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  “Papa said that if you can’t stay here, you can have a place on TarStone. Or maybe my cousin Robbie will let you use his cabin on West Shoulder Ridge.”

  Tom leaned on the table, his hands clasped in front of him and his clear blue eyes leveled on hers. “I like this cabin. Tell your father thanks for the offer, but I prefer to stay right where I am.”

  “But Mr. Gregor might—”

  “If Mr. Gregor owns Bear Mountain, he owns over two thousand acres,” Tom said softly, cutting her off. “He can build his house on any one of the other nineteen hundred and ninety-nine acres. This acre is already occupied.”

  Winter gave up. She wasn’t going to argue about something that might not even be a problem. Besides, she had accomplished her goal of warning him. “Okay,” she said, sitting up straight and mimicking his posture by clasping her hands together on the table. “Your turn. Tell me a secret.”

  One side of his mouth lifted in a grin. “I can’t dance.”

  “That’s not a secret! You come to the grange socials and stand in the corner the whole evening, no matter how hard the ladies try to lure you onto the dance floor. Come on, tell me a good secret. Something equal to my panther.”

  He leaned closer, his hands reaching out and capturing hers on the table. “Okay, then. But you have to promise not to tell anyone.”

  “I promise,” Winter said, leaning closer herself.

  “I witnessed something strange on the mountain last night,” he whispered. “I was walking home from town when I heard a terrible racket coming from up the mountain.”

  “This mountain?” Winter whispered. “Bear Mountain?”

  “This one,” he confirmed, his gaze moving to her left as he focused inward. “I thought it was two rutting bull moose fighting, the noise was so loud.” He looked back at her. “So I snuck up toward them, until I came to that meadow on the north side of Bear Brook. You know the one I mean?”

  “I know the meadow,” Winter said softly, leaning closer in anticipation. “Did you see them? Were two big bulls fighting?”

  He shook his head, his hands tightening on hers. “It was two men,” he told her. “Dressed very strangely. They looked to be wearing kilts.”

  “Kilts!”

  “And the noise I heard was the clashing of swords. They were having a sword fight.”

  Winter slipped her hands free and sat back in her chair, staring at Tom. “You’re pulling my leg! You didn’t see two men having a sword fight.”

  Tom also sat back, folding his arms over his chest. “I did,” he said calmly, nodding. “The full moon lit up that meadow nearly as bright as day, and I saw two men dressed in kilts, having a sword fight.” He leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing on hers. “And they weren’t merely sparring, but really going at it. I thought they were going to kill each other.”

  Winter thought furiously. Could two of her cousins have been out playing warrior games last night? Robbie? And maybe her uncle Morgan’s oldest son, Duncan? But she couldn’t think why. The festival had been late last spring.

  “Did you…ah, did you recognize either of them?” she asked. “Could they have been from town? You know my cousins love swords and stuff. They go to the Scottish games every spring down on the coast. Could it have been them, Tom?”

  He slowly shook his head. “I didn’t recognize either of the men. They were both big like your cousins, but one of them had really long hair, halfway down his back. And it wasn’t MacKeage or MacBain plaids they were wearing. These plaids looked to be more gray, with maybe some green and red in them.” He cocked his head in thought. “It’s hard to tell colors in the moonlight,” he said, looking back at her. “But I did get a good look at the long-haired guy’s face, and I didn’t recognize him.”

  “Did they say anything?”

  “No,” Tom said, shaking his head again. “They seemed to be too busy trying to slice each other in half.”

  Winter was back to gaping at him. Tom couldn’t have seen what he was claiming he saw. Who would have been out on Bear Mountain in the middle of the night, fighting with swords?

  “I don’t want you to mention this to anyone, Winter. Not even your father. Greylen would worry I might really be crazy, and I prefer people around here to think I’m only a little odd,” Tom said with a crooked smile. He gestured toward Gesader at his feet. “Like your pet here, I think our swordsmen should remain figments of our imaginations.”

  “But you really did see them,” she whispered.

  He nodded. “I saw them. They fought for over half an hour, and then they suddenly stopped, silently faced each other for several heartbeats, and then turned and walked into the woods side by side. One of the men slapped the other man on the back, and left his arm there. I heard them laughing as they disappeared into the forest,” he finished, shaking his head. “One minute they were trying to kill each other, and the next minute they were laughing together.”

  He sat forward, stretching one hand toward her on the table. “I know you’re in the habit of roaming the woods at night, Winter, and that’s why I’m telling you what I saw. I think you should paint only daytime scenes for a while. I’d hate for these men to stumble upon you in the woods.”

  “But I have Gesader,” she reminded him.

  He looked down at the panther napping at his feet, then back at her, and shook his head again. “Your pet is no match for two men with swords.” He gave her a stern look. “Promise me you’ll stay out of the woods at night, or I’ll go to your father myself and tell him what I saw.”

  “But you just said—”

  “I said I prefer Greylen not to know what I witnessed,” he said, cutting her off. “But your safety is more important than my reputation. So save us both a lot of trouble and stop being stubborn and give me your promise.”

  “Okay, Tom,” she softly assured him. “I promise I won’t go in the woods alone after dark.” Winter stood up. “And I am not stubborn. I’m willful,” she proclaimed.

  “No, you’re spoiled,” Tom countered, as he stood and turned his smile on her. “And someday some man will come along and fix that.”

  “I am not spoiled. I’ve a good notion to tell Gesader to bite you,” she threatened, glaring at Tom.

  Tom gave a tiny snort and shook his head. “You’re the youngest of seven daughters, Winter. By the time you came along, I suspect your parents had given up trying to control any of you girls.” He walked around the table and took hold of her shoulders. “You’re the dearest friend I have, and I love you.” He smiled tenderly down at her. “There’s a big difference between being spoiled and being a brat, you know. And it’s with great affection that I point that out to you.”

  Winter frowned up at him in confusion. “So you’re saying being spoiled is a good thing?”

  Tom nodded. “You live life on your own terms. You chase your own future, and thumb your nose at what others might think of you.” Tom laughed and walked to the open door.

  Winter walked up to him and set her hand on his chest. “How did you get so wise, Tom? Who were you before you came here?”

  He covered her hand on his chest. “I was you, Winter,” he said softly. “Born to a father and mother who gave me the same solid foundation yours gave you. I defied convention and traveled my own path, which seems to have led me here to Bear Mountain…and to you,” he finished, squeezing her hand.

  “But who were you between being born and coming here?”

  He reached up and tapped the end of her nose, his smile crinkling the corners of his shining blue eyes. “I’ll tell you that on your twenty-fifth birthday. My life story will be my present to you.” He cocked his head, his eyes dancing in the sunshine. “Along with what’s under that sheet in my workshop.”

  Winter sucked in her breath. “It’s for my birthday?” she squeaked. “You’re carving something just for me?”

  He stepped outside with a chuckle and called to Snowball before turning back to her. “I thought that might pique your interest, if no
t drive you nuts for the next three months.”

  “Can you give me a hint? Is it made of wood or stone?”

  “Maybe it’s made of both,” he said cryptically, picking up Snowball’s bridle and slipping it onto the old draft horse. “Then again, maybe it’s made of nothing more than dreams spun from moonbeams.”

  He leaned down and cupped his two hands into a step, so she could climb onto Snowball. Winter let Tom vault her into the saddle, then took up the reins and smiled down at him. “I’ve never known anyone as secretive as you are,” she told him.

  He squinted up at her. “No? Maybe you should look in the mirror more often. You bring your Mr. Gregor over for a visit. I’m anxious to meet him.”

  “He is not my Mr. Gregor.”

  Tom patted her knee. “Don’t lift your hackles at me,” he said with a laugh, turning to Gesader, who was still standing in the cabin door. “Come along, Enchanter,” he said. “Time to escort your lady safely home.”

  “Why is it all you men think I need a babysitter?”

  Tom looked up at her. “When people care, we tend to get protective,” he said as he turned and headed back to his workshop. “Remember your promise,” he added over his shoulder. “And if you see a tall stranger in a kilt carrying a sword, Miss Curious, you run as fast as you can in the opposite direction.”

  Winter scowled at the closing door of Tom’s workshop. Curses, the man was just as cryptic—and just as confounding—as Father Daar.

  Winter finally urged Snowball toward town and spent the ride home trying to imagine what Tom was hiding under that sheet in his workshop.

  And what he was hiding in his past.

  She would have her answer in exactly three months from yesterday, Winter realized with a sudden smile—on the winter solstice, on her and her sisters’ birthdays.

  Chapter Four

  While Winter was visiting with Talking Tom, Greylen MacKeage was standing in a cabin halfway up TarStone Mountain, trying very hard not to lose his temper and kill a priest. He knew damn well Grace would be mad at him if he did; but then again, if his wife could hear what Daar was telling him now, she just might offer to help.

  “Ye promised I would be long dead before Winter came into her powers,” Grey reminded Daar, his eyes sparking with anger as they bore into the old drùidh. “That she would have a normal life up until then, and be an old woman herself before ye started her schooling. She’s not even twenty-five years old. Ye can’t have her yet.”

  “But that was before,” Daar said, moving to put the tenuous safety of the table between them. “I miscalculated, Greylen. I thought I would have more time. But as I’ve been trying to explain, there’s terrible trouble brewing, and I need Winter to come into her powers now.”

  “Nay. I forbid it. Ye’ll not have my baby girl as long as there’s breath in me, priest.” Greylen took a threatening step toward him. “And if ye so much as even hint to Winter about her destiny, I will dispatch ye to hell myself, old man, my own soul be damned.”

  Daar had been inching farther away throughout Grey’s tirade and was now pressed up against the back wall of his cabin. The old priest took a calming breath and held out his hands in petition. “Laird Greylen—” He took another shaky breath and tried again. “Grey. Ye don’t understand. Winter won’t even reach old age if she doesn’t step into her destiny now. None of us will be here. Hell,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Life as we know it will cease to exist.”

  Grey crossed his arms over his chest. “Yer penchant for melodrama no longer affects me, priest. The sun will not stop shining if Winter has another forty or fifty years of peace and happiness. Ye cannot have her yet.”

  “But it’s already happening,” Daar whispered. “The energy has already begun to alter. Have ye not noticed the fierceness of the storms that have been coming with unusual regularity? They’re the first sign of the trouble that’s brewing, Greylen, and it’s escalating at a rate even I didn’t foresee.”

  “Weather is just weather, old man. Since the beginning of time, it has run in cycles. Grace can explain it to ye, if need be.”

  The old priest reached up and scrubbed his face with his hands, then scowled at Grey through narrowed, crystal blue eyes. “This is different, I tell ye. Something is disturbing the continuum, which in turn is causing my tree of life to die. And if it dies, the others will soon follow.” He waved his hand wildly again. “And when they all die, the earth dies with them.”

  “What exactly is killing your tree?”

  Daar shrugged and finally stepped away from the wall. He moved to the hearth and stretched his hands to the fire’s warmth as he stared into it. “A transgression against the life force,” he said without looking up.

  “What sort of transgression?” Greylen impatiently growled.

  Daar shot him a quick frown, then went back to watching the fire. “Well, I’m guessing it might be a drùidh or guardian…ah, misusing his powers,” he said to the flames.

  “Now what have ye done?”

  “Not me!” Daar yelped, spinning to face him. “I’m not the one causing my tree to die. I’m trying to stop it!”

  “Then who is?”

  Daar shook his head with a calming sigh and dropped his gaze to the floor. “It could be any one of fifty or so souls. It matters not who, only that my tree is feeling the effects.”

  “Fifty?” Greylen whispered in horror. “There are fifty of you drùidhs running around?”

  “Nay,” Daar said, looking up. “There’s only six to ten of us at any one time. The other souls are guardians.”

  “Then why isn’t one of these guardians dealing with this problem? Ye told Robbie MacBain that it’s his duty to protect us from you interfering bastards.”

  “That is precisely why I’m thinking it’s a guardian causing the upset,” Daar said, scratching his beard.

  Grey let his arms fall to his sides and took a step back. “A guardian?” he whispered. “Are ye saying a rogue guardian is killing yer tree of life?”

  “Nay, he’s not doing it directly. He’s just turned against his calling, I’m thinking, and that’s upset the continuum. And that in turn is causing all the trees to weaken, until they die one by one. They cannot thrive when their energy is spent fighting to restore the balance.”

  The old drùidh stepped closer, his hands clasped tightly in front of him. “Winter is our only hope, Greylen. My powers have faded to the point that I can’t keep my tree alive much longer. It will take a much younger, much more powerful wizard to save it. It will take yer daughter.”

  “Nay. Ye can’t have her. She’s still only a bairn.”

  Daar threw up his hands with a sound of disgust, then pointed at the hearth. “Do ye see that?” he growled. “Right there, that little knot of wood sitting on the mantel, do ye see it? That’s all that’s left of my once-powerful staff. I’ve spent almost all of my energy trying to save my tree, while at the same time trying to find out who in hell has upset the continuum. But without my staff, I can barely toast bread now,” he ground out, still glaring at Grey.

  “Then what do ye have to give Winter, old man? If yer powers are gone, what is there for her to inherit?”

  Daar waved an impatient hand toward him. “Winter was born a drùidh, Greylen. She inherited the power from you.”

  Grey paled. “Me?” he whispered. “I don’t have any powers, priest. I’m a warrior, not a wizard. Hell, I don’t even have the power to control my own daughters most of the time.”

  Daar smiled. “Oh, Greylen. Ye have always carried our legacy in ye. Along with giving her yer warrior’s heart, ye also gave Winter the knowledge of the universe. From birth, Winter has been a drùidh.”

  “Then why hasn’t she—” Grey suddenly stiffened. “Ye said our legacy. What do ye mean by our?”

  “Just that,” Daar said with a smug grin. He angled his head. “Have ye never wondered why I chose you to father my heir, MacKeage? It’s because you and I are descended from the same ancestor. We
’re cousins, Greylen, with only five score of generations between us.”

  It was Grey’s turn to scrub his face, as he tried to rub away the horrifying notion. He was related to Daar? Holy hell!

  He still wanted to kill him.

  “I couldn’t father my own heir,” Daar continued. “Because if a drùidh has a child, his powers are lost to a future generation. That’s what happened with our mutual ancestor. He chose marriage over what Providence asked of him, and so his power was handed down to me, his grandson.” Daar pointed at Grey. “But you also received the power of a drùidh, held dormant for all those generations, in case I gave up my own destiny or for when I finally needed an heir.” Daar clasped his hands behind his back. “I chose to serve Providence, so I became a priest instead of a husband. Then I simply waited until I could match ye up with Grace Sutter, so ye could have seven daughters together. And yer last daughter, Winter, is my heir.”

  Grey thought about that. And he thought about his baby girl’s destiny. He leveled his narrowed, evergreen eyes on Daar. “So you’re saying that each drùidh has the choice of renouncing his destiny? All he has to do is have a child?”

  “Aye,” Daar confirmed with a nod. “Like everyone else on this earth, even drùidhs have free will.”

  “Then Winter still has the right to choose.”

  “Aye,” Daar said, even while shaking his head in negation. “But if she chooses to renounce her calling, there will be at least a two-generation gap in our lineage. By the time a new drùidh is born in our line, it will be too late. My pine tree will surely die before then, and that would start a disastrous reaction with all the other trees of life.”

  “Why can’t another drùidh come here and save yer tree?” Grey asked. “And ye can leave Winter out of it.”

  “Because they’re all trying to protect their own trees,” Daar rasped in frustration. “Each tree is dependent on its own lineage of drùidhs to nurture it.”

  “Then how were ye able to steal a root from Cùram de Gairn and grow it into yer white pine?”