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.