She was just pulling out of his body when Libby noticed something else—an irregularity in Darren’s heartbeat, a backwash from one valve. And so she stopped and concentrated and repaired it while she was there. She opened her eyes, lifted Darren’s chin, and smiled at him.

“You’re a very lucky boy. It’s only a bit bruised,” she said, looking over at Mrs. Brewer, who was now kneeling beside her. “A little Tylenol if he complains,” Libby told her.

“And he’ll be good to go in a day or two.”

“It-it’s not broken?” the woman asked, softly touching Darren’s arm.

“No. The swelling will go down quickly, once we get some ice on it,” she said, taking an ice pack out of the kit, breaking the seal to mix the ingredients, and then carefully placing it over Darren’s arm. “I think he’s more shaken than hurt.”

Some of the tension eased from the woman’s face. “And Alan?” she asked. “He’ll be okay, too?”

Libby nodded. “He will,” she assured her, remembering the injury she had been able to see but hadn’t been able to get near. “He’ll have to go through weeks of rehabilitation, but he’ll be fine in no time.”

“It’s all my fault,” the woman cried, burying her face in her hands. “I bought those damned lights and wanted them put on the eaves.”

Libby wrapped an arm around her. “It’s Karen, isn’t it?” she asked, trying to remember that morning’s introductions.

“Carrie,” the woman corrected, nodding.

“It was no one’s fault, Carrie. It was an accident. And your husband and son are going to be okay. You’ll have a great Christmas.”

The woman took her son in her arms. “Thank Doc Libby, Darren,” she instructed.

Darren eyed her suspiciously. “My arm don’t hurt no more.”

“I’m glad,” Libby said, standing up and closing the medical kit. “And I’m prescribing that you stay off roofs, young man, for at least three years.”

Michael took the kit from her and carried it back to the ambulance, allowing Libby to run ahead and check on Alan. Being strapped to a backboard was uncomfortable all by itself, and the strain of his ordeal showed on his face behind the oxygen mask.

It was another fifteen minutes before the sound of beating helicopter blades finally broke over the tops of the trees. There was a large field next to the Brewers’ house, and people had parked cars and turned on their headlights to illuminate the area. With its own powerful lights flooding the field, the chopper slowly descended, forcing the onlookers to take shelter. Just as it touched down, attendants emerged and ran toward the ambulance.

With her hand placed reassuringly on his chest, Libby climbed down as Alan was lifted out of the ambulance and became part of the parade of paramedics as she shouted an update of vitals to the new arrivals. Just as soon as Alan was placed in the chopper, Libby closed the door and pounded on the side. She then ducked and ran back to the ambulance to avoid being blown away by the downdraft from the blades.

“Do you have someone to drive you to Bangor?” she asked Carrie Brewer. “And someone to stay with your children?”

Carrie nodded, watching the chopper carry her husband away. Finally, she looked at Libby. “Should Darren come with me?”

“That would be best,” Libby told her. “He probably should have a more thorough checkup and maybe some X rays.”

Carrie pulled her into a shaky embrace. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for helping us.”

“The paramedics did all the work. Now, go to Bangor, and tell whoever drives you not to rush. It will take them a while to evaluate Alan. But they’ll talk with you before they do anything. And don’t worry,” she finished, patting Carrie’s shoulder, “he’ll be fine.”

Libby turned and walked to Michael’s truck, opened the passenger door, and stared at the chest-high seat. She was too tired and too numb to climb up into it. Strong hands took hold of her by the waist and lifted her up. Her seat belt was fastened, and the door was softly shut.

Libby closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the headrest. Other than to tell the paramedics that she was a doctor, Michael hadn’t said one word the entire evening.

And he still had nothing to say as he slid in behind the wheel, started the truck, and drove down the driveway. When they got to the paved road, he turned right, not left, and headed toward her home.

Libby was thankful for his silence. Her head was reeling, her stomach was churning, and she couldn’t stop shaking. It wasn’t until Michael turned on the heater and a blast of warm air hit her that Libby realized she was chilled to the bone.

She probably should say something.

But what?

She looked to her left and could just make out Michael’s profile in the dim light from the dash as he watched the road. He silently lifted his right arm. And just as silently, Libby unfastened her seat belt and scooted over until she was firmly against him, closed her eyes again with a sigh, and snuggled into his fierce embrace.

She had been staring up at the ceiling for the last two hours, until the glowing stars were nothing more than blurry dots of light. Libby looked at her clock by the bed, cursed the fact that it wouldn’t be daylight for another three hours, and stared at the stars again.

He knew.

Michael knew her secret. He’d been right there with her last night, anchoring her, while she had tried to heal Alan Brewer. And he’d been holding Darren when she mended the boy’s broken arm. Michael had to have felt the energy coursing through her, seen exactly what she had seen, and realized what was happening.

So now he knew.

And he hadn’t said a word. He’d brought her home, tucked her into bed, given her a chaste kiss, and left.

What must he have thought? Was he lying in his own bed right now, looking up at his blank ceiling, wondering what sort of freak she was?

Libby tried to imagine how she’d feel if it were Michael who had this gift. Would she be afraid of him? Could she love an aberration if their roles were reversed?

But he did have a secret, and it wasn’t just who had crafted her bed, either. There was something mysterious about Michael that had to do with his past. Something had happened to him twelve years ago that had caused the strong, confident man to retreat to the mountains of Maine.

He told her he had been a warrior. Had he seen or done something so unsettling that it had sent him into hiding?

And what was Daar’s connection? Michael seemed to accept the priest’s claim that he was a wizard. Heck, he seemed actually to respect the old man.

But he wasn’t afraid of Daar. Just cautious. And guarded.

And unwilling to talk about her secret because he didn’t want to talk about his own?

Damn, what a mess.

Libby tossed back the covers and stumbled to the bathroom, only to nearly step on Trouble when he came scampering out the moment she opened the door. Guardian was right behind him, and she knew the two boys were headed upstairs to find their sister, who was likely sleeping with Kate.

Libby splashed water on her face, fluffed her hair, and brushed her teeth. She went back to the bedroom, dressed in layers of warm clothes, and headed into the kitchen. She found a paper and pencil and wrote her mother a note, telling Kate not to expect her at the Christmas shop until noon. Libby then put on her boots and jacket and hat and gloves, found her flashlight, and headed out onto the porch.

She just stood there for several minutes, staring up at black and silent TarStone Mountain, which rose like a sleeping giant into the star-studded sky.

It looked damned cold. And formidable.

It also looked like a good place to get lost.

Libby didn’t dare calculate her chances of finding Daar’s cabin, for fear she might get smart all of a sudden and not go. But she had to talk to the old priest before her mind really did explode. And so she snapped on her flashlight and headed across the yard and into the forest.