“Of course, he would want to be healed. Ya say ya tried but couldn’t get through? But that ya healed the boy?”
Libby nodded. “Darren had a broken arm, and I was able to go in, see the break, and mend it. And I could see Alan Brewer’s injury, but I couldn’t reach it. The colors kept driving me away.”
Daar fell silent. He stood up, went to the stove, and poured a cup of coffee. He brought it back and set it on the table in front of her. Libby picked it up, blew off the steam, and carefully sipped the black, strong-smelling brew.
“Tell me what happened,” Daar said, taking a seat beside her again. “I know the Brewers. Ya say they had some sort of accident?”
“Alan and his son Darren fell off their roof while trying to put up Christmas lights.”
“And young Darren broke his arm?”
“And Alan broke his back and dislocated his shoulder,” she added. “I didn’t have any equipment, and the ambulance was taking a long time. So I tried to use my gift to heal him.”
“And ya couldn’t,” he finished softly, frowning in thought. “What exactly did ya see, Libby? Ya entered his body?”
“Yes. Just like all the other times, I—I was actually able to move inside him. I heard his heartbeat, each breath he took, felt his pain. And I saw exactly where he was hurt and knew just how to fix it.”
“And when ya tried? What happened then?”
“Nothing. I could see the broken vertebra, but I couldn’t get near it. The colors kept lashing out at me, driving me back.”
“And MacBain was there? And still ya couldn’t do anything?”
“M-Michael was holding on to my shoulders.”
Daar stood up again and paced to the hearth. He silently poked at the slowly burning fire for a time, then turned back and faced her, his brows drawn into a frown.
“Not everyone is meant to be healed, Libby,” he said softly. “Or, if they are, it has to come from themselves, not from an outside source.”
“But I could have saved him months of rehabilitation.”
“Aye. But he was not open to your gift, lass. I know Alan Brewer as a stoic, private man.
He’s God-fearing, but that doesn’t always translate to believing in miracles.”
“So you’re saying my gift only works on believers?”
“Something like that,” he said, nodding. “It’s more likely that Brewer just can’t comprehend what’s not tangible. If he can’t touch it, smell it, or see it, then it probably doesn’t exist.”
“But I didn’t believe, and I have the gift.”
“Aye. But you were open to the possibility, lass. Ya perform miracles every day in your work, and ya know—deep down, where it counts—that you are not alone in your surgery.”
His smile was warm. “As a doctor, ya work with a knowledge of the human body, but each procedure ya do is an act of faith, is it not? Not only faith in the science, but is there not something else guiding yar hand in surgery?”
“I hadn’t thought about it in those terms,” Libby admitted, frowning into her cup of coffee. She looked at Daar. “I just did whatever I had to.”
“And last night, when yar gift failed, what did you do?”
“I used my training.”
“Aye. And will Alan Brewer recover?”
“Yes. His back was broken, but I could see that it wasn’t a severe or paralyzing break.
But what about Darren? Why was I able to help him?”
“Because he’s a child,” Daar told her. “He hasn’t lived long enough for his mind to be closed.”
Libby sipped her coffee and thought about what Daar was saying. It made sense, she guessed, in a weird sort of way.
“So I’m just a conduit or something? You’re saying I can’t force my gift onto someone?”
Daar came and sat back down beside her, his crystal-blue eyes shining with warmth.
“Aye, Libby. And that should ease a lot of yar worries. Ya do not have the power to decide a person’s fate. Was that not yar greatest fear?”
He was right, that was her greatest worry. Libby nodded and took another sip of her coffee, thankful that her fingers and toes were finally thawing out. Daar suddenly cocked his head as he stared at her, his eyes narrowing in what Libby now recognized as an outward sign that he was thinking.
“I’m just wondering,” he mused. “What would have happened last night if ya would have had my staff with ya?”
Libby shot her gaze to his cane, which was leaning against the hearth. “That staff?” she asked, pointing to it. “Why? Do you think I could have healed Alan Brewer if I’d had it?”
“Aye,” he said, slowly nodding, his thoughts turned inward again. “It might not be powerful enough, though. But my old staff would be,” he added gruffly, focusing back on her. “With it, ya could have overridden his resistance, I’m thinking.”
“But wouldn’t that be unethical? Or immoral or something?” Libby asked, growing alarmed. “I don’t want a power that can get past a person’s own defenses.”
“But it’s a good power, lass.”
“Good for whom?” Libby shook her head. “I’m beginning to understand why Michael won’t give you back your staff. He said you could be dangerous if you got all your powers back, and I’m beginning to believe he might be right.”
“Dangerous!” Daar growled, his face darkening. “I’ll have ya know I’ve wielded those powers for more than fourteen centuries, girl, and I never once abused them.”
“But you have made mistakes,” she countered. “That morning on my porch, you admitted as much.”
Daar stood up, walked to the door and opened it, and stood to the side, silently telling her their visit was over. Libby got up, shot one last yearning look at the warm hearth, and walked out onto the porch.
The door slammed shut behind her, the bolt sliding home with a resounding thud.
Libby walked off the porch and across the clearing, through the slowly brightening light of the frosty dawn.
It took her twice as long to find her way back home, since it seemed that Mary no longer felt like helping her.
And Libby wondered what kind of trouble she was in for refusing to help a wizard get back his power.
Chapter Twenty-three
Michael slowly rubbed another layerof wax onto the surface of the tall oak bureau. He’d had precious little time to work on Libby’s Christmas gift since his busy season had started, and it would take a miracle for him to have it done in time.
The moose bed, the bureau, and the two matching nightstands still to be finished had been started well more than a year ago. He’d been making the bedroom set for himself, not because he needed a new bed but because working with wood had been a great source of pleasure for him since childhood. Which is why he had made the maple kitchen table two years ago and presented it to Ellen Bigelow on her eighty-fifth birthday. He’d also built Robbie’s bed from birch wood, for when the boy moved out of his crib.
Michael looked around his workshop and marveled at the array of tools he’d amassed in just nine years. As a lad growing up in the Highlands, he and his da had possessed only a handful of tools. It was a wonder to him now, how his mama had loved each and every piece of furniture they’d made her, despite their crude but functional designs.
Michael smiled in memory of one piece in particular, a trunk for Isobel MacBain’s precious sewing supplies and materials, which he had labored over for nearly five months under the patient eye of his father. He had carved wildflowers into the top of the trunk, which had looked more like weeds than heather and laurel.
His mama had had the same reaction to his gift as Libby, although the two pieces of furniture were worlds—and centuries—apart in craftsmanship. Both women had run their hands over the polished wood in wonder, as if it were precious gold.
Libby.
For the last three weeks, ever since Alan Brewer’s accident, she had been distant and unusually reserved. Hell, the woman had made a point of avoiding him. And when they did talk, they usually discussed such inane things that it would be laughable if it weren’