Morgan pulled his sword from its sheath tied to the saddle and turned to face the wolf.

He raised the weapon threateningly. “I want nothing to do with you tonight.”

Faol lowered his head and dropped something out of his mouth. Morgan lowered the tip his sword and squinted at the ground. “What is that?” he asked, taking a step closer.

Faol whined, nosing it forward in the dirt.

Morgan bent down in front of the wolf, set his sword across his knees, and picked up the metallic object. A hot, wet tongue suddenly ran up the side of his face.

Morgan fell back in surprise.

“Damned beast,” he said, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “You’d better not be seeing if I’ll make a good meal.”

Morgan reached out and touched the wolf on the side of his face, just below his right ear.

Faol nosed the palm of Morgan’s hand, then rumbled a contented growl deep in his chest. He took a step forward and nudged the forgotten object in Morgan’s hand.

Morgan turned his attention to what looked like the ammunition clip of a hunting rifle.

A powerful rifle, judging by the size of the bullets.

“Where did you get this?” he asked, turning it over in his hand. He looked at the wolf.

“Where did you find this?”

Faol turned and started into the forest but stopped and looked back. Morgan stood up, placed his sword back in its sheath, and pulled clothes down from his saddle. He dressed quickly, tucking Faol’s gift into his pocket, then mounted Gràdhag and turned them into the forest to follow the now running wolf down the narrow, darkening path.

Faol turned onto a tote road and headed north, deeper into the valley. Morgan followed Faol for several miles along Prospect River, then pulled Gràdhag to a halt when the wolf suddenly left the road and leaped onto the crest of a knoll. Morgan followed on foot, making no sound as he moved through the woods.

The voices of men carried softly across the stillness of the evening. The wolf abruptly stopped and lay down; Morgan did the same and watched the two men in the camp below.

“Jesus Christ, Dwayne. A bigger idiot was never born. How in hell can you lose an entire clip full of bullets?”

“I swear, Harry, I left the clip right here,” the man named Dwayne said in a whine, pointing at the tarp spread out on the ground. “I was cleaning our guns and went to the truck for a polishing rag. But when I tried to put my gun back together, I couldn’t find the clip,” he continued, holding up the gas lantern as he scanned the ground. “It’s got to be here somewhere.”

The man named Harry also scanned the forest floor, using a flashlight. Morgan looked around the camp the men had erected. It appeared they planned to be in the valley for quite a while. They had boxes of supplies stacked against the outside wall of a large tent, several gas cans, backpacks, and a canoe strapped to the rack of their truck.

They’d set up camp near the river, just far enough back that anyone coming down the Prospect by boat would not see them.

Morgan didn’t like this, that these men were here in Mercedes’ valley, looking for all the world like a pair of poachers. Hunting season was not for several more weeks in this area, but there were two high-powered hunting rifles leaning against a tree near the tarp.

And poachers, in Morgan’s experience—both from eight hundred years ago and from these last six years—were unconscionable men who thought only of themselves and were a danger to anyone who crossed their reckless paths.

Which Mercedes was bound to do, eventually, if she kept planting her ribbons.

With a silent sigh, Morgan retreated down the knoll and headed toward Gràdhag, leaving Faol to watch the men. And as he rode through the night, Morgan tried to decide how he could protect Mercedes while trying to protect this valley from her—and not let his wanting to possess her distract him from either duty.

Chapter Ten

When it came to the weather,September and March were transition months in Maine, and Sadie had decided long ago that they were also the most interesting. It had to do with the equinoxes, when the sun sat directly over the equator, equalizing the hours of daylight and darkness. It was the turning point of the seasons, the final push of the air masses that moved with the tilt of the earth, producing great battles between the warm airs of the south and the cold airs of the north.

And September, in Sadie’s estimation, was the greatest time of year to be living in Maine, caught in the middle of those timeless meteorological wars.

So this morning she packed accordingly and filled her kayaking dry bag with shorts, T-shirts, jeans, and heavy sweaters. She also packed a pair of long johns, a full rain suit, a tent, and enough food for several days.

She checked her equipment next—GPS, cell phone, new camera, five rolls of film, matches, lighter, knife, water bottles, duct tape, two flashlights, and several lengths of rope. In another dry bag she placed her carefully folded maps and the copy of the diary of Jean Lavoie that Eric had brought her, as well as her own journal of the last ten weeks.

Finally, satisfied that she had everything, Sadie headed to the cabin door. She was driving to the headwaters of the Prospect, a good eight miles upriver past Fraser Mountain. Then she’d make the eighteen-mile run down the river, in three days if she didn’t dawdle too much.

And if she were really lucky, she’d talk her mother into driving to the end of the valley to pick her up. If not, well, she’d have a mighty long hike back to her truck.

Sadie opened the cabin door with her foot and had just stepped onto the porch when she suddenly halted and dropped everything she was carrying. She stared at the note skewered to the nail on the porch post:DON’T GO INTO THE WOODS TODAY .

Sadie ripped the paper down and glared at the boldly scrawled letters of an obviously masculine hand:DON’T GO INTO THE WOODS TODAY . That was all it said. No name of the writer. No explanation. Only a dictate that she was expected to obey.

Morgan MacKeage was manhandling her again, from a distance this time. And, as in every minute of their date two nights ago, he was expecting her cooperation.

Sadie frowned into the forest in front of her cabin. What was this about? The guy just leaves a note and expects her to obey meekly?

Sadie crumpled the paper in her hand, crushing it with angry force and then throwing it at the woods. Dammit. She was being paid to do a job here. Morgan couldn’t expect her to change her plans simply because he was in the mood to test theirfriendship. She didn’

t care if she still hadn’t found the socks he’d kissed off her feet; she was not playing his game.

He had plenty of nerve to leave such a note, instead of having the decency to knock on her door and explain his reasoning.

What to do? What to do?

If she stayed in camp today, what message would she be sending him? That she was a good, obedient little lass whom he could bend to his will on a whim?

Yet Morgan didn’t strike Sadie as a man who issued idle orders. Nor was she a woman to ignore a sincerely given suggestion if there was sound reasoning behind it.

“Dammit, MacKeage!” she hollered, shaking her fist at the woods. “You’re an arrogant jerk!”

Her echoing outburst unanswered, Sadie let out a frustrated breath and returned to her fallen gear. She picked up the dry bag that had her papers inside and took out Jean Lavoie’s diary and her own journal. Then, still angry at herself for letting six simple words rule her day, Sadie stomped down the steps and strode to a pair of towering maple trees with a hammock strung between them.

She pretty nearly hung herself getting into the hammock. As it was, she ended up on the ground, creating a cloud of dust that made her cough.

She had to get a grip here before she did herself bodily harm. Oh, she would stay out of the woods today, but Morgan MacKeage would be getting a rather scorching lecture onfriendship —if and when she ever saw him again.