Wedding the Highlander Read online

  “I am going to die,” he finally said, keeping his tone even. “But not today. Nor tomorrow. I’m a warrior, Robbie. And it’s my duty to live long enough to guide you into manhood.”

  “And will I be a warrior when I grow up?”

  Michael headed toward the upper field, setting a brisk pace. “Yes and no,” he answered honestly. “You will have a warrior’s knowledge and skill and the heart of a Highlander, but you will live here and help me run our Christmas tree farm when I grow too old to do it myself.”

  “Grampy’s sons didn’t stay and help him,” Robbie countered, falling into step beside him. “But I won’t leave you,” he promised, taking Michael’s hand as he looked up with sincere gray eyes. “And I won’t die before you do.”

  Michael nodded. “Aye. You’ll not die first,” he thickly agreed.

  “Maybe…maybe you should get yourself some more sons,” Robbie whispered, letting go of Michael’s hand so he could adjust the straps on his pack. He looked up. “Just in case I do die.”

  “That will not happen,” Michael growled, stopping and turning Robbie to face him. “And babes are not pulled from thin air. I would need a wife in order to get these sons.”

  “You got me without a wife.”

  Michael frowned. How had this conversation turned from death to sex? “I was trying to marry your mother,” he explained. “And if Mary had lived, we probably would have had more bairns. But things don’t always work out the way we would like, Robbie. Sometimes life interferes with our plans.”

  “Then why don’t you just find another woman to marry?”

  Michael started walking again, weaving his way through the rows of Christmas trees until they came to the woods. “A man doesn’t decide he wants to get married and then simply pick the first available female. A man and a woman need to love each other first.”

  “Like Aunt Grace and Uncle Grey.”

  “Aye,” Michael said softly. “Like Grace and Grey. And Callum and Charlotte, and Morgan and Sadie. A bond must be formed first, and love must grow from there.”

  “But you can’t form a bond with a woman, Papa, if you don’t never try.” Robbie looked up, his eyes shining in the moonlight with the mischief of a boy on a mission. “And because Gram Ellen is gone, it’s my duty to speak for her. And she says you need to go on dates.”

  “And my answer to you is the same as it’s been to Ellen for eight years. I don’t want a wife.”

  “Because your heart is broken, Papa. But Gram Ellen always said the right woman could mend it.” Robbie stepped over a log in the path, then turned and walked backward as he continued. “And I can help.”

  “How?” Michael asked with wearing patience, moving past his son to take the lead. It appeared this recurring discussion had not ended with Ellen Bigelow’s death. Apparently, his son was taking up her cause.

  Along with Grace MacKeage. What was it with women that they couldn’t stand to see a man remain single?

  “I’ve already started, Papa.”

  “How?” Michael repeated, his patience turning to wariness. “Has it something to do with all the time you’ve been spending at Gu Bràth with Grace this last month?”

  “Aye,” Robbie said. “Aunt Grace helped me place an ad on the Internet.”

  Michael stopped walking. “What sort of ad?” he asked, staring at the moonlit forest in front of them, wondering if his son and Grace had advertised on one of those sites for lonely singles.

  “An ad for a tenant,” Robbie clarified. “I’m going to rent my house.”

  Michael didn’t know whether to laugh with relief or shout with surprise. “You’re wanting to rent your mother’s home?” he asked softly, turning to face his son. “Why?”

  “Because it shouldn’t sit empty. A home needs to be lived in. It needs to be alive.”

  Michael actually could hear Grace’s words coming from Robbie’s mouth. “It will be lived in,” he snapped. “When you grow up and get married.”

  “But that’s too far away. The house needs to be alive now. When I go there, it’s terribly quiet, Papa. And lonely. It needs to be needed.”

  Michael turned and started walking again, taking long strides that made Robbie have to jog to keep up. “It’s a house, son, made of wood and glass and stone. It doesn’t have feelings.”

  Robbie tugged on Michael’s pack to get him to slow down. “It does too, Papa. I can feel the loneliness when I visit.”

  Michael narrowed his eyes on the path ahead. “Explain to me how renting your mother’s home has anything to do with finding me a wife.”

  “Because I’m going to rent it to a special woman. And she’ll fix your broken heart, you’ll get married, and I’ll get a new mama and some baby brothers.”

  Michael stopped walking again. He took the boy by the shoulders and hunkered down until they were face to face.

  “You do not shop for a wife on the Internet,” he said softly. “Nor for a mother. When we get back tonight, you and I are going to see Grace and have her remove the ad. You do not want strangers living in your mother’s home.”

  “No, Papa! It’s too late. I already have it narrowed down to three women.”

  Michael didn’t shout, he roared. He straightened and turned and started walking back home. Goddammit. Aunt or not, Grace MacKeage had overstepped her boundaries—again.

  Robbie ran to catch up but bumped into his father’s back when Michael suddenly ducked to avoid being hit by a white blur of feathers. The owl’s silent approach changed to an angry whistle as it lifted one wing and turned toward them again.

  Michael grabbed Robbie and threw them both to the ground as he rolled to tuck his son beneath him. The owl landed on a fallen log just three feet away, and Michael found himself staring into the yellow-gold eyes of a predator.

  A fist punched him in the ribs as his son squirmed to get free. “Mary!” Robbie shouted, scrambling to his knees. He knelt between the owl and Michael. “Don’t be afraid, Papa. Mary won’t hurt us.”

  Michael had lost the woman of his heart almost nine years ago, and hearing her name still tightened his chest. He sat up and pulled Robbie onto his lap, away from the bird, and stared at the snowy.

  The owl stared back, its huge eyes unblinking in the moonlight, its beak slightly open as it chattered in a high-pitched rattle. Talons, more than an inch long, clung to the moss-covered log. The bird stood nearly two feet tall, and, as if it wanted Michael to complete his inspection, it stepped to the side and opened its wings to an impressive span of nearly five feet.

  A very lethal, very efficient predator.

  His son’s pet.

  Which Robbie had named for his mother.

  “Mary, you stop that,” Robbie scolded. “This is my papa.”

  The snowy owl folded its wings, ducked its head, and changed its rattle to a gentle chatter.

  “Isn’t she the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen, Papa?”

  “Aye,” Michael quietly agreed. And she was. The owl’s sleek white feathers ended in solid black tips that appeared like lace over the snowy’s entire body. Her face was a heart-shaped disk of solid white, with large, crisp yellow eyes encircled by thick black lines that might have been drawn by a heavy pencil. Strong legs ran into broad toes, completely covered with white down that ended where the powerful, sharp talons began.

  A magnificently packaged predator.

  “It’s okay, Papa. Mary just heard your roar and thought I was in danger. See, she’s calm now,” Robbie said, holding his hand toward the bird.

  Michael grabbed Robbie’s outstretched hand and held it safely against the boy’s belly. “Have ya touched her, Robbie? When you visit each other, do you get close to…to Mary?”

  “Aye, Papa. She likes to sit on my shoulder when I ride my pony. I can whistle, and she’ll come to me.”

  “And she’s never clawed you?”

  “Nay. She’s very careful.” Robbie stood up, found his pack, and settled it back over his shoulders. “Come on, Papa
. Mary wants to join us on our hike to the summit. She can help us decide.”

  “Decide what?”

  “Which woman I’ll rent the house to.”

  Michael rubbed his hands over his face. They were back to finding him a wife. Clearly a product of the mother he’d never known, Robbie could give stubborn lessons to a mule. The boy would be relentless now that he had decided on a course of action.

  Michael stood up and once more headed toward the summit of TarStone Mountain. “Then we’ll continue our trip,” he agreed. “And spend the day discussing your need to rent your house to a stranger.”

  The snowy took flight and silently glided through the forest ahead of them, as if knowing their destination. Michael inhaled the smell of the night woods as the fallen leaves crunched beneath their feet. It was nearing the end of October, and the land was preparing itself for another winter—just as he must do soon. Ellen Bigelow’s death, coming suddenly but peacefully in the night while she slept, would make their upcoming Christmas season all that more difficult.

  Ellen had been the driving force of the Christmas tree farm. Even last year, at the age of eighty-three, the woman often had shamed the men with her energy. Ellen had been able to put unbelievable meals on the table three times a day, make wreaths, hand out saws so the customers could cut their own trees, sell decorations, dispense cider and doughnuts she made every morning, and still have time to keep up with the town gossip.

  Michael had spent the last ten years, since coming to Pine Creek and buying the Bigelow farm, in awe of the woman.

  “Papa, are you upset that I named my pet Mary?”

  “Nay, son. Mary’s a good name for such a fine pet.”

  “But you are upset that I want to rent my house.”

  “It’s not so much your wish to see the house lived in,” Michael clarified. “It’s the fact that you’ve set your hopes on finding this special woman to rent it to. What happens if she turns out to be a disappointment?”

  “She won’t,” Robbie said with all the confidence of an eight-year-old. “I’ll be real careful when I choose. Aunt Grace is helping me write e-mail letters to them.”

  Michael snorted, letting his son know what he thought of Grace’s contribution to his insane plan. “And just who is going to be the landlord to your tenant?” he asked. “When the water heater breaks or the furnace quits, areyou going to make the repairs?”

  “Nay, Papa. You are.”

  “I see. I would bet that was your aunt’s idea as well.”

  “Nay, it was mine.”

  “Well, if I get called to the house at two in the morning, know that I intend to wake you up and take ya with me. If you’re wanting to be a landlord, young man, you’re going to have to carry the responsibility.”

  “Does that mean I can rent Mama’s house, then?”

  “Wouldn’t ya rather find a family to live there? And get yourself a new playmate out of this endeavor?”

  “I don’t need a playmate nearly as much as you need a wife, Papa.” Robbie stopped and looked up into Michael’s eyes again. “She’s going to make you smile.”

  Michael messed his son’s hair and then pushed him forward along the trail. “Tell me about the three women you’ve found.”

  “Not until later, during breakfast. But I will give you a hint about one of them. Carla is a widow with three children.” Robbie turned and wiggled his eyebrows. “She must be nice, if some man loved her enough to marry her. And with Carla, we would both get something. You’ll get a wife, and I’ll get new playmates.”

  “And where is this Carla from?”

  “Florida.”

  Michael snorted again. “Are ya not worried she won’t like our winters?”

  “I do have that worry, Papa.” Robbie was quiet for several minutes as he strode ahead. “Maybe I should cross Carla off the list,” he said without turning around.

  “So that leaves only two. What of them?”

  “But there might be more,” Robbie countered. “I haven’t been able to check my e-mail for two days.”

  E-mail. Internet ads. Choosing a tenant before meeting her. What a different world his son was growing up in, compared with Michael’s own childhood eight hundred years ago.

  “Do you want to go to Gu Bràth with me tomorrow and check my e-mail?” Robbie asked as he ducked under a bent maple sapling.

  “Nay, Robbie. I will leave that craziness up to you and Grace. I need to start preparing for the Christmas season and for the snow that’ll be coming soon. And I’ll have to keep John busy as well, keep his mind off his loss.”

  “Grampy won’t go to Hawaii and live with his son, will he?” Robbie asked.

  Michael was about to respond, but his chest suddenly tightened again. A prickle of cold ran up his spine and raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

  Robbie’s pet—the owl his son called Mary—had just glided past them again through the forest. The snowy landed on a branch in front of them, and damn if the air around the bird did not glow with the warmth of a gentle blue light.

  The same blue light Michael sometimes saw in Robbie’s room when he checked on his son before going to bed himself.

  The same blue light he had seen on West Shoulder Ridge eight years ago when thedrùidh ’s magic had saved Grace MacKeage.

  The exact same blue of Mary Sutter’s beautiful eyes.

  Chapter Two

  Los Angeles, California, October 22

  Elizabeth Hart stepped through the doorof her town house and let her briefcase slip from her hand without regard for its contents. She used her hip to close the door, kicked off her shoes, and abandoned her raincoat to the floor as she headed down the hall to the kitchen.

  Where had she put that bottle of Scotch?

  Elizabeth searched through several cupboards and finally found the unopened bottle tucked in the back of the pantry. She grabbed a tumbler from the sink, opened the freezer, and filled the glass with ice. With an unsteady hand, Elizabeth poured the tawny liquor nearly up to the rim. She took a sip, coughed to catch her breath, then carried her drink as well as the bottle into the living room.

  Guided only by the glow of the streetlights streaming through the windows, Elizabeth made her way to the couch and sat down. She set the bottle of Scotch on the coffee table and picked up the remote.

  Leaning back, she took another sip of her drink, clicked the remote, and watched flames appear between the perfectly arranged ceramic logs. Fake embers started to glow at the base of the logs, and Elizabeth strained to hear…nothing.

  Other than a slight whoosh on ignition, the fire was silent.

  And odorless.

  And very, very clean.

  She had bought the town house five years ago, choosing it not for its proximity to work or its architecture or even its exclusive neighborhood. She had bought it because it had a fireplace.

  Only at the time, the hearth had been built to burn wood.

  They’d all ganged up on her, though—her mother, her father, and the guy she’d been dating. For the life of her, she couldn’t remember if it had been Paul or Greg. Wood fires were dirty, labor-intensive, and smelly, they’d told her. Natural gas would fit her lifestyle so much better.

  Grammy Bea had been her only ally against them. But living an hour’s drive away in the mountains was not nearly enough to help counter the pressure presented by the united front of her parents and her boyfriend. The gas logs had been installed before Elizabeth had moved in.

  There was something intrinsically primal in tending a wood fire. On her winter breaks through college and med school, Elizabeth had spent weeks holed up in the mountains with Grammy Bea. Setting kindling to paper, hearing the crackle of burning wood, and cleaning out ashes were daily rituals Elizabeth had cherished. A wood fire meant warmth, both physically and emotionally, and required patience to build and nurturing to sustain, creating a humanizing rhythm for the day.

  Elizabeth clicked the remote, and the flame in her hearth disappeared. She click
ed it again, and it whooshed back to life.

  She took another, longer drink of the Scotch, relishing the burn on the back of her throat. Her stomach warmed. Her muscles prickled with the release of tension.

  The train derailment had occurred just ten miles north of the city. Forty-three passengers had been injured, six of them critically.

  Elizabeth had dealt with three of the most badly injured passengers.

  Two of them had been almost routine, if such a thing could be said of trauma cases, and Elizabeth had worked with her usual efficient skill. The young man with the ruptured spleen and another man with broken ribs and a punctured lung would live, and heal, and go back to their lives which had been interrupted so rudely by fate.

  The Scotch was because of patient number three.

  Elizabeth would remember Esther Brown and her husband, Caleb, for as long as she lived. The elderly couple had been traveling to Seattle to visit their daughter and grandchildren.

  Caleb had been lucky, coming away from the train wreck with only cuts, several bruised ribs, and a swollen knee. Esther had sustained injuries that were life-threatening to a seventy-eight-year-old woman: a shattered leg, a broken wrist, and internal bleeding.

  But before Elizabeth could take Esther to surgery, Caleb had insisted on praying with his wife.

  And he had insisted that Elizabeth pray with them.

  Prayer was not foreign to Elizabeth, having grown up in the shadow of Grammy Bea. She was well aware of its power, and praying with Esther and Caleb did not mean she was getting emotionally involved. It only meant that she was a surgeon willing to use whatever means possible to help her patient deal with the trauma of surgery.

  And so Elizabeth had stood beside Caleb, placed her hand on Esther’s arm, and added her own will that the woman would live.