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  “He might also be a serial killer.”

  Grace gave Winter the same motherly smile she used on her daughters whenever she was determined to get a point across without losing her patience. “The mathematical probability of finding a serial killer wearing an expensive suit, flying here in a private jet, and paying thousands of dollars for a whimsical painting of bear cubs is about the same as your papa asking Father Daar to come live with us at Gù Brath.”

  Winter closed the fridge door and held up her hands in petition. “Please, no more probabilities,” she groaned. “I still haven’t gotten over the last time you pointed out my chances of ending up an old hermit like Tom.”

  “You’re a good part of the way there already,” Grace said softly. She walked up, pulled Winter’s long single braid over her shoulder. “What is it you think you’re risking, Winter, by letting your heart lead you into the arms of a man?”

  “Independence, maybe?”

  Her mama gave her braid a tug. “I’ve been married for thirty-three years to possibly the bossiest man in the universe,” she said, her motherly smile turning even more tender. “And have managed to raise seven well-adjusted daughters despite him. And contrary to popular belief, the day I married your father is the day I gained my independence. It’s quite liberating, Winter, to follow your heart.”

  Winter leaned over, kissed her mama’s cheek, and stepped away. She headed to the counter and snatched up a slice of tomato, popped it in her mouth, and studied her mother while she chewed and swallowed. “A man came into my gallery yesterday and offered me a commission to choose a building site for him,” she finally said. “He did not ask me to marry him, contrary to how you’re all acting.” She waved a hand at the air. “He didn’t even flirt, not even a little bit. Heck, he got irritated when I wouldn’t sell him my painting of Gesader. And here you and Papa are, acting as if I’ve turned down his marriage proposal.”

  “So you aren’t attracted to Mr. Gregor?”

  “Of course I am. The man is gorgeous.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “I don’t have a problem. You and Papa do. You’re telling me to follow my heart when all I said last night was that a man had caught my attention.” Winter sighed and shook her head at her frowning mother. “You don’t have to worry about me, Mama. I promise I won’t become a hermit. I’m taking Matt Gregor’s commission, and I’m taking Megan along as chaperone to keep Papa from throwing a fit. And if Matt does ask me out on a date,” she said, walking toward the door that led into the hall, “I just might accept. Have fun on your picnic.” Winter stopped and pointed a finger at her mother. “Just remember there are hikers out there. I’d hate to see you caught in a compromising position.”

  “Better me than you,” her mother called out as Winter headed down the hall with a laugh.

  Pendaär sat in the sunshine on the porch of his cabin, absently running his fingers over the knotted cherrywood burl on his lap, and stared out at Pine Lake as he thought about his conversation with Greylen MacKeage that morning. No man wanted to hear that his daughter was about to enter a battle of such magnitude, much less that she was destined to live a very long life of solitude.

  Pendaär remembered his own emotional struggle some eighteen hundred years ago, when he had come face-to-face with his own destiny. But the true pain would likely come with the realization that she was going to witness the deaths of her loved ones for generations to come, while she went on living without them, alone, for centuries.

  Robbie MacBain had called Pendaär’s destiny a curse once, and there were days Pendaär couldn’t help but agree with him. Everyone he had ever loved had died, while he had been forced to carry on without them; his own mama and papa, his four brothers and two sisters, his nieces and nephews, and on and on it had endlessly gone for dozens of lifetimes.

  He’d tried once, about fourteen hundred years ago, to simply keep his distance from people. But Providence was an undeniable master, and a dispassionate drùidh could not be an effective servant. So Pendaär had spent nearly two millennia caring for and then watching his loved ones die—just as he was going to watch Greylen and Grace die, and Morgan and Callum, and even Robbie MacBain. And then there were Grey’s six oldest daughters…and their children…and their grandchildren…

  Only Winter would be with him this time, until his own eventual death—and then the precious lass would be on her own.

  Pendaär stood up, tucked the cherrywood burl in his pocket, and leaned against the porch rail as he stared out over the circle of mountains cradling Pine Lake. This trouble that was brewing, it was being carried in on a cold wind of utter hopelessness. Pendaär could all but see the colorless void of a soul who had simply given up. And of all the human frailties, hopelessness was the most insidious, feeding upon itself until it became all consuming.

  Pendaär scratched his chin as he wondered what had happened to Cùram de Gairn to turn him so bitterly away from his calling. Aye, he was positive it was the young wizard stirring the storm clouds, as Cùram was the only drùidh who couldn’t be accounted for right now.

  As Grey had suggested in their conversation this morning, Pendaär had already gone to his fellow drùidhs and asked for their help. And all of them, along with their own army of guardians, had told him they were too busy trying to save their own trees to offer assistance. They had, however, agreed that the storm was brewing almost directly over Pendaär’s head, and therefore it was his duty to stop it before it reached them.

  Pendaär had grown frustrated with their political posturing and had left the council with every intention of saving their sorry souls despite themselves. With Winter’s help, of course.

  He took the cherrywood burl out of his pocket and gazed at it with a tired sigh. It wasn’t much to show for his years of nurturing the energies of life. He’d been hoarding what was left of its knowledge, refusing to tap into the white pine he had hidden high up on TarStone Mountain. Winter would need whatever energy remained in the weakened tree, and this afternoon he must prune one of the branches to make Winter her own delicate staff.

  Pendaär clasped the burl to his chest, letting its weak hum softly resonate through him as he slid his gaze toward Gù Brath. Aye, Greylen must explain her destiny to his youngest daughter soon, before the storm broke over them with the vengeance of a hopelessness that even Winter’s powerful love of life might not be able to overcome.

  Chapter Six

  “I still don’t see why I have to ride Butterball instead of Goose Down. Yesterday you said being pregnant isn’t a disease, but today you’re treating me like an invalid.”

  Winter frowned at her grumbling sister riding beside her. “Matt needs to ride your horse,” she explained yet again as they rode away from the barn, with Winter leading the riderless Goose Down behind her. “You haven’t exercised Goose in weeks, and I don’t want you getting thrown. And since we both know Butterball is too lazy to buck off a fly, he’s perfect for you.”

  Megan actually smiled. “But it’s okay if Goose bucks off your Mr. Gregor?”

  “He’s not my mister anything,” Winter said through gritted teeth, glaring at Megan. “And you behave yourself today and not make any sly remarks. This is a business venture we’re on.”

  Megan snorted and urged Butterball into a trot, but the aging draft horse only managed an extended ambling walk, completely ruining Megan’s offended act. Butterball really belonged to Camry, who now lives in Florida, working for NASA.

  Winter followed in silence as she half anticipated, half dreaded seeing Matt again. Oh, how that man disturbed her in so many ways, on so many different levels. He was handsome as all get out, mysteriously compelling, and…well, dang it, he also seemed familiar to her. Yes, there was something about Matheson Gregor that made Winter think she knew him—or should know him. His eyes, maybe. When she looked into Matt’s deep, golden eyes, she had the eerie feeling they had met before.

  Matt’s size certainly didn’t bother her; she’d gr
own up in an extended family of large, physical, imposing Scots. Even Matt’s arrogance wasn’t a problem; she was used to male posturing that was more often bluster than menace.

  So how come he disturbed her so much? Why did her heart race whenever she saw him?

  Curses, this chemistry thing was confusing.

  Winter sighed as she followed Megan through the parking lot toward the hotel entrance. She was just going to have to play this out, she decided, and see where it led.

  Paul stepped away from a group of tourists gathered at the entrance, greeted Megan and Winter with a nod as they walked under the tall canopy, and took hold of Butterball’s bridle.

  Matt Gregor stepped through the lobby door just then and abruptly stopped, his polite smile instantly disappearing at the sight of the two women and three horses. “What the hell?” he whispered, his glare settling on Winter. “I am not riding a plow horse.”

  As powerful and imposing as he looked in a suit, Matt Gregor in casual dress defied description. Faded, muscle-hugging jeans, scarred work boots, and a soft-looking, muted-gray flannel shirt had transformed the polished businessman into a rugged outdoorsman.

  Remembering her need to keep the upper hand, Winter gave Matt a taste of his own medicine and lifted one brow. “Our horses have pulled a few pranks on us over the years, but I assure you, they have never pulled a plow.”

  “That,” Matt said, pointing at Goose Down while keeping his glare locked on her, “is a workhorse.”

  Winter patted Goose as he lazily nuzzled Snowball’s neck. “Goose is a Percheron, and he’s perfect transportation for where we’re going today. He’s sure-footed and bomb-proof.” She kicked up a slight grin. “Assuming he likes you well enough to let you ride him.”

  Matt’s eyes narrowed at her challenge, and he walked over and took Goose’s reins. He moved Goose away from her, carefully tied his jacket to the back of the saddle, then set his left foot in the stirrup and mounted up with the ease of a man who was obviously comfortable around horses.

  He expertly reined the suddenly alert Goose over to Megan and held out his hand. “Matt Gregor,” he said with an amiable smile. “I appreciate you giving up your afternoon to be our chaperone.”

  Megan dropped her gaze to the hand he was holding out. “Ah…Megan,” she whispered, finally setting her tiny hand in his.

  Matt gently shook it, then looked at Winter and gave an imperial wave of that same hand. “Shall we ride, then,” he said. “I’m anxious to finally see my land.”

  “You bought Bear Mountain without even seeing it?” Winter asked in surprise.

  Matt started his own horse toward the parking lot. “I saw a map of it, and aerial photos.” He looked over when she caught up with him. “I could just make out a small cabin in one of the photos, on the shoreline. I thought it might be a good place to build a house, since someone else must have thought so, too.”

  “If you don’t mind rebuilding four miles of old tote road,” Winter said. “That cabin is out on a narrow point, and the only access is by way of a winding logging road that travels halfway up and down Bear Mountain.” She gave him another challenging grin. “Or you could park on the main road and hike the mile of shoreline to get to your new home.”

  “Or I could just build a road along that shoreline.”

  “No, actually, you can’t,” Megan interjected, finally getting Butterball to catch up so that they were riding three abreast up the driveway that led through the woods to Gù Brath. “You’d have to cross a large bog and then build a bridge across Bear Brook where it runs into Pine Lake. The regulations regarding wetlands are strict, and I doubt you could even get a permit.”

  Matt frowned ahead of them, then looked at Megan. “So I can’t build anywhere on the shoreline?”

  “You can, as long as you keep a large setback from both the lake and any nearby bogs.”

  “Or you could build farther up on the mountain,” Winter suggested, drawing his attention. “The trade-off to hearing the waves lap the shore would be to have a really spectacular view.”

  Matt nodded thoughtfully. “That might work.” He turned to Megan. “Are the regulations as—” He suddenly brought Goose to an abrupt halt. “Is that a castle?” he asked, staring at the large structure in front of them.

  “That’s Gù Brath, our home,” Winter explained, not surprised by his reaction. She let her gaze follow his, to travel up the towering walls of their stone and granite home. “And it’s a keep, not a castle. A keep is only part of a castle, usually the central, most secure tower. Our papa and uncles didn’t need a home as big as a castle, so they built a keep.”

  “Is that a moat?”

  “Not really,” Winter said with a chuckle. “It’s the stream that runs off the mountain, and it’s only on this side of the structure. The bridge you have to cross to get to the door does pull up, though, like a drawbridge.”

  It seemed Matt couldn’t stop staring at Gù Brath. “It hardly has any windows,” he said. “And that black stone. What is it?”

  Winter shrugged, but Matt didn’t see the gesture. He was busy examining her home. “It’s the rock TarStone gets its name from. It runs in fissures through the gray granite of the mountain, as wide as a football field in some places. The stone was brought down the mountain to build our home some thirty-five years ago.”

  Matt finally looked at her. “You called it Gù Brath. What does that mean, and how is it spelled?”

  “It’s spelled G-U B-R-A-T-H, and it’s Gaelic for ‘forever.’ Our papa and uncles named their home Forever because they said they were never moving again.”

  Matt narrowed his eyes at her, apparently suspicious he was getting only the tourist’s version. He went back to examining her home. “That section on the left side. That looks newer than the rest of the…house,” he observed.

  “That’s our family wing, added twenty-six years ago. The wing has nine bedrooms, a swimming pool, a computer lab, and a really big kitchen.”

  Matt looked at her again. “Did I hear right yesterday? There are seven of you MacKeage girls? I mean women,” he quickly amended with an apologetic grin.

  “Yes. Though just Megan and I live at home now.”

  “Where do you fall in the birth order?”

  Winter widened her smile. “I’m the baby girl.” She nodded toward Megan. “We have a sister named Elizabeth between us, and then there’s Megan’s twin, Chelsea, our twin sisters Sarah and Camry, and Heather is the oldest.”

  “All are married but you?”

  Despite thinking he was being impolitely curious, Winter decided to continue explaining her family to Matt, so he would know what he was getting himself into—just in case he might be thinking of asking her on a date. “Heather is married and living in California with her husband and three bairns. Sarah is married with one bairn, and lives in Scotland. Camry is single and a scientist for NASA in Florida, Chelsea has four boys and is a lawyer in Bangor, and Elizabeth teaches third grade here in Pine Creek. She has two kids,” she finished with a laugh at his look of awe.

  “And when are you and your husband expecting your child?” Matt asked, looking at Megan.

  Megan’s face turned three shades of red. “I…I’m not married,” she whispered.

  “Forgive me,” Matt murmured. “Seeing your condition, I just assumed—”

  “How do you know she’s pregnant?” Winter asked, drawing his attention away from her mortified sister. “She’s not even showing yet.”

  Matt shook his head, his smile softening his features, then turned that smile on Megan. “Women have a certain look when they’re expecting,” he softly told Megan. “A beautiful glow.” He reached out and laid a hand on Butterball’s mane, just above where Megan was holding the reins. “I apologize if I’ve embarrassed you. But at the risk of being even more impolite, is the father around?”

  Megan, looking down at his hand on Butterball’s mane, merely shook her head.

  “Does he know about the child?”
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br />   “He knows,” Winter snapped, deciding Matt Gregor was getting much too personal about something that was none of his business. “And Megan is better off without the slimy coward,” she added, using Snowball to crowd Matt’s horse into moving up the trail. “We need to get going or we’ll miss the sunset from Bear Mountain.”

  Matt settled Goose back down to a walk, continuing up the forest road just past Gù Brath, and turned to Winter, looking not the least bit apologetic. “I only asked because I have several connections in my business,” he softly told her the moment they were out of Megan’s hearing. “Which allow me to reach people in a multitude of ways. Give me his name, and I can make him show up here tomorrow, vowing his undying love for your sister.”

  Winter blinked at him. Was this guy for real? He couldn’t be offering to strong-arm Wayne Ferris.

  Matt sighed and shook his head. “Look, I know it’s none of my business. But I hate—” He moved his gaze to the trail ahead. “I had a sister once in the same situation, only at the time there was nothing I could do to help her.” He looked over his shoulder to check on Megan, then back at Winter. “But I can certainly help your sister, if you want me to.”

  “Why would Megan want a slimy coward declaring undying love to her? She’s better off without him.”

  Matt grinned. “You have a point. Okay then, give me his name and I’ll make him sorry he ever met Megan.”

  Winter found her own smile, thinking of Wayne Ferris getting his comeuppance. “Just like that,” she said to Matt. “You would go after a man you don’t even know, for a woman you just met?”

  “It would be my pleasure,” he said ever so softly, once more checking on Megan before looking back at Winter. “I couldn’t do anything for my sister, but I can help Megan.”

  Winter thought about that, about this new facet of the man whose golden eyes she found so compelling. Apparently, he had a personal code of justice he lived by, albeit a tad skewed if he was willing to punish one man for another man’s crime. How interesting. And disturbing.