Текст книги "Tempting the Highlander"

Автор книги: Джанет Чапмен

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“Have you seen a strange woman around town, about five-six or five-seven, with shoulder-length brown hair and a soft white complexion?”

“You lose another housekeeper?” Michael asked, raising an inquiring brow.

Robbie’s smile widened. “No. Only some eggs. I found her raiding my henhouse this morning and chased her halfway up TarStone before I lost her.”

Michael’s other brow rose. “Ya lost her? In a foot race?”

“She was all legs,” Robbie defended. “Have you seen anyone new in town?”

“Nay,” Michael said, looking toward TarStone Mountain. “Ya say she was stealing eggs?” He looked back at Robbie, a frown creasing his weather-tanned brow. “It’s still below freezing at night. Surely she’s not camping out?”

Robbie shrugged. “She might be. This was the third raid this week.” He also let his gaze travel up the densely forested mountain and blew out a tired sigh. “I’ll have to go find her, I suppose.”

“I can help.”

“No, you can’t,” Robbie said with a chuckle. “Maggie wants that nursery finished before the kid outgrows her cradle.”

Michael scowled. “It would have been donebefore the babe was born if Libby and Kate and Maggie would only stop changing their minds. What does a wee bairn care about crown molding or the color of window trim?”

“What’s today’s color?”

“Either mauve or lilac.” He shrugged. “Not that I can tell the difference between them.

But apparently my granddaughter will be scarred for life if she has to sleep in a room painted the wrong color.”

“You still can’t bring yourself to call the babe by name, can you?” Robbie said. “Aubrey is a lovely name.”

“It’s a man’s name,” Michael shot back. “And it’s English.”

“Russell Dyer is English.”

“Don’t remind me.”

Robbie patted his father on the shoulder. “Russell’s a good man, Papa,” he said as he opened his door and got out.

Michael also got out and gave Robbie a crooked smile over the hood of the truck. “I know,” he softly conceded. “Maggie chose well.”

Robbie snorted and turned toward the house. “No thanks to you. You’re damn lucky they didn’t elope.”

“I wasn’t against the marriage,” Michael defended as they walked to the house. “I was just trying to make them slow down. Maggie’s not even twenty-two yet, and she’s already married and has a bairn.”

Robbie stopped to look at his father. “And at what age did women marry in your old time?” he asked.

“Society has gained eight hundred years of wisdom since then. And twenty-year-olds are too young to map out the rest of their lives.”

Robbie scaled the porch stairs two at a time and opened the door for his father. “I seem to remember a story about an even younger man trying to run off with a lass from another clan,” he said gently. “Were you not so deeply in love with Maura MacKeage eight hundred years ago that nothing else mattered?”

Michael stopped in the doorway and looked Robbie square in the eye. “I was young and foolish and so full of myself that I started a war, blaming the MacKeages for Maura’s death instead of myself. And that,” he whispered, “is the arrogance and ignorance of youth.”

“Do you ever miss the old times, Papa? Have you ever wanted to return, if only for a little while?”

Michael stared at him in silence for several seconds. “I have had such thoughts,” he finally admitted, his voice thick. He slowly shook his head. “After your mother died, and before I met Libby, I started up the mountain more than once, with you in my arms, intending to make the olddrùidh send us both back.”

Robbie went perfectly still. “What stopped you?”

“You,” Michael said, placing a steady, strong hand on Robbie’s shoulder. “I’d get halfway to Daar’s cottage, and you’d do something as simple as wave at a chipmunk, and I’d stare at you and think… I’d think… ”

“What?” Robbie asked. “What stopped you?”

“Your mama,” Michael whispered, looking toward TarStone Mountain. “Mary would fill my head with memories of her. Of us together. And I knew I couldn’t do it,” he said, looking back at Robbie. “I could not take you away from your future.”

“Daar said your coming here was an accident.”

“Aye. If ya don’t believe in destiny, then an accident is as good an answer as any.”

“So you truly feel that your ending up here and falling in love with my mother was destiny?”

“Aye,” Michael said, nodding as he finally entered the house. He tossed his jacket over a chair at the table and led Robbie through the kitchen and into the library. “I have never kept anything from you,” he said as he went to the hearth and stirred the coals of the dying fire. He looked over his shoulder. “Ya know my history and that of the MacKeages and Father Daar. Ya understand the magic that brought us here even better than we do. You’re mindful of Winter MacKeage’s destiny as Daar’s heir, and ya proved yourself a true guardian at the tender age of eight.”

“When I carried Rose Dolan through the snowstorm.”

“Aye,” Michael said, turning to face him. “Ya knew even then, even before we did, that ya had a special calling.” He smiled. “Have ya forgiven me for asking ya to come home five years ago?”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Robbie said, grinning as he prepared to throw his father’s words back at him. “It was the arrogance and ignorance of a twenty-year-old that made me run off and join the army.”

Michael’s eyes danced. “Are ya sure it wasn’t Vicky Jones that sent ya running?”

Robbie shuddered. “That girl was downright scary,” he muttered. “She actually told me she’d been planning her wedding since she was ten.”

Michael turned serious. “Just as I think twenty is too young to get married, I’m thinking thirty is too old to still be single. Dammit, son, when was the last time you even went on a date?”

“I had a date a few weeks ago.”

Michael snorted. “Ya tookCody with ya.”

“And Peter nearly burned down the house while I was gone,” Robbie said with a chuckle. “Honest, Papa, I don’t enjoy living like a monk. It’s just that I don’t have time to date.”

“Because you’re too busy being a guardian toeveryone.”

“But I’m so good at it.”

“Aye. Too good.” Michael turned and placed a log on the glowing coals before facing Robbie again. “But at what price, son? Ya cannot take care of others at the expense of yourself. It’s time ya married and had bairns of your own.”

Robbie walked to the hearth and took down Robert MacBain’s sword, grasping its familiar weight in his fist as he turned to his father. “Would you mind much if I took this home with me?”

Michael glared at him. “Ya might ignore my petitions for grandbabies, but ya cannot ignore your man’s needs. You’re afraid, son,” he said softly. “But your fear is misguided.”

Robbie rested the flat of the sword on his shoulder and raised a brow. “And what exactly am I afraid of?”

“Of letting a woman distract ya from your calling.”

Robbie chuckled and started out of the library. He stopped at the door and turned back to his father. “Didn’t we have this conversation twenty-two years ago, only wasn’t I the one trying to talkyou into getting married? If I remember correctly, you said a man can’t suddenly decide to get married and simply pick the first available female; that he must find a woman to love first.”

“Isn’t it amazing how our words come back and bite us on the ass?” Michael whispered with a smile.

Robbie nodded. “Aye, Papa. Both our asses are sore.” He lifted the sword from his shoulder and touched it to his forehead in salute. “If such a woman even exists, who can love me despite my calling, I can only hope our paths cross while I’m still man enough to enjoy her.”

Michael waved him away with a snort. “Go find your egg thief before she has to spend another night on the mountain. And don’t let Peter anywhere near that sword,” he added, following Robbie through the kitchen. “The boy will likely skewer your new clothes dryer.”

Robbie descended the porch stairs and stopped in the driveway to look back at his father. “How did you know I had to buy a new dryer?”

“Daar was here this morning, looking for breakfast.”

“What else did he say?”

Michael gestured at the ancient weapon in Robbie’s left hand. “Only that ya might be by to pick up Robert’s sword.”

“And did he give you a reason for my wanting it?”

“Nay,” Michael said. “Is there a reason?”

Robbie shrugged. “Only that my palm itched to hold it again. Maybe later this week we can have a match?”

Michael nodded. “I’ll give ya a few days to practice first, before I wipe the ground with your arrogance.”

Robbie gave him a final salute and turned and walked to his truck, waving good-bye over his head as he quietly let out a frustrated sigh. If Daar didn’t quit his meddling, he was about to feel the business end of a dangerously sharp sword.

It was nearly five o’clock and just starting to get dark by the time Robbie pulled out of the logging yard behind the last load of saw logs, his stomach growling in anticipation of Gram Katie’s lasagna. He headed toward Pine Creek, then turned onto a less traveled shortcut home that would take him around the north side of TarStone Mountain.

Gunter had left nearly an hour ago, after putting in an impressively hard day of work, according to Harley, who’d been grateful for the young man’s help.

Robbie glanced out the truck window and decided he’d head up the mountain tonight to look for signs of his egg thief, rather than wait for her to come to him, figuring she wouldn’t be raiding his henhouse again after this morning’s chase.

Who the hell was she? The woman had no business camping out this time of year, if that’

s what she was doing. And she certainly didn’t have to steal food. She only had to walk up to any house in town and knock on the door, and anyone would be more than willing to help her. Yes, she was quite a disturbing mystery.

“Well, speak of the devil,” Robbie whispered as he slammed on the brakes, bringing his truck to a halt in the middle of the narrow tote road.

The woman had just stepped out of the ditch not a hundred yards away. She stopped and stared at him for the merest of seconds, then bolted back into the woods.

“Oh, no you don’t.” Robbie scrambled out of the truck. “You’re not getting away this time.”

He ran up the road and jumped the ditch, pushing through the tangle of alders before breaking into the forest. He stopped only long enough to let his eyes adjust to the dimness and listened to the snapping of limbs off to his right.

“Hey, wait up! I just want to talk to you!” he shouted, moving through the old-growth forest in her direction.

He heard a loud crash, a muffled grunt, then more limbs snapping as she scrambled away. He quickened his pace, weaving around large trees, ducking under branches, while still trying to listen, being careful not to make any noise himself.

The sound of his idling truck came to him then, quickly followed by the realization that the lady was headed back through the alders to the road. He turned and pushed his way through the bushes, stepping into the ditch just in time to see her climbing into his truck.

“Dammit, no!” he shouted, running toward her. “Stop!”

The rear tires chittered on the loose gravel, spewing up rocks as his truck sped toward him. Robbie jumped back into the ditch with a curse and stood ankle deep in rotting snow and freezing mud, staring at the taillights of his truck. “You little witch,” he growled as she disappeared around a curve.

The silence of the forest settled around him, and Robbie stood rooted in place, amazed if not awed that she’d stolen his truck. He looked over at the broken alders she’d come through and saw a dark lump hanging in them. He sloshed out of the ditch, pulled the lump free, and realized that she must have gotten tangled in the bushes and been forced to sacrifice her backpack in order to escape.

“Well, my quick little cat,” he whispered, unzipping it and peering inside. “Maybe now I’ll find out who you are.”

He reached inside and pulled out a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, a pint of jam, and a fistful of mittens.

Mittens?

Child-sized mittens. With the price tags still on them.

The lady has kids?

One pair of the mittens was barely the size of his palm.

She has little kids.

“Well, hell.” He dropped the food back into the pack, stuffed the mittens in his jacket pocket, and reached deeper into the pack. This time his fingers closed around a wallet.

“Bingo,” he said, pulling it out. He tucked the pack under one arm and opened the wallet, but it was too dark to read the name on the license. He closed it back up and reached inside the pack again, this time pulling out three knit caps.

He stared at the caps and heaved a weary sigh. Damn. His mystery woman had just become a really big problem—times three. He shoved everything back into the pack, hooked it over his shoulder, jumped the ditch again, and started walking the two miles home.

And just what was he going to tell the boys when he showed up without his truck?

Certainly not that he’d been outmaneuvered by a pint-sized thief twice in one day!

Twenty minutes later and less than half a mile from home, Robbie stopped at the sight of his truck sitting in the middle of the road ahead, the lights still on, the engine still running, and his little thief nowhere in sight.

So, the lady had a conscience. She hadn’t stolen his truck, only borrowed it long enough to put some distance between them. Just as she hadn’t really stolen his eggs but had bought them.

Robbie scanned both sides of the road as he approached the truck. He opened the driver

’s door and set the backpack inside. He reached behind the seat, moved his sword out of the way, and grabbed the flashlight. He turned and aimed the light at the ditch, trailing the beam along the alders until he spotted where she’d continued her flight toward the mountain.

Who the hell is she?

Robbie tossed the flashlight onto the seat and climbed in, flicked on the overhead light, picked up the backpack, and pulled out the wallet.

“Catherine Daniels,” he read from the Arkansas license.

Arkansas? She was a long way from home. She was also five-seven, one hundred thirty pounds, with brown eyes and brown hair. She was twenty-nine years old, as of January fifth of this year, and an organ donor.

Robbie studied the picture on her license and couldn’t help but smile. Catherine Daniels was a pretty little thing, with huge doe eyes, a turned-up button nose, and a shy smile.

Her hair was shorter in the photo than it was now, falling in wisps around her porcelain-skinned, china-doll face.

“Well, Catherine, what else can you tell me about yourself?” he asked, flipping through the wallet.

He found a somewhat battered photo of an obviously younger Catherine and two children. The boy standing beside her looked about three or four years old, and the baby on her lap couldn’t be much more than one. He turned the photo over and found a five-year-old date scrawled on the back, along with the names Nathan, age three, and Nora, age one.

Which made them eight and six now.

Robbie lifted his gaze to the dark mountain beside him. Dammit. Were all three of them out there? Defenseless? Cold? Hungry? They were definitely scared. At least Catherine Daniels was scared, considering how desperate she’d been to get away. But scared of what? Or was it ofwhom?

Robbie looked back at the photo. It was a studio setting, but someone had been carefully cut out of the family portrait. All that remained of the fourth person was a large, beefy hand sitting on Catherine Daniels’s right shoulder.

Robbie tucked the photo back behind the license, opened the money section, and counted two hundred and sixty-eight dollars. Not much money for being three thousand miles from home.

“Come on, Catherine, tell me more,” he whispered, picking up the backpack and pulling out the food and the caps. He held the pack to the light and spotted a bundle of papers in the bottom. He took them out, removed the rubber band holding them together, and shuffled through them.

He found Arkansas birth certificates for Nathan and Nora, divorce papers ending a six-year marriage to Ronald Daniels three years ago, and court papers giving Catherine full custody of her children. But it was the last paper that caught Robbie’s attention. It was a letter from the Arkansas Penitentiary System informing Catherine Daniels that her ex-husband was being paroled on January fourteenth, after serving three years of his five-year sentence.

The letter was dated January fifth. Quite a birthday present Catherine had received this year. It didn’t say what crime Ronald Daniels had been incarcerated for, only that it was the parole board’s opinion he was ready to reenter society.

Robbie let his gaze travel toward TarStone. Did Catherine not agree with the board’s findings? Was that why she was here, hiding on his mountain, avoiding contact with people? But why Maine? And why his mountain, of all places? The weather alone was enough to cope with, especially with two young children. Children without mittens and caps—and supper.

Maybe they were only passing through. Or maybe Catherine had family up this way or was trying to get to Canada.

Dammit. The more he learned about her, the more of a mystery she became.

Robbie folded the papers and placed them back in the pack, along with the food and mittens and wallet, then put the truck in gear and started for home with a new sense of urgency.

He hadn’t traveled a hundred yards when his truck phone rang. “MacBain,” he said.

“Robbie, this is Kate. Where are you?”

“About two minutes away. Did the hoodlums leave me any lasagna?”

“There’s plenty. Ah… you need to go to town and pick up Cody at the health clinic. He’s okay,” she rushed to add. “He just needs a ride home.”

Robbie sighed. “What happened?”

“Sheriff Beal called half an hour ago. It seems one of the boys Cody was with got hurt.

But he’s going to be okay, too.”

“Hurt doing what?” Robbie asked, accelerating past the turn to his house and continuing on to town.

Kate made a frustrated sound. “I don’t know exactly. The sheriff said something about a potato gun, John Mead’s skidder, and a chase through the woods. The boy who got hurt ran into a tree and broke his nose.”

Robbie let up on the accelerator, letting the truck ease back to the speed limit. This wasn

’t a crisis, only a bunch of bored high-school brats shooting potatoes at logging machinery.

“Are Gunter and Peter and Rick home?” he asked.

“I’ve got them doing dishes as we speak,” Kate said, a smile in her voice. “Robbie, what’

s a potato gun?”

“It’s a homemade cannon fashioned from a length of plastic pipe that you shoot potatoes out of.”

“A cannon?” Kate repeated. “But what makes it… were the boys playing withgunpowder?” she asked in outrage.

“No. Hair spray is usually the propellent of choice.”

“Hair spray!”

“It’s a neat invention, Kate,” Robbie assured her, “that’s relatively harmless and not at all accurate. I doubt the boys did much damage to Mead’s equipment, other than make a mess.”

“Sheriff Beal didn’t sound so amused,” she shot back. “And he’s not releasing them until their parents come get them. Robbie, don’t you dare let him take Cody away from us!”

Robbie smiled, picturing Kate with her hackles up. Libby’s eighty-one-year-old mom was more protective of the boys than he was. Maybe he should lether go rescue Cody from Beal.

“I won’t let anyone take Cody, I promise. You just make sure to save me some lasagna.”

“I’ve saved enough for both of you,” she told him. “Ah… Robbie? I called your truck phone earlier, and a woman answered.”

Catherine Daniels had answered his phone? “What did she say?”

“She told me you were unavailable at the moment and to try calling back in half an hour.

Who is she?”

“Er… just someone I’m doing business with. I’m at the clinic, Kate. Thanks for bringing over supper. You don’t have to wait for us. This might take a while.”

“I’ll wait.”

“Don’t you dare do any cleaning,” he warned, knowing Kate only too well. “That’s the boys’ responsibility.”

“Too late,” she said with a laugh. “I did the bathrooms while the lasagna was reheating.”

“Kate,” Robbie growled.

“And if shooting a potato cannon is so harmless,” she said, cutting him off, “you go easy on Cody. Try to remember that you were sixteen once.”

“Ah, Kate,” Robbie said with a laugh. “I was never sixteen. Good-bye. And thanks,” he softly added, hitting the end button on the phone and snapping it back in its cradle. He got out and stood beside the truck, looking first at the lighted windows of the clinic and then over at the looming shadow of TarStone Mountain.

He blew out a tired sigh.

There were days when he felt he was being pulled in a dozen different directions, when he thought the whole world might fall apart if he blinked. And days when he feared he couldn’t live up to his calling.

And then there were days—like today—when he didn’t even come close.

Chapter Three

There were nomeetings scheduled, his logging operation was back to full manpower, and the boys had fed themselves and gotten off to school without starting any fires.

Robbie led his horse into the strengthening March sun, determined finally to get down to the business of finding Catherine Daniels.

He was just closing the barn door when he spotted the snowy owl perched on one of the paddock fence posts.

“Well, hello, little one,” he said, walking over and gently stroking her feathers. “I was hoping you’d show up today. I could use your help.”

The snowy leaned into his touch, closing her eyes with a soft sound of pleasure.

“Where have you been?” he whispered, cupping her broad white head. “I’ve missed you.”

The owl stretched tall, turning in his palm and lightly nipping his thumb. Robbie laughed and went to mount his horse but then stopped and turned back. “My sword?”

he asked, bending over to look her in the eye. “I’m hunting a woman and two children, and I intend to offer them shelter, not scare them to death.”

His old friend merely blinked at him.

Robbie tied his horse to the fence rail and set his hands on his hips. “I don’t care what that crazydrùidh is concocting. I can’t leave the lady out there another night. Daar’s matter will just have to wait.”

The snowy opened her wings and bristled in agitation.

“I am not bringing my sword!” he snapped, thinking nothing of speaking out loud to the bird. He’d been talking to the owl for twenty-two years now, though their conversations usually tended toward the snowy lecturing and Robbie arguing. “And besides, you can’

t just disappear for six months, then suddenly show up and start giving me orders.”

The snowy let out a rattle that sounded suspiciously like laughter. Robbie crossed his arms over his chest. “Can you honestly tell me this isn’t another one of Daar’s schemes?”

She silently stared back.

Robbie leaned down until the owl’s face was mere inches from his. “Then help me,” he whispered. “Buy me some time to find Catherine Daniels and her children. Convince thedrùidh to wait a few more days.”

The owl sidestepped away, emitting a loud shrill.

“I realize Papa and the others are in danger.” Robbie set his hands back on his hips. “But dammit, what if Ican’t get the book? What if I fail?” He held up his hand. “There’s a difference between being cautious and being afraid! You can’t expect me to go hurtling blindly through time. I need to think about this.”

The snowy turned on the rail until she faced away from him.

Robbie dropped his head with a sigh, and pivoted on his heel and headed to the house.

He took the porch stairs two at a time, trotted through the kitchen, and ran up the inside stairs to his bedroom. He lifted the mattress on his bed, pulled out his sword, and stomped back downstairs and back outside to his horse.

“I hope to God you know what you’re doing,” he muttered as he slid the sword into the sheath on his pack and then settled it over his shoulders. “Because I sure as hell don’t.”

The owl spread her wings and flew over the paddock toward TarStone. Robbie mounted and urged his horse forward, following his pet into the forest.

He remembered their first meeting. It had been his eighth birthday, and he’d been up on the mountain, bawling like a baby. There had been an incident at school that day, some silly thing he couldn’t even remember now, where his lack of a mother had been sorely evident. So he’d run up TarStone, sat crying on a log, and wished with all his might for a mama.

Providence had sent him a snowy owl instead. The beautiful, mysterious bird had appeared from nowhere, announcing her arrival with a high-pitched whistle as she glided down to the log beside him. She’d folded her wings and sat silently, her large golden eyes unblinking as she stared at him.

Being somewhat prone to fanciful notions back then, Robbie had named his pet after the mother he’d never known. And, being eight, he’d never questioned the fact that not only did he talk to the owl, but she answered him. He couldn’t explain it, even now, but he always knew what Mary was thinking, what she wanted or needed from him, and that he could count on her in a crisis.

She’d saved his life more than once over the last twenty-two years, the first time when he

’d carried four-month-old Rose Dolan through a snowstorm one Christmas Eve. After settling a blue light of warmth around him, freeing him to use his own life energies to keep Rose alive, the owl had led his father and Libby to where he’d collapsed in a snow-drift. When he was eleven, Mary had driven off a disgruntled bear he’d surprised while hiking one day. When he could drive at sixteen, she’d flown in front of his truck, bringing him to a screeching halt mere inches from a washed-out culvert.

Mary had always been there for him, for both Gram Ellen’s and John Bigelow’s deaths, in his room after a nightmare, and in his thoughts when he’d been overseas as a soldier.

So if she insisted he bring his sword on today’s little adventure, he had no call to argue with her.

Well, maybe a little. He needed time to prepare for the journey Daar had planned—time and a lot more faith in thedrùidh’s abilities to make it happen. He knew only too well how the magic could backfire, having seen many examples of Daar’s incompetence over the years. Hell, he could be sent anywhere, or to any time for that matter, with just one wrongly spoken word.

Or he could be turned into a dung beetle.

Robbie looked at his watch, then up at the sun. He had about six hours, at best, before sunset. He looked at the vast forest blanketing TarStone. Six hours to find Catherine Daniels and bring her to shelter.

Then he would go to the summit—and meet with either his destiny or disaster.

Where the hell was MacBain? It was less than an hour to the vernal equinox, and he needed to give the boy instructions before he sent him off.

Daar paced the path he’d worn between a boulder and a stunted pine tree, his hands clasped behind his back and his head bowed, as he repeatedly whispered his incantation. But he was having a hard time focusing on the words, what with his mind being so cluttered with worry.

Of all the mistakes he’d made in the last eighteen hundred years, this might well be the one that did him in. What had he been thinking thirty-five years ago, to have cast such a foolish spell? Letting the Highlanders get sent back to their original time would be suicide. Every one of the MacKeage and MacBain offspring—including, if not especially, Robbie—would turn their backs on him when they lost their loved ones on this summer’

s solstice.

It was all up to Robbie, though Daar did worry about placing such a delicate matter in such a young warrior’s hands. Not that he didn’t think Robbie could succeed; it was the ramifications that truly scared him.

Cùram de Gairn was a young, dark, powerfuldrùidh known for his trickery more than his mercy. He would not care to have his book of spellsborrowed, any more than he would care that Pendaär was the one doing the borrowing.

They had crossed paths a time or two over the centuries, and not once had the experience been pleasant for either of them. The last incident, nearly a hundred years ago, had been a dispute about a woman. In fact, it had been Greylen MacKeage’s mother they had battled over, both of them hoping to match her up with just the right lineage to produce an heir. Pendaär had come away victorious but badly weakened. Judy MacKinnon had married Duncan MacKeage, and nine months and two weeks later, she’

d given birth to Greylen, the promised sire of Pendaär’s heir.

Cùram had mysteriously disappeared after his defeat and had resurfaced only six years ago. The blackheart was living with the MacKeage clan in thirteenth-century Scotland, probably hoping to set up another suitable match. After all, begetting heirs was the sole focus of adrùidh’s last few centuries of life.

That Cùram was only five centuries old—quite young in wizard years—and already thinking about such matters made Pendaär uneasy. The tricky bastard was up to something. But what?

“If you think any harder, your head’s going to explode.”

“Ya’re late!” Daar snapped, twisting to glare at Robbie.

“Nay, priest, I’m not. So let’s get on with this madness,” he said, dismounting from his horse. “I have pressing matters to see to.”

“Ya needn’t growl at me, boy. It’s not my fault a wee woman has bested ya.”

Robbie turned toward him. “You know I’m hunting a woman?”

Daar nodded, giving him a smug smile. “If ya wasn’t so stubborn about asking for help, I could have told ya three days ago that she’s living in that old cabin on West Shoulder Ridge.”

Robbie climbed back onto his horse. “I’ll be back in four hours.”

“Nay!” Daar said, grabbing the horse’s reins. “Ya’ll be back at sunrise. Then ya can go after your woman.”

“She can’t spend another night on this mountain. There’s a storm moving in.”

“She and her bairns are as snug as bugs and will be fine for tonight. Butour problem can’

t wait. The planets will be in position in less than twenty minutes.”

“Then tell me what your damn book looks like,” Robbie said, dismounting again. “And where to find it.”

Daar took a cautious step back. “It’s not a matter of simply walking in and taking it, then walking back out.”

“Then what sort of matter is it?” Robbie asked, crossing his arms over his chest. “Where is this book?”