“Tom!” she shouted again, dropping Snowball’s reins and walking around the side of the cabin toward an equally run-down shed out back. “I’m wanting some tea and toast!”

“I don’t remember our having a breakfast date,” Tom said, emerging from the shed as he brushed flecks of dust off his thick flannel shirt. He stopped and wrestled the rickety old door closed, then turned and smiled at her. “To what do I owe this pleasant surprise?”

Winter frowned at him. “You’re a master woodworker, Tom. Why don’t you just fix that old door?”

He shrugged and walked past her, taking her hand on the way by, and led her back to the front of his cabin. “I don’t want to spoil the ambience of the place. So what’s up?” he asked, stopping long enough to greet Snowball and take off his bridle. The horse immediately wandered off to graze on whatever grass he could find.

Tom opened his cabin door, then held his arm out to usher Winter inside. “If you’re here for a peek at what I’m working on, the answer is still no. Nobody sees my work until it’s done. Especially you.”

Winter stopped in the doorway and brushed some of the remaining dust off his shirt. “Won’t you at least give me a hint about what you’re working on? I could see something big in there, covered with a sheet. Hey, this isn’t sawdust, it’s stone dust,” she said, rubbing the powder between her fingers.

Her eyes widened. “Are you working in stone, Tom?”

Tom took hold of her dusty hand and led her into the cabin, directing her to a table and chairs near an ancient potbellied stove. “I might be,” he said as he opened the stove door and stirred the embers. “If it’s any of your business, Miss Curious.” He looked over his shoulder, his clear blue eyes bright with amusement. “Then again, I might have been sharpening tools on my whetstone.”

As she sat down, Winter slipped off her jacket and let it fall on the back of the chair. “We’re business partners, Tom. We’re not supposed to have secrets from each other.”

He straightened and faced her, his eyes dancing in the strengthening sunlight coming through the still-open door. “You tell me one of your secrets, and I’ll tell you one of mine.”

“Okay,” she said, folding her hands on her lap with a smile of anticipation. “There really is a panther living on TarStone. His name is Gesader, and he’s my pet.”

The amusement left Tom’s face. He sat down across from her, his own hands clasped together on the table. “So he does exist,” he whispered. “I knew I hadn’t been seeing things. He’s your pet, you say?” One of his bushy gray brows lifted into his equally thick gray hair. “As in you get to actually touch him, or that you’ve just adopted him the same way you’ve taken to all the woodland creatures?”

“As in he sleeps in my bed most nights,” she said, her own eyes dancing with excitement. “I got him as a tiny cub.”

Tom sat back in his chair and rubbed the sparse white stubble on his chin. “Gesader, you called him. I’m assuming that’s Gaelic. What’s it mean?”

“Enchanter.”

“Is he a leopard or a jaguar?”

“A leopard. Ye can see the spots in his black coat when the sun hits him just right.”

“How old is he?”

“Three next spring.”

Tom’s brow lifted again. “And you’ve been able to keep him a secret all this time? So why are you telling me?”

“Because I trust you. And because Gesader has a cut on his neck I want you to look at. I need to know if it requires stitching.”

Tom straightened in his chair, his gaze shooting to the open door. “He’s here?” he whispered.

“He came with you this morning?”

“Yes. He’s in the woods, waiting for me to call him.”

Tom stood up and brushed his hands on his pants, still staring at the door. “You’re just going to call out, and a panther is going to come walking in here?”

“Yes,” Winter repeated, also standing up. “He won’t hurt you, Tom. He’s really just an overgrown baby.”

Tom darted a look at her. “A baby with sharp fangs and claws as long as my fingers,” he muttered. He took a deep breath. “Okay, then. Call your…ah…pet.”

Winter didn’t bother to put her fingers to her lips this time, but simply let out a sharp whistle toward the open door. Gesader silently appeared in the doorway, but instead of coming inside, the large black cat sat down and gave a fierce snarl that nicely showed off his fangs.

“Behave,” Winter scolded, walking up and tapping the top of his head. “You needn’t show off to Tom. He’s going to help you.”

Gesader turned his piercing, golden-eyed gaze on Tom.

Winter waved her friend forward. “I promise, he won’t hurt you, Tom. He’s only trying to impress you.”

Tom still didn’t move. “I am impressed,” he whispered, his own wide-eyed gaze locked on the panther beside her. “Where is he hurt?”

“His neck, just above his shoulder.” Winter knelt down and moved Gesader’s head to the side.

“It’s already crusted over. It must have happened last night sometime. You…ah, could probably see better if you came closer.”

“I can see the cut from here. It looks fine, Winter. Wild animals have amazing immune systems.

He won’t likely get an infection.”

Gesader, apparently realizing he might have shown off a little too much, stood up, padded into the cabin right up to Tom, and lapped the old hermit’s hand.

Tom didn’t so much as twitch, and Winter wasn’t sure, but she thought her friend stopped breathing. With a laugh she followed Gesader into the cabin and sat down at the table. “Ye just got a panther kiss, Tom. Gesader is usually quite stingy with his kisses.”

Tom finally looked down at Gesader. “He…ah, he seems amiable enough.” He looked at Winter, and she noticed his shoulders finally relax as a soft smile lifted one side of his mouth. “Assuming he wasn’t just seeing what I taste like.”

“Go ahead,” Winter urged, nodding at Gesader. “Pet him.”

Slowly, Tom sat down in his chair and gently laid his hand on Gesader, moving the broad black head to the side so he could see the gash on the panther’s neck. “It doesn’t need stitching, Winter. It looks worse than it is because it’s in a hard place for him to tend for himself.” He gave Gesader’s ear a gentle scratch.

Winter frowned. “There’s another reason I came here this morning, Tom. A guy by the name of Matt Gregor came into my gallery yesterday and bought two of my paintings, and he said he owns Bear Mountain.”

Her news seemed to puzzle Tom more than disturb him. “You rode out here just to tell me that?

Why? I don’t care who owns Bear Mountain.”

“You might care, if he doesn’t want you living on his land. He’s going to build a house here.”

Tom shrugged. “The mountain is big enough for both of us.”

“Papa said that if you can’t stay here, you can have a place on TarStone. Or maybe my cousin Robbie will let you use his cabin on West Shoulder Ridge.”

Tom leaned on the table, his hands clasped in front of him and his clear blue eyes leveled on hers. “I like this cabin. Tell your father thanks for the offer, but I prefer to stay right where I am.”

“But Mr. Gregor might—”

“If Mr. Gregor owns Bear Mountain, he owns over two thousand acres,” Tom said softly, cutting her off. “He can build his house on any one of the other nineteen hundred and ninety-nine acres.

This acre is already occupied.”

Winter gave up. She wasn’t going to argue about something that might not even be a problem.

Besides, she had accomplished her goal of warning him. “Okay,” she said, sitting up straight and mimicking his posture by clasping her hands together on the table. “Your turn. Tell me a secret.”

One side of his mouth lifted in a grin. “I can’t dance.”

“That’s not a secret! You come to the grange socials and stand in the corner the whole evening, no matter how hard the ladies try to lure you onto the dance floor. Come on, tell me a good secret.