Dammit. What was she doing out there in the middle of the woods at four-thirty in the morning, with only a flashlight and an overactive imagination?
A white blur suddenly swooped through the beam of her light, and Libby screamed. She stepped back, tripped on a rock, and fell into a growth of fir trees.
“Dammit, Mary!” she sputtered, slapping a branch out of her face. “You scared the hell out of me.”
Her only answer was the echo of her own voice.
Libby slowly got up, brushed herself off, and straightened her cap. Well, she wasn’t alone anymore—not that an owl would be much help against a bear. She continued walking in the only direction she knew to go, and that was up. But instead of just shining her flashlight on the ground, she now pointed it into the trees every so often, looking for the owl.
“Mary,” she called in a singsong voice, feeling more desperate than foolish. “Where’s Father Daar’s cottage?”
A sharp, high-pitched whistle came from her right, and Libby turned and started in that direction, her singsong turning to whispered curses as she ducked to avoid low branches and tripped over fallen trees. For nearly an hour, she followed Mary, sometimes with only a whistle to guide her, sometimes catching a glimpse of the owl gliding silently ahead. Finally, scratched, cold, and dog tired, Libby saw a faint light up ahead. She stumbled into the clearing but came to an abrupt stop at the sight of Daar standing on the porch of his cabin, silhouetted by the glow of a kerosene lamp hanging on the wall behind him.
“If ya don’t have my staff with ya, girl, ya can just turn around and go back down the mountain,” he said, his growling voice carrying through the crisp night air.
“I want a cup of coffee.”
“Ya can have one if ya brought my staff.”
“Michael has it.”
“Then have a mind ya don’t get ate by a bear on yar way back,” he said, turning and walking into his cabin.
Libby stood rooted to the ground, staring at the closed door of Daar’s cabin. She knew he had coffee in there; she could smell it, dammit.
She marched up to the cabin, stomped up the four steps and onto the porch, and used her flashlight to bang on the solid wooden door. “I’m not leaving!” she shouted. “I want a cup of coffee, and I want to talk to you.”
“Well, I don’t want to talk to ya,” came his muted reply.
“It’s a law that you have to give shelter to anyone lost in the woods,” Libby told him. “Along with food and something warm to drink.”
“Ya just made that up. Now go away, before I turn ya into a dung beetle.”
Libby banged on the door again with her flashlight. When that got her no response, she leaned her head into the wood and quietly started to sob. “My—my gift is broken,” she whispered. “It wouldn’t work when I needed it last night.”
The door opened, and she fell into the arms of Father Daar.
Libby buried her face in his shoulder and continued her soft tirade. “I couldn’t heal Alan Brewer. I fixed Darren’s broken arm, but I couldn’t do anything for his father. There was so much chaos. The colors kept swirling and wouldn’t let me reach his injury.”
Apparently not knowing what to do with a woman crying all over him, Daar roughly patted her back with one hand while trying to push her away with the other. Finally, he guided them both over to the table and seated her in one of the chairs. Libby looked down at her clasped hands and continued.
“Nothing I tried would work. I even had Michael there, holding me, but I couldn’t get through to Alan.” She looked up. “It was as if he was fighting me. Why would he do that? He was in pain. Didn’t he want to be healed?”
Daar sat down in a chair next to her, scratching his beard, his eyes narrowed in thought. “Of course, he would want to be healed. Ya say ya tried but couldn’t get through? But that ya healed the boy?”
Libby nodded. “Darren had a broken arm, and I was able to go in, see the break, and mend it. And I could see Alan Brewer’s injury, but I couldn’t reach it. The colors kept driving me away.”
Daar fell silent. He stood up, went to the stove, and poured a cup of coffee. He brought it back and set it on the table in front of her. Libby picked it up, blew off the steam, and carefully sipped the black, strong-smelling brew.
“Tell me what happened,” Daar said, taking a seat beside her again. “I know the Brewers. Ya say they had some sort of accident?”
“Alan and his son Darren fell off their roof while trying to put up Christmas lights.”
“And young Darren broke his arm?”
“And Alan broke his back and dislocated his shoulder,” she added. “I didn’t have any equipment, and the ambulance was taking a long time. So I tried to use my gift to heal him.”
“And ya couldn’t,” he finished softly, frowning in thought. “What exactly did ya see, Libby? Ya entered his body?”
“Yes. Just like all the other times, I—I was actually able to move inside him. I heard his heartbeat, each breath he took, felt his pain. And I saw exactly where he was hurt and knew just how to fix it.”
“And when ya tried? What happened then?”
“Nothing. I could see the broken vertebra, but I couldn’t get near it. The colors kept lashing out at me, driving me back.”
“And MacBain was there? And still ya couldn’t do anything?”
“M-Michael was holding on to my shoulders.”
Daar stood up again and paced to the hearth. He silently poked at the slowly burning fire for a time, then turned back and faced her, his brows drawn into a frown.
“Not everyone is meant to be healed, Libby,” he said softly. “Or, if they are, it has to come from themselves, not from an outside source.”
“But I could have saved him months of rehabilitation.”
“Aye. But he was not open to your gift, lass. I know Alan Brewer as a stoic, private man. He’s God-fearing, but that doesn’t always translate to believing in miracles.”
“So you’re saying my gift only works on believers?”
“Something like that,” he said, nodding. “It’s more likely that Brewer just can’t comprehend what’s not tangible. If he can’t touch it, smell it, or see it, then it probably doesn’t exist.”
“But I didn’t believe, and I have the gift.”
“Aye. But you were open to the possibility, lass. Ya perform miracles every day in your work, and ya know—deep down, where it counts—that you are not alone in your surgery.”
His smile was warm. “As a doctor, ya work with a knowledge of the human body, but each procedure ya do is an act of faith, is it not? Not only faith in the science, but is there not something else guiding yar hand in surgery?”
“I hadn’t thought about it in those terms,” Libby admitted, frowning into her cup of coffee. She looked at Daar. “I just did whatever I had to.”
“And last night, when yar gift failed, what did you do?”
“I used my training.”
“Aye. And will Alan Brewer recover?”
“Yes. His back was broken, but I could see that it wasn’t a severe or paralyzing break. But what about Darren? Why was I able to help him?”
“Because he’s a child,” Daar told her. “He hasn’t lived long enough for his mind to be closed.”
Libby sipped her coffee and thought about what Daar was saying. It made sense, she guessed, in a weird sort of way.
“So I’m just a conduit or something? You’re saying I can’t force my gift onto someone?”
Daar came and sat back down beside her, his crystal-blue eyes shining with warmth. “Aye, Libby. And that should ease a lot of yar worries. Ya do not have the power to decide a person’s fate. Was that not yar greatest fear?”
He was right, that was her greatest worry. Libby nodded and took another sip of her coffee, thankful that her fingers and toes were finally thawing out. Daar suddenly cocked his head as he stared at her, his eyes narrowing in what Libby now recognized as an outward sign that he was thinking.
“I’m just wondering,” he mused. “What would have happened last night if ya would have had my staff with ya?”
Libby shot her gaze to his cane, which was leaning against the hearth. “That staff?” she asked, pointing to it. “Why? Do you think I could have healed Alan Brewer if I’d had it?”
“Aye,” he said, slowly nodding, his thoughts turned inward again. “It might not be powerful enough, though. But my old staff would be,” he added gruffly, focusing back on her. “With it, ya could have overridden his resistance, I’m thinking.”
“But wouldn’t that be unethical? Or immoral or something?” Libby asked, growing alarmed. “I don’t want a power that can get past a person’s own defenses.”
“But it’s a good power, lass.”
“Good for whom?” Libby shook her head. “I’m beginning to understand why Michael won’t give you back your staff. He said you could be dangerous if you got all your powers back, and I’m beginning to believe he might be right.”
“Dangerous!” Daar growled, his face darkening. “I’ll have ya know I’ve wielded those powers for more than fourteen centuries, girl, and I never once abused them.”
“But you have made mistakes,” she countered. “That morning on my porch, you admitted as much.”
Daar stood up, walked to the door and opened it, and stood to the side, silently telling her their visit was over. Libby got up, shot one last yearning look at the warm hearth, and walked out onto the porch.
The door slammed shut behind her, the bolt sliding home with a resounding thud. Libby walked off the porch and across the clearing, through the slowly brightening light of the frosty dawn.
It took her twice as long to find her way back home, since it seemed that Mary no longer felt like helping her.
And Libby wondered what kind of trouble she was in for refusing to help a wizard get back his power.
Chapter Twenty-three
Michael slowly rubbed another layerof wax onto the surface of the tall oak bureau. He’d had precious little time to work on Libby’s Christmas gift since his busy season had started, and it would take a miracle for him to have it done in time.
The moose bed, the bureau, and the two matching nightstands still to be finished had been started well more than a year ago. He’d been making the bedroom set for himself, not because he needed a new bed but because working with wood had been a great source of pleasure for him since childhood. Which is why he had made the maple kitchen table two years ago and presented it to Ellen Bigelow on her eighty-fifth birthday. He’d also built Robbie’s bed from birch wood, for when the boy moved out of his crib.
Michael looked around his workshop and marveled at the array of tools he’d amassed in just nine years. As a lad growing up in the Highlands, he and his da had possessed only a handful of tools. It was a wonder to him now, how his mama had loved each and every piece of furniture they’d made her, despite their crude but functional designs.
Michael smiled in memory of one piece in particular, a trunk for Isobel MacBain’s precious sewing supplies and materials, which he had labored over for nearly five months under the patient eye of his father. He had carved wildflowers into the top of the trunk, which had looked more like weeds than heather and laurel.
His mama had had the same reaction to his gift as Libby, although the two pieces of furniture were worlds—and centuries—apart in craftsmanship. Both women had run their hands over the polished wood in wonder, as if it were precious gold.
Libby.
For the last three weeks, ever since Alan Brewer’s accident, she had been distant and unusually reserved. Hell, the woman had made a point of avoiding him. And when they did talk, they usually discussed such inane things that it would be laughable if it weren’t so frustrating.
She was just plain scared. Libby knew that he knew her secret, and she was worried he might reject her for possessing the power to heal.
And so, in defense, she was rejecting him first.
That, too, would be laughable if it weren’t so maddening.
Michael had been allowing her silent rebellion only because this was one lesson Libby needed to learn by herself. Trust was a tenuous concept to instill in a person and could be taught only by example.
It was just too bad it was taking Libby so long to decide she could trust him.
He’d give her until Christmas. If she didn’t come to him by then and openly discuss what had happened at the Brewers’, well, he just might steal the woman out of her precious moose bed and take her into the mountains—and not return until she agreed to marry him.
Michael straightened from rubbing the bottom drawer of the bureau and stepped back to admire his work. The rich, warm grains of the oak shone through the many layers of paste wax. He smiled at the tall bureau. Libby was going to have to stand on her tiptoes to see into the top drawer. Maybe he should make her a step stool from the scraps of wood he had left. Hell, she had to get a running start as it was, just to hop into bed.
Damn, but he missed making love to her.
Aye, he’d give her until Christmas to come to her senses. One more week was about all he’d last, he figured, before he went crazy and jumped her beautiful bones in the wreath-making shed.
Michael tossed his rag onto the workbench, shrugged into his jacket, and stepped out into the frosty night air. The cold snow crunched under his feet as he stopped and stared at the hundreds of Christmas trees standing in perfect rows, broken only where felled comrades had been cut to decorate people’s homes.
A full moon reflected off the fresh eight-inch snowfall, illuminating a landscape covered in a pristine mantle of white. TarStone Mountain stood cold and silent in the background, with Fraser Mountain nothing more than a distant shadow to the north.
Michael took a deep breath and sighed in contentment. He was at peace with the world for once, he decided as he rubbed his chest where Libby had hit him with the snowball. Actually, he felt more confident than content, that he would live out his natural life in this time, now that he knew the olddrùidh would never get back his powerful staff. He hadn’t destroyed the cherrywood stick but had hidden it where Daar, and especially that interfering owl, would never find it.
Michael chuckled, tucked his hands into his pockets, and started walking to the house, watching his breath puff gently into the crisp night air. One week, and they’d be a family, brought together by either providence or chance, ranging in age from nine years old to eight hundred and thirty-six.
But this time, he was waiting until after the wedding to tell his bride about his fantastical journey.
“If I have to listen to one more Christmas carol, I swear I’m going to scream,” Libby threatened as she dropped several cinnamon sticks into the heating cider. “Why can’t we make a switch that turns them on only when a customer walks through the door?”
Kate straightened from putting a log in the woodstove and dusted off her hands, wincing as a rendition of “Jingle Bells” sung by chipmunks filled the Christmas tree shop. “We could accidentally drop the CD player into the pond,” she suggested. “Or maybe I could get Ian just to shoot it.”
Libby fixed the problem herself by simply walking around the counter, shutting off the player, and removing the disc. She opened the back door and threw the CD like a Frisbee as far as she could.
She nearly hit Robbie, who stopped so abruptly he slid to a halt as the flat, spinning missile disappeared into the snow beside him. He turned his surprised pewter eyes back on her and smiled and shook his head.
“Gram Ellen always did strange things just before Christmas, too,” he said, walking past her into the shop.
“Papa said my pay envelope is here. Can I have it? Leysa and Rose will be here soon, and I need my money.”
“What for?” Kate asked, opening the cash register and lifting out the brown envelope. She waved it in the air.
“Why would a young fellow need money at this time of year?”
“It’s Christmas,” he said, smi
ling up at her. “And Leysa’s taking me shopping in Bangor with her and Rose.”
“Again?” Libby asked, turning Robbie, unbuttoning his coat, and buttoning it back up in sequence. “This is the third time this month.”
“I wasn’t shopping the other two times. I was babysitting.”
“Rose?” Libby asked. “You were watching an infant?”
“Not by myself,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Leysa just needs me to keep Rose entertained in the stores. I get to push her stroller, and we play while her mama shops.”
“And I bet you’re a great help,” Kate said, straightening his cap and tucking the envelope into his pocket. “What are you shopping for today?”
Apparently having endured all the female fussing he could, Robbie started inching his way to the door. “It’s Christmas,” he repeated, lifting his chin. “I can’t tell you that.”
“Can you tell me when you expect to be home?” Libby asked. “Remember, we’re having our party tonight.”
“Leysa promised we’d be back in plenty of time. She said she wouldn’t miss it for anything.” He stepped out into the snow but stopped and looked back, scowling at Libby. “Don’t ya peek in my workshop while I’m gone,” he warned. “Or Santa won’t be generous with ya tomorrow morning.”
Libby held up her hand in a scout’s salute. “I promise not to peek. Robbie,” she said, lowering her voice and stepping out the door with him so Kate wouldn’t hear, “will you please tell me what I’ve been helping you make for Michael? I know it’s some sort of display case I’ve been lining with an old piece of wool plaid, but I don’t know what it’s going to display. And the plaque I painted is for the case, I’m guessing, but what doesTàirneanaiche mean?”
The smile he gave her was filled with secrecy and no small amount of satisfaction. “You’ll find out tomorrow morning,” he said. He leaned in and whispered, “Isn’t Christmas fun? All the secrets and surprises? Everything builds up until ya think you’re gonna burst, and then it gets revealed all at once. You’re gonna love the surprise Papa’s planning for ya, Libby.” His smile turned up several notches. “I know I am. Tomorrow morning, I’m going to be the happiest boy in the world. And tomorrow night, you’re gonna be the happiest woman, ’cause your dream’s gonna come true.”
Wedding the Highlander Page 27