New England sounded good, quaint and unhurried and very, very real. A place in the mountains where she could feel the earth wrapping securely around her.

As her search engine complied listings in Maine, New Hampshire, and Vermont, Elizabeth headed back to the closet and pulled out warm clothes. She returned to the computer and found 846 listings of houses for rent.

She narrowed it down by population, requesting a small town, which brought the total to 320. She trimmed the list further by limiting the search to rentals with wood-burning fireplaces.

Elizabeth sat down at her desk with a tired sigh. She’d have to read 106 ads. She was creating a new life here, and she intended to do it right.

One hour later, Elizabeth straightened in her chair and blinked through blurry eyes at the listing in Pine Creek, Maine. It was a hundred-year-old farmhouse set on sixty-four acres, with a fireplace, a farm kitchen, and a two-bay garage. It had outbuildings for animals and a view of Pine Lake from the porch, all backed up against TarStone Mountain. Rent was four hundred dollars a month plus utilities.

But it was the pictures, not the outrageously low rent, that caught Elizabeth’s attention.

There were four digital photos with the ad, and Elizabeth immediately fell in love with the house, Pine Creek, and the boy who sat proudly on a pony in front of a field of Christmas trees.

The first photo was of the house, a stately, two-story, white clapboard New England farmhouse with a slate roof, two chimneys, and a porch that wrapped around it on three sides. The second photo was taken from a distance and nicely showed off the setting.

The house sat away from the road and was nestled against brightly colored maple trees contrasted by dark evergreens rising steeply up the side of TarStone Mountain.

Elizabeth assumed the third photo was taken from the porch of the house. It showed an unbelievable autumn vista of more mountains surrounding a very large body of water that must be Pine Lake.

But it was the fourth photo that tugged at her heart. A child eleven or maybe twelve years old sat on his pony and grinned at the camera. His chest was puffed out, his deep auburn hair was blowing in his eyes, and he had a lopsided smile on his face that was more arrogant than sweet.

Proud. Handsome. And apparently wanting to rent his mother’s house, according to the write-up, which stated that the house had sat empty for almost eight years now.

She could give the old house its life back. Heck, she even had a way to make a living in Pine Creek.

Since the age of twelve, Elizabeth and Grammy Bea had kept their hobby a secret, simply because jewelry making would not be a noble pursuit in her father’s eyes. And if he had known and had somehow approved, well, her dad would have nagged Elizabeth to know why she wasn’t using gold or silver if she wanted to play at being a craftsman.

No, Barnaby Hart would not have understood that creating jewelry out of glass was just as inspiring, and just as rewarding, as using more expensive material.

Elizabeth decided she could open a studio and sell her creations from her own little shop. Pine Creek was in the mountains, and Maine was known for its great skiing.

Surely there was a resort town within a reasonable commute where she could set up a shop.

Her equipment was at Bea’s home in the mountains, so she’d have to drive up there tonight, pack it up, and ship it to Pine Creek. She figured she had two, maybe three days before James grew impatient enough to make the drive up there to find her.

And so Elizabeth clicked the response button at the bottom of Robbie MacBain’s ad and typed:

Dear Mr. MacBain,

I was very taken with your ad to rent out your home and would like for you to consider renting it to me. Right now I live in California, but I wish to move to New England.

There is no snow where I live, but I have spent a lot of time up in the mountains, and I love snow.

I also love your home. It is my hope to move to Pine Creek and get a few cats and some chickens. I also like your pony, and I think I might like to have my own horse to ride in your beautiful woods.

I enjoy growing things and would love to plant an herb garden next spring. But mostly I think you should know that it’s the house itself that draws me to Pine Creek. It’s a beautiful home your mama lived in, Robbie. It looks to be well built and very cozy. I especially love the fact that it has a fireplace.

And I think you’re right, a house is only a home when it’s lived in. I’m glad you wish to rent it, and I’m hoping you’ll rent it to me.

I am a jewelry maker and would like to set up a studio in town or in a town close by. I make glass jewelry inspired by nature—birds, flowers, acorns, leaves, and animals.

I’m sorry that I can’t send you my phone number so that we can talk in person, but I’m going to my grandmother’s home before traveling to Maine—and to Pine Creek, I hope, if you’ll have me.

I will still be able to check my e-mail on a regular basis and am looking forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely,

Elizabeth Hart

Elizabeth reread her letter. She thought for a minute, clicked on her name at the end, and quickly changed “Elizabeth” to “Libby.” Grammy Bea had always called her Libby, and if she was creating a new life for herself, a new name was a great way to start. And so Elizabeth—no, Libby—set the mouse pointer on the respond button, took a deep breath, and sent her letter spiraling through cyberspace toward young Robbie MacBain.

There. It was done.

Chapter Three

Pine Creek, Maine, October 28

Driving definitely would have been easierif Libby could have kept her eyes on the road.

And the trip wouldn’t have taken nearly as long if she hadn’t had to stop every half hour to get out and stare at the landscape.

But the country was beautiful. Rugged. Overwhelming.

The trees went on forever; fluorescent red and yellow and orange blanketed the mountains, broken only by the deep green of pine and spruce and hemlock. Cliffs of solid granite pushed up through the vivid colors, hinting at the massive foundation that lay beneath the forest.

Since renting the small compact car at the airport in Bangor and heading northwest on Route 15, Libby had felt herself climbing, rising into the mountains until they wrapped completely around her. The tension of the last week slowly seeped from her body, andhome became a whispered mantra that repeated itself with every beat of her heart.

After taking nearly three hours to travel the eighty miles from Bangor, Libby crested yet another hill and just barely caught herself before slamming on the brakes. The sight of Pine Lake, with its vast waters contained only by the sheer strength of the mountains, stole her breath. Libby guided her car to the shoulder of the two-lane road, shut off the engine, and stared through the windshield.

Islands, some the size of houses and some several acres in size, dotted the large cove that fingered in from the lake toward the small town nestled on the shore. Mountains rose from the water’s edge like watchful guardians, several of their peaks shrouded by low clouds as they marched into the distance.

Her life up until this moment seemed no more than a dream as she stared at the great reality in front of her. Miracles lived here. This was a realm of possibilities, whispering the promise of sanctuary to her fragmented soul.

Her flight from California had ended. She’d been driven—or pulled—to this magical place by a guiding presence that needed no reason other than rightness. How and why and what would happen next did not matter. Libby simply knew this was where she belonged.

She had never given much thought to mystical powers—not until a week ago, when she’

d found herself holding that very power in her hands. She was a surgeon who could suddenly heal people without a scalpel.