Libby threw back the covers with a moan and stumbled into the bathroom like an old woman. She had another hundred million things to do today, not the least of which was cooking dinner. Thank heavens she had seen some old cookbooks on the shelf in the kitchen. It had been a few years since she’d baked an apple pie.
Libby turned on the shower and waited until the room warmed up with steam before she stepped under the water, letting the driving spray beat the kinks out and the eucalyptus shampoo wash the fog from her brain. In half an hour, she was dressed in her new blaze orange jacket and hat and was ready to face the girls in the coop—this morning, she was wearing blaze orange gloves to protect her hands from striking beaks.
Libby was surprised to find seven eggs in the nesting boxes. It was like Christmas morning, seeing those seven perfectly formed brown ovals just sitting there, waiting for her to collect them. Ian had warned her not to expect any for maybe a week, until the hens had settled down from their move.
But she had seven eggs. She felt like the richest woman in the world.
With her treasures carefully stowed in her pockets, Libby slowly walked back to the house but stopped in the middle of the driveway to stare at Pine Lake.
And her wealth suddenly increased tenfold.
A sense of rightness, of peace and contentment, settled over Libby like a warm blanket of security. She could feel the strength of TarStone Mountain at her back, as she drank in the beauty of the lake cradled in the valley below.
This was as real as it got.
It was good that she’d come here. From this place of strength, she would be able to deal with her gift. She would learn its parameters and begin to understand it. From here, with the support of these good people, she would accept what she could not change and embrace it for the miracle it was.
For the first time in almost two weeks, Libby felt balanced. And blessed instead of cursed. Something had driven her search, guiding her computer to find this home in Pine Creek.
Grammy Bea?
Or a young boy with a plan?
“It’s a mighty fine view, ain’t it?”
Libby whirled, then had to scramble to catch the egg that came flying out of her pocket.
She bumped it instead and watched as the tiny missile sailed through the air and landed with a sickening plop against Father Daar’s chest.
Both horrified speechless, they stared at each other in shock. Libby felt her cheeks warm and quickly pulled off her gloves and used them to wipe the mess off his jacket.
The old priest took the gloves from her and stepped back, brushing his own chest.
“I’m… I’m sorry, Father. You startled me.”
“Aye,” he agreed, handing back her soiled gloves. “And I’m wearing my penance.” He looked at her suspiciously.
“Ya got any more eggs ya’re wanting to throw? ’Cause I’m thinking they’d be better off in my belly instead of on it.”
The man was looking for breakfast. He had a lot of nerve, after being so rude to her the other day.
“I have six more,” she told him, tucking her hands in her pockets, letting him worry about what she intended to do with them.
He lifted one bushy eyebrow at her. “Are ya a Christian woman, Libby Hart?”
“Sometimes,” she said, pointedly looking at the white collar around his neck. “When people act Christianly toward me.”
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.