Grace laughed to break the tension she was suddenly feeling. “Of course not, Father. There is no such thing as magic.”

He looked aghast. “You don’t believe in magic, girl?”

“I’m a scientist. I believe what is based in fact.”

“Then explain eight children being born to one father, all on the day of the same celestial event,” he demanded gently.

“It’s a simple mathematical occurrence. It’s no different from what the odds might be that a comet will hit Earth or that a tornado will drive a piece of hay straight through a tree trunk. The probability is not likely, but it still happens occasionally.”

“So math explains what magic can’t.”

“Yes. I’m sure we aren’t the first family to have each child born on the same date,” she said. “Not when you consider the number of births since the beginning of mankind.”

The priest turned and frowned at the fire. Grace hoped she hadn’t insulted him. She was enjoying this philosophical discussion.

“Do you believe in time travel, Father?” she asked, deciding to continue with it and maybe bridge the subject of Michael.

He looked back at her, his eyes narrowed. “I doubt you do. Am I right?”

“In theory, it is possible. Einstein may have already proved that for us. But nobody knows. So my answer is no, I don’t believe in time travel.”

“Then why would you be asking me such a question?”

“Because you and I know somebody who says he’s traveled eight hundred years from the past. And I’m wondering if he’s insane, or if there’s a good explanation for his…confusion.”

As she spoke, the old priest’s eyes grew wide, and his complexion grew paler and paler.

“Who told you this?” he asked in a whisper-soft voice. “Who said he’s traveled through time?”

“Michael MacBain,” she told him in her own whisper, leaning closer so that only he could hear her. “He told Mary he was born in the year A.D. 1171.”

She saw the priest take a deep, almost painful breath as he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

Grace waited a good two minutes for him to answer her, but he just sat there, his eyes closed as he fingered the polished burls of his cane.

Grace decided to try another tack.

“Can you keep a secret, Father?” she asked, leaning closer again. “Baby’s not my son. He’s Mary’s.

And Michael’s.”

He snapped his eyes open and looked at her. You would have thought she had baked him a cake, he looked so suddenly pleased with her. “The bairn’s not yours?”

“No,” she confirmed for him, nodding her head. “But I’m not sure I should tell Michael he has a son. I don’t know if the man is sane or not.”

“Of course he’s sane, girl. Your sister loved him, didn’t she? He’s as right in the head as you and I.”

“But he thinks he traveled through time.”

A look of consternation crossed the old priest’s expression. He opened his mouth, then suddenly snapped it shut and glared at her. Grace was getting a little frustrated herself.

“Well? Did you know Michael seven years ago?” she finally asked. “When the incident with Maura happened?”

“Why?” he asked back, sounding defensive.

She wanted to strangle him. Wasn’t he listening to her? “Because,” she said with as much patience as she could muster, “if you’ve known Michael that long, you can tell me if anything happened to him that would explain why he believes what he does?”

“I have to finish my Novena,” he suddenly said, standing up.

Grace stood up also. “Why won’t you tell me?”

“I’m a priest,” he said, walking away from her. He stopped and looked back. “I’ve taken a vow not to repeat what I hear. If you’re wanting to know anything about MacBain, you’d best be asking the MacKeage. He’s not under any such restriction.”

That said, Father Daar left as silently as he had arrived, the thump of his cane swallowed up by the rug.

Grace stared at the door where he disappeared. Well, that had been productive. She was no closer to finding the answers she needed about Michael than when she had arrived in Pine Creek.

She didn’t want to ask Grey. Or the others, either. But what other choice was there? She had to justify her actions if she intended to keep Baby. Grace walked over to his cradle and watched him sleep.

What was she going to do?

Grey helped the last of the older women out of the snowcat and took her arm as they walked into the resort hotel. That meant sixteen of the twenty rooms that were finished were already full. And people from town were still coming in, now that the word seemed to be out.

It had been Morgan’s idea that they offer up their hotel to anyone needing a warm, comfortable place to weather the storm now that the power had failed. Morgan had gone into the Bigelow house for a drink of water and discovered an aging Ellen Bigelow dressed in layers of clothes, filling pots with ice to melt on the woodstove in her living room.

Morgan had approached Grey with his idea to fire up their hotel generator and make the older people and women with young children in town more comfortable at TarStone Mountain Resort.

It had been a good idea, but implementing it was easier said than done. The people of Pine Creek were an independent lot, especially the older ones. They didn’t want to leave their homes. Grey was blue in the face from talking before he was able to convince John and Ellen Bigelow that it was the practical thing to do. And that was all it took, it seemed, for someone to make the first move. If the Bigelows thought it was a smart decision, the others quickly followed suit.

It had taken both snowcats to transport everyone. As soon as Grey or Morgan brought someone to the hotel, someone else thought of others who needed rescuing. Callum and Morgan and Grey had spent all evening shuttling women, children, and old people from all over town.

The storm had taken a turn for the worse, and it was now sleeting at a rate of an inch an hour. If it kept up, Grey wouldn’t even need the snow-making equipment to cover MacBain’s trees.

Grey might not care for the man they had helped tonight, but he had to admire Grace’s ingenious yet very simple plan to save MacBain from ruin. Instead of trying to fight Mother Nature, they were using snow to protect the young trees by burying them. It was working beautifully.

But what surprised him even more was the fact that Morgan and eventually Callum had helped. He didn’t fault Ian for wanting to remain stubborn; given a choice, he would have also.

Grey was not about to face Grace Sutter, however, when this was over and MacBain was ruined and he was not. Giving into her ultimatum may not be the wisest way to begin their relationship, with Grace thinking she had that kind of control over him, but it was better than having no relationship at all.

Besides, something good was coming from their efforts. The townspeople were responding to their offer of help. For the last four years, the four men and the priest, Daar, had kept to themselves, isolated from the rest of the world, seeking the sanctuary of their mountain forest while they came to terms with the new life they had been so violently thrown into.

The isolation was over now, and it seemed they had inherited themselves a community. The fact that half the town was suddenly living in their resort now was probably the best example of just how far Grey and his men had come. Community was still the best means of survival.

They had simply forgotten that truth—until today.

Word had gotten out within an hour of their starting to set up their equipment at the Christmas tree farm.

Eight able-bodied men had arrived to work beside them, and they had completed the job in half the time.

All without the help of the bastard MacBain. He had disappeared before Grey and Morgan had arrived.

According to John Bigelow, MacBain was in the habit of heading off into the mountains every so often, whenever he took to brooding and wanted to be alone. John felt that MacBain was probably trying to come to terms with Mary’s death.