Wedding the Highlander

by Janet Chapman

  Libby squeezed his arm and then fell silent, fighting the fear rising inside her, letting Michael cling to the hope she’d given him.

  Wood. A piece of wood. What was Robbie saying?

  “Wait!” she suddenly shouted, grabbing his arm again. “Stop the truck!”

  He slammed on the brakes, bringing them to a sliding halt, and stared at her.

  “The staff. Daar’s staff. Did you destroy it?”

  “Nay. I tried, but I didn’t dare. Why? What has it to do with finding Robbie? Mary will help us.”

  “A piece of wood, Michael. What if Robbie meant Daar’s staff? What if he was asking you to bring it?”

  “It probably means something else, Libby. That he’s traveling through the woods. Robbie’s not even aware of Daar’s staff.”

  “Michael, we have to get it anyway,” she said, tugging at him in frustration. “Remember Alan Brewer? I couldn’t help him because I was not powerful enough to get past his defenses. But Daar said that with his staff, I might have been able to.”

  “Robbie will not fight ya, Libby. He trusts ya.”

  “But what if we’re too late?” she whispered, looking down at her folded hands on her lap.

  Only the sound of the idling engine and the beat of the wiper blades broke the sudden silence inside the truck. Fat, flickering snowflakes bombarded them with growing intensity, disappearing into raindrops on the heated windshield. The dash lights glowed in ethereal colors that only added credence to her unthinkable words.

  With nothing more than a growl for answer, Michael slammed the truck into reverse and turned on the narrow road, spinning all four tires to gain traction, heading them back in the direction they’d come from.

  In silence, they sped through the night, and Libby prayed they were doing the right thing. She knew Michael’s reluctance to expose the powerful staff, but even if they all got zapped back to medieval Scotland, it wouldn’t matter as long as Robbie survived.

  She’d go with them, she decided, sliding her hand gently onto Michael’s thigh. Anyplace, in any time, being with the two men she loved was better than staying in this time without Robbie.

  They sped past her driveway and continued to Michael’s home, coming to a sliding stop in front of his workshop. He set the brake with a jerk and was running inside before the truck had stopped rocking.

  Libby was one step behind him.

  The woodworking shop stood patiently silent in the sudden glare of the overhead lights Michael snapped on. Without breaking stride, he went to his workbench, reached up, and took down a small chain saw. He gave one violent tug on the starter cord, and the miniature engine screamed to life.

  Libby gasped in surprise when she saw him shove at a beautiful oak bureau, sending its polished face crashing onto the floor. He set the roaring blade of the saw against the back panel and cut through the wood. Sawdust and choking engine fumes filled the workshop, the whine of the deafening blade making the destruction horribly easy.

  The top half of the bureau separated cleanly, rolling onto its finished top. The air continued to hum with bone-chilling echoes long after the noise ceased abruptly. And Libby could only stand and watch in horror as Michael used his bare hands to rip apart the bottom half of his beautiful creation.

  He stood up, the two-foot-long, thick, gnarled piece of cherrywood clenched in his fist. He grabbed Libby’s hand and, without giving the destruction a second glance, pulled her back out to the truck. He lifted her in, handed her the staff, and climbed in and had the truck moving before she could fasten her seat belt.

  Libby stared at the heavy, warm-feeling wood in her hands.

  It still hummed with lingering energy—from the whine of the chain saw? Lord, she hoped so. They could well be playing with fire, trying to use this ancient piece of old magic to save Robbie’s life.

  Libby carefully set the staff on the seat by the door and put her hand back on Michael’s thigh as she watched the blinding snowflakes rush past the hood of the truck, their reflection in the headlights all but shouting urgency.

  This was taking too long.

  They might be too late.

  Michael suddenly slammed on the brakes when a white blur of feathers crossed the beam of the headlights, swooping low and then lifting back into the forest. The truck slid to a stop, and Michael shut off the engine and rolled down his window. Together, they sat in absolute silence and listened.

  A sharp, distant, haunting whistle came from the woods.

  Michael looked down the road in the direction they’d been traveling, then over at Libby. “We’re still three miles from the accident,” he told her, looking back at the woods.

  “How far could he travel?” Libby asked. “Carrying a baby?”

  “He could probably cover one, maybe one and a half miles in an hour,” he told her. “Depending on his injuries. He might already be over the ridge by now.”

  “Is there a road leading up there?”

  “Aye. There are all sorts of woodcutting trails. But there’s almost two feet of snow from the last storm and this one. The MacKeages have the best chance of finding him in their snowcats.”

  “But we have Mary,” Libby reminded him, touching his arm.

  He started the truck, then slowly let it roll forward, keeping watch through his open window. Libby saw the narrow track the same time he did. He put the truck in neutral, shifted the four-wheel drive into low gear, then gunned the engine and sent them careening through the ditch and up onto the trail.

  Libby had to brace herself against the violent upheavals of the rough terrain, holding on to the dash and gripping the cherrywood staff between her knees to keep it from bouncing around the interior of the truck.

  They dug and spun and slowly made their way through the deep snow, climbing the ridge one rock and one fallen tree at a time. Finally, they stopped with a jarring thud, as all four tires screamed and chittered for traction.

  Michael shut off the engine. “This is it. We walk from here,” he said, opening his door, getting out, and reaching back under the seat. He pulled out a flashlight, clicked it on, and shone it through the interior of the truck.

  “Give me the staff,” he said, helping her down and holding her until she found her footing. “Listen,” he whispered, looking toward the tops of the towering trees.

  They heard it again, that faint, haunting cry of urgent desperation, far off to their left, high up on the ridge.

  Michael lifted the back of his jacket, tucked the heavy staff into his belt, and let his coat fall over it. “This way,” he said, taking her hand and leading her deeper into the woods.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Libby followed in silence,letting Michael guide her around large boulders and over fallen trees, trying very hard not to slow down the pace he was keeping. She felt as if she were in one of those maddening nightmares, where she was running as fast as she could but not moving.

  They traveled for what seemed like forever, until Libby was soaked in sweat and beginning to shiver. Her breathing was labored, and her muscles ached. Only the urgency of Mary’s distant cries gave Libby the strength to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

  Michael suddenly stopped and pointed toward the top of the ridge. “There. Do ya see that?” he asked in a winded whisper. “That blue glow?”

  “Is it the ski-slope lights?” Libby asked, moving to see better.

  “Nay,” he said, pointing to their left. “TarStone is to the north. You can just make out the reflection of the tower lights on the clouds. This glow is blue,” he said, pointing back at the south side of the ridge. “Can ya see it?”

  He didn’t wait for her answer but started leading her in the direction he’d pointed. “It’s Mary,” he said as he lifted her over a fallen tree. “It’s her light.”

  Libby’s fatigue disappeared. She started running to keep up with Michael as his long legs began covering the ground with amazing speed. The blue glow intensified as they drew nearer, reflecting off the snow i
n shimmering waves that turned the night into day.

  Michael stopped, and Libby stopped beside him. Mary was perched on a small mound of snow. There was a red knit hat poking through it where the owl had scratched.

  “Robbie!” Libby cried, hurling herself to her knees and brushing the snow away.

  Michael knelt opposite her and carefully turned Robbie over, lifting him onto his lap. Libby tore off her gloves and gently brushed away ice crystals from the unconscious boy’s face. Her fingers touched the crusted blood on his right temple near the hairline. She examined the small cut that was no longer bleeding, and quickly decided it was only a minor scrape and not responsible for his condition now. She let her fingers trail down his neck to feel for a pulse.

  There was none.

  Libby pried open Robbie’s arms and unbuttoned his jacket. Rose Dolan fell into her hands. The infant was limp, her tiny features drawn and pale. Libby leaned over and touched her mouth to Rose’s cheek and felt just the faintest whisper of breath.

  “She’s alive,” Libby said. “Just barely.”

  “Robbie,” Michael growled as he placed his own mouth over Robbie’s. He gently pushed several breaths into his son and then looked at Libby, his eyes desperate. “Do something,” he demanded. “Wake him up!”

  Libby pulled off her jacket and set it on the ground beside the silent owl. She set Rose inside the jacket and bundled her up, then reached for Robbie. Michael placed his son in her arms, then moved them both onto his lap until Libby was astride his hips with Robbie pressed between them.

  “Use yar magic,” Michael entreated. “Save my son, Libby.”

  She was already trying. But instead of the now familiar colors that should be swirling through Robbie, Libby found only darkness. There was no light, no colors, not one single emotion that she could feel.

  “He—he’s not here, Michael,” she whispered, looking up. “He—he’s gone.” She choked on a sob, closing her eyes and pressing her mouth to Robbie’s hair.

  Michael’s arms tightened. “He’s not dead!” He held Libby’s hand to Robbie’s face. “Try harder.”

  Libby resumed her search for Robbie’s life force, only to find herself once again confronting darkness. She mentally roamed through Robbie’s empty body, seeking out anything that would give her a reason to continue. She ignored the chill of the void, instead concentrating on each individual organ, looking for even the smallest of sparks.

  And deep in Robbie’s heart, Libby found hope. Michael’s arms tightened around her, and Libby knew he was there, beside her, feeling and seeing what she did—the distant echo of a young and determined desperation.

  And she realized the pulse was merely a connection to Robbie, a lifeline to use to return. Libby pulled away, opened her eyes, and looked up at Michael.

  “Go back!” he demanded, hugging her fiercely. “He’s alive.”

  “He’s not there, Michael,” she told him. “He’s in Rose.”

  They both looked at the jacket lying on the snow. Mary was using her beak to gently pull back the folds of wool.

  “He’s protecting her,” Libby said, wiggling free of Michael’s embrace. “He’s using the last of his strength to keep her alive.” She picked up the infant and nestled her between herself and Robbie. “If we want to save Robbie, we have to save Rose. He’ll not leave her until he’s sure she is safe.”

  Michael reached behind himself and pulled the old priest’s staff from his belt. With amazingly steady hands, he gently wedged the thick cherrywood stick between Rose and Robbie, then reached behind Libby’s shoulders in a rock-solid embrace that engulfed her and the children. He looked at Libby, took a deep breath, and nodded.

  With her own arms wrapped tightly around both young bodies, Libby closed her eyes and again went in search of the colors.

  Brilliant white light immediately pulsed through her mind, making Libby cry out in surprise. Michael’s arms tightened as he braced them against the assault, and slowly Libby was able to feel two faintly beating hearts.

  She reached for the weaker pulse, bending the white light toward Rose, gently coaxing warmth into her tiny body. The infant gasped for breath and let out a cry of outrage, and her tiny heart began racing with the rapid beat of a tiger cub.

  Libby cried tears of relief as she touched her lips to Robbie’s cheek. “Come back,” she whispered. “Rose is safe now, Robbie. She’s going to live.”

  A turbulent rainbow pulsed through the white light, pulling at Libby as it sped past. Myriad colors danced about in frantic circles, playfully tugging her own heart-strings before speeding off toward Michael.

  “Come home,” Michael thickly demanded. “Now, son.”

  The colors stopped and hovered and suddenly wrapped everyone up in a fierce embrace of elation.

  “God’s teeth!” Michael shouted, his words echoing through the brightness. “Come home!”

  Libby slowly inched toward Robbie’s faintly beating pulse and gently tickled his heart. The organ shuddered, thumped twice, then started to beat with the strength of a lion.

  The blinding light softly faded to a gentle blue glow. Libby opened her eyes to see a flurry of white feathers wafting down through the night. She looked at her jacket on the ground, but Mary was gone.

  “I’m powerful hungry, Papa.”

  Libby turned her gaze to Robbie, who was looking at Michael.

  “And so is Rose,” the boy said. He suddenly grinned at Libby. “It’s after midnight,” he told her. “Merry Christmas.”

  “Merry Christmas!” Libby cried, pulling him to her as she sobbed in relief.

  Michael wrapped trembling arms around them, whispering his own Christmas blessing. Rose squeaked in protest and wiggled to get free. Libby pulled back, wiped the tears off her face, and stood up with Rose in her arms.

  The infant shot her a lopsided smile and then reached out her short little arms toward Robbie. Robbie started to take her, but it seemed that Michael was not done hugging him yet. So the boy turned his attention to his father and hugged him back.

  “I knew ya would come for me, Papa,” Libby heard Robbie say. “And I held on until ya did.”

  “Aye,” Michael breathed, his eyes closed against his own emotional storm as he held Robbie close. “Ya did good, son.

  Libby picked up her jacket and tented it over Rose, who was now sucking her thumb, then turned at the sound of an engine approaching. Headlights appeared over the top of the ridge, and a double-tracked machine wove through the forest and came to a halt beside them.

  Doors opened, and Greylen and Ian climbed out. Ian helped Daar down over the wide track and held his arm as they came over to Libby and Michael.

  “You found them,” Greylen said, walking up to Michael, touching Robbie to see for himself that the boy was okay. He slapped Michael on the back. “He seems to be hale and hearty.”

  “Aye,” Michael said, nodding, still not putting his son down.

  “And Rose?” Greylen asked, turning to Libby.

  Libby pulled back her coat to reveal the infant. “She’s hale and hearty, too,” she told Grey. “And hungry.”

  “Did ya save me some cheesecake?” Robbie asked, trying to see past his father’s fierce embrace. “I—I guess we missed the party.”

  “You didn’t,” Libby told him. “We postponed it until tomorrow—I mean, today—at noon.”

  The boy’s eyes rounded. “Noon?” he echoed, turning to look at his father. He leaned in and whispered something to Michael, Michael nodded, and Robbie looked back at Libby, his face lit with a smug smile. “I told ya Christmas was full of surprises.”

  Libby couldn’t have responded if she’d wanted to.

  “We’re gonna miss Santa, people, if we don’t start making our way back,” Ian interjected, turning up the collar on his coat and shoving his bare hands into his pockets. “And we still gotta find Dwayne and let him know his daughter is okay.”

  Libby followed Michael when he walked to the snowcat and placed Robbie in
the backseat. He took Rose out of her arms and handed the child to his son. But before Michael turned back to Libby, he lingered long enough to run a hand over Robbie’s head, cupping his chin and lifting his face to his.

  “Ian will drive ya home,” he told him. “And Libby will stay with ya until I get there. Give John a big hug when ya see him,” he instructed. “He’s been worried sick about ya.”

  Michael leaned in closer, and Libby edged forward to hear what he was saying. “Ya did good, son,” he told him roughly, gently running a finger over Rose’s plump cheek. “You were Rose’s guardian angel tonight.”

  Robbie blinked up at him. “It was my duty, Papa.”

  “Aye,” Michael agreed, patting Robbie on the shoulder.

  Michael turned to Libby, and she threw herself into his arms. “Come back with us,” she pleaded, holding him tightly. “I don’t want us to be separated right now.”

  “There’s no room, lass,” he whispered into her hair. “Ian will take ya home, and Grey and I will get my truck and go find Dwayne. We’ll be at the house in no time.” He kissed her upturned face and gave her a reassuring smile. “Feed my son and Rose, give them warm baths, and see if ya can’t talk Robbie into getting some sleep.”

  His orders given, he lifted her up and settled her in the backseat beside Robbie. He leaned inside, gave her a quick kiss, and then turned to the men. “Where’s Daar?” he asked.

  Ian and Greylen looked around in the beam of the headlights, and Libby also craned her neck to find Father Daar.

  But he was nowhere to be seen.

  Libby gasped and reached out to Michael. “The staff,” she hissed softly. “Where is it?”

  He whipped his head around and stared at the spot where Robbie and Rose had been. After only a quick look back at her, he walked over and started scuffing the snow-covered ground, looking for the staff.

  “Now, where in hell did he go?” Ian muttered as he walked to the other side of the snowcat, looking for Daar.

  Libby climbed out and started helping Michael look for the staff. Greylen came over and stared at them quizzically.