The sledgehammer struck again, this time almost doubling him over. “Mary? You named your pet after your mother?”

“Aye,” Robbie said, nodding. “I was wishing real hard for my mama on my birthday, but I got an owl instead. So I named her Mary.”

Michael stepped away and picked up his sword. He slowly digested the news, thinking about an eight-year-old’s imagination and an owl’s propensity to be drawn to the child.

“Why haven’t I seen this owl?” he asked, looking back at Robbie. “Where do you meet with your pet?”

Robbie pointed out the east window of the library. “There. On TarStone. When I ride my pony, Mary likes to follow me.” And now that his secret was out, Robbie rushed to tell his tale. “She glides through the forest like the wind, Papa, on silent wings. And she’s a good hunter. She catches rabbits and shares them with me.” Robbie scrunched up his face. “Mary won’t eat the rabbit, though, when I burn it.”

Michael took a step back, more awed than concerned. Since Grace had placed his son in his arms eight and a half years ago, he and Robbie had walked these woods, camped, fished, hunted, and cooked their dinners over an open fire. He had not been aware, however, that his son was in the habit of cooking his own dinners.

Or that he’d made a pet of a snowy owl.

Michael turned Robbie and urged him toward the kitchen. “Do you have your knife?”

he asked, deciding to wait until they were hiking up TarStone to explore the subject of Robbie’s pet more closely.

His son reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded jackknife, holding it up for Michael to see. “When can I have a big one like yours?” he asked.

“When I decide you should.”

“I could have a straight blade and keep it in my boot like you do.”

“No, you can’t. A folding knife is safest,” Michael instructed, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his own knife. “The one in my boot is a weapon, Robbie. The knives we carry in our pockets are tools.”

“And a warrior doesn’t even need a knife to survive in the wilderness,” Robbie quoted by rote, tucking his knife back into his pocket as they headed through the kitchen and out onto the porch. “Papa, are you going to die?”

Michael softly closed the door behind them with a slightly shaking hand, careful not to show how much Robbie’s innocent question unnerved him. He slipped his own pack onto his back, adjusted Tàirneanaiche so that the hilt sat just behind his left shoulder, and walked down the steps. He was not surprised by the question. Since Ellen’s passing, the boy had been full of questions about death, and Michael had found himself at a loss for answers more often than not.

“I am going to die,” he finally said, keeping his tone even. “But not today. Nor tomorrow. I’m a warrior, Robbie. And it’s my duty to live long enough to guide you into manhood.”

“And will I be a warrior when I grow up?”

Michael headed toward the upper field, setting a brisk pace. “Yes and no,” he answered honestly. “You will have a warrior’s knowledge and skill and the heart of a Highlander, but you will live here and help me run our Christmas tree farm when I grow too old to do it myself.”

“Grampy’s sons didn’t stay and help him,” Robbie countered, falling into step beside him. “But I won’t leave you,” he promised, taking Michael’s hand as he looked up with sincere gray eyes. “And I won’t die before you do.”

Michael nodded. “Aye. You’ll not die first,” he thickly agreed.

“Maybe… maybe you should get yourself some more sons,” Robbie whispered, letting go of Michael’s hand so he could adjust the straps on his pack. He looked up. “Just in case I do die.”

“That will not happen,” Michael growled, stopping and turning Robbie to face him.

“And babes are not pulled from thin air. I would need a wife in order to get these sons.”

“You got me without a wife.”

Michael frowned. How had this conversation turned from death to sex? “I was trying to marry your mother,” he explained. “And if Mary had lived, we probably would have had more bairns. But things don’t always work out the way we would like, Robbie.

Sometimes life interferes with our plans.”

“Then why don’t you just find another woman to marry?”

Michael started walking again, weaving his way through the rows of Christmas trees until they came to the woods. “A man doesn’t decide he wants to get married and then simply pick the first available female. A man and a woman need to love each other first.”

“Like Aunt Grace and Uncle Grey.”

“Aye,” Michael said softly. “Like Grace and Grey. And Callum and Charlotte, and Morgan and Sadie. A bond must be formed first, and love must grow from there.”

“But you can’t form a bond with a woman, Papa, if you don’t never try.” Robbie looked up, his eyes shining in the moonlight with the mischief of a boy on a mission. “And because Gram Ellen is gone, it’s my duty to speak for her. And she says you need to go on dates.”

“And my answer to you is the same as it’s been to Ellen for eight years. I don’t want a wife.”

“Because your heart is broken, Papa. But Gram Ellen always said the right woman could mend it.” Robbie stepped over a log in the path, then turned and walked backward as he continued. “And I can help.”

“How?” Michael asked with wearing patience, moving past his son to take the lead. It appeared this recurring discussion had not ended with Ellen Bigelow’s death.

Apparently, his son was taking up her cause.

Along with Grace MacKeage. What was it with women that they couldn’t stand to see a man remain single?

“I’ve already started, Papa.”

“How?” Michael repeated, his patience turning to wariness. “Has it something to do with all the time you’ve been spending at Gu Bràth with Grace this last month?”

“Aye,” Robbie said. “Aunt Grace helped me place an ad on the Internet.”

Michael stopped walking. “What sort of ad?” he asked, staring at the moonlit forest in front of them, wondering if his son and Grace had advertised on one of those sites for lonely singles.

“An ad for a tenant,” Robbie clarified. “I’m going to rent my house.”

Michael didn’t know whether to laugh with relief or shout with surprise. “You’re wanting to rent your mother’s home?” he asked softly, turning to face his son. “Why?”

“Because it shouldn’t sit empty. A home needs to be lived in. It needs to be alive.”

Michael actually could hear Grace’s words coming from Robbie’s mouth. “It will be lived in,” he snapped. “When you grow up and get married.”

“But that’s too far away. The house needs to be alive now. When I go there, it’s terribly quiet, Papa. And lonely. It needs to be needed.”

Michael turned and started walking again, taking long strides that made Robbie have to jog to keep up. “It’s a house, son, made of wood and glass and stone. It doesn’t have feelings.”

Robbie tugged on Michael’s pack to get him to slow down. “It does too, Papa. I can feel the loneliness when I visit.”

Michael narrowed his eyes on the path ahead. “Explain to me how renting your mother’s home has anything to do with finding me a wife.”

“Because I’m going to rent it to a special woman. And she’ll fix your broken heart, you’ll get married, and I’ll get a new mama and some baby brothers.”

Michael stopped walking again. He took the boy by the shoulders and hunkered down until they were face to face.

“You do not shop for a wife on the Internet,” he said softly. “Nor for a mother. When we get back tonight, you and I are going to see Grace and have her remove the ad. You do not want strangers living in your mother’s home.”

“No, Papa! It’s too late. I already have it narrowed down to three women.”

Michael didn’t shout, he roared. He straightened and turned and started walking back home. Goddammit. Aunt or not, Grace MacKeage had overstepped her boundaries—