“Of course they are,” Libby said, sliding into the front seat. She looked past him at Cat.

“We eat at noon, and then everyone goes for a walk after dinner, so bring boots.”

Catherine nodded and said good-bye to Kate as Michael settled the elderly but spry woman in the backseat and handed her the seat belt.

Michael looked over the roof of the Suburban at Robbie. “Something’s troubling your uncle. Ian’s been restless the last couple of days, and Winter is worried about him. See if ya can find out what’s troubling him on your walk home.”

“Aye,” Robbie agreed, nodding. “We’ll have a talk.”

“Good,” Michael said, ducking into the truck.

Robbie leaned in, gave his mum another kiss on the cheek, and then closed her door and smiled at the red letters printed across it: “Bigelow Christmas Tree Farm, Pine Creek, Maine.”

John and Ellen Bigelow had planted their first Christmas tree fifty-six years ago. His father had never changed the name of the farm, though he’d owned it for more than thirty years now. Michael had always cited some excuse about name recognition, but Robbie suspected it was more likely his attachment to the two wonderful people, not a business decision.

Ellen Bigelow had died when Robbie was eight, and John had passed on seven years later. Both were buried on a knoll overlooking their farm, a balsam fir tree planted at the head of their graves.

“Ian’s inside eating cobbler, isn’t he?” Robbie asked Cat as they both watched their company leave.

“There must be something in the water around here. Everyone has a sweet tooth,” she said, walking back to the house.

Robbie fell into step beside her. “How do you feel about your lesson this morning?”

She looked over at him as they climbed the steps. “I’m sorry I hit you.”

“I’m not.” Robbie handed her the stick. “That’s exactly what you’re after—do the unexpected. If I get smacked, it’s my fault and your credit.”

“You didn’t just go into the woods and find any old stick,” she said, stopping at the door and holding it up between them. “You put some work into this.”

He had searched for just the right young maple sapling, stripped off its thin bark, and cut it down to Catherine’s size. It was straight as a flagpole, and he’d sanded it smooth and rubbed in a coat of wax to preserve its beauty.

“There’s nothing that says a weapon can’t look good. You remember the fine craftsmanship of my sword, don’t you? It used to belong to my namesake, my great-uncle Robert MacBain. He called itAn Cluaran, which is Gaelic forThe Thistle. My father told me Robert always boasted that it was the sting of his sword that men feared.”

Cat smiled up at him. “It’s a guy thing, isn’t it, to name your stuff? Like your truck,” she said, nodding toward his Suburban’s bug shield.

“Aye. It’s called being possessive.” He leaned down. “Which is why I’ve named my housekeeper after a mountain cat.”

Her face flushed scarlet, and she spun away and walked into the kitchen. Robbie followed and found Ian sitting at the table, a cup of coffee in one hand, a fork in the other, and more blueberry cobbler on his beard than on his plate.

“If you don’t want to be waddling home, Uncle, you’d better push away from the table,”

Robbie said, watching Cat walk over and set her stick by the grandfather clock.

“I’m coming,” Ian muttered, sliding his chair back. He went over to Catherine, started to say something, then suddenly reached out and hugged her so tightly she squeaked.

“Thank ya for… well, for everything, lass,” he said, stepping back and grinning from his own flushed face. He walked over to retrieve his coat. “I hope ya can keep up with me today, young Robbie,” he said, walking out the door. “I don’t have time to dawdle.”

Robbie looked at his shocked housekeeper, shrugged, and then followed his uncle outside, only to find the old warrior was already halfway up the driveway.

Robbie jogged to catch up, then tucked his hands behind his back and fell into step beside him. “Is this what you’ve been doing all week?” he asked. “Visiting everyone to say good-bye?”

Ian glanced over at him, then looked back at the path. “I wasn’t expecting it to be so hard,” he muttered. “How in hell am I supposed to say good-bye if they don’t even know I’m leaving?”

“You can’t, Uncle.” He stopped and turned Ian to face him. “You can still change your mind.”

“Nay,” Ian growled, squaring his shoulders. “I want to be with my Gwyneth.”

Robbie started walking again. “Then you shall. I’ll pick you up at Gu Bràth tomorrow afternoon at three. That will give us plenty of time to reach the summit before sunset.”

“What can I bring with me?”

“Do you still have your old plaid?”

“Aye. And my dagger.” He frowned at Robbie. “We sold my sword to help finance our new life here.” He snorted. “Not that I could lift it now.”

“Then that’s all you can bring. Nothing modern.” Robbie stopped him again and touched his uncle’s jacket over the chest pocket on his shirt. “You can’t even take your reading glasses, I’m afraid. And you must give me your word that you won’t use what you’ve learned in this time to change anything in the past.”

Ian started walking again. “There ain’t no books to read, anyway,” he muttered, waving his hand at the air. “And no malls and cars and millions of crazy people.”

“There’s no indoor plumbing, either,” Robbie reminded him. “Or hot showers or electric lights or central heating.”

“But there’s my Gwyneth,” Ian whispered, his eyes shining as he looked over at Robbie.

“And Niall and Caitlin and Megan. That’s all I’m needing to be happy. What’s our lie going to be?”

“That you and the others were captured by marauding… ah… Vikings, I think we should say. And held prisoner for ten years. The others died fighting or trying to escape. But when you grew old, they simply sailed back and dropped you off on the beach.”

Ian chuckled. “Like anyone will believe that.”

“Who’s to dispute it? Scotland’s been constantly raided throughout history.”

Ian stopped and looked up at him with narrowed eyes. “What about my age? I’m thirty-five years older than when I left, not ten.”

“You actually have the health of a sixty-year-old man of that time, Uncle. Life was hard on a body back then, and rarely did men reach their eighty-fifth birthdays. Our lie will work.”

“And the fact that I speak English?” Ian asked, walking again. “I’m liable to start speaking it without thinking.”

“Then we should change Viking to English marauders.”

“Aye. That will make more sense,” Ian agreed. “And I can say that I walked all the way home from England.” He puffed up his chest. “Aye. I could get many a fine tale for the campfires with that one.” Ian stopped him again. “You’re going to stay with me awhile, aren’t ya? Until I get adjusted?”

“Aye, I’ll stay as long as it takes.”

“What about Daar’s book of spells ya’re hunting for? Have ya found it yet?”

“Nay. But you might be able to help me with that. We’ll see once we get there.”

Ian’s shoulders straightened, and his eyes sharpened. “I’ll help. And I’ll—”

They both looked up at the sound of a piercing shrill that came from over their heads.

Mary flew past them and landed on a branch hanging across the tote road.

Robbie was stunned. The last he’d seen Mary, she had still been in the old time. How had she managed to return by herself? But then he remembered what she had shown him in the storm. Mary could travel at will just as he could.

“There’s yar pet,” Ian said, breaking into a wide grin. “I can’t believe that old bird is still alive.” He looked at Robbie. “Mary has been with you for, what, over twenty years now?

How long do snowy owls live, anyway?”

Robbie shrugged. “I have no idea.” He presented his arm to the owl. “Come, little one,”

he said softly.