She breathed a sigh of relief. She had been entertaining visions of Greylen MacKeage walking up and telling her, “Oh, by the way, I came through time with MacBain.” Grey certainly seemed medieval to her sometimes, what with his talk of women being weaker, her belonging to him now, and his general alpha-male attitude. And he did live in a castle.

“Well,” she said to the men staring at her. “This is a very nice home you have.”

They just kept staring. Grace looked at Grey, her eyes pleading with him to do something. With a laconic smile contradicting the harsh planes of his face, he stepped forward to move beside her. “Father Daar,”

he said. “Why don’t you take a seat?”

The old priest hadn’t really waited for the invitation. He was already making his way to a big chair by the fireplace that stood in the center of the far wall. He shut off the television on his way by, shaking his head and muttering something under his breath.

Seeing that he was settled, Grey turned back to the three remaining men. Grace thought about running for the door before the fireworks began, but then she remembered the bridge. She started to inch her way toward Father Daar instead. Grey stopped her, taking her by the hand and pulling her beside him.

“Grace has a favor she wants from us before she gets the ice off the gondola lift,” he said, ignoring her nails biting into his palm.

“What would that be, lass?” Ian asked, squinting at her. “It won’t take long, will it? The weather’s lifted a bit, but it could start raining again soon.”

Grace stared at the three men all staring back at her and dug her nails deeper into the hand imprisoning hers.

Grey sighed in resignation. “We’re to set up our snow-making equipment,” he answered for her, “at the Bigelow Christmas Tree Farm.”

The fireworks went off right on schedule, and they were just as loud and far more colorful than she expected. Ian was the worst of the lot, turning as red as his hair and waving his fist in the air.

“That bastard’s not getting any help from us!” he shouted, glaring at her while he did.

“Ya canna mean it, man!” Callum said, taking a step forward, his fists clenched at his sides.

Morgan stared in open-mouthed shock, then spit on the floor. “He’ll rot in hell before we help him!” he said, his face contorted with rage.

The blast of hatred made Grace take a step back. Grey stood tall and calm beside her, weathering the human storm. She stared up at him, wondering what he was thinking.

She wasn’t afraid of the three men still ranting and raving and scorching the air with their curses. She knew to the soles of her feet that Grey would never let them hurt her.

“Grey!” Ian hissed. “What has gotten into ya?” Ian pointed a finger at Grace. “It’s her, isn’t it? She’s softened ya to where you’re willing to help an enemy.”

“That’s enough,” Grey said, his expression still calm, his voice whisper soft.

The litany of curses suddenly stopped. The rage, however, continued to emanate from the three men in icy-cold waves. A silence more deafening than the storm that had preceded it settled like lead over the room.

“That’s the deal, if you want to save our ski lift. We set up our equipment at MacBain’s, and Grace gets the ice off the cable. Or both of our businesses can go to hell along with this accursed storm. Which will it be?”

Ian shook his head in disbelief. “That’s blackmail, is what it is.” He looked at her, the loathing clear in his eyes. “How do we know she can do as she claims?”

“She can,” Grey said succinctly.

“Do you even understand what you’re asking of us?” Callum asked her.

“No, actually, I don’t,” she returned, lifting her chin as she tried to move closer to them. Grey checked her step, keeping her beside him. “Why don’t you explain it to me?” she said to Callum.

Clearly surprised to get an answer to his obviously rhetorical question, Callum looked at Grey. So did Grace. She saw him nod curtly.

“Michael MacBain,” Callum said, sounding as if just saying the name was painful, “fancied himself in love with the MacKeage’s betrothed,” he told her. “And he lured her to his bed. Maura was only a naive lass at the time, and she had a romantic notion that they were star-crossed lovers. She lay with MacBain and soon discovered she was carrying his child,” he explained, the distaste for his story obvious in every harsh line on his face.

“Who is Maura?”

“She was Ian’s daughter.”

“Was?” Grace asked, darting a look at Ian.

“She killed herself when she realized she’d disgraced her family and that the bastard MacBain would not have her,” Callum continued, drawing her attention again.

Grace snapped her gaze back to Ian. He was standing stone still, his features harsh, his muted-green eyes glazed with pain. She looked back at Callum. “If Michael loved Maura, why wouldn’t he have her?” she asked him.

It was Morgan who snorted. “You’re as naive as she was. MacBain didn’t love her. He just wanted to ruin her for the MacKeage.”

“Who is ‘the MacKeage’ you keep talking about?” Grace asked. “And where is he now?”

Morgan looked at her with a nasty smirk lifting one side of his angered face. “He’s standing beside you,”

he said, nodding at Grey. “Holding your hand.”

Grace pulled her hand away as if it were scorched. She turned and stared up at Grey. “You were engaged to this Maura? Ian’s daughter?” She looked at Ian, trying to judge his age. “How old was she?”

“My girl was sixteen at the time,” Ian told her. “She was supposed to be wed on her seventeenth birthday. Only she never reached it.”

Grace closed her eyes and covered her face with her hands. No wonder these men wanted Michael’s head on a platter. If, that is, what they were saying was true, that Michael had rejected Maura when he found out she was pregnant. A thought crossed her mind, and she turned to Grey.

“How old were you?”

He finally looked at her, and, unlike Ian’s, his eyes were completely devoid of emotion. “I was twenty-eight.”

Grace walked out of the room. There wasn’t a damn thing she had to say to any of them. She crossed the foyer and opened the front door, only to be confronted by the treacherous bridge. She grabbed both sides of the rails and closed her eyes and walked across it.

Damn Grey. The man had been engaged to a child!

Damn every one of them. They were all such…such…men, including Michael MacBain. They deserved to hate each other all the way to hell and back, for all she cared. She was going to the Bigelows’ and getting Baby, then she was going home, locking her door, and not letting any of them on her property again. And just as soon as this ice storm was over, she was getting into Mary’s old beatup truck and driving herself and Baby back to Virginia.

“Are ya not going after her?” Callum asked, looking at the still humming door that Grace had slammed on her way out.

“So I can bring her back to face your anger again?” Grey asked all three of them. “So you can further berate her for being a woman, with a woman’s heart that only wants to help all of her neighbors?”

He turned to the silent priest sitting by the hearth. “What do you think, old man? Should I go after her?”

Daar shook his head, looking tired from the battle he had just witnessed. “Not if you’re not ready to let go of your hatred for MacBain,” he said. “The girl feels a powerful duty to her sister, and your little tale has finally made her realize that she can’t be loyal to you without being disloyal to Mary.”

Grey stared at him for another minute, then turned to look at his men. How was he supposed to put into words what he wasn’t sure of himself? How could he tell a father that they were all to blame for Maura’s death, and not just MacBain, but Grey, Ian himself, and the very society they had lived in back then?