“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?”

“It’s on MacKeage land, but it belongs to anotherdrùidh.” Daar shifted nervously. “And it’s not exactly a book but a tree.”

“A tree.”

“Aye,” he confirmed, nodding. “A large oak growing deep in the forest about three or four miles from the MacKeage village.”

“You expect me to bring back a tree?”

Daar held up his hands about ten inches apart. “Just a wee section of it,” he quickly assured him. “From the tap root.”

“What does a tree have to do with a book of spells?”

Daar gestured impatiently. “It’s a tree of life, MacBain. They’re scattered throughout the world and can only be propagated from their tap roots, not their seed. But each tree is nurtured by adrùidh and its knowledge carefully guarded so that life’s continuum won’t be disturbed.”

“And if I bring you back a piece of this root, you’ll have the knowledge to rework your spell?”

“Aye. I’ll grow a new tree, and then I’ll be able to keep the Highlanders here.”

Robbie eyed him suspiciously. “It takes a long time to grow a tree.”

“It will be large enough by this summer’s solstice.”

“That’s cutting it close.”

“Aye,” Daar agreed. “But I have little choice. Which is why you have only two weeks to get the root.”