And that was the one thing keeping her from realizing her dream. That stupid fire. She had killed two people she loved. Her carelessness, her inattention to detail, had resulted in a tragedy so horrific she could never be forgiven. Her scars were nothing compared with their deaths. She deserved every horrible one of them.

What she didn’t deserve was a husband as beautiful as Morgan MacKeage. But that didn

’t mean she couldn’t at least love him, couldn’t be married to him if he continued to insist on it.

It didn’t mean he couldn’t eventually love her back.

Sadie caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of her eye and turned to see a canoe come into sight, two men paddling it toward the shore where her kayak was beached. She stood up, scanned the woods for signs of Morgan, then slowly walked over to greet Harry and Dwayne.

Morgan began to limp the moment he wasout of Sadie’s sight. He rubbed his throbbing thigh and cursed his bad luck for getting hurt.

But then, better him than Mercedes. His chest tightened at that thought. She could have been in the lead boat, battling the moose, and him not able to reach her in time.

Or she could have been out here all alone, as she had been this past summer. Anything could have happened to her. She could have fallen during one of her ribbon-planting hikes, have drowned running some of the more violent rapids on the river, or simply have taken a fever with no one to tend her.

He knew from experience that Mercedes was reckless. She didn’t always think before she acted. Hell, what if it had been some other guy she’d taken pictures of, instead of him? What dangers might she have faced?

The woman needed a keeper.

Morgan stopped at a stream that ran into the river and looked down into the crystal-clear water that slowly disappeared into the slightly brackish Prospect River. He turned and started upstream, lifting his gaze to the mountains ahead.

He knew where he was, and he didn’t like it. This was the same stream that flowed from the cliff, through his gorge, then eventually into this valley. And he and Mercedes were camped not half a mile away.

He didn’t want her to see this stream. Didn’t want her to realize that it was special. Once he had her allegiance, then he could show her the waterfall.

Faol silently stepped into his path, planting his feet and curling his lips into an almost human smile.

“You scavenging dog. You leave that moose alone, or I’ll have your hide tacked on the wall beside it.”

Faol dropped his head, stepped into the stream, and began to lap the water, not the least bit bothered by the threat. Morgan remembered he was supposed to be looking for drinking water himself. He moved above Faol and knelt on the bank, submerging the bottle and letting it fill. He capped it, set it on the grass, then leaned down to take his own drink.

A sharp, crackling sensation shot through his body the moment his lips touched the water. Morgan grabbed the burl dangling from his neck into the stream that was now vibrating with the force of a thousand bees taking flight. He straightened abruptly as heat seared through his body and sparks of green light danced in his eyes.

The wolf gave a yelp of alarm and shot past Morgan, knocking him backward onto the river bank. The tingling lessened, and the burl settled into a soft hum.

Morgan lifted it from his chest to see it better. The cherrywood was swirling, pulling against his hand in the direction of the stream.

Well, hell. The magic was seeking its own. It felt the lure of Daar’s old staff coursing through the water. Morgan lifted the burl over his head, gripped it in his fist, and touched his hand to the water again.

Needles of energy shot up his arm, through his chest, spreading to every inch of his body. The wound on his thigh throbbed as heat gathered around it like the touch of a hot poker.

He pulled his hand back, and it stopped.

He opened his fist and stared at the swirling, vibrating burl that glowed with intense light. What had thedrùidh said? That this burl carried the magic and that Morgan must find a way to add to its strength?

Well, it seemed he just had.

Not that he understood it. He’d gotten the burl wet many times since receiving it, but this was the first time it had touched this particular water. And that was the secret. This magical stream that the towering trees drank from, that grew big fish, and that now sent energy coursing through his body.

Morgan slipped the burl back over his head and stood up. He unbuttoned his shirt and threw it on the ground, then stripped off his boots and pants and tossed them beside the shirt. He ripped the bandage off his thigh and examined his wound.

The skin around it was pulsing, pulling against the stitches he’d set. The jagged edges of flesh were tingling, swelling, throbbing together as if trying to become one again. The knots of thread suddenly snapped, sending pain shooting all the way to his teeth.

Morgan waded into the stream up to his waist, then sat down until all but his shoulders were submerged. The burl dangled in the water. Sparks shot from it in every direction, scattering bubbles of light around him. He closed his eyes and let the energy course through him, leaning back until only his face remained exposed to the air.

Color swirled through his mind. Warmth wrapped his skin in a blanket of heat so intense that breathing was difficult. The humming grew louder. The water boiled, bubbles exploding around him like sparks from a bonfire.

Morgan sank below the surface, twisting and kicking his feet in an attempt to outswim the chaos. He felt as if he had the strength of a legion of men, as if he possessed the power to bend the laws of nature.

And the ability to heal himself.

He twisted again and sat up, brushing the hair from his face and letting the water cascade down his back. He grabbed the burl into his fist and pictured his wound in his mind’s eye, sending the heat there, willing his flesh to seal itself up. He flexed his left knee, pulling against the skin on his thigh.

And he suddenly felt no pain.

Nothing but the warmth of pliant flesh.

Morgan opened his eyes and looked around. The sparks had disappeared. The water was calm again, gently making its way down to the river. His body was cool, his breathing even, his muscles relaxed.

And he felt wonderfully alive.

He opened his fist and looked down at the burl. It, too, was calm, softly humming in his hand. But it felt different to his touch now. Smoother. Smaller.

Dammit. It was smaller. He’d used up some of the magic.

Morgan stood up, let the burl fall back against his chest, and waded over to the bank. He threw himself onto the ground and lay face-up, staring at clouds colored red by the lowering sun. He stayed there motionless for several minutes, trying to come to terms with what had just happened.

He sat up suddenly and looked down at his thigh. There was no wound, no stitches, not even a scar. He rubbed the balls of his fingers over the smooth, hair-covered flesh.

Well, hell. How would he explain this to Mercedes?

Faol came slinking out of the brush much more silently than he had left and nudged Morgan in the back. The wolf let out an agitated whine and trotted several paces down the stream bank.

The animal stopped, turned back to him, and growled, his head lowered and his hackles raised in an aggressive posture. He lifted his nose in the air, sniffed, and took several more steps toward the river before he stopped and let out a bark.

Morgan grabbed his clean clothes and quickly dressed. He snatched up the water bottle and his sword and trotted after the wolf. Keeping in the shadows of the tall brush that lined the stream, he stayed alert to whatever was making Faol travel with the stealth of a hunter.