One of those blasted brows rose again, along with one side of his mouth. Matt stepped back with a sudden, chest-rumbling laugh. “I’ll see you and your chaperone at two o’clock then,” he said.

Winter turned Snowball around with a muttered thank-you to Paul and headed for home without looking back. Not that she could have even if she’d wanted to, what with Matt Gregor’s deeply resonating, utterly male laughter still pulsing through every nerve in her body.

Winter walked in the back door of Gù Brath and took off her boots before stepping into the monstrous kitchen. “Oh good, you’re here,” she said to her mother as she walked over to the counter. “I was wondering if you could watch the gallery this afternoon.”

“Sorry,” Grace MacKeage said without turning away from the counter. “I’m packing a lunch.

Your father and I are headed to the summit for a picnic.”

Winter plucked a piece of chicken off the platter and popped it in her mouth. “Papa’s taking you up the mountain?” she asked once she’d swallowed. “He never mentioned anything about a picnic to me this morning.”

“Your father came in from his morning ride and told me to pack a lunch,” Grace said, tossing her head to settle her long blonde hair back over her shoulders. “And I’m not pressing my luck by asking questions.” She glanced at Winter. “Sorry. You’ll have to find someone else to watch the gallery. Maybe Libby’s mom can. You know how much Kate enjoys being needed these days.”

Stealing one of the slices of tomato, Winter bolted away from the counter. “That’s a good idea,” she said. “I’ll ask Gram Katie. If she has any problems, Rose is right next door.”

“Where are you and Megan off to this afternoon? Before she left this morning, your sister implied she’d be at the gallery until closing.”

“She doesn’t know it yet, but we’re taking a ride to Bear Mountain,” Winter explained, opening the fridge. “Megan can still ride a horse, can’t she? She’s only three months along.”

Her mother’s hands were clasped against her bosom and the smile on her face was wide enough to make Winter fully straighten in alarm. “What?” Winter asked. “You look like I just discovered the secret to ion propulsion. What are you smiling at?”

“You,” Grace said softly. “You’re taking Mr. Gregor’s commission.”

“Then you should be throwing a fit, not smiling. You didn’t want me to take it last night.”

“No,” her mother contradicted with a shake of her head. “Your father didn’t want you to take it. I just went along with Grey until I could get him alone and change his mind.”

“You want me to take Matt Gregor’s commission?” Winter whispered. She shook her head with a laugh. “Well, curses. This morning Papa was acting like it was his idea.”

Grace snorted. “After I spent half the night explaining to that hardheaded man that he had to stop holding onto you with an iron grip.” She smoothed down the front of her apron, clasped her hands at her waist, and cleared her throat. “I think you should stop hiding, Winter, and come out and join the living. And if Matt Gregor bothers you as much as I think he does, he just might be the man to make that happen.”

“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.