Libby took another swig of wine and continued to look around the silent kitchen, her gaze finally landing on a small box sitting on the table.

It hadn’t been there an hour ago.

She jumped down from the counter, walked to the table, and picked up the envelope lying on top of the box. She unsealed it, took out the paper, and read the note written in not-so-neat letters painstakingly formed by a young hand.

Dear Libby,

I was thinking you might like to do this small job for me, since you’re an artist and are good with your hands. I’m working on a special Christmas gift for my father, but this part of it is too hard for me to do. Could you please paint the wordTàirneanaicheon the small wooden board? I put some gold paint in the box, too. Don’t worry, I’m not asking you for a favor, just giving you a job so you can earn money until your studio is open. I will have Papa compensate you, but don’t tell him what it’s for, just how much you’re charging.

Thank you,

Robbie MacBain

Libby read the note twice, then broke the piece of tape on the box and opened it. Sure enough, there was a small wooden board inside, about six inches long. Libby picked it up and looked at the note again.Tàirneanaiche? What kind of word was that?

She looked back at the wood. It appeared to be a plaque of some sort, its corners scrolled inward and a beveled line running along all four edges. The plaque was made from a soft wood, like pine or hemlock, and had been carefully sanded.

What wasTàirneanaiche?

Libby reread the note, looking for a clue to what the word meant or what the plaque was for. But Robbie was being secretive about his father’s Christmas gift.

And then she came to the part where he promised his father would compensate her, and Libby laughed out loud.

Hadn’t Michael just paid her in full?

She stuck the note inside the box and carried it into her bedroom. She set it on the dresser, thinking about Robbie and Michael’s relationship. The boy obviously trusted his father to bring the box to her without peeking inside. And she decided she wanted Robbie’s trust, too, and would do his little job and keep his secret. All she’d ask for in compensation was the meaning ofTàirneanaiche.

Libby undressed and slipped into the heavy flannel gown she’d grabbed from her grandmother Bea’s farm when she had gone to pack up her equipment. She crawled under the bedcovers, tucked her arms under her head, and fell asleep with the smile of a woman who had finally lost her virginity.

Chapter Ten

Libby opened the door,stepped onto the porch, and stared at the wonderland surrounding her. Frost had settled on everything overnight and gleamed in the bright morning sunlight like polished diamonds. One of the hens was out, pecking at the ground beside the coop, puffed up like a strutting turkey in defense of the cold.

Libby was just stepping off the porch to give chase to the escaped bird when she heard the gunshot. She quickly stepped back and looked toward TarStone Mountain as the shot echoed down the mountainside like a crack of thunder.

Rifle season.

Which meant that some poor deer was up there right now, running for its life.

Libby also ran, worried for her own life, back into the house. She went to the bathroom and pulled a bright yellow towel off the rack. It wasn’t blaze orange, but she couldn’t think of any animal that had curb-yellow fur. She wrapped the towel around her shoulders like a shawl and stepped back onto the porch. Ducking her head like a soldier being shot at, she ran across the yard and bolted into the chicken coop for safety.

Startled by her sudden arrival, the hens went nuts, flapping down from their roosts in a cacophony of frantic squawks and flying sawdust. Waving away the choking dust, Libby opened the bag of feed Ian had provided and filled the pan on the floor. She checked the water dispenser next and poked the skin of ice off the top. Two birds immediately started drinking.

Libby turned to the nesting boxes and peeked inside the three empty ones. She found only one broken egg and lifted it out along with some of the straw. She set the mess in an empty bucket by her feet and then turned her attention to the hen sitting in the fourth nesting box.

The hen stared back, unblinking, and lashed out when Libby reached under her to feel for an egg.

“Ouch, you ungrateful biddy,” Libby hissed, rubbing her hand on her thigh. “I’m going to let the hunters use you for target practice if you don’t quit pecking me,” she said, glaring at all the hens, including them in her threat.

“You girls give me eggs, and I feed you. That’s how it works around here.”

They weren’t listening. Half of them were eating, and the others were drinking. There was a faint sound at the coop door, and Libby walked over and opened it. The escaped hen came running inside and joined her coop mates at the feed pan.

Deciding she wasn’t going to find her breakfast in there that morning, Libby stepped outside, made sure the door was securely closed, and pulled her bright yellow towel over her head. She ran back to the house and onto the porch, breathing a sigh of relief when she didn’t hear any more gunshots.

Talk about strange, having to worry about going outside her own home. She had never considered hunting season in her decision to move to New England.

She wasn’t a vegetarian. She liked meat. But she wasn’t sure she could eat a cute little deer. She could eat one or two of her chickens, though, if they kept pecking her.

Libby hung her towel on the peg beside the door and went to the bathroom to wash her hands while she thought about the busy day ahead. She had a million things to do, and her checkbook was going to take another big hit.

She considered adding a new bed to her list. She wasn’t keen on messing up Mary’s sheets with Mary’s former lover in Mary’s old bed. It was bad enough she was living in Mary’s house.

Libby quickly brushed her teeth and fluffed her hair. She gathered up her purse and lists and headed into the garage. She was going straight to the Dolans’ store and buying waterproof boots, thick gloves to protect her hands from pecking chickens, and a blaze orange jacket and hat.

She opened the garage door, walked to her new truck and opened its door, and then tried to remember how she had climbed into the damn thing the night before for her test drive.

Oh, yeah. Callum had kindly lifted her in. Then he had kindly suggested she have running boards installed. And he had not-so-kindly laughed the whole time.

Libby had met his wife, Charlotte, and their handsome son, Duncan.

It took her several tries to get into the truck before Libby finally conceded defeat. She looked around the garage and found a wooden crate, then stood it on end to use as a step. Once inside the truck, she reached down and picked up the crate, setting it on the floor on the passenger side. She’d need it again if she wanted to drive the truck home.

Libby spent the next three minutes adjusting the seat, thankful that it was electric and moved up as well as forward. Still, Callum also had suggested—kindly—that she tape a block of wood to the gas pedal so she could reach it.

She fastened her seat belt and started the truck, smiling at the sound of the powerful engine as she looked around the interior. The Suburban was large enough to hold a dance in. Libby shook her head and laughed at herself. Who would have thought, just a month ago, that she would be living in Maine, in the mountains, driving a truck almost as large as her town house?

But Libby quickly sobered. She was guilty of cowardice, of turning her back on her work. But mostly, she was guilty of not wanting a gift that could help people.

But couldn’t that gift become her Midas touch? Was she supposed to heal everyone she came into contact with? Where would it end? When she became a one-woman freak show, with hordes of people seeking her out, hounding her, petitioning, begging?