Only With a Highlander

by Janet Chapman

  “Your grandfather was a wolf?”

  She smiled. “My papa told me Duncan MacKeage had the heart of a wolf, so that’s how I portrayed him.”

  Matt pivoted to face her. “You put dead people in your paintings?”

  “Sometimes,” she said, nodding. “As a reminder that their spirits still walk with us,” she explained. “And to acknowledge that each generation stands on the shoulders of the previous generation, forming the foundation that helps us face the future.” She took hold of Matt’s hand and led him to the back wall of the gallery. “See that snowy owl?” she asked, pointing to the upper right-hand corner of another wintertime scene. “That’s my mama’s sister, Mary Sutter. She’s Robbie’s mother, but she died when he was born.” Winter glanced at the silent, contemplative man beside her as he looked at the drawing. “There really is a snowy that lives on TarStone. I like to think she’s my aunt Mary, watching over all of us.”

  Matt looked at her. “So the painting you do for me, of my house…you could put a member of my family in it?”

  “Yes, if you tell me about the person. I need to get a feel for who it is. Do you have someone in particular in mind? Male or female?”

  “Female,” he said, folding his arms over his chest and resting his chin on one hand as he gazed at the snowy owl. “Her name’s Fiona, and she’d also be a bird, I think. A beautiful hawk, maybe.”

  “Fiona,” Winter repeated, testing the name. “Is she your mother? Grandmother?”

  “My sister.”

  “Ah, my spirits are usually…they’re usually deceased, Matt,” Winter said softly.

  “Fiona died in childbirth.”

  “Okay,” Winter said even more softly, putting two and two together between Matt’s reaction to Megan yesterday and this revelation about his own sister. “Do you have a photograph of Fiona I could see?”

  Matt glanced at her, and Winter nearly stepped back at the look of anguish in his eyes. “I don’t have anything of hers,” he said tightly. “Not even her locket.”

  “Locket?”

  “Fiona had a gold locket our mother had given her on her sixteenth birthday, which had belonged to our grandmother.” He looked back at the painting, though Winter doubted he was seeing anything other than his sister in his mind’s eye. “But I could never find out what became of it.”

  “You mentioned having a brother the first day you were here. He doesn’t know where the locket is?” Winter asked gently.

  Winter saw Matt stiffen. “No,” was all he said, that one word completely devoid of emotion.

  “Then you’ll just have to tell me about Fiona,” Winter continued brightly, attempting to wash away the chill that had suddenly descended over her gallery. She took hold of Matt’s hand again, ignoring the fact that it was balled into a fist, and led him back down the side wall. “Over dinner tonight, if you want, you can tell me why you think Fiona’s spirit is a beautiful hawk. Here,” she said, stopping in front of a large watercolor of a moose. She pointed at the bushes, where she had hidden the nearly translucent image of a red fox. “This is my uncle Ian. He’s the one Megan told you about yesterday, who insisted we ride draft horses.”

  Again, Matt studied the painting in silence.

  Winter didn’t know what to think, much less what to say to him. She did decide that getting to know Matt Gregor was a lot like painting her pictures; the process was proving painstakingly complex, with only vague snippets being revealed the deeper she delved. He had a brother, apparently alive but obviously estranged, and a sister he’d loved who had died in childbirth. He built jets, seemed to go after what he wanted with the efficiency of a successful businessman, and he kissed like a prince.

  Well, he had certainly awakened this sleeping princess, and she was just as determined to get to know her prince a whole lot better. “I’ll be ready at eight,” she said, turning to walk back to the counter.

  He stopped her by reaching out and capturing her face between his broad hands, his fingers splaying through her hair at the back of her head, his palms lifting her chin to look at him. “I’m sorry,” he said gutturally. “The subject of my brother is a sore one.” He took a deep breath that ended with a smile. “I’m going to kiss you, Winter MacKeage, right here in front of your ancestors, so they’ll see exactly what my intentions are.”

  Winter’s heart skipped several beats, then started thumping with the force of a sledge hammer. “W-what are your intentions?” she whispered, unable to look away from his intense, mesmerizing, so deeply golden eyes.

  His smile went from warm to heart-stopping handsome. “You’ll have to ask them,” he said, nodding toward her paintings, “or trust me enough to discover that for yourself.”

  “I—I tru—”

  He lowered his head and covered her mouth with his before her declaration could even reach her ancestors. Winter rose on her toes and parted her lips, welcoming whatever his intentions might be as his tongue sought hers. The onslaught of energy that hummed through her body was as immediate and just as powerful as last night. Matt smelled of fine wool, the forest, and crisp autumn air. Winter could taste just a hint of coffee, and she reveled in the feel of his fingers curled into her hair as he carefully moved his mouth over hers. She wrapped her arms around his waist inside his jacket, snuggling closer as he lowered one hand between her shoulders and pulled her tightly against him.

  Tiny bells started tinkling in her head.

  Matt suddenly broke the kiss, held her shoulders to steady her, and turned with a harsh glare aimed at the door. Winter quickly stepped back at the realization they were no longer alone, spun on her heel, and ran behind the counter.

  “Good morning,” Tom said. “That was quite a wild storm we had last night, wasn’t it?”

  Not nearly as wild as the one raging inside her right now, Winter decided. “Ah, good morning, Tom. You’re out early.”

  Tom didn’t answer her, his attention focused on Matt. The old hermit tucked a package under his left arm and extended his right hand. “Morning, Gregor,” he said, shaking the hand Matt extended in return. “You don’t look like you’re ready to hike the woods this afternoon.”

  “I’m afraid I have to take a rain check on our sunset,” Matt said. “I need to go to my office and take care of a small matter. I’ll be back this evening, though. Maybe tomorrow?”

  Tom nodded. “I believe I might be free tomorrow. That your jet I was looking at this morning up at the airport?”

  “It’s mine.”

  “Will she really do mach one?”

  Winter could only gape at Tom. How could he possibly know Matt’s jet went that fast?

  Matt apparently wondered the same thing. He folded his arms over his chest and lifted one brow. “What makes you think she goes mach one?”

  Tom shrugged. “I’m a bit of an aviation junkie,” he said in way of explanation. “Seems I remember reading an article about a company in Utah trying to adapt military jet engines to corporate jets a couple of years back.” He grinned. “I also remember, now that I think about it, that the owner of the company was someone named Gregor.”

  Matt inclined his head, a slight smile lifting one side of his mouth. “She goes mach one,” he confirmed. He nodded toward Winter. “Though our little friend here doesn’t believe me.”

  Tom laughed. “Winter’s more likely to believe fairies fly at mach one,” he said, lifting the package from under his arm and unwrapping it. “I have something for you, Gregor, for your new house.”

  Curiosity propelled Winter around the counter to see what Tom had brought.

  “It’s just one part of a prototype, as they say in your business,” Tom said, finally revealing his surprise. “The scale is eight to one, and the final piece should probably be made of granite rather than wood.”

  Winter leaned closer and frowned.

  Tom held the foot-tall statue toward her, angling it to show her the front. “Have I got the wording right?” he asked. “The book I looked it up in wasn’t t
hat clear.”

  Winter read the words to herself: Saobhaidh a’ Mhathain. She nudged Tom to give the statue to Matt. “It’s right,” she said. “You pronounce it Seu-vee uh Va-han.”

  “And it means?” Matt asked, taking the wooden piece and holding it up to examine, even turning it upside down before he looked at Winter for his answer.

  “The bear’s den,” she told him. “It’s Gaelic, and that’s the perfect name for your new home.”

  Matt looked sharply at Tom. “What made you choose a bear’s den for me?”

  Tom shrugged. “You own Bear Mountain, so I thought that if you’re building your home there, it was only appropriate.”

  Matt’s eyes narrowed. “Why Gaelic?”

  “Why not?” Tom returned. “Gregor is Scots, isn’t it?”

  “But where’s the bear, Tom?” Winter asked before Matt could respond, taking the wooden figure from Matt to examine.

  Tom had carved a miniature bear’s den in a wooden likeness of a granite cliff surrounded by trees and boulders. The bottom of the cliff had been hollowed into a cave, the interior floor lined with straw and fir branches. Over the top of the den was a board with the Gaelic name carved into it. But the den was empty.

  “I haven’t carved the bear yet,” Tom said.

  Winter narrowed her eyes at him. “You couldn’t have done this in one day,” she said. She shook her head, looking at the delicately carved trees, granite, and boulders. Even the fur bows and cut grass inside the cave were perfectly detailed from the single piece of wood. “This would have taken you weeks.”

  Tom shrugged. “It took me nearly a month. I started it quite a while ago, then shelved it.” He looked at Matt. “But when I learned you were building a house on Bear Mountain, I dug around until I found it again, and thought you might like to have a full-scale statue for your new home.”

  Matt took the statue from Winter, gave it another careful inspection, then turned a calculating look on Tom. “How much?”

  Tom grinned. “About two and a half years of rent for a run-down cabin out on a point of land you own. Oh, and a ride in that jet of yours,” he tacked on.

  Matt gave a bark of laughter and handed the statue back to Tom. “Then you should probably hold on to this, if it’s your working model. Can you have the full-scale project finished by the time my house is done?”

  Winter wanted to shout with joy, but instead she reached over, grabbed Matt by the sleeve, and pulled him down to give him a big kiss on the cheek. “You have an artist in residence, Mr. Gregor,” she said, smiling broadly at his stunned look. She turned to Tom, her smile turning smug. “And you, Mr. Tom, are brilliant.”

  She spun back to Matt. “You need to get out of here if you want to be back by dinner, mach one or not.” She stepped closer and lowered her voice. “I might even wear a dress this evening.”

  Matt’s eyes locked on hers. “What color?” he asked softly.

  “Green.”

  He nodded, his heated gaze holding her captive. Curses, he wasn’t even touching her and Winter felt herself melting into a puddle of mush! She was just starting to buckle at the knees when Matt broke the spell by looking over her head at Tom and nodding. “I’ll be at your cabin tomorrow afternoon about an hour before sunset,” he said before suddenly walking out the door. The tiny bell made Winter’s nerve tingle with awareness as she watched Matt head toward the black truck parked just down the street.

  “It’s about time a man came along and put some color in your cheeks,” Tom said.

  Winter turned to find Tom wrapping up his model. She reached over to stop him, giving him a good glare. “Not one word about his straightening out my being spoiled,” she said, taking the carving and walking behind the counter. She set it down on the counter and smiled. “You’re more sneaky than Gesader, Tom. I couldn’t have come up with a better idea myself. Now Matt can’t kick you out.”

  Tom walked over and stood opposite her. “This man you thought so poorly of because you feared he might evict me—I’m surprised to find you kissing him.”

  Feeling her cheeks flaming red again, Winter wanted to crawl inside the little bear’s den sitting on her counter and pull one of its bushes closed behind her.

  Tom laughed and picked up the model, handling it as if it were no more precious than an old rock he’d found on the shore of Pine Lake. “I better start earning my rent,” he said, wrapping it back up in the towel. “So, Goldie Locks,” he added, tucking the carving under his arm and grinning at her. “I mean, so Miss Strawberry Goldie Locks,” he amended with a grin, “do I put a mama, papa, and baby bear in my den?”

  Winter blinked at him, her jaw momentarily slackened in shock. “What is it with everyone around here?” she snapped. “You all have me practically married to a man I met two days ago.”

  Tom’s eyes danced with amusement. “Seems to me you’ve gotten rather well acquainted in only two days,” he said, turning and starting toward the door. He stopped with his hand on the knob and grinned at her. “And from the look in Gregor’s eyes just before he left, I’m guessing I’ll only have to wait a few weeks to know how many bears to put in my sculpture,” he said with a laugh as he stepped through the door.

  Winter just stared after him, stunned to the roots of her strawberry hair. She couldn’t decide if she’d just been insulted or challenged. Was Tom telling her she was going after Matt too quickly, or that he thought she should move even faster?

  Curses, would she ever understand men?

  Winter reached under the counter and grabbed her sketch pad. She sat down on the stool, opened the pad, and stared at the two-story log and stone lodge she’d been sketching. But all she saw was a mama, papa, and baby bear snuggled up together inside the cozy little den Tom had carved.

  No, she thought with a quick shake of her head, erasing the image from her mind. She was just learning to deal with her strong attraction to Matheson Gregor; she wasn’t anywhere near ready to start dreaming about having his babies—no matter how warm and fuzzy that made her feel.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sitting opposite Grey beside the brightly burning hearth in the main living room of Gù Brath, Grace lifted her eyes from the book she’d been pretending to read to the clock on the mantel. It was twenty minutes to eight, and Grace knew her husband was also pretending to be so engrossed in his newspaper, one might think he’d forgotten all about his youngest daughter’s impending date.

  “Ye still haven’t addressed the fact that Winter is going to live for centuries and her husband will not,” Grey softly said into the silence.

  Grace looked over at him, not at all surprised he knew her thoughts, not after thirty-three years of marriage. “Would fifty years of happiness not be worth it, though?” she asked just as softly. “Or twenty years? Or even ten? Would you have Winter close her heart off completely?” Grace shut the book on her lap and leaned forward. “If I had died ten years ago, and you were sitting in this room right now with only your memories of me, would you be wishing instead that we’d never met? That we hadn’t had at least twenty-three wonderful years together?”

  “Nay.”

  “Then why would Winter be any different? Do you really believe she’s going to live hundreds of years without forming strong attachments? She can’t, Grey, because she feels things too deeply. Her heart will still get broken over and over again. Why do you think Daar keeps himself isolated up on the mountain? Is that what you want Winter to become? Another Father Daar?”

  “Nay.”

  Grace set her book on the floor and scooted down to settle between Grey’s knees. She cuddled against him and leaned her head on his pounding heart, sighing when he wrapped his strong arms around her. “And who knows,” she continued. “If Winter got rid of this Cùram jerk and saved Daar’s tree of life, there’s nothing to say she couldn’t live happily ever after.” She tilted her head back to look at Grey. “Even superheroes eventually retire. Women today are having their careers first and then their families.
Winter can save the world and then have her babies.” Grace squeezed his rock-solid torso. “The important thing is, she chooses her path. Not us, and not Father Daar.”

  “It’s a path we haven’t even told her about yet,” Grey reminded her. “She needs to know before she gets too involved with Gregor.”

  “No,” Grace said, straightening to look Grey level in the eyes. “We agreed to wait until we solve the mystery of the mutilated pine tree.”

  He gently pulled her back against him and held her head to his chest. “Then remind me to get Robbie to look into Gregor’s background. I forgot to ask him today because I got involved in that damn tree.”

  Grace bolted upright again. “No,” she said, giving him a fierce glare. “You and Robbie will not interfere. And tonight, when we meet Matt Gregor, you will be the epitome of politeness. You will not scowl or in any way try to intimidate him.”

  Grey scowled now. “Gregor’s not much of a man if a little fatherly posturing is all it takes to scare him off.” Grey pulled her back against him, holding her head down with his chin and hugging her fiercely on a deep sigh. “Ye’d think I’d be better at this, having gone through it five times already.”

  Grace was just snuggling closer when Grey suddenly stiffened and sucked in his breath. “Jesus, Joseph, and Mary,” he whispered. He removed himself from his wife’s arms and stood up. “Ye go right back upstairs and change,” he growled, pointing toward the living room door.

  Grace scrambled to her feet and turned to see Winter and Megan standing in the doorway, Megan grinning like a Cheshire cat and Winter gaping at her papa. “Oh, you look beautiful,” Grace said, going to Winter. “I knew when I bought that dress it was perfect for you.” She took hold of Winter’s shoulders and turned her around. “Just perfect.”

  “She’s not leaving here looking like that,” Grey snapped.

  Grace ignored him, turning Winter back to face her. “The heels aren’t too high, are they?” she asked, checking out the shoes she had bought to match the calf-length dress. “They’re only an inch high.”