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MacColla shook his head, disappointed in himself.

“Och, of course.” He took her arm, helping her to the

ground. “Of course you can rest.”

Her skin was clammy in his hands, cool and damp.  Campbell had been the only thing on his mind, and he'd ended up pressing her too hard. The lass had be en gone for some time and likely hadn't eaten or slept  - of course she needed rest. He wasn't used to dealing with women and cursed his clumsiness.

“Have you a chill?” He stood to unwind his plaid for her,

but she stopped him.

“No,” she tried a small lau gh but it came out as a breathy

exhale. “Please, there's no need to strip.”

“Shall I find us some food? You need to feed yourself.”

“Really, MacColla. I'm not going to expire.” She gestured to

the ground at her side. “I just need… a moment.”

“It's Alasdair, lass. My Christian name.” He sat next to her.

“You may call me Alasdair.”

“You're MacColla in my mind.” She looked at him, a  sidelong glance that suggested much yet said nothing. “I  don't know that I could call you anything else.”

His mind raced. “And how do you know of me?”

She clearly wasn't a spy for Campbell. And though he was known for his victories with Graham, he'd thought women didn't generally concern themselves with the finer points of battle.

“Tell me who you are,
 
leannan
. A Fitzpatrick, you say. Tell  me of your family.” He tentatively reached to her, paused,  then put his hand lightly at the small of her back. “I'm  about to bring you to the very heart of mine. I must know.”

Instead of answering, she rested her chin in her hands.

Looking into the distance, she asked matter-of-factly.

“What year is it?”

“Ciod an rud?”
 
Her peculiar question caught him off guard.

“What did you say?”

“I just wondered… ” She turned to face him, the mystery in  those gray eyes honed to a razor-sharp point. “Really,  MacColla, what year is it?”

“Sixteen forty-six, though surely you ”-

“Is James Graham alive?” She waved her hand. “Never

mind. Don't answer that.”

“Who are you to have such concerns?”

“I'm not from here.”

“Aye”  - he gave a small laugh  - “I'd reasoned that for

myself.”

“No.” She looked away from him again. “I mean, I'm
 
really

not from here.”

Haley seemed so small then, so alone. He leaned closer to her, wrapped his arm tight around her shoulder. MacColla thought it best to simply wait in patient  silence for whatever tale she had for the telling.

She inhaled deeply. “Well. Here goes. I'm from the future,

MacColla.” Haley looked at him, waiting for a response.

He just stared blankly, unsure what she was getting at.

She shut her eyes, as if bracing for something painful, then rattled quickly, “My name is Haley Anne Fitzpatrick, I'm from Boston. Massachusetts. I have… ”

She scrubbed her face, swallowed, and tried again, her voice thickened by tears. “I've got five brothers. Danny,  Colin, Conor, Gerry, and Jimmy. My dad… ” She made a tiny pained squeak, tightly controlled anguish keening fromthe cracks. “My dad's from Donegal. But he went to  America the moment he finished school. He's a cop. Was.  Was a cop.”

She stopped for a moment, breathing hard, as if she'd just sprinted a mile.

Finally Haley continued, this time sounding numb, wooden, “My mom's Irish too, but not fresh off the boat.  Her folks were from Cork. I'm a PhD student at Harvard.”

Her tone swelled again, abruptly overwrought. “Get that.
 
Harvard.
 
That's a big deal where I'm from. Celtic scholar.  My focus is seventeenth-century weaponry. Isn't that a hoot?”

She babbled feverishly now, unhinged. “I was born in the  1970s. How wacked is that? Platform shoes and disco

dancing. But I was too young for all that. For me it was

Kool-Aid.
 
Star Wars.
 
Madonna.”

She grabbed his arm, gave it a shake. “It's the
 
twenty-first century
 
where I'm from. Planes in the sky. Telephones.  Video games. Not to mention hot showers.” She paused, then mused wistfully, “God, hot showers seem like rocket science right about now.” She looked unseeing into the distance.

MacColla finally asked, “What is it you're saying?” His voice was dangerously quiet. “I don't ken your words,
 
leannan
.”

Leannan
, she thought. He'd been calling her
 
leannan.

Darling. Sweetheart.

Lover.

Of Alasdair MacColla.
 
So preposterous. And yet it gave her strength to see it through.

“What am I saying?” She pinned him with her gaze once  more. “I'm saying this is the past. To me, you're from the

past. You died. Years ago.
 
Hundreds
 
of years ago. I know  about you because you're famous. Congratulations,” she  tossed off. “You die in Ireland. I don't remember when

exactly, or how. You're betrayed, that's all I can  remember.” Haley raked her hands through  her hair,  resting her head in her hands, deflated.

“You get killed,” she said softly. She looked at him, chin  resting on her arm, no longer bothering to wipe the tears  from her cheeks. “It all goes to shit. God, there's Culloden.  The Highland Clearances.  Tartans are outlawed. Swords  too.” She muttered, “All to shit.”

He didn't understand half of what she'd said. Less than

that even.

But the future?

Uncertain of what to say, he tried to make a joke of it. “Are you certain you didn't clout your own head with that wee busk of yours?”

She shot him such a look of raw pain, he felt it through his body, as gutting as any physical wound.

“Why do you keep asking of James?” His tone was gentle,  and the flicker of relief he read on her face made his chest

swell.  Had she
 
feared
 
him? Feared his response? “Graham

of Montrose,” he added softly.

“Oh. I know who you mean all right. I found a weapon. “I  think it was
 
his
 
weapon. 'For JG, with love from Magda.'  the inscription said. I mean, who else would it belong to?”

“But how does that prove ”-

“I can't explain it. I just got a gut feeling about the gun,  that it couldn't have been made  -
 
wouldn't
 
have been made

- before 1650. Here,” she gestured to the gun she'd fired  earlier, its long, thin barrel tucked now at his belt. “Hand  me that.”

She took it from his hands, plowing forward despite the bewilderment on his face. “What kind is it?”

“A pistol, lass.”

She shot him an exasperated look. “Yeah, but what kind?

What kind of mechanism does it have?”

He took it back from her, studied the curved wooden handle in his hands. The frizzen and flash pan, its cock and the dog catch that locked it. “It's one of the new flintlocks with the wee lock just here.” he said, pointing to what was an early version of a gun safety. “'Tis  an English weapon.”

“How many flintlocks have you seen before this?”

“Not many. As I ken it, they're favored on the Continent.  But in the Highlands?” He shrugged. “Nay, there's none  such as this here, generally speaking. You speak of guns,  but my men are lucky if they find a blade in their hands.”

“So what do the Highlanders shoot? When they do have a

gun, I mean. What type of gun do you have?”

“You're a peculiar one,
 
leannan
.”

Her intense focus urged him on.

“Wheel lock,” MacColla replied with a sigh.

“That's it?”

“Good Christ, I thought you lassies just had a mind for  frocks and hairstyles.” He chucked her chin. “I'd no idea  what I've been missing these years, away at war. I could've  been in parlors discussing muskets and armor with the  beautiful ladies.”

Seeing her grave face, he just leaned back on his elbows, kicking his feet in front of him, to give it some thought. His arm remained wrapped around her, hand tucked casually at her hip.

“I once had a matchlock. But in a good Highland mist?” He

shook his head. “With that wee wick on the end, och.  Damp makes the gun unusable, aye? Too bloody hard to  keep lit.”

“Yes,” she said firmly. “That was true.”

“Oh,” he gave a surprised chuckle. “I thank you.”

Ignoring his sarcasm, she continued, “Well this gun that I saw, Graham's gun, it was actually a combination weapon”

- she waved her hand  - “but that's beside the point. This

pistol had a
 
perfect
 
little flintlock. The striking surface, the  flash pan, all one tiny, perfect self-contained bit. You tell

me how many of
 
those
 
you've seen lately.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I'm saying we dated the piece to 1675 which is… ”

“Which is after James was said to have died.” Sitting up, he

withdrew from her, his face solemn.

“But why should I believe you?” He kept his tone matter-offact. Though he didn't accept her story, neither did he  discount her. Her fighting skills had already shocked him  enough for one lifetime. MacColla couldn't imagine why he  should be surprised she'd come at him with something

even more outrageous. “What you say about this gun

proves nothing.”

He saw her mind working, those gray eyes staring at the pistol she held in her hands. The pistol she'd fired as if she'd been doing it all her life.

Could it be true? She shot and fought and spoke like no other woman he'd met. Like none he'd ever heard of.

She was willful and strong. And so healthy too, that was clear. Her limbs, long and straight. Even those radiant cheeks and her bright, even smile. They spoke to a life of luxury. Of privilege.

He didn't see how to reconcile those things. That she could load and fire a gun as well as any man, and yet she had skin, luminous and fair, as if she were crafted of the finest ivory.

He'd thought she might be a spy, but could it be that she practiced  some form of the dark arts? Goose bumps fanned across his skin then ebbed, like a wave washing over the sand.

“Are you… ” His voice was hoarse, grave. “Is it that you're

some sort of… witch?”

“What?” She laughed then. “
Me? A
 
witch? God no.” She  shook her head, and then a peculiar look darkened her  features. As if she hadn't before considered such a

conclusion, potential ruination narrowly averted.

A sad half smile quirked her mouth. “Are you kidding? My family? I told you, we're Irish. Irish Catholic, to put a fine point on the whole thing. I've been baptized, first communioned, confirmed… the whole deal.”

Haley sighed deeply. She looked at him with such sadness.

He wasn't sure what to do. What to think.

“You still don't believe me, do you?” she asked.

“Well… ”

“Yeah. I wouldn't believe me either. Okay-”

“Haley-” he began.

“No, no, let me think.” She knew so much about the time  period. Knew about MacColla. What could she tell him to  make him believe?

She wracked her mind for any tidbit from his life that she could recall. She'd taken the seminars, read her David  Stevenson. She knew famous bits of trivia that wouldn't

have been so well known in his own time.

I can do this
, she thought. She knew things he hadn't told her. She knew things none of his peers would've known.

She could convince him. Haley shifted, crossing her legs to face him.

“Your dad was imprisoned for years with Campbell. Wait,”  she said suddenly, her face blanching. “He's not still  imprisoned, is he?” He shook his head and she made  a  mental note to try to piece together what had happened to  his father, and when.

“Your brother Gillespie was with him,” she continued.  “There are other brothers too, but I don't know about them  so much… ” she trailed off.

That wasn't going to cut it.

MacColla just smiled at her. “Many know of Campbell's treachery against my father,
 
leannan
.”

“There's that poet,” she snapped and pointed her finger at

him in excitement.

MacColla scowled.

“You know… what's his name?”  - she tapped her fingers on