“Raise your arm, lass. Give a sharp whistle like she just did, and see if she’ll come to ya.”

The man was certifiably crazy.

Or she was. Dammit. It was a bird, not a demon, not a nightmare, not even Robbie’s dead mother. It was an owl. A beautiful, majestic snowy owl. Libby raised her arm, put her fourth and first fingers to her lips, and whistled.

The owl blinked, spread its wings, and dropped from its perch. The snowy silently glided through the clearing and landed on Libby’s sleeve-covered arm.

It was surprisingly light for its size. And amazingly gentle, considering it had talons more than an inch long. The snowy clung without drawing blood and opened its beak to let out a series of gently rattling chatters.

“She’ll fold her wings if ya quit your trembling,” Michael said from a good twenty paces away. “She’s trying to balance.”

Yeah. Well. She was trying to get used to the idea that she had a lethal bird on her arm.

One whose eyes were now dead-level with hers.

“Reach up and stroke her chest,” Michael instructed.

“Talk to her, Libby.”

Libby raised her left hand and slowly, very carefully, petted the bird’s chest.

Mary—if Libby could just get used to that name—settled down and folded her wings.

Her chatter stopped, and her eyes appeared to soften. They stared at each other for several seconds, and Libby relaxed.

“I will do no harm to your son,” she whispered softly enough so Michael couldn’t hear.

“And I really can bake cookies and cakes.”

Mary blinked and gave a gentle, low-timbre rattle.

“I’ll buy him a helmet to wear when he rides his pony,” she continued, bolstered by the bird’s response. “And I’ll go to his Christmas play at school if he has one. Let me be his friend, Mary, and I promise not to break his heart.”

The snowy went silent and turned just its head to look at Michael. It stared at him for several seconds and then turned back to Libby.

Libby smiled in understanding. “I won’t break Michael’s heart, either,” she whispered.

“I promise.”

The snowy studied her for several more seconds, then suddenly opened her wings, pushed off, and gently lifted into flight. Mary disappeared through the forest on down-silenced wings, leaving behind only the echo of her single-pitch call and the aura of fading blue light.

Libby’s knees buckled, and Michael swept her up in his arms before she slumped to the ground. He lifted her high against his chest and spun them both in a circle, his laughter shaking her like an earthquake.

“Don’t ever again say you’re afraid, Libby,” he said, spinning around and around until she was dizzy. “You’re a brave woman, lass. Braver than most men I know.”

Libby gripped his shoulders for balance and marveled at this new picture of Michael.

He was being playful.

Or was he just relieved that she hadn’t been torn to shreds?

“Put me down. I’m going to be sick,” Libby pleaded, trying to make her head stop spinning.

He stopped, and slowly slid her down his body until her face was level with his, leaving her feet to dangle a good foot off the ground. “I’m sorry,” he said, his shining gray eyes not the least bit contrite. “But I’m just so surprised that you did it.”

“Surprised? Surprised,” she repeated a bit louder. She swatted his shoulder. “You told me to do it.”

He nodded, his eyes crinkling at their corners. “Aye. I’ve been noticing how well you do what you’re told.” He turned serious. “Thank you for walking away from Daar without making a scene.”

“He’s a crazy old man.”

“Aye. But he’s basically harmless.”

“Are you going to put me down anytime soon?”

“I haven’t decided. Are we going to finish our discussion?”

“We did.”

“No,” he countered, slowly shaking his head. “I believe I had just said that I want you.”

“I want you, too, Michael. But I’m… I’m afraid.”

“So you’re saying your answer is no?”

Oh, how like a man to see things only in black or white.

“I’m saying—I’m—oh, dammit. No, Michael, I’m saying yes.”

Chapter Eight

For a man who should be feelingquite pleased with himself, Michael was unusually silent as they continued their walk down the mountain. But then, Libby didn’t have much to say herself.

Something was bothering her. Two things, really, that had nothing to do with the fact that she had just committed to having an affair. No, she was curious about something Michael had said to her earlier and something the priest had said when he’d first found them together.

“Michael, what did you mean when you told me you won’t let Robbie grow up to be—

how did you put it—‘one of your weak moderns’? What did you mean by a modern?”

He shot her a look from the corner of his eye, then turned his attention back to the path in front of them.

“Michael?”

“Have ya ever noticed, Libby, how soft the men of modern society have become? How wars are fought but not really won? And how people have abdicated their right to protect themselves to a system that usually doesn’t arrive until it’s too late?”

“So you’re a philosopher?” she asked, grabbing his arm to stop him, so he would look at her. “You’re living in these mountains, watching the world from a distance, and passing judgment on society.”

“Nay, woman. I judge no one but myself and my son. Robbie will grow up to be strong and capable and will live by the laws of nature and not the rules of man.”

“He’s still a member of society, no matter where he lives. And those rules are the foundation of our civilization. Without them, there would be chaos.”

“There are a hell of a lot more rules now than there were eight hundred years ago.”

“Because there are a lot more people,” Libby countered, fascinated by this side of Michael.

Fascinated but not surprised.

Wasn’t this exactly what had drawn her to him in the first place? Hadn’t she sensed this quiet strength?

“Aye. There’s a lot more people,” he agreed. “Which is why I live here.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “Which is also why you came here.”

Well, she couldn’t argue with that. “Father Daar called you a warrior. Were you a soldier?”

“Aye. I was until twelve years ago.”

“What branch of the military?”

“The fighting branch.” He gave her a crooked smile.

“Where are these questions leading, Libby?”

She shrugged and started walking again. “Nowhere. I just wondered. So, you’re saying Robbie shouldn’t wear a helmet when he rides his pony because that will make him weak?”

It was Michael who stopped them this time. “He’s been astride a horse since birth, Libby. My son knows how to ride, how to fall, and how not to get hurt.”

“I know how to drive a car, and I had an accident.”

He brushed a curl off her cheek and tucked it behind her ear. “Knowing how to do something and knowing how to do it well are two different things, lass. You’re a poor driver.”

“I am not.” Libby remembered her accident and suddenly stiffened. “It was Mary. I mean, that bird. That bird flew in front of my car and made me crash.”

Michael’s face lit with a smile. “She must have known where ya was headed and wasn’t sure she wanted you to arrive. Now tell me, is your knee paining ya much? I can carry you.”

Libby snorted and started walking again.

But this time, Robbie caught up with her first.

The eight-year-old was driving a four-wheeled ATV.

And he wasn’t wearing a helmet.

Michael had a lot of nerve calling her reckless.

“Hi, Libby,” Robbie said, stopping the ATV beside her. He looked from her to his dad and beamed like a cat who’d just spotted a full bowl of cream. “What are you guys doing up here?”

“Nearly getting ourselves killed,” Libby snapped.

“Where’s your helmet?”

“Enough,” Michael growled, lifting her up and setting her on the ATV behind Robbie.