Wedding the Highlander

by Janet Chapman

  “By this?” Libby asked, touching her white curl. “Father, it’s a genetic trait. Lots of people have it.”

  “Aye,” he said, nodding. “I’ve seen such a thing before. Now, are ya gonna hatch them eggs, girl, or cook them?”

  The man was tenacious. Libby sighed, turned, and waved him along. “Come on, then, Father. I’ll make you breakfast.”

  He fell into step beside her, his crooked wooden cane keeping time with his limping steps. Libby looked at him from the corner of her eye. “Did you walk all the way down the mountain?” she asked, wondering how old he was.

  “Aye,” he said, smiling, apparently quite pleased that he was getting fed. “I like walking. It’s good for the soul.”

  “Why do you live up on the mountain and not in town? Don’t you get lonely?”

  His smile widened. “Solitude is also good for the soul. Besides, I don’t much care for people.”

  Libby stopped and looked at him curiously. “But you’re a priest. You’re supposed to like everyone. Isn’t it in your vows or something?”

  “I spoke my vows so long ago I’ve forgotten half of them. And I’m old now. I’ve earned the right to be picky.”

  Well, she couldn’t argue with that. Grammy Bea had been eighty-nine when she died, and the old woman could have given audacious lessons to a peacock.

  Libby led her guest into the house and waved him to a chair at the kitchen table. Father Daar sat down with a pained sigh, cupped his hands over the top of his cane, and looked around.

  “This place hasn’t changed much,” he said. “But I feel the old house’s joy at being lived in again. Can ya feel its energy, Libby?”

  Libby finished pulling the eggs from her pockets and put them in a bowl. She looked at Father Daar and found him studying her with a strange, calculating expression in his surprisingly crystal-clear blue eyes. She decided not to answer his question.

  “Have you been to see a doctor about your joint pain?”

  His eyes narrowed, and his weathered face wrinkled into a frown. “I don’t like doctors. All they do is poke and pinch and give ya a list of things ya can’t do and can’t eat.”

  “They would also give you something for the pain.”

  “Ain’t nothing wrong with a little pain,” he rebutted.

  “Lets a man know he’s alive.”

  “So does opening your eyes every morning.” Libby set the frying pan on the stove and turned on the burner, then grabbed her loaf of bread. “There are some very good treatments now, Father. You don’t have to suffer.”

  “You a doctor?”

  Libby stopped slicing the bread and looked at him. What sort of trouble did a person get into for lying to a priest? “I know something about medicine. Enough to realize that you’re riddled with arthritis.”

  “Is that what they’re calling it now?” he asked. “In my day, it was called growing old.”

  Libby popped the bread into the toaster and broke the six remaining eggs into the frying pan. She found a spatula, stirred the eggs, and shut off the burner, leaving them to cook by themselves. She set the table and poured juice into two glasses, buttered the toast, and served up breakfast like a short-order cook, all the while trying to ignore the penetrating stare of her nosy houseguest.

  “Do you stay on the mountain all winter?” she asked as she set their two plates of food on the table and took a seat across from Father Daar. “What would happen if you got hurt or were snowed in?”

  Libby folded her hands and waited for the priest to say grace, but he dove into his breakfast without even answering her question. It was several bites later before he looked up and frowned at her.

  “Dig in, girl, before it gets cold. I blessed the food while you were cooking it. And if I need help, the MacKeage or MacBain would find a way to get to me.”

  “But how would they know you needed help? Do you have a radio or something?”

  He couldn’t answer because he was too busy eating again. Libby gave up and went to work on her own breakfast, but she ate slower, savoring the taste of fresh eggs cooked in home-churned farm butter that she had bought at the bakery.

  Her cholesterol level was going to skyrocket, living here. And she would probably gain five pounds this winter.

  “Am I smelling coffee?” Father Daar asked, pushing his empty plate away, leaning back, and brushing the toast crumbs off his black wool cassock.

  He’d been wearing an orange hat for his walk down the mountain and had hung it and his red plaid jacket by the door when they’d entered the kitchen. He stood up now and walked toward the living room.

  “We could drink our coffee on the front porch,” he suggested. “It’s such a fine morning, and the sun is warm.”

  Libby set their dishes in the sink and poured two cups of coffee. “How do you take yours?” she asked.

  “Black,” he answered, walking through the living room and heading out the front door.

  Libby imagined he was making himself at home because he’d visited Mary Sutter often and had decided to revive the habit with her. She smiled as she followed him out. It seemed she had inherited a priest with an appetite.

  They sat in companionable silence, drinking in the view while they sipped their coffee, and Libby decided she was more amused than annoyed by Father Daar. He said the most outrageous things and showed up out of nowhere when least expected.

  She still couldn’t decide how old he was. He dressed like a priest from the sixteenth century, was obviously a Scot like half the people she’d met here, and appeared positively ancient.

  “Have you lived in Pine Creek long, Father?” she asked.

  “A bit over eleven years now,” he told her. “I came here with the MacKeages.”

  “From Scotland?”

  “Aye.”

  Realizing he wasn’t going to elaborate, Libby decided to head their conversation in a different direction. After all, she had a man of God at her disposal. Why not pick his brain? She was entitled, considering four of her precious eggs were in his belly, not to mention the one decorating his coat.

  “Do you believe in magic, Father?”

  The old priest choked on his coffee as he shot her such a confounded look Libby didn’t know whether to be embarrassed by her question or alarmed by his response.

  “It’s an innocent question, Father,” she defended. “Considering we’re looking at this beautiful landscape.”

  “Oh,” he said, relaxing back into his seat. “Ya mean, do I believe in the magic of nature?”

  “Yes. That. But I was also wondering if you believed in a more…well, a more mystical kind of magic, too.”

  “How mystical?” he asked, giving her a crooked look.

  “Like witches and warlocks and…wizards?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Libby said, waving her hand in dismissal. “I was talking about things like reincarnation, intuition, and…well, maybe a person being gifted. Have you ever met anyone who claimed they had a special gift? What with you being a priest and all, you must have had people come to you with such concerns.”

  She was blathering like an idiot. Her cheeks felt hot, and she was almost sorry she’d brought up the subject.

  But only almost. Dammit, she was stumbling onto sacred ground here. But if she was going to fall flat on her face, why not do it in the presence of a priest? Wasn’t he bound by those vows he couldn’t remember not to tell anyone about their conversation?

  “Gifted?” he softly repeated, turning fully in his chair to face her. “Like what? Give me an example of what you think of as gifted.”

  Libby set her cup of coffee down on the porch rail and rubbed her sweating palms on her thighs. She took a shuddering breath, and, as was becoming her habit, she jumped into the fire with both feet—but only partway.

  “I’m talking about a mother coming back as an owl,” she said, dancing around her own personal problem, trying to get a feel for Father Daar’s thinking. “Have you seen Robbie’s pet?”

 
; “Aye,” he said, nodding, eying her suspiciously. “He calls her Mary.”

  “And do you believe she’s Mary, Father?” Libby asked.

  “That the woman’s spirit has come back to be with her son?”

  “I believe that if Robbie MacBain needs his mama right now and the boy feels that the owl is her, then aye, Mary’s here.”

  “Like an imaginary friend?”

  “Nay. The owl is real. And that she’s attached herself to Robbie is also real. Everyone experiences things that can’t be explained sometime in their lives. Haven’t you?”

  For a crisp November morning, Libby was feeling quite hot under the priest’s probing stare. This had not been a good idea.

  “I’ve experienced things I can’t explain,” she admitted.

  “But I don’t know if I would go so far as to say I believe in magic.”

  Libby saw his gaze lift to her white lock of hair, then back to her eyes. His face wrinkled into a smile.

  “Aye, Libby, I’m thinking ya do believe,” he softly contradicted. “And that it bothers ya when ya can’t explain something that’s happened. But that’s the point of magic, isn’t it? Ya needn’t understand it, only accept it for the gift it is. Why have ya come to Pine Creek?”

  His question was asked so subtly, and because she was still trying to deal with what he was saying, Libby answered without thinking. “Because I got scared.”

  “Of something that happened to you in California? Something ya can’t explain?”

  She was in for a penny, so she might as well spend the whole dime. “Yes. Something happened that I can’t explain.”

  Father Daar rose from his chair and stood in front of her, leaning against the rail, his clear blue eyes looking directly at her. “Something big enough to turn your entire life upside down,” he speculated. “And ya think that by coming here, ya can hide from it?” He shook his head. “Libby, the questions ya’re asking me and the evasive answers ya’re giving make me believe that ya have been given a gift ya don’t want. Am I right?”

  Libby stared down at her folded hands in her lap. “I don’t think I have a choice,” she whispered. She looked up at him. “And that’s what scares me. I don’t know if I can control this gift or if it will end up controlling me.”

  “Have ya tried?”

  “Once,” she told him. “After I discovered it.”

  “And?”

  “And it worked. But then it started to…I became scared,” she told him honestly. “I felt myself spinning out of control, like I was being consumed by this…this thing. Voices were calling me, tugging at me, and I ran.”

  “And ya haven’t tried since.”

  “No.”

  “Ignoring it won’t make it go away, Libby.”

  “I know that.”

  “This gift, do ya consider it to be good or bad?”

  “Good,” she said, squinting up at him. Libby stood up and paced down the porch, turning back to face him. “But it’s not that simple, Father. If I can’t control it or don’t have the wisdom to apply it properly, then it could turn out to be a bad thing. I could end up hurting people instead of helping them.”

  “Ah,” he breathed, nodding in understanding. “So it’s not the gift ya fear but yourself. Ya do not want the responsibility that comes with it.”

  “I didn’t ask for this,” Libby whispered, hugging herself.

  “I was perfectly happy with my life.”

  He cocked his head at her. “Were ya? Truly? Then why do ya suppose your gift chose now to show itself?”

  “I don’t know why.”

  Father Daar straightened and walked into the house, forcing Libby to follow in order to hear what he was saying.

  “Since ya’re obviously not willing to tell me what happened in California,” he said as he slowly made his way through the living room, “then I can’t advise you. I can only say that ya gotta experiment with the thing.” He stopped at the coatrack in the kitchen and took down his jacket and hat, then turned to face her. “Practice, Libby. Play with it. Learn what it’s wanting to teach ya.”

  “And if I blow up TarStone Mountain?” she asked, smiling lamely.

  He studied her for several seconds, trying to decide if she was kidding or not. His eyes suddenly lit with amusement, and he chuckled out loud. “These mountains have exploded once or twice already,” he told her. “They can handle whatever energy ya’re playing with.”

  He patted himself as if looking for something and frowned, gazing around the kitchen. “Oh, I’ve forgotten my cane. Could ya get it for me? I think I left it on the front porch.”

  Libby walked back through the living room, thinking about what he had said. Play with it? The damned thing wasn’t a toy, it was scary. Learn from it? Learn what?

  And experiment? Well, darn it, why the hell not? And she just might start with Father Daar and see what he thought about that.

  Libby found his cane leaning against the chair he’d used. She picked it up and started back into the house. But she stopped suddenly when her hands began to warm, and the cane started to hum like a tuning fork. Her whole body tingled, and the sunlight brightened to a sharp, colorful glow all around her.

  “Don’t be afraid of it, Libby,” came Father Daar’s voice through the fog. “Just feel the energy, and tell me what ya see.”

  She couldn’t see anything but colored light. But she could certainly feel. Emotions engulfed her. Contentment, fear, longing, and passion; all were present, wrapping around her, tugging at her, pulling her in different directions.

  “Focus, Libby,” Father Daar’s voice said again, sounding far away. “Pick one color, and concentrate on it.”

  His voice was soothing, ageless, and distant. Libby did as she was told and focused on the brightest color and most persistent emotion.

  Tendrils of fear rose in her mind, trying to pull her deeper into the maelstrom. Libby fought against the chaos, crying out as she felt herself sinking into its frightening depths.

  “Look around you, girl. Find something to hold on to. Anchor yourself, and you can go there without being consumed.”

  Libby searched for an anchor but saw only pewter-gray eyes staring at her, burning bright with passion. Arms of forged steel wrapped around her. She hesitantly leaned into the security they offered and found herself turning back to face her fear with a new sense of strength.

  The energy became voices, coming at her from a hundred different directions, begging, pleading, reaching for help. The arms holding her tightened, and Libby took a shuddering breath and reached into the middle of the maelstrom.

  She wasn’t consumed. Instead, she found herself able to touch the swirling mass of pulsing colors. And one by one, the voices quieted, the snapping colors faded, and the storm eased.

  Libby turned and buried her face against her anchor, and the sound of gentle laughter brought her back to reality. She looked up and blinked and found Father Daar, his eyes shining with amusement, standing a good five paces away. He held out his hand.

  “Can I have my staff back?” he asked. “Before ya use up all its power?”

  “Staff?” Libby repeated softly, looking down at the gently humming cane in her hand. She looked up at the priest and took a step back. “What…who are you?”

  The old man puffed up his chest and smoothed down the front of his cassock. “I’m a wizard, girl. Or haven’t ya guessed?”

  Libby took another step back. “Wizard?” she repeated. “But that’s impossible.”

  “Then explain what just happened.”

  “No, you explain it,” she demanded, stepping toward him. She held up the still warm, still vibrating cane between them. “What just happened?”

  “Ya just got a glimpse of your true gift,” he told her, grabbing the cane and clutching it to his chest protectively.

  “And ya discovered that you can control it—as long as ya keep yourself firmly anchored.”

  She eyed him suspiciously. “And so now you know what my gift is
.”

  “Nay,” he said, shaking his head. “I only know that it’s a powerful force and that ya have a job ahead of ya to learn to use it wisely. And I also know that ya’re smart to be cautious, that it can be just as destructive as it can be good.”

  “And you say you’re a wizard?” Libby repeated, wondering if his age was affecting his thinking. But it shouldn’t be affecting hers, and she certainly couldn’t explain what had just happened.

  “Ya didn’t come here by chance, Libby Hart,” Father Daar said. “Ya was lured to this magical land on purpose. The secret to controlling your gift is here.” He chuckled again. “And I’m thinking ya’ve already found your anchor.” He shook his head. “MacBain won’t like it none, though, when he finds out.”

  Libby stepped up to Father Daar and took hold of the open edges of his red plaid jacket. “Don’t you dare say anything to Michael,” she whispered, somewhat demanding, somewhat desperately. “He won’t understand.”

  The priest who called himself a wizard tucked his cane under his arm and covered her hands against his chest. Humor still lit his face, and he laughed out loud again.

  “Ah, Libby. Of all the anchors you could have found, MacBain will understand better than anyone.” He canted his head, looking off toward Pine Lake. “And I’m beginning to think that the mishap twelve years ago wasn’t a mistake at all.” He looked back at her. “MacBain was also destined to be here. For several reasons, apparently.”

  “What mishap? What reasons? What are you talking about?”

  “You, girl. He’s here for you. And Robbie. The boy needed to be born, and MacBain had to travel here for that to happen.”

  Becoming more confused with every word he spoke, Libby tried to turn away, but Father Daar still held her hands and wouldn’t let go. And he was still grinning like a demented old fool.

  “I didn’t make a mistake twelve years ago, girl. And neither did you when ya decided to move here.”

  Instead of disagreeing, Libby turned her hands in his and gripped his age-bent fingers. She smiled back at Father Daar and willed her power to race through his body, seeking out every one of his arthritic joints.