again.

Robbie ran to catch up but bumped into his father’s back when Michael suddenly ducked to avoid being hit by a white blur of feathers. The owl’s silent approach changed to an angry whistle as it lifted one wing and turned toward them again.

Michael grabbed Robbie and threw them both to the ground as he rolled to tuck his son beneath him. The owl landed on a fallen log just three feet away, and Michael found himself staring into the yellow-gold eyes of a predator.

A fist punched him in the ribs as his son squirmed to get free. “Mary!” Robbie shouted, scrambling to his knees. He knelt between the owl and Michael. “Don’t be afraid, Papa.

Mary won’t hurt us.”

Michael had lost the woman of his heart almost nine years ago, and hearing her name still tightened his chest. He sat up and pulled Robbie onto his lap, away from the bird, and stared at the snowy.

The owl stared back, its huge eyes unblinking in the moonlight, its beak slightly open as it chattered in a high-pitched rattle. Talons, more than an inch long, clung to the moss-covered log. The bird stood nearly two feet tall, and, as if it wanted Michael to complete his inspection, it stepped to the side and opened its wings to an impressive span of nearly five feet.

A very lethal, very efficient predator.

His son’s pet.

Which Robbie had named for his mother.

“Mary, you stop that,” Robbie scolded. “This is my papa.”

The snowy owl folded its wings, ducked its head, and changed its rattle to a gentle chatter.

“Isn’t she the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen, Papa?”

“Aye,” Michael quietly agreed. And she was. The owl’s sleek white feathers ended in solid black tips that appeared like lace over the snowy’s entire body. Her face was a heart-shaped disk of solid white, with large, crisp yellow eyes encircled by thick black lines that might have been drawn by a heavy pencil. Strong legs ran into broad toes, completely covered with white down that ended where the powerful, sharp talons began.

A magnificently packaged predator.

“It’s okay, Papa. Mary just heard your roar and thought I was in danger. See, she’s calm now,” Robbie said, holding his hand toward the bird.

Michael grabbed Robbie’s outstretched hand and held it safely against the boy’s belly.

“Have ya touched her, Robbie? When you visit each other, do you get close to… to Mary?”

“Aye, Papa. She likes to sit on my shoulder when I ride my pony. I can whistle, and she’

ll come to me.”

“And she’s never clawed you?”

“Nay. She’s very careful.” Robbie stood up, found his pack, and settled it back over his shoulders. “Come on, Papa. Mary wants to join us on our hike to the summit. She can help us decide.”

“Decide what?”

“Which woman I’ll rent the house to.”

Michael rubbed his hands over his face. They were back to finding him a wife. Clearly a product of the mother he’d never known, Robbie could give stubborn lessons to a mule.

The boy would be relentless now that he had decided on a course of action.

Michael stood up and once more headed toward the summit of TarStone Mountain.

“Then we’ll continue our trip,” he agreed. “And spend the day discussing your need to rent your house to a stranger.”

The snowy took flight and silently glided through the forest ahead of them, as if knowing their destination. Michael inhaled the smell of the night woods as the fallen leaves crunched beneath their feet. It was nearing the end of October, and the land was preparing itself for another winter—just as he must do soon. Ellen Bigelow’s death, coming suddenly but peacefully in the night while she slept, would make their upcoming Christmas season all that more difficult.

Ellen had been the driving force of the Christmas tree farm. Even last year, at the age of eighty-three, the woman often had shamed the men with her energy. Ellen had been able to put unbelievable meals on the table three times a day, make wreaths, hand out saws so the customers could cut their own trees, sell decorations, dispense cider and doughnuts she made every morning, and still have time to keep up with the town gossip.

Michael had spent the last ten years, since coming to Pine Creek and buying the Bigelow farm, in awe of the woman.

“Papa, are you upset that I named my pet Mary?”

“Nay, son. Mary’s a good name for such a fine pet.”

“But you are upset that I want to rent my house.”

“It’s not so much your wish to see the house lived in,” Michael clarified. “It’s the fact that you’ve set your hopes on finding this special woman to rent it to. What happens if she turns out to be a disappointment?”

“She won’t,” Robbie said with all the confidence of an eight-year-old. “I’ll be real careful when I choose. Aunt Grace is helping me write e-mail letters to them.”

Michael snorted, letting his son know what he thought of Grace’s contribution to his insane plan. “And just who is going to be the landlord to your tenant?” he asked. “When the water heater breaks or the furnace quits, areyou going to make the repairs?”

“Nay, Papa. You are.”

“I see. I would bet that was your aunt’s idea as well.”

“Nay, it was mine.”

“Well, if I get called to the house at two in the morning, know that I intend to wake you up and take ya with me. If you’re wanting to be a landlord, young man, you’re going to have to carry the responsibility.”

“Does that mean I can rent Mama’s house, then?”

“Wouldn’t ya rather find a family to live there? And get yourself a new playmate out of this endeavor?”

“I don’t need a playmate nearly as much as you need a wife, Papa.” Robbie stopped and looked up into Michael’s eyes again. “She’s going to make you smile.”

Michael messed his son’s hair and then pushed him forward along the trail. “Tell me about the three women you’ve found.”

“Not until later, during breakfast. But I will give you a hint about one of them. Carla is a widow with three children.” Robbie turned and wiggled his eyebrows. “She must be nice, if some man loved her enough to marry her. And with Carla, we would both get something. You’ll get a wife, and I’ll get new playmates.”

“And where is this Carla from?”

“Florida.”

Michael snorted again. “Are ya not worried she won’t like our winters?”

“I do have that worry, Papa.” Robbie was quiet for several minutes as he strode ahead.

“Maybe I should cross Carla off the list,” he said without turning around.

“So that leaves only two. What of them?”

“But there might be more,” Robbie countered. “I haven’t been able to check my e-mail for two days.”

E-mail. Internet ads. Choosing a tenant before meeting her. What a different world his son was growing up in, compared with Michael’s own childhood eight hundred years ago.

“Do you want to go to Gu Bràth with me tomorrow and check my e-mail?” Robbie asked as he ducked under a bent maple sapling.

“Nay, Robbie. I will leave that craziness up to you and Grace. I need to start preparing for the Christmas season and for the snow that’ll be coming soon. And I’ll have to keep John busy as well, keep his mind off his loss.”

“Grampy won’t go to Hawaii and live with his son, will he?” Robbie asked.

Michael was about to respond, but his chest suddenly tightened again. A prickle of cold ran up his spine and raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

Robbie’s pet—the owl his son called Mary—had just glided past them again through the forest. The snowy landed on a branch in front of them, and damn if the air around the bird did not glow with the warmth of a gentle blue light.

The same blue light Michael sometimes saw in Robbie’s room when he checked on his son before going to bed himself.

The same blue light he had seen on West Shoulder Ridge eight years ago when thedrùidh ’s magic had saved Grace MacKeage.

The exact same blue of Mary Sutter’s beautiful eyes.