“He moved to Pine Creek from Nova Scotia,” Mary said.

“And before that he lived in Scotland.” She turned her gaze to Grace, her drug-dilated, blue eyes suddenly looking apprehensive. “He told me he was born in Scotland.” And then, in a near whisper, she added, “In the year 1171.”

Grace straightened in her chair and stared at Mary. “What?” she whispered back, convinced she had heard wrong. “When?”

“In 1171.”

“You’re meaning in November of 1971, right?”

Mary slowly shook her head. “No. The year eleven hundred seventy-one. Eight hundred years ago.”

Grace thought about that. Fantastical was putting it mildly. But then she suddenly laughed softly. “Mary.

You ran away from the man because he believes in reincarnation?” She waved her hand in the air.

“Heck, half the population of the world believes they’ve led past lives. There are whole religions based on reincarnation.”

“No,” Mary insisted, shaking her head. “That’s not what Michael meant. He says he spent the first twenty-five years of his life in twelfth-century Scotland and the last four years here in modern-day North America. That a storm carried him through time.”

Grace was at a loss for words.

“Actually,” Mary continued, “five of his clan and their warhorses came with him.”

Grace sucked in her breath at the sorrow in her sister’s eyes. “And where are these men now? And their…their…horses?”

“They’re dead,” Mary said. “All of them. Michael’s the last of his clan.” Her features suddenly relaxed.

“Except for his son now.”

She reached for Grace’s hand and gripped it with surprising strength. “That’s why I was going back.

Family is important to Michael. He’s all alone in this world, except for our baby. And that’s why you have to take his son to him.”

Mary let out a tired breath. “I’m dying.” She looked at Grace with sadly resigned eyes. “You have to do this for me, Gracie. And you have to tell Michael I love him.” Tears were spilling over her cheeks.

Grace stared down at her sister through tears of her own.

“Will you listen to yourself, Mare? You’re asking me to take your son to a madman. If he really believes he’s traveled through time, then he’s touched in the head. You want him bringing up your child?”

Mary released a shuddering breath and closed her eyes again. A stillness settled over the room once more.

Mary was asking her to take a child—her nephew—to a man who was not sane. Grace covered her face with her hands. How could Mary ask such a thing of her?

And how could she not grant her sister’s dying wish?

The door opened again with a muted whoosh, and Grace looked up to see a clear plastic basinet being wheeled into the room. White cotton-covered little arms waved in the air, the sleeves so long there was no sign of the tiny hands that should be sticking out of the ends.

Grace had to wipe the tears from her eyes to see that Mary was awake again, straining to see her baby.

“Oh, God. Look at him, Gracie,” Mary whispered, reaching toward him with a shaking hand. “He’s so tiny.”

The nurse placed the basinet next to the bed. She put a pillow on Mary’s lap and carefully placed Mary’s cast-covered right arm on top of it. Then she picked up the tiny, squeaking bundle from the basinet and gently settled him on the pillow in Mary’s lap.

“He’s so pink,” Mary said, gently cupping his head. “And so beautiful.”

“He’s thinking it’s dinnertime,” the nurse said. “You might as well feed him a bit of sugar water if you feel up to it.”

“Oh, yes,” Mary said, already tugging at his blanket.

The nurse repositioned him in the crook of Mary’s broken arm and handed her a tiny bottle of clear liquid with a nipple on it. The tubes sticking in Mary’s left hand tangled in her child’s kicking feet. The nurse moved around the bed, handed the bottle to Grace, and carefully removed the IV from Mary’s hand, covering it with a bandage she pulled from her smock.

“There. You don’t really need this,” she said, hanging the tubes on the IV stand. She took the bottle of sugar water back and stuck it in the fretting baby’s mouth. Free now, Mary awkwardly but eagerly took over.

The nurse watched for a minute, making sure Mary could handle the chore, then turned to Grace.

“I’m going to leave you in privacy,” the nurse said, her eyes betraying her sadness as she smiled at Mary and her son. She looked back at Grace. “Just ring for me if you need anything. I’ll come immediately.”

Panic immobilized Grace. The nurse was leaving them alone? Neither one of them knew a thing about babies.

“Look, Gracie. Isn’t he beautiful?” Mary asked.

Grace stood up and examined her nephew. Beautiful? He was unquestionably the homeliest baby she had ever seen. His puffy cheeks were red with exertion, his eyes were scrunched closed, his chin and neck blended into a series of overlapping wrinkles, and gobs of dark straight hair shot out from under a bright blue knit cap.

“He’s gorgeous,” she told Mary.

“Pull off his cap,” her sister asked. “I want to see his hair.”

Grace gently eased off her nephew’s cap but was immediately tempted to slip it back on. Two rather large, perfectly formed ears popped out a good inch from his head, pushing his now freed hair into frenzied spikes.

He looked like a troll.

“Isn’t he beautiful?” Mary repeated.

“He’s gorgeous,” Grace reconfirmed, trying with all her might to see her nephew the way her sister did.

Mary was the animal lover in the Sutter household and was forever dragging home scruffy kittens, wounded birds and chipmunks, and mangy dogs. It was no wonder Mary thought her little son was precious.

He was. Homely, but precious.

“Let’s undress him,” Mary said. “Help me count his fingers and toes.”

Startled, Grace looked at her sister. “Count them? Why? Do you think he’s missing some?”

Mary gave a weak laugh as she wiped her son’s mouth with the edge of his blanket. “Of course not. That

’s just what new mothers do.”

Grace decided to humor her sister. Gingerly, she attempted to undo the strings at the bottom of the tiny nightshirt. It was a difficult task as the baby, now happy with a full belly, kept kicking his legs as he mouthed giant bubbles from his pursed lips.

Finally, with her two good hands and Mary’s unsteady uninjured one, they freed his legs. Grace held up first one foot and then the other and counted his toes out loud.

She counted them again.

Twelve.

Six on each tiny foot.

Mary gave a weak shriek of joy. At least, it sounded joyful. Grace stared at her numbly.

“Gifts from his daddy,” Mary said in a winded whisper. “Michael has six toes on each foot.”

And this was a joyful thing? Grace wanted to ask. Being deformed was good?

“Pull his shirt and diaper off,” Mary said then. “I want to see him naked.”

Grace was afraid to. What other surprises was the clothing hiding? But she did as her sister asked, even though she feared the tiny baby would break from her handling. She didn’t know what she was doing.

Heck, she hadn’t even played with dolls when she was a kid. She had hiked and fished with her father until she was eight, until one of her older brothers had brought home a biography of Albert Einstein and she had discovered the world of science. From then on it was telescopes, science books, and mathematical formulas written on chalkboards.

Grace took off the baby’s nightshirt and peeled off the diaper. She gasped and quickly covered him back up.

Mary pulled the diaper completely off. “You’re a prude, Gracie,” Mary said, cupping her baby’s bottom.

“He’s supposed to look like that. He’ll grow into it.” Mary traced the outline of his face, then possessively rubbed her fingers over his entire body. “Get a new diaper before we get sprayed,” she said.

Grace quickly complied. And between the two of them and their three hands, they eventually got him changed and back into his nightshirt.