouts of stress from teaching in the States or because of the thought of her tour guide pulling a massive prank on her. Whatever this was, it wasn't normal. It wasn't normal.
Oh, God, where was she? What was happening?
As the British officer in front of her stepped forward, now intent on capturing the woman, she let out a yelp. She turned and took off running, not bothering to stay and let him do so—she hadn't run for a good few months, the surgery having put her out for a lot of things that she may have been half decent at only months ago. At this point in time, running was one of those things that she hadn't had to worry over.
Her steps are not as steady as the officer running behind her, but a bout of adrenaline helped her to run a bit faster. She wondered what it would look like—to be outrun by the chubby woman with chaffing thighs as her undershorts had started to roll up at the effort.
The officer suddenly lunged in her direction, weapon having been put up as he ran after her (he did not see her as much of a threat—there were no weapons, and he had hardly expected her to get as far as she had with, well... the obvious). He brought her body down, her hands outstretched to keep her from falling on her stomach. She let out a shout, quickly turning in an effort to shove him off of her.
He pinned her to the forest floor, leaves and twigs dragging into her hair as she struggled.
"If you hadn't have run, this would have been much simpler," he seethed, practically slamming her back to keep her still.
"You chased after me, you freak!" she snapped, attempting to push him off.
He would have said something more, asked where in the hell she left the clansmen last, when a shadow fell over him and the woman below. There's a loud crack, and in an instant, the officer slumped over a woman for what seemed to be the second time in the last two months.
Marissa quickly pulled herself out from under him, panic overtaking her. Her body ached, reminding her that she was still healing even though she was cleared to lift heavy things again (it's reported that many women do not heal completely for over a year after surgery). Her breathing was as uneasy as it always was when she ran—she may have gotten rid of one issue, but Hashimoto's was just as much a criminal as the other end of her body.
She pushed herself to her feet regardless of the aches and pains, looking at the man who had knocked the other unconscious. Hands out in front of her, she looked at him head-to-toe, only to see the dress of a clansman. She hadn't seen that but once or twice in the few days she had already been in Scotland, and that was rare in itself. Breathing, fixing herself ever-so-slightly, she looked up at the man, trembling.
He eyed her warily. The garb, the look in her eyes. Recognition hit him, but not for the woman but the situation. He had the misfortune of doing this twice in the same season—how incredibly annoying.
"Come," he said, grabbing onto the woman's arm. He did not wait for her to say anything, pulling her along.
"What? What are you—let me go!"
He looked back at her, hand tightening its grip. "If ye wish for safety, ye'd do well to listen to me."
Her eyes widened a bit, heart lurching to her throat. Marissa's eyes searched his for a moment before she gave a small nod. Yes. Safety. That was a good idea.
He tugged her along to a horse that wasn't too far off. He let go of her arm and looked at the horse, patting its neck for a moment. Glancing over his shoulder at the officer who was still passed out not too far from where his horse had been waiting, he frowned.
He grumbled something in a language Marissa did not know—Gaelic, by the sound of it.
The man moved to grab her. "Get on the horse, lass."
Marissa looked to the beast—one she had been scared of growing up, regardless of her childhood best friend owning and loving them. They were so large, so beautiful, and so, so capable of hurting her with one wrong move.
"Wasn't a request, lass."
He suddenly lifted her up, sending her into a yelp of surprise. She scrambled, lifting her leg over the saddle as she had learned so many years ago (she had believed she had forgotten, but it seemed as if her years of pain hadn't taken that memory from her). She quickly situated herself, wide-eyed. How had he lifted her up? Last she checked the scale, she was—
The man got onto the horse behind her, taking off without looking back any longer. The horse raced through the forest at the guide of its human, taking the path as best as it could. The brush and bramble cut at its hooves while the trees whipped at Marissa and the man just behind her.
As the horse went along, Marissa took a moment to think. What in the hell was happening? God, she had watched a few things in the past where time travel was possible, but surely, surely it hadn't happened to her. What in God's green earth would ever allow her of all people to travel like this? And why now? She had always wished for something more, for something else, but this? Now?
A sharp pain bit at the muscle around her scar, quick and disappearing as soon as it had arrived. Her breath hitched in her throat at this, body tensing. It wasn't as bad as the pain she had experienced many a time before, but it was not comfortable. And now, with body still coming down from running and being thrown onto a horse, it was just another frustration, building upon a mountain that had once just been a molehill.
Damn it all. Truly, damn it all.
What did the universe think it was doing, throwing her to the dogs like this?
After everything she had been through, everything she had lost—why this?
There was no answer. Only wind and branches whipped by her, one in the ear and one in the arms, a reminder that she was most definitely awake and not dreaming. Blood was so specific, so full of life—she could not be asleep.
Maybe she was dead.
Was this Hell?
The horse broke off from the forest and fell in line on a path to a small cottage, far from where they had left the officer. With the growing number of dark clouds in the sky, they were lucky to be getting off the horse when they did—the storm would come in quickly, and unless Marissa wished to make this day even worse, she would do as the man in a kilt told her to do.
"Come, now, lass," he said, hopping off the horse and holding out his hand to her this time. He made no brash movements to force her off of the horse. He was in no hurry to run—a little rain would do him well, all things considered.
Marissa looked down at him, brows cinched, but her hand was taking hold of his. Her chipped nail polish was an embarrassment at this point, the pink having been pulled off by herself once the chipping initially began (she had been so intent on not ruining her nails again, but of course, she never got what she wanted—the universe made sure of that).
The man helped her down from the horse.
A wave of nausea hit the woman, but it quickly fled to make way for a bout of dizziness—not unusual for her, but annoying all the while. The man pushed her in the direction of the cottage where a few voices could be heard. She did not ask, did not disobey, did not run. Regardless of what she kept telling herself, she would not run. Not if that redcoat was still out there.
He opened the cottage door, allowing her to walk in first. The conversation does not stop, the men continuing and not looking back at whoever it was who had walked in, but a duo, a man with long red hair and a woman with an otherworldly look to her stopped their conversation long enough to see who had entered.
"Murtagh," the redhead greeted, getting to his feet—he was a tall man, almost startlingly so.
Marissa moved out of the way for the man now known as Murtagh to enter. His face seemed to be kept with a perpetual frown as he quickly spoke to the redhead in Gaelic, keeping her from the conversation. Her gaze fell to the woman.
"Who are you?" she asked, and at that, the other men in the cottage paused their own conversations to look.
Murtagh spoke before Marissa could. "Found her in the forest, Black Jack up and chasin' her," he said. "Couldna leave the lass, though she didnae seem too keen in listenin'."
Marissa dares not to say a word.
The woman spoke again. "My name is Claire," she said. "Claire Beauchamp. Who are you?" she repeated. The name was outdated, her husband standing not too far from where she stood now, but she paid no mind. Mistakes happened, and at the moment, it did not seem inherently terrible.
Marissa blinked slowly for a moment, taking in a deep breath. She had forgotten how air-hungry she could get at times as she did so, brows furrowed in frustration.
"My name is Marissa," she said, averting her gaze to look at Murtagh. "Marissa Robinson."
Something akin to surprise passes by Claire's face, though she makes no attempt to satisfy Marissa's curiosity.
Murtagh spoke once more, more to the attention of the bald, bearded man standing by the fireplace.
"I couldna leave her there any more than I could ha' Claire."
The bald man acknowledged him with a grunt, a frown on his lips. He says nothing more, though the unspoken agreement is there—they would have Marissa go back to the castle with them to keep her safe from the redcoats. It would be up to the Laird on what should happen to her.
The dark-haired woman caught her attention once more.
"You are safe now," she said, placing a hand on her arm. Claire looked her up and down, unable to help herself. She saw the t-shirt, the skirt, the muddy sneakers. Wherever she was from, whoever this woman was, Claire knew they had much in common.
Now, to return back to the castle after a taxing and unsatisfactory journey with the men of Clan Mackenzie keeping her from escaping back to the circle as she had wished to do so many times. At least now, this Marissa woman would be another body to watch.
"You will come with us," said the bald man, tilting his head back as he looked over Marissa.
She was getting tired of people looking at her, but she recognized how ridiculous she looked. Considering how the others were dressed, she must have looked like a discombobulated poor person traversing the grounds that the redcoats were hunting them in. What an odd look—what a dangerous look indeed.
"Murtagh, keep an eye on 'er," he continued, turning back to his conversation partner from just moments prior. "Do n'let her out o' yer sight."
Murtagh let out a soft sigh, glancing back at Marissa. It could have been worse—he could have been forced to watch both Claire and Marissa (thank God above for Jamie's immediate interest in Claire—to keep her safe, of course).
"I don't need to be watched," Marissa said, disheartened by the turnout of events. "I..."
Claire's head turned to her once more at the sound of her voice. She clenched her jaw, but she said nothing more about it. American. She knew it to be true. Once they were back at the castle, she would need to speak to Marissa.
"Ye do, lass," Murtagh said, frowning at her. "If what yer wearin' is any sign, ye do."
"What I'm—" Marissa looked down at her clothing, frowning deeply.
"Here." Claire passed her a shawl, one that must have been brought along just in case. "Cover up," she said, drawing it around her shoulders. "You may catch cold if the storm is as bad as it should be."
Marissa said nothing other than a small "Oh, thank you," accepting the shawl with a frown. What more could she do?
The bald man crossed the cottage and opened the door just a crack, frowning all the while. Rain pounded the hillside, threatening to enter if he chose to open the door entirely. Lightning struck, thunder sounded.
"It will be a while b'fore we leave," he said to the bunch, not singling out anyone in particular. "Storm's just gettin' started."
With that, he let the door slam shut.
There would be nothing they could do, but fortunately, Murtagh knew a certain redcoat didn't particularly wake up quickly after being hit upside the head in such a manner.
Call him altruistic, but he was a man of "hit now, talk later," and he would stay that way. It had worked for him thus far, first with Claire and now with Marissa.
Pretty name, that. Once they returned to the castle, though, he doubted he would still feel the same.
Claire led the newcomer to sit down by the fire, shooing a chubby man away. She sat down beside of her, knowing that the storm outside would not cease for some time. It had been rumored for days that the highlands were prepping for rain of this caliber, and now it was here.
"Are you alright?" asked Claire, a frown evident on her pretty face.
The red-haired man from earlier took a seat nearby while Murtagh leaned up against the wall as they watched. The woman of the cottage was nowhere to be seen, certainly having hid away in her room—this was the second time in two months that the Clan Mackenzie had used her home as a safe haven from the redcoats.
"Yeah," Marissa said, nodding. "Yeah, I'm..." A sharp pain renders her speechless for a moment. Had she her phone, she would have messaged her aunt again, making sure that it was normal (it was, according to the older woman who had had two c-section births and a microscopic hysterectomy—mind you, Marissa's was not the same and it was as if she had a c-section birth instead as that was the only way for them to safely remove the fibroid she had). God damn, if she thought of her surgery one more time, she was going to poke her eyes out. She did not wish to be that person who only spoke of their issues, of their illness, but it seemed to haunt her every waking moment. She could not get away from it. It had become her. It was everything she knew. Everything she thought of, even when she wished it wasn't so.
Claire spoke her name softly, drawing her attention back to the present instead of her convoluted mind.
"Are you sure, Marissa?" she softly asked.
"Yes," she said, giving a small smile to quell her worries. "I am sure. I promise."
Claire gave her an uneasy once-over, glancing back at Jamie. The man shrugged in response, not knowing what he wanted her to say. There was nothing either of them knew about this newcomer, and it seemed that her savior was just as uncertain as Claire was. She turned her gaze back to the woman who was now staring into the fire, holding the shawl a bit closer than before—a small comfort that she wished was much more as the reality of her situation was settling deep within, a cruel reminder that she, in all her unfortunate glory, was far, far away from home.
'a pearl brooch' for Anne Fraser, and Jamie, and possibly Brianna also, if that suits!
Hello lovely 🌸 thank you for this prompt! I hope you like it.
A pearl brooch
Everything here was just so awkward.
Gently brushing the mare's coat – Ian told her they called her Alba – Anne couldn’t stop thinking about the situation. About Jamie Fraser. Their biological father. The man they travelled across time and sea to meet, and whom they had now been living with for the past month. But even now, this awkwardness between the three of them persisted, and it even spread to Momma and Ian.
It was like a downpour that went on day after day. Or like the wretched seasickness she battled with during the first couple of days on the ship, when it felt like this was her new normal. The constant state of nausea, shivering so hard she could barely speak.
Her stomach clenched like a fist at the memory of it. Swallowing, she forced herself to breathe deeply, just like Momma told her, taking in the familiar scents of horses and the woods. She was on land. She was safe.
She firmly pushed that memory to the far corners of her mind, hoping that would calm her stomach. Moving the brush from Alba’s shoulder to her back, she turned her mind back to the situation.
She just didn't know how to be around him. Jamie, or Da as he asked them to call him. He claimed it was simple. But none of it was.
It would have been different if she and Bree grew up with him and Momma, to have known him all their lives. But he was still a stranger. There were no memories of birthday parties, staying with him after school ended for the day, him attending their graduation, or of him teaching them to drive. He was family but he didn’t fully yet feel like family.
“How did ye and Ian find the Lindsay family?”
Peering over Alba’s back, her eyes landed on Da as he began to brush the other horse; Morven. How did she not hear him walking towards her?
“I-I-I,” she stammered. Her throat was suddenly tight. Swallowing, she tried again. “It was fine. I mean they were all in good health. Ian said they looked ready for the upcoming harvest, and that Evan Lindsay will be able to make the barrels you need.” Smiling slightly, she said, “And it’s always good to be around horses.”
“Aye.” He kept his eyes on Morven’s coat, but he looked like there was something on the tip of his tongue. “Your mother said ye and Brianna started riding when ye turned five. And that ye later on competed in competitions?”
“Riding is always fun, at least to me. Bree fell in love with the academic world and so she stopped,” she continued to tell him, carefully avoiding the mention of Daddy. “But I loved it and I became friends with some of the other girls who also competed, so those days were always a lot of fun.”
A sense of unease spread, from the base of her spine, up to the tips of her fingers, and all the way down to her toes, as he remained quiet. Everyone who knew Da said that he had a special connection with horses. So then why couldn’t they keep talking about them?
“I’m sorry.”
Anne looked up, confused. “You don’t like that I was friends with them?”
His face creased in puzzlement before it in quick succession changed to understanding and then guilt. He sighed and shook his head. “No, it’s not that.”
“Then why did you say you’re sorry?”
“Your mother talks about the future. The…planes… in the sky,” he said with uncertainty. “Her work in Boston, the war, what her daily life was like. All that she’d left behind. She—ye mother always says that what little I could give her was all that she needed, but….”
Once again he fell silent, making the nerves in her stomach clench tighter. What should she do? Should she keep talking? Bree would do that. But the words were stuck in her throat.
“But ye and Brianna,” he sighed deeply. “You two left the home you grew up in, your school, your friends. The safety of the future. Ye left everything ye knew to come here.”
Anne followed his gaze, surveying their surroundings. The cabin they were now — all five of them and a dog — lived in was the largest building. Nearby was Momma’s herb garden, the two sheds, and the privy. The last one was something that was still difficult to get used to. Further away to the left, beyond the trees, was the cabin where Fergus and his family lived, and to the right was the site where Da planned to build a house. It was in that direction he kept looking.
“I can’t give you the things you’ve always had — the things ye and your sister deserve. The house will take many months before it’s ready enough for us to live in it, neither of ye can go to university or work for the future you’d been studying for. I have no jewellery to give ye, no necklaces or a pearl brooch. There is barely any dowry.”
“We don’t need those things!” Anne said strongly.
He looked ready to disagree with her.
“I mean it,” she said quickly, before he could interject. “Bree and I talked about this for a long time, even after we decided we wanted to go through the stones. Neither of us could come here without looking at every part of it.”
The tension in his shoulders seemed to drop and he looked at her with something that appeared to be wary curiosity.
“We talked about what we would be leaving behind,” she continued. “And yes some things were hard to let go of. And I do miss them sometimes.” Was honesty the best policy or would it be a mistake? She couldn’t tell. “But we’ve also talked about Momma, and how much we were missing her. And…how much we wanted to meet you. In the end, we always agreed that we wanted to come here.”
Da seemed to believe her. A faint smile grew across his face.
“We are both happy here,” she insisted. He needed to know that. “I would know if Bree was unhappy, because she wrinkles up her nose like this—” Anne wrinkled her own nose. His smile grew. “It's the same as when she smells pickles.”
Da laughed, nodding his head. “Alright.”
“And we do have jewellery, remember. Before she went back through the stones Momma gave us Grandma Ellen’s pearl necklace and the bracelets.”
“Aye, she did,” he said, walking around to the other side of Morven. He now stood next to her. “What kind of horses have ye ridden?”
Anne couldn’t help but grin. “Well, I first rode a chestnut pony called Rufus,” she began to tell him.
"As Anne looked between her parents, she couldn’t help the smile growing on her face. There had been moments before Claire returned where she had doubted her brother’s words, thought he had to be exaggerating the love shared between their parents. She had seen what it looked like when people loved each other with their whole hearts. But this, what she was looking at now, went beyond that. This was love which could not simply be contained by the heart, which overflowed the bounds of the heart and seeped into your very soul."
This scene! I think Jamie put the fear of God into Richard Brown in this moment😳 He’s an honorable man until you mess with Claire/his family. I love when we get to see this side of Sam’s portrayal of Jamie and his ability to bring him to life on screen❤️
