Wedding the Highlander Read online

  “Thanks, Stan. Oh, and I’m going out of town for a while. Mom will be coming in to water my plants and stuff. Take good care of her for me, would you?”

  “You got it, Dr. H. Have a good trip.”

  “I intend to, Stan. Thanks.”

  Elizabeth pushed herself away from the intercom and headed back to the bedroom. She stopped at her computer and logged onto the Internet. While the modem dialed up, she went to her closet and stared at her clothes.

  What should she take? Damn, she needed a destination. She’d bought herself a bit of time with Stanley if James decided to come looking for her. The National Guard couldn’t get past her doorman now that he knew she didn’t want to be disturbed.

  Elizabeth went back to her computer and surfed the Internet for real estate ads for houses to rent, suddenly deciding the opposite coast just might be far enough away.

  New England sounded good, quaint and unhurried and very, very real. A place in the mountains where she could feel the earth wrapping securely around her.

  As her search engine complied listings in Maine, New Hampshire, and Vermont, Elizabeth headed back to the closet and pulled out warm clothes. She returned to the computer and found 846 listings of houses for rent.

  She narrowed it down by population, requesting a small town, which brought the total to 320. She trimmed the list further by limiting the search to rentals with wood-burning fireplaces.

  Elizabeth sat down at her desk with a tired sigh. She’d have to read 106 ads. She was creating a new life here, and she intended to do it right.

  One hour later, Elizabeth straightened in her chair and blinked through blurry eyes at the listing in Pine Creek, Maine. It was a hundred-year-old farmhouse set on sixty-four acres, with a fireplace, a farm kitchen, and a two-bay garage. It had outbuildings for animals and a view of Pine Lake from the porch, all backed up against TarStone Mountain. Rent was four hundred dollars a month plus utilities.

  But it was the pictures, not the outrageously low rent, that caught Elizabeth’s attention. There were four digital photos with the ad, and Elizabeth immediately fell in love with the house, Pine Creek, and the boy who sat proudly on a pony in front of a field of Christmas trees.

  The first photo was of the house, a stately, two-story, white clapboard New England farmhouse with a slate roof, two chimneys, and a porch that wrapped around it on three sides. The second photo was taken from a distance and nicely showed off the setting. The house sat away from the road and was nestled against brightly colored maple trees contrasted by dark evergreens rising steeply up the side of TarStone Mountain.

  Elizabeth assumed the third photo was taken from the porch of the house. It showed an unbelievable autumn vista of more mountains surrounding a very large body of water that must be Pine Lake.

  But it was the fourth photo that tugged at her heart. A child eleven or maybe twelve years old sat on his pony and grinned at the camera. His chest was puffed out, his deep auburn hair was blowing in his eyes, and he had a lopsided smile on his face that was more arrogant than sweet.

  Proud. Handsome. And apparently wanting to rent his mother’s house, according to the write-up, which stated that the house had sat empty for almost eight years now.

  She could give the old house its life back. Heck, she even had a way to make a living in Pine Creek.

  Since the age of twelve, Elizabeth and Grammy Bea had kept their hobby a secret, simply because jewelry making would not be a noble pursuit in her father’s eyes. And if he had known and had somehow approved, well, her dad would have nagged Elizabeth to know why she wasn’t using gold or silver if she wanted to play at being a craftsman. No, Barnaby Hart would not have understood that creating jewelry out of glass was just as inspiring, and just as rewarding, as using more expensive material.

  Elizabeth decided she could open a studio and sell her creations from her own little shop. Pine Creek was in the mountains, and Maine was known for its great skiing. Surely there was a resort town within a reasonable commute where she could set up a shop.

  Her equipment was at Bea’s home in the mountains, so she’d have to drive up there tonight, pack it up, and ship it to Pine Creek. She figured she had two, maybe three days before James grew impatient enough to make the drive up there to find her.

  And so Elizabeth clicked the response button at the bottom of Robbie MacBain’s ad and typed:

  Dear Mr. MacBain,

  I was very taken with your ad to rent out your home and would like for you to consider renting it to me. Right now I live in California, but I wish to move to New England. There is no snow where I live, but I have spent a lot of time up in the mountains, and I love snow.

  I also love your home. It is my hope to move to Pine Creek and get a few cats and some chickens. I also like your pony, and I think I might like to have my own horse to ride in your beautiful woods.

  I enjoy growing things and would love to plant an herb garden next spring. But mostly I think you should know that it’s the house itself that draws me to Pine Creek. It’s a beautiful home your mama lived in, Robbie. It looks to be well built and very cozy. I especially love the fact that it has a fireplace.

  And I think you’re right, a house is only a home when it’s lived in. I’m glad you wish to rent it, and I’m hoping you’ll rent it to me.

  I am a jewelry maker and would like to set up a studio in town or in a town close by. I make glass jewelry inspired by nature—birds, flowers, acorns, leaves, and animals.

  I’m sorry that I can’t send you my phone number so that we can talk in person, but I’m going to my grandmother’s home before traveling to Maine—and to Pine Creek, I hope, if you’ll have me.

  I will still be able to check my e-mail on a regular basis and am looking forward to hearing from you.

  Sincerely,

  Elizabeth Hart

  Elizabeth reread her letter. She thought for a minute, clicked on her name at the end, and quickly changed “Elizabeth” to “Libby.” Grammy Bea had always called her Libby, and if she was creating a new life for herself, a new name was a great way to start. And so Elizabeth—no, Libby—set the mouse pointer on the respond button, took a deep breath, and sent her letter spiraling through cyberspace toward young Robbie MacBain.

  There. It was done.

  Chapter Three

  Pine Creek, Maine, October 28

  Driving definitely would have been easierif Libby could have kept her eyes on the road. And the trip wouldn’t have taken nearly as long if she hadn’t had to stop every half hour to get out and stare at the landscape.

  But the country was beautiful. Rugged. Overwhelming.

  The trees went on forever; fluorescent red and yellow and orange blanketed the mountains, broken only by the deep green of pine and spruce and hemlock. Cliffs of solid granite pushed up through the vivid colors, hinting at the massive foundation that lay beneath the forest.

  Since renting the small compact car at the airport in Bangor and heading northwest on Route 15, Libby had felt herself climbing, rising into the mountains until they wrapped completely around her. The tension of the last week slowly seeped from her body, andhome became a whispered mantra that repeated itself with every beat of her heart.

  After taking nearly three hours to travel the eighty miles from Bangor, Libby crested yet another hill and just barely caught herself before slamming on the brakes. The sight of Pine Lake, with its vast waters contained only by the sheer strength of the mountains, stole her breath. Libby guided her car to the shoulder of the two-lane road, shut off the engine, and stared through the windshield.

  Islands, some the size of houses and some several acres in size, dotted the large cove that fingered in from the lake toward the small town nestled on the shore. Mountains rose from the water’s edge like watchful guardians, several of their peaks shrouded by low clouds as they marched into the distance.

  Her life up until this moment seemed no more than a dream as she stared at the great reality in front of her. Miracles lived here.
This was a realm of possibilities, whispering the promise of sanctuary to her fragmented soul.

  Her flight from California had ended. She’d been driven—or pulled—to this magical place by a guiding presence that needed no reason other than rightness. How and why and what would happen next did not matter. Libby simply knew this was where she belonged.

  She had never given much thought to mystical powers—not until a week ago, when she’d found herself holding that very power in her hands. She was a surgeon who could suddenly heal people without a scalpel.

  Libby finally tore her gaze away from the lake and picked up her collection of printouts from Robbie MacBain. She shuffled the papers until she found the digital photos that had accompanied Robbie’s Internet ad. She stared at the young boy sitting on his pony in front of a field of Christmas trees and tried to decide what it was about him that had made her choose to come here.

  His mother’s home was certainly enticing enough. And the mountains held their own allure, if only for their illusion of security.

  But Robbie MacBain had been the final deciding factor. There was something about him, something almost otherworldly. He was a child with the eyes of an ancient soul. There was a presence about him, as he sat so proudly on his pony and looked directly at the camera with a subtle, I-know-a-secret smile lifting his lips and the promise of magic shining in his young, pewter-gray eyes.

  Libby shuffled the papers again and found Robbie’s last e-mail to her. “Head northeast out of Pine Creek,” he’d written, “and drive until you see a large field of Christmas trees on your right. I think it’s about five miles from town. I know it’s not a very long ride on the schoolbus, so it shouldn’t take you too long to find my home.”

  Libby adjusted the rearview mirror so she could see herself, brushed a stray curl from her face, and gave a quick fluff to her short, wavy hair. She blinked her huge brown eyes as she examined her reflection, hoping that her light touch of makeup wasn’t too much, and smiled to make sure a stray piece of lettuce from the sandwich she’d gotten in Bangor wasn’t stuck in her teeth. She wanted to look at least presentable when she met her new young landlord, so he wouldn’t realize that he’d rented his mother’s home to a desperate woman with secrets of her own.

  Satisfied that she looked like a sane, sensible, thirty-one-year-old jewelry maker, Libby started the car, waited for a pickup truck to drive past, and pulled back onto the road. She drove slowly through the tiny town of Pine Creek, noticing with interest the few stores and three dozen or so people going about their business. She also noticed that her little car was dwarfed by the many pickups and huge logging trucks. She saw only one other car, squeezed between dust-covered pickups in front of Dolan’s Outfitter Store.

  She stopped at the intersection in the center of town and tried to decide which way to turn. She didn’t have a compass, but there were only three ways out of Pine Creek, and Libby picked the graveled but obviously much-used road that put the sun to her left, figuring it pointed her northeast.

  She traveled for six miles and still didn’t see a Christmas tree. Libby picked up theMaine Atlas and Gazetteer she’d bought at the airport in Bangor, but her attention was quickly drawn back to the road when a streak of white swooped past the nose of her car. She slammed on the brakes and jerked the steering wheel to the left to avoid hitting the large bird.

  She was traveling too fast, and her car skidded toward the ditch. Libby jerked the wheel back to the right, and again she slid on the frozen gravel, fishtailing into the sharp curve that suddenly loomed before her.

  She might have been able to maintain control if that damn suicidal bird had not flown past her windshield again. She cut the wheel to the right this time, only to skid on a puddle of ice at the edge of the road. Her car hit the ditch, shot up the embankment, and suddenly became airborne.

  Libby shielded her face with her arms as she plowed through a stand of evergreens, her scream of surprise cut short when the small car slammed into the frozen farm pond on the other side of the trees. Both airbags exploded, punching Libby in the chest and face with the force of a cannonball.

  She slapped the slowly deflating airbag away, coughing on the packing powder that had shot through the interior of the car when the airbags deployed. Water and ice cascaded over the hood, seeping into the cracks in the windshield, and the sound of the hissing engine and gushing water turned Libby’s shock to terror.

  The car settled deeper into the pond.

  Libby grappled with the buckle on her seat belt as freezing water rushed over the floorboards. She finally got free but couldn’t open the door. It was locked, and she couldn’t find the release button on the new-model rental. She tried rolling down the windows, but they were electric and wouldn’t work, either. So she pulled her wet feet up onto the seat and started kicking at the driver’s side window. After several forceful kicks, she realized there was a man wading through the water toward her. His steely glare followed the path her car had taken, and then his piercing gun-metal eyes came to rest on her.

  The car settled deeper into the pond.

  The idiot. Why wasn’t he rushing to help her get out before she drowned? Libby kicked the window harder and yelled at the man to do something.

  But he only continued to glare.

  Until finally, and ever so slowly, he tried to open the door, only to find it was locked. He pointed at the gearshift and motioned for her to put the car in park.

  Sitting upright, Libby pushed on the gearshift until it was in the park position. She heard the distinct sound of all four locks clicking open. She immediately lifted the door handle and tried to open the door, but it still wouldn’t budge.

  And the car continued to settle deeper into the pond.

  Libby started beating on the window again.

  The man broke more of the ice around where he stood, braced one booted foot to the right of the car door, and took hold of the handle. With a powerful tug, he pulled open the door, and gallons of water rushed into the car, sweeping Libby into the passenger seat. She banged her head on the opposite window and cursed.

  But she quickly shut up when her ungracious and still glaring rescuer ducked into the car. The guy was huge, the most ferocious-looking man she’d ever laid eyes on.

  And he was cursing back at her.

  Something about murdering his prize Christmas trees.

  Or was he wanting to murder her?

  “You little fool,” he growled as he reached toward her. “You won’t drown because the pond is not deep.”

  More shaken by his attitude than his size, and deciding she wanted to escape him as well as the sinking car, Libby drew up her knees, planted her feet on his chest, and shoved.

  Her action was so unexpected, the giant reared up, bumped his head on the roof, and went sprawling backward into the pond with another colorful curse of his own. Libby scrambled over the seat and out the door before he could recover, only to find that her legs refused to hold her up.

  She fell on top of the giant.

  Powerful arms wrapped around her. They both sank under the surface this time, and Libby swallowed half the pond as she struggled to get free. His strength mocked her efforts. And with one of his viselike arms wrapped around her waist and his other hand cupping her bottom, he simply stood up.

  Libby instantly stilled when she found herself looking into deep gray eyes that were no longer glaring.

  They were laughing.

  And the giant’s hand on her bottom felt more like a caress than an attempt to secure her.

  So much for first impressions. She was a soaking wet, shivering mess who couldn’t even keep her car on the road, and he was a knock-down-gorgeous mountain of man who couldn’t even control his hormones long enough to fish her out of a pond without copping a feel. But before she could tell him what she thought of his anything but heroic rescue, the chaos of the crash finally caught up with her, and Libby slumped forward and very quietly—and most unwisely—fainted.

  The whisperi
ng woke her.

  And the throbbing in her temple caused her to moan.

  The whispers immediately ceased, and Libby opened her eyes, only to let out a scream of surprise that made her sit up and grab her head. Two strong hands reached out and took hold of her shoulders, keeping Libby from toppling over. Her head swam, making her dizzy, and she grasped the arms holding her steady, only to find herself looking into the deepest, darkest pewter-gray eyes she’d ever seen.

  Eyes that were dancing with amusement.

  “I fainted,” she said lamely.

  “Aye.”

  Libby blinked.Aye? “Aye?” she repeated aloud.

  The giant nodded.

  Libby felt the heat of her blush travel up her neck to her cheeks. She also felt a flutter in the pit of her stomach.

  “Papa, can’t you see how huge her eyes are? You’re scaring Libby.”

  Libby turned to the child who had spoken. The boy was sitting beside his father on the coffee table in front of the couch, grinning at her. She immediately recognized him from the picture in the ad on the Internet.

  He patted her knee. “It’s okay, Libby,” he said. “My papa’s just afraid you’ll faint again.”

  His papa was most likely getting ready to cop another feel, Libby thought. She looked back at Robbie MacBain’s father and gave him a good glare to let him know what she thought of his chivalry. She quickly decided she’d rather deal with the younger MacBain when Robbie’s papa simply smiled back.

  “You know who I am?” she asked Robbie.

  The boy nodded but lowered his eyes. “I knew you were Libby Hart the moment I saw you, but Papa looked in your purse just to make sure.”

  Libby shot the man another glare. He finally let go of her shoulders and leaned away, crossing his arms over his chest, his deep gray eyes still dancing with lazy humor.

  The wordgiant came to mind, but somehow even that label seemed inadequate.Goliath might fit better. Libby imagined Goliath had looked just as intimidating.

  This giant was wearing a flannel shirt that clung to an impressively broad chest and strongly muscled arms. There was a towel draped around his neck, which obviously had been run over his still damp hair to dry up the pond water. The shadow of an emerging beard covered his angular jaw, and his high cheekbones were tinged red as his body worked to replace the heat he’d lost to the pond.