Wedding the Highlander Read online

  She was able to rebuild cartilage and smooth bone as she swept through his skeleton with the precision of a laser beam. And again, as it had in California, her body warmed, her heartbeat slowed, and she was able to see his pain and make it disperse into the light.

  Father Daar gasped in surprise and stumbled back, his complexion as pale as new-fallen snow. “What have ya done?” he shouted hoarsely, taking several steps back. He pointed a finger at her. “Ya stay away from me!”

  Libby rubbed her tingling hands on her thighs and shot him a smug grin. “I was just doing what you told me to.”

  “Doing what?”

  She shrugged. “Practicing. Exploring my gift.”

  “I didn’t mean for ya to practice on me!”

  “Did I hurt you?”

  He had to think about that. He actually patted himself down and bent over to give himself a visual inspection as well, as if he expected she’d turned him into a frog or something. He danced from foot to foot, waved his arms like a bird, and even turned in a full circle, trying to see over his shoulder to his backside.

  He suddenly straightened and lifted wide, crystal-clear blue eyes to her in surprise. “God’s teeth, woman. Ya’re a healer,” he whispered. “Ya healed my aches.”

  Libby sobered and hugged herself. Hearing those words, spoken with such quiet authority, sent shivers down her spine.

  Father Daar walked to one of the chairs on the porch and sat down. He braced his elbows on his knees and rubbed his hands over his face several times before finally looking up at her.

  “And this is what made you run here?” he asked. “This ability to heal people?”

  Unable to move from her spot, Libby merely nodded.

  “No wonder ya’re shaken. It’s a god-awful responsibility, healing people. Ya can’t just go around willy-nilly, curing everyone. Some aren’t meant to be cured.”

  Libby wanted to hug him. Finally, someone who understood her dilemma. “And that’s why I ran away,” she explained. “I was a surgeon, working in a hospital full of people wanting to be healed. Where would it end? When it completely consumed me?”

  He leaned back in his chair and stared at her. “Aye,” he said, nodding. “I imagine the energy was overwhelming.”

  “I had this picture of people lined up all the way out onto the street,” Libby confessed, still unable to move from her spot, still hugging herself. “Waiting for me to heal them. But what right do I have to play God with their lives? And what right do I have not to?”

  “Ya have no right, Libby, to make those kinds of decisions.”

  “Then why has this happened to me, Father?”

  He scratched his beard with the butt of his cane and thought about her question in silence. He suddenly waved at Pine Lake.

  “It’s all connected—the land, the people and plants and animals, and the energy that makes our very existence possible. Maybe,” he said, looking at her, “ya were given this gift for a particular reason. To heal one specific person, whose life force is linked to the continuum.”

  Libby walked over and rested against the rail in front of him. “What person?” she asked, leaning forward. “Who?”

  “I cannot tell ya that, girl. I’m not a predictor, only a conductor of energy.”

  Libby straightened and crossed her arms under her breasts. “Then how will I know this person?” she asked. “And in the meantime, do I use my gift?”

  Daar shook his head. “I cannot tell ya that, either. But ya already seem to have some control over it. Ya found an anchor in your vision, and that quieted the storm around ya.”

  “And you’re saying that my anchor is Michael? But that he isn’t going to like it?”

  “Aye,” he agreed. “The man’s powerfully determined not to let his heart get involved with another woman.”

  “I don’t want his heart.”

  “But that’s what you’ll need for this to work, Libby. Ya can’t hold on for just a little while and then walk away. You’ll be destroyed.”

  “Then I’ll walk away now. I won’t use Michael, Father.”

  He shook his head. “It’s too late, I’m afraid. You’ve already caught MacBain’s eye. I’m not sure he will let you walk away.”

  Well, dammit. Had she lost control of everything?

  Father Daar stood up, stretched his newly healed joints like a young man of twenty, and smiled at her. “I’m going to enjoy my journey home,” he said, walking to the end of the porch.

  Libby followed but stopped when he turned back to her. “I have the good manners to thank ya, Libby Hart. For the breakfast and for making my aches go away.”

  “Father, if you’re a wizard as you claim, and that cane of yours,” she said, looking down at it, then back up at him, “has the…that energy I felt, why didn’t you use it on yourself?”

  He smiled disparagingly. “To tell ya the truth, lass, I was afraid I might turn myself into a dung beetle or some other lowly creature.” He lifted his cane between them, glaring at it. “It’s not my original staff, and this one’s so new that I don’t trust it.”

  “How old you are, Father?”

  He puffed up his chest and straightened his shoulders.

  “Fourteen hundred and ninety-five last March,” he told her.

  “Years?” Libby squeaked.

  “Of course, years, girl,” he growled. He turned and walked off the porch but stopped in the middle of the driveway and looked back at her, pointing his cane. “Ya’ll stop thinking like a surgeon, Libby Hart, and stop trying to put people and things into neat little compartments. Life doesn’t work that way, and yar brain’s likely to explode from frustration.”

  He turned slightly and pointed his cane at a frost-killed bed of flowers as he mumbled words under his breath. An arc of lightning shot from the end of the cane, striking the withered flowers with enough force to send a cloud of smoke-laced dirt into the air.

  Libby took a step back.

  And when the dust cleared, she saw that the flowers were in full bloom, with bright green foliage and colorful blossoms. The entire garden looked as if it were spring.

  “And take notice that the passage of time is one of those compartments,” Father Daar said. “It exists only for clockmakers. Try to remember that as ya deal with MacBain.”

  And with that cryptic remark lingering in the air long after he’d left, Libby found herself unable to look away from the fully bloomed flowers.

  Wizard?

  Hell, maybe her brain had already exploded.

  Chapter Twelve

  By five o’clock that evening,Libby had done exactly what Father Daar had told her not to—she’d put the unexplainable events of that morning into a neat little compartment that she’d labeled “to think about later.”

  She was feeling quite pleased with herself right now and somewhat surprised to find that she liked being domestic. She had an apple pie cooling on the counter and potatoes boiling on the stove, and the entire house smelled of roasting chicken. The table was set with an eclectic assortment of dishes that obviously had served many meals in the Sutter home, and the porch light was on to welcome her guests.

  Another guest arrived first, uninvited and completely unexpected but just as welcome. Libby was washing her baking dishes in the sink when she heard a noise outside and looked through the window. Robbie’s pet snowy owl was sitting on the porch rail, looking back at Libby, a large stick clasped in one of her sharp talons.

  Drying her hands on her apron, Libby stepped out the door and onto the porch. “Hello there,” she said as she approached the owl. “What’s that you’ve got?”

  Mary spread her wings for balance and opened her talons, dropping the stick onto the porch floor. Libby reached down, picked it up, and examined it under the porch light.

  It was a fairly stout stick, about two feet long, and appeared to be hardwood, although she didn’t know what kind. It was covered with beautiful, gnarly burls and had been weathered to a smooth, glossy gray. It was heavy. And wa
rm to her touch.

  Libby looked at the owl. “I’m guessing you want me to have this,” she said, trying not to notice she was talking to a bird. “I don’t know why, but thank you for the lovely gift.”

  She turned to go back into the house but stopped when she realized she was being followed. She looked down and found Mary hopping along the porch floor behind her.

  Libby hesitated, then, with a resigned sigh, she opened the kitchen door and stood out of the way. Mary walked into the house as if she owned it. Libby followed but left the door open enough for the eerily silent bird to leave if she changed her mind about being inside.

  Oh, if only her colleagues back in California could see her now. Even Grammy Bea would have a hard time believing that her stuffy granddaughter was keeping company with an owl, much less talking to it.

  “Make yourself at home,” Libby drawled, watching the snowy fly onto the back of the rocking chair at the end of the kitchen.

  Mary turned to face her, settled her wings back into place, and gave Libby a lazy blink. Libby wondered if she should offer her guest something to eat. But what? She was fresh out of rodents.

  Libby leaned the stick against the wall under the clothes pegs and ran to save her potatoes from boiling over. She checked and found that they were done and looked at the clock on the wall. Twenty minutes before her human guests would arrive.

  Libby pulled the chicken out of the oven and inspected it. It looked done. It certainly smelled delicious. She stole a bit of stuffing, popped it into her mouth, closed her eyes, and let out a moan. Damn, she was a good cook.

  She grabbed the potatoes and carried them to the sink to drain but nearly dropped the pot when Mary suddenly let out a high-pitched whistle. A truck door slammed, and footsteps sounded on the porch. Libby looked over to see the kitchen door swing open and Robbie MacBain come running through it, holding a dripping brown paper bag away from his body as if it were a bomb.

  “I gotta get this ice cream in the freezer,” he said, running to the fridge. “I set it on the dash of the truck, and the heater melted it.”

  He put the ice cream in the freezer and then grabbed a towel from the rack above the furnace. “It made a god-awful mess of Papa’s truck, and if I don’t clean it up, I gotta walk home,” the young boy explained, running back outside.

  An elderly gentleman walked in next, wearing blaze orange just as Robbie had been. He hung his jacket and hat on the pegs, took a deep breath, and smiled.

  “Now, that’s what chicken is supposed to smell like,” he said, coming over and stopping in front of Libby. “Hi. I’m John, and it’s my pleasure to finally meet you, Miss Hart. This is for you,” he added, handing her a tiny potted plant.

  “For saving my taste buds from self-destructing. It’s a cutting from one of Ellen’s African violets.”

  “Oh, thank you, John. It’s beautiful.” Libby placed the budding plant on the sink windowsill. “And please, call me Libby.”

  Robbie came storming back in, tossed the messy dishcloth onto the floor, and took off his jacket and hat, hanging them on the lower pegs. Holding his sticky fingers out in front of him, he went to the sink and ran them under the faucet.

  Michael finally made his appearance. He set a small cardboard box on the floor by the kitchen door and nudged his son out of the way to wash his own sticky hands.

  Libby felt as if she were being invaded. Her quiet kitchen was suddenly full.

  “Mary!” Robbie exclaimed, seeing his pet perched on the rocking chair at the end of the kitchen.

  Michael was just pulling a bottle of wine from his pocket but nearly dropped it when he spun around at his son’s shout that Mary was there. He scrambled to catch the bottle and just barely managed to save them all from another sticky mess.

  All four of them stared at the snowy owl, which blinked back at them, not the least bit ruffled by the commotion.

  “Son,” Michael said, “ya don’t holler like that.” Quickly regaining his composure, he looked at Libby and lifted a brow. “If I had known there would be five of us, I’d have brought more wine.”

  All Libby could do was shrug. She sure as heck couldn’t explain what a wild bird was doing in her kitchen. Only Robbie seemed to think it was natural. Poor John was actually backed up against the wall, looking as if he were expecting the owl to go for his throat. Libby guessed this was his first time meeting Mary.

  “It’s okay, Grampy,” Robbie assured him. “Mary’s my pet. And Libby’s, too,” he said, turning to beam her a smile. “She’s just come for a visit, ’cause I told her we were having supper here tonight.”

  Libby remembered the stick and walked over to get it. “And look what she brought me,” she said, holding it up for all of them to see.

  Robbie came over and was just reaching for the stick when Michael took it away from her. “Where did you get this?” he whispered, holding it in his fist at arm’s length, looking from it to her.

  Libby wondered why he’d turned so pale. “Mary brought it to me,” she told him. “Why? Is it a rare wood? From a protected tree or something?”

  “Nay,” Michael said softly, rolling the stick in his hand and hefting its weight. He looked at the snowy owl, his face drawn taut and his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Ya say Mary brought it to ya?” he asked, looking back at Libby.

  She nodded.

  “It appears to be cherrywood,” John interjected, coming up and taking the stick from Michael. He also turned it in his hand, holding it toward Libby. “It’s full of burls.” He traced his fingers over the knots. “See. If you were to cut these off and polish them, you would find a swirling grain that would darken to a deep cherry red.”

  Michael carefully took the stick away from John, then looked around as if trying to decide what to do with it. He kept his attention divided between the stick in his hand and the owl silently staring at them. Finally, and with what sounded to Libby like a whispered curse, he walked into the living room and headed toward the hearth.

  But he stopped when he reached the brightly burning fire and stared into the flames.

  “Please don’t burn it,” Libby softly entreated from the living-room door. “I don’t know why it bothers you, but I would hate to see that beautiful wood destroyed.”

  “Don’t burn it, Papa,” Robbie added from beside her.

  “It’s Mary’s gift to Libby.”

  Michael continued to stare at the fire, the stick clutched in his white-knuckled fist like a club, and Libby found herself holding her breath. Why was he so bothered by Mary’s gift?

  Why wouldn’t he say something?

  Libby began breathing again when Michael set the stick on the mantel and turned to her. “Supper smells good,” he said through a tight smile, making no apology and giving no explanation for his actions. He slowly rubbed his hands together as if he were anticipating dinner, but Libby sensed he was trying to rub away the feel of the stick.

  “And I’m starved,” Robbie said, turning and running to the table. He sat down next to John and immediately reached for a slice of bread.

  John took it away from him and put it back. “You have to wait until everyone’s seated and grace is said,” he instructed in a whisper. “Or you won’t get any apple pie.”

  Libby finished mashing the potatoes and put them in a large bowl while Michael took the chicken out of the roaster and set it on a platter. They carried the food to the patiently waiting guests. There was an awkward moment when they both started to sit in the chair at the head of the table.

  Each immediately conceded to the other, but only when Libby sat down facing John and Robbie did Michael finally sit at the head of the table. He busied himself carving the chicken. Libby looked over and saw that John was smiling and Robbie was all but drooling onto his empty plate.

  “I can say grace while Papa is carving,” the young boy suggested, folding his hands in front of him and bowing his head.

  Libby and John did the same, but Michael didn’t stop carving, apparently j
ust as anxious to eat as his son.

  “Thank you, God, for the food,” Robbie began. “And for helping Libby cook it perfect. Amen,” the boy said, grabbing back his slice of bread and slathering it with butter.

  Dinner went by almost as quickly as Robbie’s prayer. Michael, John, and Robbie ate as if there were no tomorrow. There wasn’t much conversation, and by the end, there wasn’t much food left. The chicken was reduced to a carcass, the stuffing disappeared, and Libby thought Robbie was going to lick the bowl of potatoes clean.

  She was just snatching up the last slice of bread when she heard a squeak. Libby looked over at Mary, who was still sitting on the back of the rocking chair, but the bird wasn’t making a sound. She was, however, looking toward the wall of clothes by the door with interest.

  The squeak grew louder, and Libby heard scratching as well. She decided the noise was coming from the box Michael had carried in earlier.

  “What’s in the box?” she asked, slowly getting out of her chair and walking around the table until it was between her and the scratching noise.

  “I forgot the kittens!” Robbie said, sliding back his chair and running toward the box.

  Michael caught him on the way past. “Nay, son,” he said, pulling him onto his lap. “Ya can’t take them out with your pet here,” he told him.

  Wide-eyed, Robbie looked at Mary. “Oh,” he said. “I hadn’t thought about that. She might consider them supper.” He suddenly frowned. “But ya told me Mama likes cats.”

  “She does. I mean, she did. But your pet might be looking at them a little differently.” Michael set Robbie off his lap and turned him toward Mary. “Why don’t ya see if she’s ready to go outside?”

  “Do you think that’s wise, Michael, for the boy to be handling that owl?” John asked, his worried frown divided between Michael and Robbie. Robbie held out his arm, and the owl hopped onto it.

  “She’ll not harm him,” Michael assured John. “They’ve been friends for months now.”

  Libby walked over and opened the door for Robbie. “Good-bye, Mary,” she said, reaching out and lightly running her finger over the owl’s folded wing. “Thank you for the gift,” she added softly enough that Michael couldn’t hear. “And come back and visit me again.”