Her papa’s posturing hadn’t worked on Winter once in the last twenty-four years, and it wasn’t going to work this morning, either. Winter smiled and patted his arm. “I’m just going for a ride on Bear Mountain, Papa. And I’m going alone. I only want to have a look around before I give Mr. Gregor my answer.”

“Ye’re going to take his commission,” Greylen muttered. Then his eyes narrowed in warning. “I will allow it, but only as long as ye promise to always take someone with ye when ye’re hiking the woods with this man.”

“Does Gesader count?” she asked, holding in her grin.

Greylen MacKeage thought in silence, rubbing his chin, then finally nodded. “That beast would kill anyone who tried to harm ye.” He shook his head. “It still baffles me that ye survived yer childhood before that panther came along. Every gray hair on my head is from constantly having to hunt ye down or pull ye out of some scrape ye got yerself into.”

Winter lifted up on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “I’m sorry for being such a trial to you, Papa. But I do love those gray hairs,” she whispered, brushing her fingers through them. “They make you look so wise and noble.”

Before she could step away, however, her papa pulled her into a hug that lifted her toes off the floor. “You’re not a trial, baby girl, you’re my eighth most precious blessing.”

Winter smiled into his shoulder. Her mama was her papa’s first blessing, and his seven daughters made him eight times blessed, he was always telling them. “I love you, Papa. Please don’t worry about me. I have a whole forest full of protectors.”

“Aye,” he growled, with one last squeeze before he set her back on her feet. He unhooked Snowball from his tether and handed her the reins. “Wait for me outside. I’ll ride partway across TarStone with you.”

“And just where are you going so early this morning?”

His eyes sparked fiercely. “The old priest asked me to come up and have breakfast with him.”

He shook his head. “I’m thinking he’s wanting something mighty important if he’s daring to summons me rather than Robbie MacBain.”

Winter gave a laugh and started leading Snowball out of the barn. “And your curiosity has gotten the best of you,” she said over her shoulder. “So you’re also sneaking off before sunrise.”

Once outside, Winter led Snowball over to a set of stairs built specifically for mounting. Her uncle, Ian MacKeage, had built the steps nearly thirty years ago, when Winter’s oldest sister, Heather, had first started riding.

All seven MacKeage girls had learned to ride almost as soon as they’d learned to walk, much to their mama’s dismay. But their very opinionated uncle Ian had taught them all to handle huge horses, at the same time trying to convince Grace MacKeage that her daughters were safer on docile, bomb-proof draft horses than they were on ponies. Snowball had been Ian’s gift to Winter on her fifth birthday, and she could still remember her mama’s scream when she had walked directly under her new pet’s belly without her hair even touching.

Snowball and Winter had taken immediately to each other, and they’d spent twenty adventurous years exploring the forests surrounding TarStone Mountain.

“I know you still miss yer uncle Ian, lass, but understand that he’s happy now,” her papa said as he led his own horse over to her.

Winter realized she was staring at the steps her uncle had lovingly constructed for them so long ago. “I didn’t even get to say good-bye,” she reminded her father. “He left without saying good-bye to any of us.”

Her papa lifted her chin so she could see his tender smile. “He left you a note, baby girl, telling you how much he loves you.”

“Do you…do you think he’s still alive, Papa?” Winter asked as she mounted Snowball.

“Aye. He’s only been gone just over two years, and Ian had many good years in him still. He’s with his wife and children, Winter. He’s happy, and you need to be happy for him.”

“I can be happy for Ian and still miss him,” she said, standing up on the top step and turning to Snowball. She looked back. “You…ah, promise you won’t suddenly disappear too, will you, Papa?”

He slowly shook his head. “I promise. I’m here until the angels wrestle me away from you.”

Greylen also mounted up, then nudged his horse forward as he looked toward the summit of TarStone. “That damned old priest had better not be up to something,” he said, looking back at Winter with a scowl fierce enough to burn toast. “I’m getting too old for his antics.”

“Then I guess you’re too old to win a horse race!” she called out, urging Snowball into a clomping gallop.

Within seconds, her father was beside her again, his own horse moving with an easy stride.

Greylen MacKeage did not ride a draft horse like his daughters, but a semiwild beast descended from the warhorse that had come through the maelstrom with him thirty-eight years ago.

The old priest, Daar, who was really an ancient drùidh named Pendaär, had cast a spell that had brought four MacKeage and six MacBain warriors—along with their warhorses—eight hundred years forward through time from medieval Scotland. Five of the MacBains had died within their first two years here. Winter’s father, Greylen, and her uncles Ian and Callum and Morgan, as well as Robbie’s father, Michael MacBain, were all that were left of the original ten.

Except that Ian had returned to his old time two and a half years ago. Robbie MacBain had taken him back through the powerful maelstrom, Robbie being the ordained guardian of the two clans, and possessing magical powers himself that allowed him to protect his loved ones while keeping Father Daar under his tenuous control.

Winter had heard their fantastical story almost from birth and had understood from a young age that it was a carefully guarded family secret. Magic was not something moderns readily took to, but rather something left to the imagination of writers and filmmakers. That she was living proof of that magic meant little to Winter, having been raised to accept what couldn’t be explained. She finally pulled Snowball back to a walk as they came to the end of the moonlit field and entered the darkness of the forest.

“If you see Tom on your morning ride,” her papa said as he reined his horse in beside her, “you might want to warn him that his landlord is in town.”

Winter brought Snowball to a stop. “Oh, no. I forgot Tom lives on Bear Mountain. You don’t think Mr. Gregor will kick him out of his cabin, do you? Tom’s not harming anyone, and the cabin sits way down the shoreline of the lake.”

Her papa covered her hand on the reins. “You nevertheless need to warn him, lass, so he can be prepared. You can offer him a spot on TarStone, or maybe your cousin Robbie might let him use his cabin up on West Shoulder Ridge.”

“But that’s too far from town. Tom’s old, Papa. He can’t walk that far up and down the mountain.”

Greylen MacKeage pulled his hand away and lifted one brow. “He’s near my age,” he said quietly. “And seventy-two is not old.”

Winter patted his arm. “Of course you’re not old,” she quickly agreed, starting her horse down the tote road that wound its way up and across TarStone Mountain. “Have you ever heard of someone wanting to commission an artist’s eye, Papa, just because he liked a painting?”

“Nay. But it’s not an illogical request,” he said. “Who better to choose a spot to build a home than an artist? Your Mr. Gregor liked your work, and just that quickly decided your unusual eye for detail suited his needs.”

“He’s not my Mr. Gregor.”

“Aye,” he agreed with a laugh. “I misspoke.”

“If I…if I tell you something, Papa, will you promise not to get all protective and fatherly on me?”

He stopped his horse, which caused Snowball automatically to stop, and looked at her through the softening shadows of dawn. “But I am your papa. It’s my duty to get all protective and fatherly where ye’re concerned. Especially when it comes to your dealings with men. So out with it, lass. Tell me what there is about Gregor that disturbs you.”