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Wedding The Highlander
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Текст книги "Wedding The Highlander"


Автор книги: Джанет Чапмен



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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

He ducked his head, and his cheeks reddened above his neatly trimmed beard. “I’ve come here this morning to apologize for my behavior the other day,” he said contritely.

He looked at her hair. “I was just startled, is all.”

“By this?” Libby asked, touching her white curl. “Father, it’s a genetic trait. Lots of people have it.”

“Aye,” he said, nodding. “I’ve seen such a thing before. Now, are ya gonna hatch them eggs, girl, or cook them?”

The man was tenacious. Libby sighed, turned, and waved him along. “Come on, then, Father. I’ll make you breakfast.”

He fell into step beside her, his crooked wooden cane keeping time with his limping steps. Libby looked at him from the corner of her eye. “Did you walk all the way down the mountain?” she asked, wondering how old he was.

“Aye,” he said, smiling, apparently quite pleased that he was getting fed. “I like walking. It’s good for the soul.”

“Why do you live up on the mountain and not in town? Don’t you get lonely?”

His smile widened. “Solitude is also good for the soul. Besides, I don’t much care for people.”

Libby stopped and looked at him curiously. “But you’re a priest. You’re supposed to like everyone. Isn’t it in your vows or something?”

“I spoke my vows so long ago I’ve forgotten half of them. And I’m old now. I’ve earned the right to be picky.”

Well, she couldn’t argue with that. Grammy Bea had been eighty-nine when she died, and the old woman could have given audacious lessons to a peacock.

Libby led her guest into the house and waved him to a chair at the kitchen table. Father Daar sat down with a pained sigh, cupped his hands over the top of his cane, and looked around.

“This place hasn’t changed much,” he said. “But I feel the old house’s joy at being lived in again. Can ya feel its energy, Libby?”

Libby finished pulling the eggs from her pockets and put them in a bowl. She looked at Father Daar and found him studying her with a strange, calculating expression in his surprisingly crystal-clear blue eyes. She decided not to answer his question.

“Have you been to see a doctor about your joint pain?”

His eyes narrowed, and his weathered face wrinkled into a frown. “I don’t like doctors.

All they do is poke and pinch and give ya a list of things ya can’t do and can’t eat.”

“They would also give you something for the pain.”

“Ain’t nothing wrong with a little pain,” he rebutted.

“Lets a man know he’s alive.”

“So does opening your eyes every morning.” Libby set the frying pan on the stove and turned on the burner, then grabbed her loaf of bread. “There are some very good treatments now, Father. You don’t have to suffer.”

“You a doctor?”

Libby stopped slicing the bread and looked at him. What sort of trouble did a person get into for lying to a priest? “I know something about medicine. Enough to realize that you’re riddled with arthritis.”

“Is that what they’re calling it now?” he asked. “In my day, it was called growing old.”

Libby popped the bread into the toaster and broke the six remaining eggs into the frying pan. She found a spatula, stirred the eggs, and shut off the burner, leaving them to cook by themselves. She set the table and poured juice into two glasses, buttered the toast, and served up breakfast like a short-order cook, all the while trying to ignore the penetrating stare of her nosy houseguest.

“Do you stay on the mountain all winter?” she asked as she set their two plates of food on the table and took a seat across from Father Daar. “What would happen if you got hurt or were snowed in?”

Libby folded her hands and waited for the priest to say grace, but he dove into his breakfast without even answering her question. It was several bites later before he looked up and frowned at her.

“Dig in, girl, before it gets cold. I blessed the food while you were cooking it. And if I need help, the MacKeage or MacBain would find a way to get to me.”

“But how would they know you needed help? Do you have a radio or something?”

He couldn’t answer because he was too busy eating again. Libby gave up and went to work on her own breakfast, but she ate slower, savoring the taste of fresh eggs cooked in home-churned farm butter that she had bought at the bakery.

Her cholesterol level was going to skyrocket, living here. And she would probably gain five pounds this winter.

“Am I smelling coffee?” Father Daar asked, pushing his empty plate away, leaning back, and brushing the toast crumbs off his black wool cassock.

He’d been wearing an orange hat for his walk down the mountain and had hung it and his red plaid jacket by the door when they’d entered the kitchen. He stood up now and walked toward the living room.

“We could drink our coffee on the front porch,” he suggested. “It’s such a fine morning, and the sun is warm.”

Libby set their dishes in the sink and poured two cups of coffee. “How do you take yours?” she asked.

“Black,” he answered, walking through the living room and heading out the front door.

Libby imagined he was making himself at home because he’d visited Mary Sutter often and had decided to revive the habit with her. She smiled as she followed him out. It seemed she had inherited a priest with an appetite.

They sat in companionable silence, drinking in the view while they sipped their coffee, and Libby decided she was more amused than annoyed by Father Daar. He said the most outrageous things and showed up out of nowhere when least expected.

She still couldn’t decide how old he was. He dressed like a priest from the sixteenth century, was obviously a Scot like half the people she’d met here, and appeared positively ancient.

“Have you lived in Pine Creek long, Father?” she asked.

“A bit over eleven years now,” he told her. “I came here with the MacKeages.”

“From Scotland?”

“Aye.”

Realizing he wasn’t going to elaborate, Libby decided to head their conversation in a different direction. After all, she had a man of God at her disposal. Why not pick his brain? She was entitled, considering four of her precious eggs were in his belly, not to mention the one decorating his coat.

“Do you believe in magic, Father?”

The old priest choked on his coffee as he shot her such a confounded look Libby didn’t know whether to be embarrassed by her question or alarmed by his response.

“It’s an innocent question, Father,” she defended. “Considering we’re looking at this beautiful landscape.”

“Oh,” he said, relaxing back into his seat. “Ya mean, do I believe in the magic of nature?”

“Yes. That. But I was also wondering if you believed in a more… well, a more mystical kind of magic, too.”

“How mystical?” he asked, giving her a crooked look.

“Like witches and warlocks and… wizards?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Libby said, waving her hand in dismissal. “I was talking about things like reincarnation, intuition, and… well, maybe a person being gifted. Have you ever met anyone who claimed they had a special gift? What with you being a priest and all, you must have had people come to you with such concerns.”

She was blathering like an idiot. Her cheeks felt hot, and she was almost sorry she’d brought up the subject.

But only almost. Dammit, she was stumbling onto sacred ground here. But if she was going to fall flat on her face, why not do it in the presence of a priest? Wasn’t he bound by those vows he couldn’t remember not to tell anyone about their conversation?

“Gifted?” he softly repeated, turning fully in his chair to face her. “Like what? Give me an example of what you think of as gifted.”

Libby set her cup of coffee down on the porch rail and rubbed her sweating palms on her thighs. She took a shuddering breath, and, as was becoming her habit, she jumped into the fire with both feet—but only partway.

“I’m talking about a mother coming back as an owl,” she said, dancing around her own personal problem, trying to get a feel for Father Daar’s thinking. “Have you seen Robbie’

s pet?”

“Aye,” he said, nodding, eying her suspiciously. “He calls her Mary.”

“And do you believe she’s Mary, Father?” Libby asked.

“That the woman’s spirit has come back to be with her son?”

“I believe that if Robbie MacBain needs his mama right now and the boy feels that the owl is her, then aye, Mary’s here.”

“Like an imaginary friend?”

“Nay. The owl is real. And that she’s attached herself to Robbie is also real. Everyone experiences things that can’t be explained sometime in their lives. Haven’t you?”

For a crisp November morning, Libby was feeling quite hot under the priest’s probing stare. This had not been a good idea.

“I’ve experienced things I can’t explain,” she admitted.

“But I don’t know if I would go so far as to say I believe in magic.”

Libby saw his gaze lift to her white lock of hair, then back to her eyes. His face wrinkled into a smile.

“Aye, Libby, I’m thinking ya do believe,” he softly contradicted. “And that it bothers ya when ya can’t explain something that’s happened. But that’s the point of magic, isn’t it?

Ya needn’t understand it, only accept it for the gift it is. Why have ya come to Pine Creek?”

His question was asked so subtly, and because she was still trying to deal with what he was saying, Libby answered without thinking. “Because I got scared.”

“Of something that happened to you in California? Something ya can’t explain?”

She was in for a penny, so she might as well spend the whole dime. “Yes. Something happened that I can’t explain.”

Father Daar rose from his chair and stood in front of her, leaning against the rail, his clear blue eyes looking directly at her. “Something big enough to turn your entire life upside down,” he speculated. “And ya think that by coming here, ya can hide from it?”

He shook his head. “Libby, the questions ya’re asking me and the evasive answers ya’re giving make me believe that ya have been given a gift ya don’t want. Am I right?”

Libby stared down at her folded hands in her lap. “I don’t think I have a choice,” she whispered. She looked up at him. “And that’s what scares me. I don’t know if I can control this gift or if it will end up controlling me.”

“Have ya tried?”

“Once,” she told him. “After I discovered it.”

“And?”

“And it worked. But then it started to… I became scared,” she told him honestly. “I felt myself spinning out of control, like I was being consumed by this… this thing. Voices were calling me, tugging at me, and I ran.”

“And ya haven’t tried since.”

“No.”

“Ignoring it won’t make it go away, Libby.”

“I know that.”

“This gift, do ya consider it to be good or bad?”

“Good,” she said, squinting up at him. Libby stood up and paced down the porch, turning back to face him. “But it’s not that simple, Father. If I can’t control it or don’t have the wisdom to apply it properly, then it could turn out to be a bad thing. I could end up hurting people instead of helping them.”

“Ah,” he breathed, nodding in understanding. “So it’s not the gift ya fear but yourself.

Ya do not want the responsibility that comes with it.”

“I didn’t ask for this,” Libby whispered, hugging herself.

“I was perfectly happy with my life.”

He cocked his head at her. “Were ya? Truly? Then why do ya suppose your gift chose now to show itself?”

“I don’t know why.”

Father Daar straightened and walked into the house, forcing Libby to follow in order to hear what he was saying.

“Since ya’re obviously not willing to tell me what happened in California,” he said as he slowly made his way through the living room, “then I can’t advise you. I can only say that ya gotta experiment with the thing.” He stopped at the coatrack in the kitchen and took down his jacket and hat, then turned to face her. “Practice, Libby. Play with it.

Learn what it’s wanting to teach ya.”

“And if I blow up TarStone Mountain?” she asked, smiling lamely.

He studied her for several seconds, trying to decide if she was kidding or not. His eyes suddenly lit with amusement, and he chuckled out loud. “These mountains have exploded once or twice already,” he told her. “They can handle whatever energy ya’re playing with.”

He patted himself as if looking for something and frowned, gazing around the kitchen.

“Oh, I’ve forgotten my cane. Could ya get it for me? I think I left it on the front porch.”

Libby walked back through the living room, thinking about what he had said. Play with it? The damned thing wasn’t a toy, it was scary. Learn from it? Learn what?

And experiment? Well, darn it, why the hell not? And she just might start with Father Daar and see what he thought about that.

Libby found his cane leaning against the chair he’d used. She picked it up and started back into the house. But she stopped suddenly when her hands began to warm, and the cane started to hum like a tuning fork. Her whole body tingled, and the sunlight brightened to a sharp, colorful glow all around her.

“Don’t be afraid of it, Libby,” came Father Daar’s voice through the fog. “Just feel the energy, and tell me what ya see.”

She couldn’t see anything but colored light. But she could certainly feel. Emotions engulfed her. Contentment, fear, longing, and passion; all were present, wrapping around her, tugging at her, pulling her in different directions.

“Focus, Libby,” Father Daar’s voice said again, sounding far away. “Pick one color, and concentrate on it.”

His voice was soothing, ageless, and distant. Libby did as she was told and focused on the brightest color and most persistent emotion.

Tendrils of fear rose in her mind, trying to pull her deeper into the maelstrom. Libby fought against the chaos, crying out as she felt herself sinking into its frightening depths.

“Look around you, girl. Find something to hold on to. Anchor yourself, and you can go there without being consumed.”

Libby searched for an anchor but saw only pewter-gray eyes staring at her, burning bright with passion. Arms of forged steel wrapped around her. She hesitantly leaned into the security they offered and found herself turning back to face her fear with a new sense of strength.

The energy became voices, coming at her from a hundred different directions, begging, pleading, reaching for help. The arms holding her tightened, and Libby took a shuddering breath and reached into the middle of the maelstrom.

She wasn’t consumed. Instead, she found herself able to touch the swirling mass of pulsing colors. And one by one, the voices quieted, the snapping colors faded, and the storm eased.

Libby turned and buried her face against her anchor, and the sound of gentle laughter brought her back to reality. She looked up and blinked and found Father Daar, his eyes shining with amusement, standing a good five paces away. He held out his hand.

“Can I have my staff back?” he asked. “Before ya use up all its power?”

“Staff?” Libby repeated softly, looking down at the gently humming cane in her hand.

She looked up at the priest and took a step back. “What… who are you?”

The old man puffed up his chest and smoothed down the front of his cassock. “I’m a wizard, girl. Or haven’t ya guessed?”

Libby took another step back. “Wizard?” she repeated. “But that’s impossible.”

“Then explain what just happened.”

“No, you explain it,” she demanded, stepping toward him. She held up the still warm, still vibrating cane between them. “What just happened?”

“Ya just got a glimpse of your true gift,” he told her, grabbing the cane and clutching it to his chest protectively.

“And ya discovered that you can control it—as long as ya keep yourself firmly anchored.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “And so now you know what my gift is.”

“Nay,” he said, shaking his head. “I only know that it’s a powerful force and that ya have a job ahead of ya to learn to use it wisely. And I also know that ya’re smart to be cautious, that it can be just as destructive as it can be good.”

“And you say you’re a wizard?” Libby repeated, wondering if his age was affecting his thinking. But it shouldn’t be affecting hers, and she certainly couldn’t explain what had just happened.

“Ya didn’t come here by chance, Libby Hart,” Father Daar said. “Ya was lured to this magical land on purpose. The secret to controlling your gift is here.” He chuckled again.

“And I’m thinking ya’ve already found your anchor.” He shook his head. “MacBain won

’t like it none, though, when he finds out.”

Libby stepped up to Father Daar and took hold of the open edges of his red plaid jacket.

“Don’t you dare say anything to Michael,” she whispered, somewhat demanding, somewhat desperately. “He won’t understand.”

The priest who called himself a wizard tucked his cane under his arm and covered her hands against his chest. Humor still lit his face, and he laughed out loud again.

“Ah, Libby. Of all the anchors you could have found, MacBain will understand better than anyone.” He canted his head, looking off toward Pine Lake. “And I’m beginning to think that the mishap twelve years ago wasn’t a mistake at all.” He looked back at her.

“MacBain was also destined to be here. For several reasons, apparently.”

“What mishap? What reasons? What are you talking about?”

“You, girl. He’s here for you. And Robbie. The boy needed to be born, and MacBain had to travel here for that to happen.”

Becoming more confused with every word he spoke, Libby tried to turn away, but Father Daar still held her hands and wouldn’t let go. And he was still grinning like a demented old fool.

“I didn’t make a mistake twelve years ago, girl. And neither did you when ya decided to move here.”

Instead of disagreeing, Libby turned her hands in his and gripped his age-bent fingers.

She smiled back at Father Daar and willed her power to race through his body, seeking out every one of his arthritic joints.

She was able to rebuild cartilage and smooth bone as she swept through his skeleton with the precision of a laser beam. And again, as it had in California, her body warmed, her heartbeat slowed, and she was able to see his pain and make it disperse into the light.

Father Daar gasped in surprise and stumbled back, his complexion as pale as new-fallen snow. “What have ya done?” he shouted hoarsely, taking several steps back. He pointed a finger at her. “Ya stay away from me!”

Libby rubbed her tingling hands on her thighs and shot him a smug grin. “I was just doing what you told me to.”

“Doing what?”

She shrugged. “Practicing. Exploring my gift.”

“I didn’t mean for ya to practice on me!”

“Did I hurt you?”

He had to think about that. He actually patted himself down and bent over to give himself a visual inspection as well, as if he expected she’d turned him into a frog or something. He danced from foot to foot, waved his arms like a bird, and even turned in a full circle, trying to see over his shoulder to his backside.

He suddenly straightened and lifted wide, crystal-clear blue eyes to her in surprise.

“God’s teeth, woman. Ya’re a healer,” he whispered. “Ya healed my aches.”

Libby sobered and hugged herself. Hearing those words, spoken with such quiet authority, sent shivers down her spine.

Father Daar walked to one of the chairs on the porch and sat down. He braced his elbows on his knees and rubbed his hands over his face several times before finally looking up at her.

“And this is what made you run here?” he asked. “This ability to heal people?”

Unable to move from her spot, Libby merely nodded.

“No wonder ya’re shaken. It’s a god-awful responsibility, healing people. Ya can’t just go around willy-nilly, curing everyone. Some aren’t meant to be cured.”

Libby wanted to hug him. Finally, someone who understood her dilemma. “And that’s why I ran away,” she explained. “I was a surgeon, working in a hospital full of people wanting to be healed. Where would it end? When it completely consumed me?”

He leaned back in his chair and stared at her. “Aye,” he said, nodding. “I imagine the energy was overwhelming.”

“I had this picture of people lined up all the way out onto the street,” Libby confessed, still unable to move from her spot, still hugging herself. “Waiting for me to heal them.

But what right do I have to play God with their lives? And what right do I have not to?”

“Ya have no right, Libby, to make those kinds of decisions.”

“Then why has this happened to me, Father?”

He scratched his beard with the butt of his cane and thought about her question in silence. He suddenly waved at Pine Lake.

“It’s all connected—the land, the people and plants and animals, and the energy that makes our very existence possible. Maybe,” he said, looking at her, “ya were given this gift for a particular reason. To heal one specific person, whose life force is linked to the continuum.”

Libby walked over and rested against the rail in front of him. “What person?” she asked, leaning forward. “Who?”

“I cannot tell ya that, girl. I’m not a predictor, only a conductor of energy.”

Libby straightened and crossed her arms under her breasts. “Then how will I know this person?” she asked. “And in the meantime, do I use my gift?”

Daar shook his head. “I cannot tell ya that, either. But ya already seem to have some control over it. Ya found an anchor in your vision, and that quieted the storm around ya.”

“And you’re saying that my anchor is Michael? But that he isn’t going to like it?”

“Aye,” he agreed. “The man’s powerfully determined not to let his heart get involved with another woman.”

“I don’t want his heart.”

“But that’s what you’ll need for this to work, Libby. Ya can’t hold on for just a little while and then walk away. You’ll be destroyed.”

“Then I’ll walk away now. I won’t use Michael, Father.”

He shook his head. “It’s too late, I’m afraid. You’ve already caught MacBain’s eye. I’m not sure he will let you walk away.”

Well, dammit. Had she lost control of everything?

Father Daar stood up, stretched his newly healed joints like a young man of twenty, and smiled at her. “I’m going to enjoy my journey home,” he said, walking to the end of the porch.

Libby followed but stopped when he turned back to her. “I have the good manners to thank ya, Libby Hart. For the breakfast and for making my aches go away.”

“Father, if you’re a wizard as you claim, and that cane of yours,” she said, looking down at it, then back up at him, “has the… that energy I felt, why didn’t you use it on yourself?”

He smiled disparagingly. “To tell ya the truth, lass, I was afraid I might turn myself into a dung beetle or some other lowly creature.” He lifted his cane between them, glaring at it. “It’s not my original staff, and this one’s so new that I don’t trust it.”

“How old you are, Father?”

He puffed up his chest and straightened his shoulders.

“Fourteen hundred and ninety-five last March,” he told her.

“Years?” Libby squeaked.

“Of course, years, girl,” he growled. He turned and walked off the porch but stopped in the middle of the driveway and looked back at her, pointing his cane. “Ya’ll stop thinking like a surgeon, Libby Hart, and stop trying to put people and things into neat little compartments. Life doesn’t work that way, and yar brain’s likely to explode from frustration.”

He turned slightly and pointed his cane at a frost-killed bed of flowers as he mumbled words under his breath. An arc of lightning shot from the end of the cane, striking the withered flowers with enough force to send a cloud of smoke-laced dirt into the air.

Libby took a step back.

And when the dust cleared, she saw that the flowers were in full bloom, with bright green foliage and colorful blossoms. The entire garden looked as if it were spring.

“And take notice that the passage of time is one of those compartments,” Father Daar said. “It exists only for clockmakers. Try to remember that as ya deal with MacBain.”

And with that cryptic remark lingering in the air long after he’d left, Libby found herself unable to look away from the fully bloomed flowers.

Wizard?

Hell, maybe her brain had already exploded.

Chapter Twelve

By five o’clock that evening,Libby had done exactly what Father Daar had told her not to

–she’d put the unexplainable events of that morning into a neat little compartment that she’d labeled “to think about later.”

She was feeling quite pleased with herself right now and somewhat surprised to find that she liked being domestic. She had an apple pie cooling on the counter and potatoes boiling on the stove, and the entire house smelled of roasting chicken. The table was set with an eclectic assortment of dishes that obviously had served many meals in the Sutter home, and the porch light was on to welcome her guests.

Another guest arrived first, uninvited and completely unexpected but just as welcome.

Libby was washing her baking dishes in the sink when she heard a noise outside and looked through the window. Robbie’s pet snowy owl was sitting on the porch rail, looking back at Libby, a large stick clasped in one of her sharp talons.

Drying her hands on her apron, Libby stepped out the door and onto the porch. “Hello there,” she said as she approached the owl. “What’s that you’ve got?”

Mary spread her wings for balance and opened her talons, dropping the stick onto the porch floor. Libby reached down, picked it up, and examined it under the porch light.

It was a fairly stout stick, about two feet long, and appeared to be hardwood, although she didn’t know what kind. It was covered with beautiful, gnarly burls and had been weathered to a smooth, glossy gray. It was heavy. And warm to her touch.

Libby looked at the owl. “I’m guessing you want me to have this,” she said, trying not to notice she was talking to a bird. “I don’t know why, but thank you for the lovely gift.”

She turned to go back into the house but stopped when she realized she was being followed. She looked down and found Mary hopping along the porch floor behind her.

Libby hesitated, then, with a resigned sigh, she opened the kitchen door and stood out of the way. Mary walked into the house as if she owned it. Libby followed but left the door open enough for the eerily silent bird to leave if she changed her mind about being inside.

Oh, if only her colleagues back in California could see her now. Even Grammy Bea would have a hard time believing that her stuffy granddaughter was keeping company with an owl, much less talking to it.

“Make yourself at home,” Libby drawled, watching the snowy fly onto the back of the rocking chair at the end of the kitchen.

Mary turned to face her, settled her wings back into place, and gave Libby a lazy blink.

Libby wondered if she should offer her guest something to eat. But what? She was fresh out of rodents.

Libby leaned the stick against the wall under the clothes pegs and ran to save her potatoes from boiling over. She checked and found that they were done and looked at the clock on the wall. Twenty minutes before her human guests would arrive.

Libby pulled the chicken out of the oven and inspected it. It looked done. It certainly smelled delicious. She stole a bit of stuffing, popped it into her mouth, closed her eyes, and let out a moan. Damn, she was a good cook.

She grabbed the potatoes and carried them to the sink to drain but nearly dropped the pot when Mary suddenly let out a high-pitched whistle. A truck door slammed, and footsteps sounded on the porch. Libby looked over to see the kitchen door swing open and Robbie MacBain come running through it, holding a dripping brown paper bag away from his body as if it were a bomb.

“I gotta get this ice cream in the freezer,” he said, running to the fridge. “I set it on the dash of the truck, and the heater melted it.”

He put the ice cream in the freezer and then grabbed a towel from the rack above the furnace. “It made a god-awful mess of Papa’s truck, and if I don’t clean it up, I gotta walk home,” the young boy explained, running back outside.

An elderly gentleman walked in next, wearing blaze orange just as Robbie had been. He hung his jacket and hat on the pegs, took a deep breath, and smiled.

“Now, that’s what chicken is supposed to smell like,” he said, coming over and stopping in front of Libby. “Hi. I’m John, and it’s my pleasure to finally meet you, Miss Hart. This is for you,” he added, handing her a tiny potted plant.

“For saving my taste buds from self-destructing. It’s a cutting from one of Ellen’s African violets.”

“Oh, thank you, John. It’s beautiful.” Libby placed the budding plant on the sink windowsill. “And please, call me Libby.”

Robbie came storming back in, tossed the messy dishcloth onto the floor, and took off his jacket and hat, hanging them on the lower pegs. Holding his sticky fingers out in front of him, he went to the sink and ran them under the faucet.

Michael finally made his appearance. He set a small cardboard box on the floor by the kitchen door and nudged his son out of the way to wash his own sticky hands.

Libby felt as if she were being invaded. Her quiet kitchen was suddenly full.

“Mary!” Robbie exclaimed, seeing his pet perched on the rocking chair at the end of the kitchen.

Michael was just pulling a bottle of wine from his pocket but nearly dropped it when he spun around at his son’s shout that Mary was there. He scrambled to catch the bottle and just barely managed to save them all from another sticky mess.

All four of them stared at the snowy owl, which blinked back at them, not the least bit ruffled by the commotion.

“Son,” Michael said, “ya don’t holler like that.” Quickly regaining his composure, he looked at Libby and lifted a brow. “If I had known there would be five of us, I’d have brought more wine.”

All Libby could do was shrug. She sure as heck couldn’t explain what a wild bird was doing in her kitchen. Only Robbie seemed to think it was natural. Poor John was actually backed up against the wall, looking as if he were expecting the owl to go for his throat. Libby guessed this was his first time meeting Mary.

“It’s okay, Grampy,” Robbie assured him. “Mary’s my pet. And Libby’s, too,” he said, turning to beam her a smile. “She’s just come for a visit, ’cause I told her we were having supper here tonight.”

Libby remembered the stick and walked over to get it. “And look what she brought me,”

she said, holding it up for all of them to see.

Robbie came over and was just reaching for the stick when Michael took it away from her. “Where did you get this?” he whispered, holding it in his fist at arm’s length, looking from it to her.


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