Mystical Warrior by Janet Chapman

his collar, the pup was off again, racing after his savior.
    “Misneach, no!” Fiona cried, chasing after him. “Come he—”
    The rest of her command got muffled in Trace Huntsman’s chest. She bounced off him and would have fallen back if he hadn’t caught her by the shoulders.
    “Just out of curiosity,” he muttered, setting her on her feet and turning away, “how many trees did you crash into when you were a hawk?”
    Fiona gaped at his retreating back. Was he implying that she was clumsy ?
    “None!” she snapped, marching after him. “I’ll have you know I could pluck a dove right out of the air, even in a strong gale. Misneach, come here!” she demanded when the pup started nipping at his heels again.
    He reached into the bed of his pickup and pulled out a large roll of plastic and a bundle of thin wooden sticks. Then he stepped over her pet and walked past her without breaking stride as he headed toward the front of the house.
    “Misneach, come!” she shouted, rushing after them again.
    Her landlord dropped everything at the foot of her stairs, then walked past her again back in the direction of his truck. This time, Fiona managed to capture the pup, who immediately started struggling when she tried to snap the leash onto his collar. “You will behave yourself,” she quietly hissed, “before Mr. Huntsman changes his mind about letting you live here.”
    But the moment she got the leash on him, the little contortionist slipped out of his collar and ran off again. “Misneach!” Fiona cried, growing truly frantic when he disappeared into the barn.
    She barged in after him, but her eyes didn’t adjust to the darkness quickly enough, and she would have smacked into a post if a large hand hadn’t caught hold of her sleeve and pulled her around it at the last minute.
    “Leave the pup be,” he said, striding out of the barn carrying a leather pouch with a hammer hanging on it and a small pail filled with nails. “He’s following me because he’s used to being around men,” he continued, stopping to fasten the belt around his waist. “And there’s really no reason for you to restrain him here in the yard.”
    “But he might run out to the road and get hit by a vehicle.”
    He took the leash and collar out of her hand before she even realized what he was doing, and replaced it with a pair of leather gloves that he pulled from his hind pocket. “He’ll stick close to us,” he said, picking up the pail and heading back around the front of the house.
    Fiona looked at the gloves in her hand, wondering whatshe was supposed to do with them. She ran to catch up with him and Misneach, but when she reached the foot of her stairs, neither of them was there. The roll of plastic and bundle of wood were gone, and the pail was sitting in their place.
    “Bring the nails,” he called from somewhere behind the house.
    The stiff breeze blowing in off the bay caught the hem of her long coat just as she rounded the corner, and Misneach lunged toward the material with a playful yelp. Only the pup bumped into the pail instead, knocking it out of her hand. She let out a cry of dismay, and despite her attempts to catch it, all of the nails flew out of the pail and disappeared into the tall grass.
    It took every ounce of courage Fiona possessed not to turn tail and run, even though she knew Mr. Huntsman would catch her before she reached her stairs. And it definitely was beyond her ability to look at him, knowing the anger she’d see in his eyes.
    But several pounding heartbeats later, when he still hadn’t said anything, she finally worked up the nerve to look up.
    Only he was gone.
    And so was Misneach.
    Fiona bent at the waist, the memory piercing her like a sword of that long-ago day when her pet goose had caused her to spill an entire pot of stew. She had been forced to make a new one with the young goose—and then she’d been forced to eat it.
    She dropped to her knees, grabbed the pail, and started picking