"But?"
"But he's also the kind of man who makes everyone around him feel small. Especially me." The admission came out barely above a whisper. "I do his research, organize his notes, find his sources. Six years of work, and my name appears in tiny print in the acknowledgments, if at all."
Neil's expression darkened. "He takes credit for your work?"
"Herefinesit. Positions it. It makes it worthy of academic attention." I heard myself repeating Pemberton's own words and felt sick. "Last year, I discovered a series of letters between two Vermont abolitionists that changed our understanding of local Underground Railroad operations. He published it under his name with a footnote thanking his research team."
"That's theft," Neil said.
"That's academia. At least, that's my experience of it." I looked down at my hands. "So, to answer your question—no, I wouldn't miss it. Not the actual work I do there. I'd miss the idea of what it could have been, maybe. The career I thought I was building. But the reality? Spending my days making someone else look brilliant while my own research gathers dust?"
"Then don't go back. Stay here. Do this research the right way. Document everything properly, write the definitive paper on Burke Mountain's Underground Railroad connections. Make it yours."
The vision he painted was intoxicating. Real research driven by passion instead of publish-or-perish pressure. A life where my work mattered because it preserved important history, not because it advanced someone else's career.
"But Dr. Pemberton has connections everywhere. One word from him and I'd never work in historical preservation again.He's on the board of three major historical journals. He reviews grant applications. He could destroy my career with a few carefully placed words at conferences."
"Let me ask you something," Neil said, his hands settling on my knees. "Is a career worth preserving if it requires you to stay small? If it means spending the rest of your life in someone's shadow, never getting credit for your own discoveries?"
The question cut straight to the heart of my professional dissatisfaction.
"When you put it that way... no. It's not worth preserving at all."
"He could try to destroy a career that was already killing you slowly. He could take away a job that never valued you. He could close doors to a world that made you miserable." His hands cupped my face. "Baby, that's not a threat. That's liberation."
"But my reputation—"
"Build a new one. Based on your work and your discoveries." His thumbs brushed my cheekbones. "Kim, you just found documents that could reshape our understanding of Vermont's role in the Underground Railroad. That's your work. Your discovery. And if you document it properly, if you publish it independently, no one—not even the mighty Dr. Pemberton—can take that away from you."
I wanted to believe him. But six years of conditioning made me protest. "He'll say I was working under his supervision. That the initial research was funded by the historical society."
"Was it? Did he send you here? Fund your travel? Direct your search?"
"No, but—"
"No buts. You came here following your own instincts. You found those documents through your own expertise. This is yours. Don't let him make you believe otherwise."
The fierce certainty in Neil's voice made me see my situation from the outside—saw how completely I'd accepted being diminished, dismissed, denied credit for my own work.
"He's going to be furious when I request extended leave," I said. The thought made my stomach clench with anxiety.
"Good. Let him be furious. Let him realize what he's lost." Neil pulled me against his chest, and I breathed in cedar and safety. "But Kim, I need you to know—if he comes here, if he tries to intimidate you or force you back, he'll have to go through me first."
"Neil, you can't fight the establishment for me."
"Watch me." The quiet promise in his voice made me shiver. "I've been alone too long. Now I have you. Anyone who tries to take you away or make you feel belittled again will learn what a mistake that is."
"My protective mountain man," I said, trying for lightness.
"Your partner," he corrected. "In research, in life, in everything. And partners protect each other."
Looking up at him, seeing the absolute conviction in him, I realized Neil saw me. The real me, not the diminished version I'd learned to perform. And he was willing to fight for that woman, even against forces he didn't fully understand.
"When I call Pemberton," I said slowly, "he's going to try to make me feel guilty. Irresponsible. Like I'm throwing away everything he's done for me."
"And what has he done for you, really?"
I thought about it. "Made me doubt every instinct. Second-guess every discovery. Feel grateful for scraps of recognition that should have been mine to begin with."
