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 grown 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.”