“Better me than you,” her mother called out as Winter headed down the hall with a laugh.
Pendaär sat in the sunshine on the porch of his cabin, absently running his fingers over the knotted cherrywood burl on his lap, and stared out at Pine Lake as he thought about his conversation with Greylen MacKeage that morning. No man wanted to hear that his daughter was about to enter a battle of such magnitude, much less that she was destined to live a very long life of solitude.
Pendaär remembered his own emotional struggle some eighteen hundred years ago, when he had come face-to-face with his own destiny. But the true pain would likely come with the realization that she was going to witness the deaths of her loved ones for generations to come, while she went on living without them, alone, for centuries.
Robbie MacBain had called Pendaär’s destiny a curse once, and there were days Pendaär couldn’t help but agree with him. Everyone he had ever loved had died, while he had been forced to carry on without them; his own mama and papa, his four brothers and two sisters, his nieces and nephews, and on and on it had endlessly gone for dozens of lifetimes.
He’d tried once, about fourteen hundred years ago, to simply keep his distance from people.
But Providence was an undeniable master, and a dispassionate drùidhcould not be an effective servant.
So Pendaär had spent nearly two millennia caring for and then watching his loved ones die—just as he was going to watch Greylen and Grace die, and Morgan and Callum, and even Robbie MacBain. And then there were Grey’s six oldest daughters…and their children…and their grandchildren…
Only Winter would be with him this time, until his own eventual death—and then the precious lass would be on her own.
Pendaär stood up, tucked the cherrywood burl in his pocket, and leaned against the porch rail as he stared out over the circle of mountains cradling Pine Lake. This trouble that was brewing, it was being carried in on a cold wind of utter hopelessness. Pendaär could all but see the colorless void of a soul who had simply given up. And of all the human frailties, hopelessness was the most insidious, feeding upon itself until it became all consuming.
Pendaär scratched his chin as he wondered what had happened to Cùram de Gairn to turn him so bitterly away from his calling. Aye, he was positive it was the young wizard stirring the storm clouds, as Cùram was the only drùidhwho couldn’t be accounted for right now.
As Grey had suggested in their conversation this morning, Pendaär had already gone to his fellow drùidhsand asked for their help. And all of them, along with their own army of guardians, had told him they were too busy trying to save their own trees to offer assistance. They had, however, agreed that the storm was brewing almost directly over Pendaär’s head, and therefore it was his duty to stop it before it reached them.
Pendaär had grown frustrated with their political posturing and had left the council with every intention of saving their sorry souls despite themselves. With Winter’s help, of course.
He took the cherrywood burl out of his pocket and gazed at it with a tired sigh. It wasn’t much to show for his years of nurturing the energies of life. He’d been hoarding what was left of its knowledge, refusing to tap into the white pine he had hidden high up on TarStone Mountain. Winter would need whatever energy remained in the weakened tree, and this afternoon he must prune one of the branches to make Winter her own delicate staff.
Pendaär clasped the burl to his chest, letting its weak hum softly resonate through him as he slid his gaze toward Gù Brath. Aye, Greylen must explain her destiny to his youngest daughter soon, before the storm broke over them with the vengeance of a hopelessness that even Winter’s powerful love of life might not be able to overcome.
Chapter Six
“I still don’t see whyI have to ride Butterball instead of Goose Down. Yesterday you said being pregnant isn’t a disease, but today you’re treating me like an invalid.”
Winter frowned at her grumbling sister riding beside her. “Matt needs to ride your horse,” she explained yet again as they rode away from the barn, with Winter leading the riderless Goose Down behind her. “You haven’t exercised Goose in weeks, and I don’t want you getting thrown. And since we both know Butterball is too lazy to buck off a fly, he’s perfect for you.”
Megan actually smiled. “But it’s okay if Goose bucks off your Mr. Gregor?”
“He’s not mymister anything,” Winter said through gritted teeth, glaring at Megan. “And you behave yourself today and not make any sly remarks. This is a business venture we’re on.”
Megan snorted and urged Butterball into a trot, but the aging draft horse only managed an extended ambling walk, completely ruining Megan’s offended act. Butterball really belonged to Camry, who now lives in Florida, working for NASA.
Winter followed in silence as she half anticipated, half dreaded seeing Matt again. Oh, how that man disturbed her in so many ways, on so many different levels. He was handsome as all get out, mysteriously compelling, and…well, dang it, he also seemed familiar to her. Yes, there was something about Matheson Gregor that made Winter think she knew him—or should know him. His eyes, maybe.
When she looked into Matt’s deep, golden eyes, she had the eerie feeling they had met before.
Matt’s size certainly didn’t bother her; she’d grown up in an extended family of large, physical, imposing Scots. Even Matt’s arrogance wasn’t a problem; she was used to male posturing that was more often bluster than menace.
So how come he disturbed her so much? Why did her heart race whenever she saw him?
Curses, this chemistry thing was confusing.
Winter sighed as she followed Megan through the parking lot toward the hotel entrance. She was just going to have to play this out, she decided, and see where it led.
Paul stepped away from a group of tourists gathered at the entrance, greeted Megan and Winter with a nod as they walked under the tall canopy, and took hold of Butterball’s bridle.
Matt Gregor stepped through the lobby door just then and abruptly stopped, his polite smile instantly disappearing at the sight of the two women and three horses. “What the hell?” he whispered, his glare settling on Winter. “I am not riding a plow horse.”
As powerful and imposing as he looked in a suit, Matt Gregor in casual dress defied description. Faded, muscle-hugging jeans, scarred work boots, and a soft-looking, muted-gray flannel shirt had transformed the polished businessman into a rugged outdoorsman.
Remembering her need to keep the upper hand, Winter gave Matt a taste of his own medicine and lifted one brow. “Our horses have pulled a few pranks on us over the years, but I assure you, they have never pulled a plow.”
“That,” Matt said, pointing at Goose Down while keeping his glare locked on her, “is a workhorse.”
Winter patted Goose as he lazily nuzzled Snowball’s neck. “Goose is a Percheron, and he’s perfect transportation for where we’re going today. He’s sure-footed and bomb-proof.” She kicked up a slight grin. “Assuming he likes you well enough to let you ride him.”
Matt’s eyes narrowed at her challenge, and he walked over and took Goose’s reins. He moved Goose away from her, carefully tied his jacket to the back of the saddle, then set his left foot in the stirrup and mounted up with the ease of a man who was obviously comfortable around horses.
He expertly reined the suddenly alert Goose over to Megan and held out his hand. “Matt Gregor,” he said with an amiable smile. “I appreciate you giving up your afternoon to be our chaperone.”