Jack turned toward the kitchen and saw that Camry was as pale as her sister. Wonderful. Now they both thought he was weird.

“He was a medicine man,” he growled. “He used herbs and prayers to heal people.”

“Did you, ah…inherit his gift?” Megan asked.

“No.”

“How do you know for sure?” Camry asked.

Jack held his crutches away from his body. “I’m thirty-four years old. Don’t you think I’d know something like that by now, and would heal myself if I could?”

“That’s not how the magic works,” Megan blurted out, then looked just as surprised at what she’d said as he was.

The magic? What was going on here? These two woman—scientists, for Pete’s sake—appeared both fascinated and horrified that his great-grandfather had been a shaman.

“Exactly how does the magic work, then?” he asked. “And what good would it do me, if I can’t heal myself?”

Megan narrowed her eyes, and there went her hands to her hips again. “Could your grandfather heal himself?”

“Great-grandfather,” he reminded her. “He used his medicinal herbs and sweat lodge whenever he was ill. You didn’t answer my question. How does the magic work?”

“How should I know? I’m a biologist, not a wizard.”

Wizard? Where had that come from?

“They’re here!” Camry said, rushing to the door and opening it to look outside.

Jack didn’t hear any vehicle driving in, no car doors shutting, nobody talking.

“Oh, I thought I heard something,” Camry said, closing the door. She then rushed across the room to the stairs. “I’ll be back in a minute. Let them in when they get here, will you, Jack?” she called out.

Jack turned to Megan, but she had disappeared, too. “Guess that ended that conversation,” he muttered to the empty room, only to realize this was his own chance to escape. He tucked his crutches under one arm and limped out onto the porch, then carefully made his way down the shadowed driveway.

A dark Suburban rounded the corner and pulled into the driveway, bathing Jack in blinding light just as he hit a patch of ice and his feet headed in two different directions. He fought to keep his balance for several seconds, realized it wasn’t going to happen, and threw himself toward the nearest snowbank.

His crutches landed on top of him, driving his face into the snow. Jack gave a pained sigh of defeat. He might as well stay here until he froze to death, rather than continue to be beaten up by everyone—including himself.

He could swear he heard Grand-père laughing his head off. For five years, Forest Dreamwalker had tried to persuade Jack that his brother’s gift had passed down to him, always ending each lecture with a warning that the longer Jack continued to deny his calling, the louder it would become.

Apparently destiny had resorted to shouting.

“Are you all right?” came a male voice. “You needn’t have jumped out of the way. I wouldn’t have hit ye.”

Wonderful. Jack couldn’t think of a better first meeting with his future father-in-law. He spit out a mouthful of snow. “I’m fine.”

“Let me help ye up.”

“No, thanks. I think I’ll stay right here for a while.”

“Jack?” Camry said, rushing off the porch and over to them. When she tried to stop, she also slipped on the ice, and skidded into Jack with enough force to make him grunt. She would have landed on top of him if her father hadn’t caught her. “Jack, what are you doing out here?”

“Taking a snow bath.”

“This is Jack Stone?” Greylen MacKeage said in surprise. He reached down, grabbed Jack by the shoulders, and lifted him to his feet. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Chief Stone,” the towering Scot said, grabbing Jack’s right hand and giving it a firm shake. The man looked like he was pushing seventy judging by his graying hair, but he had the grip of a bear. “I am Laird Greylen MacKeage, Megan’s father.”

Laird? Did that title even exist anymore?

“And I’m Grace MacKeage,” a petite, beautiful woman said as she appeared beside her husband. Her eyes shone a startling blue in the porch light. “You gave us a fright, Mr. Stone. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, ma’am, I’m fine,” he said, taking the hand she extended. “I just slipped on the ice.”

“Are these yours?” another woman said, bending to pick up his crutches. She held them out with a smile, and Jack found himself staring into Megan’s eyes but not Megan’s face. “I’m Chelsea,” she said. “Megan’s twin sister.”

“The lawyer from Bangor,” Jack acknowledged with a nod, taking the crutches from her. “Megan’s told me about you.”

Another woman crowded Chelsea out of the way. “I’m Elizabeth Sprague, Megan’s younger sister. I teach third grade here in town.”

Jack nodded. “I’ve met your husband. Walter, isn’t it? He’s the high school principal?”

“Yes. He mentioned you stopped by his school a few days ago, to speak to him about our pranksters.”

Pranksters was a cute name for the little bastards, Jack supposed. But then, Elizabeth Sprague was a teacher, and no teacher wanted to believe any child was a criminal.

“It’s freezing out here,” Megan called from the door. “What are you all doing standing outside?”

“We’re coming in,” Greylen MacKeage said, herding the women toward the house. He turned back to Jack. “Need any help getting in? I’ve been looking forward to speaking with you, Chief Stone. I have some ideas on how ye might capture your young hoodlums.”

“I was just headed home.”

“Then I’ll walk with ye, to make sure you don’t fall again. You don’t happen to have any cold ale at your house, do you, Chief?”

Chief? Did that mean he supposed to call the man laird? “I have some Canadian lager,” he offered, tucking his crutches under his armpits and carefully making his way out the driveway.

“Wayne? Where are you going?” Megan called from the porch.

Jack kept walking.

“I mean Jack. Jack, you can’t fend for yourself yet.”

He finally stopped and turned to her, acutely aware that the man standing beside him had gone perfectly still, and that his hands were balled into fists at his sides. “I’ll be okay,” Jack assured her. “Your father can build me a fire.” He looked at Greylen and shrugged. “She calls me Wayne sometimes.”

“I’d give my right arm for five minutes alone with Wayne Ferris,” Greylen growled. “He’s the bastard who got her with child and then discarded her like trash.”

Jack started for home again. O-kay, then. When they reached the driveway, he asked, “You wouldn’t happen to prefer something a bit stronger than beer, would you, laird?”

“I never turn down scotch, Chief.”

“Then what say we build a nice crackling fire, I’ll dig out my good scotch, and then I’ll tell you an interesting story?”

Greylen shot him a curious look, then nodded curtly, going up Jack’s porch stairs ahead of him.

“The key’s under the mat,” Jack told him, following at a more labored pace.

Greylen peeled back the mat and picked up the key. “Ye haven’t much sense for security, for a policeman.”

Jack merely shrugged. Greylen opened the door and snapped on the light. “What is your story about, Chief?” he asked, walking to the woodstove in the middle of the back wall.

“Oh, it has a little of everything,” Jack told him, limping to the cupboard that held the scotch. He took down the unopened bottle and two tumblers, then filled both glasses three-quarters full. “There’s a mystery, a murder, and even some romance.”

Greylen placed paper and kindling in the firebox. “And I will be interested because?”

Jack carried both drinks over, handed one to Greylen, then touched their glasses together. He took a long gulp, letting the liquid fire slide down his throat as he hobbled back to the counter to put some distance between them. “I believe you’ll be interested because it’s about me and Megan and our child, and the fact that the mystery and murder I was trying to protect her from may have followed her home.”