“It really depends on his injuries,” she told him, laying a hand on his arm. “Sometimes very little blood looks like gallons when smeared around the inside of a vehicle. And he

’s smart enough to try to stop the bleeding. And he’s good-sized, Michael. He has enough body mass to hold heat.”

Libby squeezed his arm and then fell silent, fighting the fear rising inside her, letting Michael cling to the hope she’d given him.

Wood. A piece of wood. What was Robbie saying?

“Wait!” she suddenly shouted, grabbing his arm again. “Stop the truck!”

He slammed on the brakes, bringing them to a sliding halt, and stared at her.

“The staff. Daar’s staff. Did you destroy it?”

“Nay. I tried, but I didn’t dare. Why? What has it to do with finding Robbie? Mary will help us.”

“A piece of wood, Michael. What if Robbie meant Daar’s staff? What if he was asking you to bring it?”

“It probably means something else, Libby. That he’s traveling through the woods.

Robbie’s not even aware of Daar’s staff.”

“Michael, we have to get it anyway,” she said, tugging at him in frustration. “Remember Alan Brewer? I couldn’t help him because I was not powerful enough to get past his defenses. But Daar said that with his staff, I might have been able to.”

“Robbie will not fight ya, Libby. He trusts ya.”

“But what if we’re too late?” she whispered, looking down at her folded hands on her lap.

Only the sound of the idling engine and the beat of the wiper blades broke the sudden silence inside the truck. Fat, flickering snowflakes bombarded them with growing intensity, disappearing into raindrops on the heated windshield. The dash lights glowed in ethereal colors that only added credence to her unthinkable words.

With nothing more than a growl for answer, Michael slammed the truck into reverse and turned on the narrow road, spinning all four tires to gain traction, heading them back in the direction they’d come from.

In silence, they sped through the night, and Libby prayed they were doing the right thing. She knew Michael’s reluctance to expose the powerful staff, but even if they all got zapped back to medieval Scotland, it wouldn’t matter as long as Robbie survived.

She’d go with them, she decided, sliding her hand gently onto Michael’s thigh.

Anyplace, in any time, being with the two men she loved was better than staying in this time without Robbie.

They sped past her driveway and continued to Michael’s home, coming to a sliding stop in front of his workshop. He set the brake with a jerk and was running inside before the truck had stopped rocking.

Libby was one step behind him.

The woodworking shop stood patiently silent in the sudden glare of the overhead lights Michael snapped on. Without breaking stride, he went to his workbench, reached up, and took down a small chain saw. He gave one violent tug on the starter cord, and the miniature engine screamed to life.

Libby gasped in surprise when she saw him shove at a beautiful oak bureau, sending its polished face crashing onto the floor. He set the roaring blade of the saw against the back panel and cut through the wood. Sawdust and choking engine fumes filled the workshop, the whine of the deafening blade making the destruction horribly easy.

The top half of the bureau separated cleanly, rolling onto its finished top. The air continued to hum with bone-chilling echoes long after the noise ceased abruptly. And Libby could only stand and watch in horror as Michael used his bare hands to rip apart the bottom half of his beautiful creation.

He stood up, the two-foot-long, thick, gnarled piece of cherrywood clenched in his fist.

He grabbed Libby’s hand and, without giving the destruction a second glance, pulled her back out to the truck. He lifted her in, handed her the staff, and climbed in and had the truck moving before she could fasten her seat belt.

Libby stared at the heavy, warm-feeling wood in her hands.

It still hummed with lingering energy—from the whine of the chain saw? Lord, she hoped so. They could well be playing with fire, trying to use this ancient piece of old magic to save Robbie’s life.

Libby carefully set the staff on the seat by the door and put her hand back on Michael’s thigh as she watched the blinding snowflakes rush past the hood of the truck, their reflection in the headlights all but shouting urgency.

This was taking too long.

They might be too late.

Michael suddenly slammed on the brakes when a white blur of feathers crossed the beam of the headlights, swooping low and then lifting back into the forest. The truck slid to a stop, and Michael shut off the engine and rolled down his window. Together, they sat in absolute silence and listened.

A sharp, distant, haunting whistle came from the woods.

Michael looked down the road in the direction they’d been traveling, then over at Libby.

“We’re still three miles from the accident,” he told her, looking back at the woods.

“How far could he travel?” Libby asked. “Carrying a baby?”

“He could probably cover one, maybe one and a half miles in an hour,” he told her.

“Depending on his injuries. He might already be over the ridge by now.”

“Is there a road leading up there?”

“Aye. There are all sorts of woodcutting trails. But there’s almost two feet of snow from the last storm and this one. The MacKeages have the best chance of finding him in their snowcats.”

“But we have Mary,” Libby reminded him, touching his arm.

He started the truck, then slowly let it roll forward, keeping watch through his open window. Libby saw the narrow track the same time he did. He put the truck in neutral, shifted the four-wheel drive into low gear, then gunned the engine and sent them careening through the ditch and up onto the trail.

Libby had to brace herself against the violent upheavals of the rough terrain, holding on to the dash and gripping the cherrywood staff between her knees to keep it from bouncing around the interior of the truck.

They dug and spun and slowly made their way through the deep snow, climbing the ridge one rock and one fallen tree at a time. Finally, they stopped with a jarring thud, as all four tires screamed and chittered for traction.

Michael shut off the engine. “This is it. We walk from here,” he said, opening his door, getting out, and reaching back under the seat. He pulled out a flashlight, clicked it on, and shone it through the interior of the truck.

“Give me the staff,” he said, helping her down and holding her until she found her footing. “Listen,” he whispered, looking toward the tops of the towering trees.

They heard it again, that faint, haunting cry of urgent desperation, far off to their left, high up on the ridge.

Michael lifted the back of his jacket, tucked the heavy staff into his belt, and let his coat fall over it. “This way,” he said, taking her hand and leading her deeper into the woods.

Chapter Twenty-five

Libby followed in silence,letting Michael guide her around large boulders and over fallen trees, trying very hard not to slow down the pace he was keeping. She felt as if she were in one of those maddening nightmares, where she was running as fast as she could but not moving.

They traveled for what seemed like forever, until Libby was soaked in sweat and beginning to shiver. Her breathing was labored, and her muscles ached. Only the urgency of Mary’s distant cries gave Libby the strength to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Michael suddenly stopped and pointed toward the top of the ridge. “There. Do ya see that?” he asked in a winded whisper. “That blue glow?”

“Is it the ski-slope lights?” Libby asked, moving to see better.

“Nay,” he said, pointing to their left. “TarStone is to the north. You can just make out the reflection of the tower lights on the clouds. This glow is blue,” he said, pointing back at the south side of the ridge. “Can ya see it?”