“Then we’ll go left.” He shrugged. “Either direction, it’s got to come out someplace.”

He turned and walked away, and Megan watched in her mirror as he got back on his sled and waited. She looked up the new trail in both directions again, then gave her sled the gas and turned right, having learned long ago that when someone had a hunch and she had nothing, it was smarter to go with the hunch.

Within four miles the knot in her gut began to unwind as the trail slowly curved westward, taking them up and over the mountain, heading back toward the lake. She smiled. Jack might not want to admit it, but some of his great-grandfather’s magic must have rubbed off on him.

Then again, maybe he was just lucky.

It was another ten miles before the area began to look familiar. The ridge to their right was the north end of Scapegoat Mountain, and she was sure the peat bog that she’d glimpsed through an opening in the forest was Beaver Bog. That meant the mountain ahead of them was Springy, and the deer yard she was looking for was…

She raised her left hand to warn Jack she was stopping, and brought her sled to a halt. She set the brake and got off, lifting her visor as she walked back to him. “I think the deer yard I’m looking for is just over there,” she said, pointing to a nearby ridge. “Let’s find a place off the trail to set up camp. If the yard is there, I don’t want to spook the herd by getting any closer with the snowmobiles.”

“That’s fine with me. I’m starved.”

“It’s ten-thirty.”

“I overslept and didn’t have time for breakfast. Did you remember the gravy?”

“Did you bring a pot to warm it in?” she asked, eyeing his small saddlebags.

He nodded toward her sled idling in front of them. “I’m sure your father stashed a pot in that pack basket.”

“For a man who grew up in the wilderness, you certainly don’t carry much survival gear.”

He grinned up at her. “Give me a good knife and some rope and I can live like a king.”

“Then you can set up camp and cook dinner while I check out the deer yard.”

“That’ll take you at least a couple of hours.”

“So have a nap.”

“Sounds like a plan to me. Pick a sunny spot out of the breeze,” he said, waving her toward her sled and flipping down the visor.

Once again, Megan found herself stomping back to her snowmobile. She had to stop letting him rile her. What had happened to Wayne-the-nerd, anyway? She actually missed him. Yet Jack-the-jerk was much more…stimulating.

Which was scary, considering she’d sworn off all men four months ago. Too bad her hormones hadn’t gotten the memo.

Chapter Thirteen

J ack added more twigs to the small fire he had going, gave the remaining gravy a stir, and licked the spoon clean. He then settled back on his leather jacket and ski pants, which he’d taken off and laid over some fir boughs to make a bed. He closed his eyes with a sigh, thinking that if he got any smarter he might scare himself. Being out here alone with Megan was just like when they’d been out on the tundra, only better. This time there weren’t any squabbling students to babysit or honking geese trying to peck him for messing with their young; it was just the two and a half of them in the middle of miles of wilderness.

Yup, he sure loved seeing a plan come together. Jack fell asleep with a smile, thinking life didn’t get any better than having the little woman off at work while he kept the home fires burning. With that thought warming his heart, he drifted off into dreamland.

His mother visited him first, her radiant smile surrounding Jack with familiar serenity. “I like her family,” Sarah Stone said. “Grace MacKeage will make you a wonderful mother-in-law. She’s exactly the feminine influence I’d hoped you would find.”

“Maybe she’ll be my mother-in-law,” Jack told the childhood vision of his mother. “I need the cooperation of her daughter for that to happen.”

“Megan will come around. You heeded your grand-père’s warning to send her home, and now you’ll simply have to undo the damage.”

“But how?”

“By being who you truly are, my son. The longer you deny it, the harder your journey will become.”

“You sound like Grand-père.”

“Because I am his granddaughter, Coyote.”

“Where are Dad and Walker? I want to see them.”

“They’re fishing with my father. Grand-père’s here, though. He has something to show you.”

“I’m not in the mood for one of his lectures.” Jack’s voice rose when his mother began to fade into the shimmering light. “Stay and talk to me about how to fix things with Megan. I need your help, Mama. I miss you.”

She stopped disappearing, only a faint image of her radiant beauty remaining. “You can’t miss what you’ve never lost, Coyote. Every breath you take is my breath; every beat of your heart is my heartbeat; every time you hear the wind in the trees, I am singing to you. I walk inside you, my son.”

“Stay, Mama.”

“I’ll be back again soon, but I must go find your father and brother now. Heed your grand-père’s words, Coyote, for with the gift he brings you, he also brings wisdom.”

“Mama!”

“Coyote! Quit your hollering,” Forest Dreamwalker commanded as he appeared out of the ether, the epitome of shamanistic lore from his flowing gray hair down to the wrinkles on his aged face. “You’re too old to be crying after your mama.”

“I will never outgrow my need for her, old man.”

“A father must be strong. Do you wish your son to think you weak?”

“What I wish is for you to stop plaguing my dreams,” Jack growled. “My brother was to be your heir, not me. Wait—you said my son. Megan’s having a boy?”

“Piqued your interest, have I? So now you’ll listen to me?”

“What is that under your robe?”

“This?” Forest Dreamwalker lowered the edge of the thick wool robe he wore. “Why, it’s an infant!”

“My son?” Jack asked, sitting up.

“According to what I saw when your mama changed his diaper,” the old shaman said with a chuckle.

Jack stretched out his hands. “Let me hold him.”

“In three and a half months, Coyote. Until then, he’s ours to play with.”

“Jack. My name is Jack now.”

“Only because some fool social worker didn’t know the difference between a coyote and a jackal. She had no right changing the name your mother and father gave you.”

Jack dropped his outstretched hands with a sigh. This had been a bone of contention with his great-grandfather for nearly twenty-six years. “She changed it because no one would have adopted a kid named Coyote,” Jack told him for the thousandth time. “And I’ve kept it because it suits me. Move your robe so I can see my son.”

The old man peeled back the wool a bit more. “You’ll have to trust me that he’s got your eyes,” he said. “I’m not about to wake him, as he has the scream of a warrior. Which gives me hope that he’ll inherit his mother’s highlander spirit.”

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to travel a peaceful path.” Jack reached out again. “Let me hold him.”

“If I do, will you agree to listen to me?”

Jack stilled. “You would use an innocent child to bargain?”

“Only because you force me to such extremes.”

He really, really wanted to hold his son. “Okay.”

The old man hesitated. “Promise me you won’t wake him.”

“I just want to hold him,” Jack said, reaching out again. He took the child, surprised by how little he weighed. “He’s not very big,” he said, setting his son on his lap so he could study him.

“He will be when he’s born,” Forest said with a chuckle. “As I’m sure his mama will discover. No, don’t unbundle him,” he admonished, reaching out and tucking the blanket back around him. “He likes the security of being tightly swaddled.”

But the child—his son!—started wiggling, then gave a yawn and stretched his little legs, pushing his feet against Jack’s belly with surprising strength. His tiny arms started fighting the blanket, and he suddenly cracked open his eyes.