“And last night, when yar gift failed, what did you do?”

“I used my training.”

“Aye. And will Alan Brewer recover?”

“Yes. His back was broken, but I could see that it wasn’t a severe or paralyzing break.

But what about Darren? Why was I able to help him?”

“Because he’s a child,” Daar told her. “He hasn’t lived long enough for his mind to be closed.”

Libby sipped her coffee and thought about what Daar was saying. It made sense, she guessed, in a weird sort of way.

“So I’m just a conduit or something? You’re saying I can’t force my gift onto someone?”

Daar came and sat back down beside her, his crystal-blue eyes shining with warmth.

“Aye, Libby. And that should ease a lot of yar worries. Ya do not have the power to decide a person’s fate. Was that not yar greatest fear?”

He was right, that was her greatest worry. Libby nodded and took another sip of her coffee, thankful that her fingers and toes were finally thawing out. Daar suddenly cocked his head as he stared at her, his eyes narrowing in what Libby now recognized as an outward sign that he was thinking.

“I’m just wondering,” he mused. “What would have happened last night if ya would have had my staff with ya?”

Libby shot her gaze to his cane, which was leaning against the hearth. “That staff?” she asked, pointing to it. “Why? Do you think I could have healed Alan Brewer if I’d had it?”

“Aye,” he said, slowly nodding, his thoughts turned inward again. “It might not be powerful enough, though. But my old staff would be,” he added gruffly, focusing back on her. “With it, ya could have overridden his resistance, I’m thinking.”

“But wouldn’t that be unethical? Or immoral or something?” Libby asked, growing alarmed. “I don’t want a power that can get past a person’s own defenses.”

“But it’s a good power, lass.”

“Good for whom?” Libby shook her head. “I’m beginning to understand why Michael won’t give you back your staff. He said you could be dangerous if you got all your powers back, and I’m beginning to believe he might be right.”

“Dangerous!” Daar growled, his face darkening. “I’ll have ya know I’ve wielded those powers for more than fourteen centuries, girl, and I never once abused them.”

“But you have made mistakes,” she countered. “That morning on my porch, you admitted as much.”

Daar stood up, walked to the door and opened it, and stood to the side, silently telling her their visit was over. Libby got up, shot one last yearning look at the warm hearth, and walked out onto the porch.

The door slammed shut behind her, the bolt sliding home with a resounding thud.

Libby walked off the porch and across the clearing, through the slowly brightening light of the frosty dawn.

It took her twice as long to find her way back home, since it seemed that Mary no longer felt like helping her.

And Libby wondered what kind of trouble she was in for refusing to help a wizard get back his power.

Chapter Twenty-three

Michael slowly rubbed another layerof wax onto the surface of the tall oak bureau. He’d had precious little time to work on Libby’s Christmas gift since his busy season had started, and it would take a miracle for him to have it done in time.

The moose bed, the bureau, and the two matching nightstands still to be finished had been started well more than a year ago. He’d been making the bedroom set for himself, not because he needed a new bed but because working with wood had been a great source of pleasure for him since childhood. Which is why he had made the maple kitchen table two years ago and presented it to Ellen Bigelow on her eighty-fifth birthday. He’d also built Robbie’s bed from birch wood, for when the boy moved out of his crib.

Michael looked around his workshop and marveled at the array of tools he’d amassed in just nine years. As a lad growing up in the Highlands, he and his da had possessed only a handful of tools. It was a wonder to him now, how his mama had loved each and every piece of furniture they’d made her, despite their crude but functional designs.

Michael smiled in memory of one piece in particular, a trunk for Isobel MacBain’s precious sewing supplies and materials, which he had labored over for nearly five months under the patient eye of his father. He had carved wildflowers into the top of the trunk, which had looked more like weeds than heather and laurel.

His mama had had the same reaction to his gift as Libby, although the two pieces of furniture were worlds—and centuries—apart in craftsmanship. Both women had run their hands over the polished wood in wonder, as if it were precious gold.

Libby.

For the last three weeks, ever since Alan Brewer’s accident, she had been distant and unusually reserved. Hell, the woman had made a point of avoiding him. And when they did talk, they usually discussed such inane things that it would be laughable if it weren’

t so frustrating.

She was just plain scared. Libby knew that he knew her secret, and she was worried he might reject her for possessing the power to heal.

And so, in defense, she was rejecting him first.

That, too, would be laughable if it weren’t so maddening.

Michael had been allowing her silent rebellion only because this was one lesson Libby needed to learn by herself. Trust was a tenuous concept to instill in a person and could be taught only by example.

It was just too bad it was taking Libby so long to decide she could trust him.

He’d give her until Christmas. If she didn’t come to him by then and openly discuss what had happened at the Brewers’, well, he just might steal the woman out of her precious moose bed and take her into the mountains—and not return until she agreed to marry him.

Michael straightened from rubbing the bottom drawer of the bureau and stepped back to admire his work. The rich, warm grains of the oak shone through the many layers of paste wax. He smiled at the tall bureau. Libby was going to have to stand on her tiptoes to see into the top drawer. Maybe he should make her a step stool from the scraps of wood he had left. Hell, she had to get a running start as it was, just to hop into bed.

Damn, but he missed making love to her.

Aye, he’d give her until Christmas to come to her senses. One more week was about all he’d last, he figured, before he went crazy and jumped her beautiful bones in the wreath-making shed.

Michael tossed his rag onto the workbench, shrugged into his jacket, and stepped out into the frosty night air. The cold snow crunched under his feet as he stopped and stared at the hundreds of Christmas trees standing in perfect rows, broken only where felled comrades had been cut to decorate people’s homes.

A full moon reflected off the fresh eight-inch snowfall, illuminating a landscape covered in a pristine mantle of white. TarStone Mountain stood cold and silent in the background, with Fraser Mountain nothing more than a distant shadow to the north.

Michael took a deep breath and sighed in contentment. He was at peace with the world for once, he decided as he rubbed his chest where Libby had hit him with the snowball.

Actually, he felt more confident than content, that he would live out his natural life in this time, now that he knew the olddrùidh would never get back his powerful staff. He hadn’t destroyed the cherrywood stick but had hidden it where Daar, and especially that interfering owl, would never find it.

Michael chuckled, tucked his hands into his pockets, and started walking to the house, watching his breath puff gently into the crisp night air. One week, and they’d be a family, brought together by either providence or chance, ranging in age from nine years old to eight hundred and thirty-six.

But this time, he was waiting until after the wedding to tell his bride about his fantastical journey.