Rated NC-17 for graphic heterosexuality and violence
Disclaimer:  Duncan MacLeod, et al., are not mine, nor is the Highlander universe.  I just like to play with them. 

---

Chapter One
 

         <No, that can't be.>  Randi McFarland's mouth hung open in amazement as she stared into the crowd.  Onlookers, combined with media representatives, had gathered in the night to watch hungry flames devour a large warehouse.

        There, in the midst of the sixty-plus spectators, stood Duncan MacLeod, bane of her existence and the unwilling subject of too many of her late night fantasies over the past three years.  He was standing over fifty feet away, motionless and covered from top to bottom with soot.  Yet, there was no mistaking the leashed control and unconscious grace of  the tall, dark-haired man.  No one she had ever met before or after him possessed that same commanding presence.  It couldn't be anyone else.
 

He died last year,> Randi mused, as she narrowed her gaze to inspect him more closely.  Her eyes landed on his left shoulder where a patch of healthy bare flesh, totally undamaged, peeked through a hole in his duster-type coat.  The fabric had been burned away, the edges crisp and seared and still smoldering. 

        <Who is this guy?  Superman?>

        At that moment, the subject of her perusal moved his head in her direction.  Before she could avert her stare, their eyes locked for a fraction of a second.  That was all she needed to see a flash of panic sweep across his face.  By the time she looked back, he was no longer there.  Frantically searching the crowd, she found a dark, hunched-over figure working his way to the outer fringes. 

        "Randi,  oh Randi,"  her cameraman Stu's sing-song voice intruded.  "Ten fifty-nine and thirty seconds, dear and we've got an eleven oh one hit.  I know it isn't my job, but I believe the story's in the other direction?"

        She gave the assembly one last lingering look, then turned her attention back to where it belonged, on the camera, working her story lines in her mind.  <I'll deal with you, Mr. MacLeod, later,> she vowed.

---

        Duncan wove his way through the bodies to the spot where he had left the T-Bird before all the trouble had begun. 

        Trouble?  With the toss of a glance and the blink of an eye, trouble had become something considerably more complex than an unknown Immortal's threat to separate Richie's head from his shoulders.  But circumstances didn't allow time for worry so he placed it in the back of his mind to be dealt with later.  His more immediate concerns were focused on Richie.

        Duncan didn't know whose Quickening had set off the warehouse fire.  He knew it had been a Quickening, sensing it when he had arrived.  If only he had received Richie's message in time, but he hadn't.  Over the past several months he had become accustomed to going for long stretches of time without talking to the young Immortal.  He hadn't thought to check the answer machine after his quick run to the market.

        With an acute sense of foreboding, he had entered the abandoned building, hoping to find his former student alive and well.  As he worked his way into the heart of the warehouse, the flames that had been tiny tendrils licking at the interior exploded into a powerful inferno intent upon sucking the very oxygen from his lungs.  The self-propelled wind whipped the burning contents into a tornado of fire, sending small pieces of ignited shrapnel into a fiery, eerie dance.  One of  those pieces had landed on Duncan's shoulder, and before he could brush it off, it had burned a hole right down to the muscle.  Realizing the situation was quickly approaching critical and not wanting to end up trapped, he had abandoned his search and left the building. 

        Outside, the crowd had already begun to assemble, arriving on the heels of the local fire-fighting units.  The media was sure to follow.  Duncan knew he should leave, but his concern for Richie had compelled him to stay.  Mistake.  Bad idea.  The instant he had locked eyes with Randi McFarland, he knew it could end up being one of the biggest mistakes of his life.  The woman was like a foxhound on the scent of its quarry.  Relentless, unyielding, persistent.  A pit bull had nothing on her once she'd locked her jaws on what she considered a story.  A man coming back from the dead was her kind of story.  He was going to have to get out of town and fast.

        He dialed Richie's number on his cell phone, then started up the car and pulled out of the parking lot.  Much to Duncan's relief, the call was answered on the third ring and Richie's live voice said, "Hello." 

        "You're okay,"  Duncan announced breathlessly more to himself than to the person on the other end of the line.

        "Yeah, I'm okay."  Richie's inflection was laced with wariness and exhaustion.  "I didn't think you got the message." 

        "I got it, but a little late.  Sorry.  I couldn't get there till after the fireworks.  Did he tell who he was?"

        "Said his name was Frank Koltrane.  Does that ring a bell?" 

        "No, Richie. "  A small smile curved up the corner of Duncan's mouth.  Now that his mind was at ease over his young friend's fate, he forced himself to relax a little.  "I don't know everyone."

        "Well, he sure knew about you.  He said beheading me was going to be a payback for something you did to him a while ago."  There was a long pause before he continued.  Duncan could almost hear the thought processes over the phone.  "You know Mac, sometimes having you as a mentor ends up being a big liability."

        The older man laughed.  "Now you understand why we don't spend a lot of time together anymore.  You're able to take care of yourself and I seem to attract trouble." 

        Duncan checked over his left shoulder to make sure it was safe to change lanes and caught a glimpse of the white KCAL van speeding to catch up.  "Speaking about trouble, Richie.  Um...could I come over?  It appears that I've got a wee problem."

Chapter Two

        "Wee problem?!"  Richie exclaimed while he struggled to keep the urge to laugh under control.  "You're calling Randi McFarland, reporter extraordinaire, seeker-of-the-truth-no-matter-how-much-it-hurts a wee problem?" 

        "It's not funny."  Duncan's dour expression indicated that he considered the situation anything but humorous.

        "You blew it, Mac.  After four hundred-plus years, you blew it.  It was bound to happen.  Law of averages, you know."  The younger man suddenly grew serious.  "What're you going to do besides get out of Dodge, pronto?"

        "Go to the cabin and think this through."  Duncan turned his attention to the view outside the darkened window over the couch.  Another hasty retreat.  Another persona destroyed.  Would it ever end?  After four centuries, he was growing tired of playing this endless game of cat and mouse.  He was weary of the mouse role and he loathed being the cat.  He drew in a deep breath and forced himself to stop brooding.  There were no choices here.  He had to do what he had to do.  "I can't even risk a trip back to the dojo, pal, so will you please swing by the loft and pick up a few things for me?"

        "Sure."  Grabbing a scrap piece of paper and a dull-pointed pencil from the coffee table,  Richie thrust them into Duncan's hand.  "Make a list, Dano."

        The older man's face brightened for a moment.  "You're too young to remember that line."

        "Cable, my man.  You ought to try it.  You'd be amazed at the things you can find on cable."

        There wasn't any cable where he was headed, Duncan mused as he watched his young friend leave.  He needed to think without distractions.  And nowhere could a man find more time to think than while surviving a cold, hard winter in a mountain cabin with no modern conveniences.

---

        <Duncan MacLeod.  Duncan MacLeod.>  Randi repeated the name over and over in her mind like a mantra, staying in rhythm with the sound of the van's tires whooshing over the wet pavement.  The mysterious Duncan MacLeod.>  The T-bird had escaped when Stu was caught by a red light, but no matter, she would catch up with him later after she had done a little investigating. 

        So much time had passed she had almost forgotten him.  Well, not exactly forgotten.  Her subconscious hadn't allowed her that, but she'd finally been able to go for long stretches without consciously thinking about him.  She had heard about the murder of his girlfriend, Tessa Noel, a couple of years back and had tried to give her condolences.  However, whether intentional or not, their paths just hadn't crossed afterward.  And when the rumors had started that he had been killed, Randi had been devastated.  At first she hadn't believed it, but as time passed and no word had been heard about him, she'd become convinced.  After all, for a time he had been in the middle of almost every fast breaking news story in town, and then suddenly, it was as though he had dropped off the face of the earth...as if he had died.  Which was exactly what he'd wanted everyone to believe. 

        <Fools.  He pulled a Mark Twain.  Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated, or however the damn saying goes.  Just you wait Duncan MacLeod.  I'll get you yet.>

---

        What had been rain in the city turned into a cold, slushy snow by the time Richie dropped Duncan off at the lake's edge.  After loading the canoe, paddling out to the island and hauling his meager supplies up to the cabin, it was three-thirty a.m. and an exhausted Duncan was drenched and chilled to the bone. 

        Wishing for nothing more immediate than warmth, he sighed in resignation when he saw that most of the logs he had split and stacked earlier in the year had fallen victim to a four-legged intruder.  Almost every piece had been scattered from beneath the protective overhang and lay in the snow, soaking.  They were slow to catch fire and once ignited, filled the cabin with plumes of smoke.  The flues were partially clogged; the result of bird nests he hadn't bothered to remove since summer which sent even more smoke into the room.  Oh well, he now had his first chore to deal with in the morning.  Cracking a few windows to prevent asphyxiation, and too exhausted to climb the stairs up to the bedroom loft, he unrolled his sleeping bag on the floor, stripped and snuggled into the cocoon of warm down.  Within minutes, fatigue took its toll and he fell asleep. 

        Morning brought clear, crisp skies that reflected brightly on six inches of  new snow.  Duncan arose early, and while waiting for the water to boil for coffee, he shoveled out the front entrance.  Knowing that tending to menial tasks would prevent him from dwelling on the bigger issues for a while longer, he climbed onto the roof and removed bird nests from the chimneys after his coffee. 

        For the moment, he made survival his only concern.  While he'd waited for Richie to return from the loft, he had decided that the situation would be simpler if he didn't rely on anything but his own skills; skills he hadn't used for a long time, but skills he remembered well.  He had brought only the bare essentials with him: coffee, flour, sugar, a few clothes and his sleeping bag.  There were endless tasks to perform.  Snares to set, repairs to make, and cleaning to be done; enough to keep him busy for hours, even days. 

        The cabin had lain in disuse for too long and the residue from all its uninvited visitors was overpowering.  Duncan began scrubbing from top to bottom.  He found a family of mice that had taken up residence in his bedroom and sent them scurrying with his intrusion.  He was certain he ran into the same group again in the closet, the pantry and then the kitchen cupboards because there was no way one house could be infested with so many little rodents.  After several feeble attempts, he managed to catch them one by one in an old coffee tin and escorted the entire troupe a hundred feet away from the cabin, hoping they wouldn't be able to find their way back.  Their eviction had provided a pleasant diversion, but once they were gone he had to turn his attention to more pressing matters like food.

        Using twine he found in the small storage shed, Duncan set snares all over the island.  Because of the time of year, he was going to have to accustom his body to an almost solid diet of protein, something he hadn't had to do for a very long time.  A few seeds, nuts and roots could be gathered for supplementation, but basically until spring, if he was on the island till then, he was going to be stuck with a game-only existence.  The canned goods that had accumulated over time would be hoarded until the weather made it impossible to hunt.

        There was no question.  No matter how long he stayed, it was going to be a long, hard winter.

Chapter Three

        Randi McFarland, bound and determined to find some answers, used every bit of her free time to research Duncan MacLeod. 

        Scrounging through a year of newspapers on microfiche at the main library for an obituary proved fruitless.  Undaunted and hopeful that the mortuary that had dealt with the body had not published an announcement, she called every one listed in the phone book, asking if they had any documentation on the Scotsman.  Even if the body had been shipped elsewhere, there should have been a record of it, but none of the funeral homes had a positive answer for her. 

        She moved her investigation to the county Hall of Records, and upon finding no death certificate issued under the name of Duncan MacLeod, started looking in other departments.  She practically shouted out loud when, after two weeks, she finally hit pay-dirt in the assessor's office: three deeds filed under the name of Duncan MacLeod; DeSalvo's Martial Arts, a house that had had several new permits issued recently and a parcel of land up in the mountains, all up to date and property taxes paid in cash. 

        <Gotcha, bud.>

---

        Richie Ryan picked up the telephone receiver for the fifth time that night.  He held it to his ear, reached for the number then slammed it back into the cradle in frustration.  Duncan had expressly instructed him not to use the cell phone number unless it was an emergency; something about battery packs and no way to recharge them but surely, this was an emergency. 

        Randi McFarland had just left his apartment after demanding answers about Duncan MacLeod's whereabouts.  When Richie had tried to convince her that his employer had been out of the country for the past year, the woman had laughed at him while waving copies of Grant Deeds and property tax bills in his face. 

        "You can't fool me, Mister Ryan," she had said boldly.  "These tax bills were paid in December, right before I saw him, and the receipt for cash is made out to MacLeod.  I know he's around.  Now where is he?"

        "Why do you care where he is?"

        "Because everyone seems to think he's dead and I want to prove that he isn't."

        The sudden color rising on his face had lost the advantage for Richie.  She immediately saw through the ruse and she'd launched an attack.  The young man had efficiently fended her off but he knew it was only a temporary victory.  She hadn't given up and would be back.  Duncan needed to be warned.  He had been in exile for almost three weeks already, and now there was no telling when, or if, he could come home. 

---

        Duncan stared at the compact cellular phone in his hand and resisted the urge to throw it against the stone fireplace.  The dial tone vibrated within his grasp, a rude reminder of the conversation he had just had with Richie.  <Damn that woman!  Is her sole purpose in life to make mine a living hell?>

        He glanced around the spacious living room of his self-made prison.  A few of the trinkets he had collected over the years covered the surface areas and the walls:  Oil lamps that he'd brought up from San Francisco somewhere in the middle of the last century, an original bronze sculpture that had been given to him by Charlie Russell himself, a photograph of Tessa taken inside the antique store lovingly framed by rich, hand-carved walnut. They were all pieces of his life, on exhibition as mementos of real events he had experienced, but they meant nothing.  They were only things.  They weren't the warmth of  the hand that had passed that sculpture from one person to the other.  They weren't the light of that sweet smile when it'd been bestowed on him from the other side of the camera.  He had been this route before.  He'd already spent an eternity alone in this very place and he wasn't about to do it again.  No snot-nosed, little whip of a reporter was going to force him into hiding for the next thirty or forty years.

        "No way."  He announced aloud, and grabbing his shearling coat on the way, he stormed out the door to check the snares.  Still, despite his pronouncement, he had no idea what he was going to do. 

        Fog clung to the frozen ground and wrapped itself around the conifers, giving the landscape a ghostly aura.  The snow, which had been falling at an ever increasing rate, was piled up three feet higher than when he had arrived.  He barely noticed any of this.

        Glad that he had something to keep his mind occupied, Duncan worked his way around the island and checked each trap.  The first three were empty.  The next two had captured immature squirrels that he quickly released and sent on their merry way.  Finally, the fifth one contained what would become his dinner, a mature buck snowshoe rabbit.  With an expert flick of the wrist, the rodent was quickly and painlessly dispatched.  Wrapping a thong around its hind-legs, Duncan connected the other end to his belt and let the body dangle from his waist, leaving his hands free.

        He checked the rest of the snares on the way back to the cabin and found a possum fighting to get out of one and a skunk struggling for its life in another.  Carefully, he freed both of the angry animals without suffering any ill effects.  Feeling somewhat buoyant that he had escaped vicious repercussions from two of the least sociable species he shared his space with, he ambled up to the cabin without his usual wariness.

        He should have seen the footprints leading from the lake to his front door, but his growling stomach kept his attention centered on the rabbit stew he was going to prepare.  He had dug up almost a pound of edible tubers the day before and was looking forward to something other than roasted meat.  It was only when he entered the cabin and started taking off his wet coat and boots that he realized he wasn't alone.  At the same instant, the sound of a sudden gasp hit his ears, and lifting his eyes, he met the startled face of Randi McFarland. 

        She stood with her back to the spacious fireplace, dripping and shivering within heavy, wet clothes.  When Duncan had entered the room, he had done so in almost complete silence.  Her only clue that someone had come through the door was a sudden draft of cold air.  All thoughts of maintaining the upper hand were lost as his simple movements mesmerized her when he shrugged out of his coat.  However, the second her eyes landed  on the dead rabbit, she snapped out of her trance. 

        "What are you doing here?"  Duncan bellowed, an expression of total disbelief washing over his face.

        Trying to mask her body's automatic response to him-a pleasant humming that began deep in her belly and worked its way up to her face-she smiled coyly, or rather, hoped that the expression came out coyly.  "You know, for a dead guy, you sure do look good."

        Duncan jerked the rabbit from his belt and stomped over to the kitchen.  The anger radiating from him was almost palpable.  "You haven't answered my question.  What are you doing here?"

        Randi hated to give up the warmth of the fire on her backside but knew she owed him some sort of explanation and tentatively followed.  She cringed as he slammed the carcass onto the butcher block table and reached for a very sharp knife hanging from a rack on the side. 

        When she still didn't answer, he abruptly stopped.  With barely leashed violence, he gripped the edge of the table and pierced her with an icy glare.  "I'm still waiting," he declared angrily.

        "Well, I, ah...when I saw you at that fire it just kind of started a whole avalanche of questions that I need answers to."

        "You need?"  His smile was cold and forbidding.  "What about what I need?  Did you consider that at all?"  He shook his head, bit down on his lower lip and cursed his temper.  Trying to calm himself, he picked up the knife and started skinning the rabbit.

        "You're here because of me," she stated with no questioning inflection to her voice.  "You left the night of the fire because I recognized you.  Why?"

        "I don't owe you any answers, lady," he proclaimed without looking up from his work.  "You'd best leave before dark."

        A long, pregnant pause sizzled between them.  "I can't," she finally said meekly.

        "What do you mean, you can't?" he bellowed.

        "Well, I...um..."

        "I don't have all day, Ms McFarland.  Spit it out."

        "Well, the only boat I could find to rent was one of those canoes, and those things are so unstable that when I got to shore and tried to get out it kind of tipped over.  I tried to right it but I guess I only made it worse, 'cause it flipped over and I got dumped into the lake.  When I flipped it back, it filled up with water and sank."

        "You sank a canoe?"  There was a hint of incredulity beneath the rage.

        Randi immediately took the defensive.  "Yes.  It could have happened to anyone."

        "Not likely,"  Duncan replied.  "There's nothing more buoyant than a canoe."

        "I disagree, but that's not the issue right now.  If you want me to leave, you're going to have to take me."

        "Not on your life, woman.  Only a fool would go out on the lake in weather like this."

        Choosing to ignore the insult, Randi leaned against the wall and crossed her arms under her breasts.  "So, I guess that means I'm staying."

        Duncan's head shot up, and he glowered at her indignantly  "Oh no you're not.  I don't care where you go but you're not staying here."

        "The last weather report I heard called for three more days of bad storms.  What're you going to do, MacLeod, send me out into a blizzard to fend for myself?"

        Duncan flashed on the coffee tin and all the mice he had evicted when he'd first arrived.  Although it was an appealing thought, there was just no way he could make her fit.  "I guess not," he reluctantly acquiesced.

        "So, what's for dinner?"

        "I'm having stew."  He slipped the knife into the skinned rabbit's belly and slit it up to the sternum.  "I've no idea what you're having." 

        Randi pulled away from the wall, moved to the opposite side of the table and confronted him directly.  "Come on, MacLeod, quit with the macho crap.  You know you're going to feed me."

        "I am?"  The rage was totally gone, replaced by skepticism and plain, old-fashioned gall.  He wondered just how far she was going to take this self-righteousness.

        "Yes, you are.  And for the same reason, you're going to give me some dry clothes, aren't you?"

        "If you insist," he stated matter-of-factly.  He glanced down at the table and quickly formulated a plan when he saw what he had been doing so automatically.  "After you dump these outside."  He grabbed her hand from her side and shoved the entrails he'd pulled out of the rabbit's body cavity into her palm.  "No sense in getting wet twice, don't you think?"  The look he gave her was challenging.

        The texture was, without a doubt, the most disgusting thing she had ever felt.  Heart and lungs and liver and who knows what else,  all mixed together with coagulated blood clots and fat.  Randi stared down at the bloody mess and fought down a wave of nausea.  There was no way she was going to let him know that he had gotten to her.  She wasn't about to give him the satisfaction.  Swallowing nervously, she hoped her voice would come out with the cavalier timbre she was trying for.  "Where?"

        "About a hundred and fifty feet northeast.  You can't miss it."

        "Northeast?"

        The corners of his lips turned up a fraction but he quashed to urge to give her a menacing smile.  He had seen her face almost turn green but she hadn't backed down.  She had gumption, he would give her that, and it was effecting his ability to keep up the anger, but he wasn't about to let her know that yet.  He kept his voice mildly disinterested when he spoke.  "Turn right at the door and keep walking.  You'll find it."

        <Now, that's the most fun I've had in a month,> Duncan thought as he watched her leave.  He felt a twinge of guilt about the way he'd treated her but not enough to apologize.  She had deserved a little rough treatment after tracking him down and intruding upon his home.  How dare she assume he would take care of her? 

        Damn, he hated being predictable.  One would think that after four hundred years he would have honed the art of deception and duplicity to a fine science, but he hadn't.  He'd barely been able to keep from laughing at the pathetic look on her face when she had seen that mess of guts hanging from her hand.  Even now, he couldn't be sure if her reaction had pleased the barbarian in him or just the eight year old boy that seemed to live in every male of the species, no matter how old he was.

        He forced himself out of his reverie and returned his attention to the rabbit.  While he cut the meat into cubes he made plans to search for his bow and arrow after dinner.  Up until now he hadn't needed it, small game had been enough to sustain him.  But, if she was going to be around for several more days he was going to have to do a whole lot better than rabbit, especially with a forecast predicting more bad weather.  As much as he hated hunting in sub-freezing temperatures, if he bagged a mule deer, it would provide enough meat to get them through. 

        A gust of wind and a softly uttered, "Damn, it's cold out there," announced Randi's return.  As Duncan watched her struggle to close the barrier between them and the elements, he cursed himself again.  How easily she had manipulated him into assuming responsibility for her.  He definitely had to do something to control these protective instincts that overwhelmed him at times.  Methos was right; chivalry was a pain in the ass.

        "About those dry clothes, MacLeod," Randi reminded him through chattering teeth.

        Gall didn't even begin to describe her behavior and  Duncan clenched his jaw to keep the anger threatening to boil to the surface again in check.  Just how far would this brazen woman go?  Hoping to find out as quickly as possible, he verbally gave her the rope to hang herself.  "Help yourself to anything in my closet.  Go straight up the stairs."

        "Thanks."  She headed for the staircase.

        She had her foot on the first step when he warned, "Just the closet, Randi.  Don't go snooping where you ought not to be."

        "I won't." 

        She reached the third step.

        "I'll know if you do.

        Exasperated, and wanting nothing more than to get out of the cold, soggy clothes that felt like they weighed a ton, she attacked.  "Damn it.  If you don't trust me why let me go up there alone?  Or better yet," she taunted.  "Why don't you come up and supervise?"

        "Don't trust you?  Whatever gave you the idea that I don't trust you?" he questioned sarcastically. 

        "Stuff it, MacLeod.  And don't worry, I'll keep my filthy mitts off your pretty things."

        Duncan laughed.  "There're towels in there, too."

        "I don't suppose you have a shower in this place," she shouted from the landing.

        "Sorry.  The only water's in the kitchen."

        "Oh great," she muttered to herself.  "No bathroom."

        As Randi looked around the room, the impact was one of overwhelming openness.  On the two outside walls, huge windows displayed a brilliant view of the wintry spectacle outside.  A large rock fireplace, sharing the same shaft as the one downstairs, filled the room with a toasty warmth that was in complete contrast to the scene beyond the glass.  The large, over-stuffed king-size bed was centered under one window.  Standing sentry on either side were primitively constructed nightstands, each with its own beautiful, floral-globe oil lamp on top.  A large rug of Native American design covered most of the rough-planked floor.  The room, taken as a whole, was a contrast of designs that shouldn't have worked together, but did.  The only thing that seemed out of place was a medieval looking sword with a wicked looking blade.  It peeked out from where the comforter had gotten caught between it and its rack that was attached to the right side of the bed frame. 

        <A little kinky are we, Duncan MacLeod?> Randi quipped silently as she turned her attention to the closet that was located on the same side of the bed.  As she rummaged through clothing, she felt a twinge of guilt over the entire situation-this total invasion of privacy-but it was a little late to be concerned about that now.  She had set her course and now had no choice but to follow it through. 

        Wearing gray sweatpants that bunched up around her ankles and threatened to fall down from her waist, and a blue hooded sweatshirt with sleeves that reached six inches past her wrists, Randi started back down the stairs to rejoin her host in the kitchen. 

        Halfway, she paused to take in the atmosphere of the capacious lower floor.  She had been too cold and miserable to pay attention to the surroundings before.  The upper floor took up only a quarter of the building's outside frame.  The rest of the room was an open miracle of pitched cathedral ceiling and glass.  Walls of rough-hewed logs were patched together with a white substance.  That combination reminded her, unexpectedly, of the Cartwrights' home in the TV series Bonanza.  But where that interior had been dark and heavy, this was a study in lightness and airiness.  The builder of this cabin had certainly had an ingenious understanding of how line and form could bring tranquility to space.

        "A little big, but they'll do," Duncan commented.  Wiping his hands on a towel, he joined her in the living room and noticed how silly she looked with her small form swimming in his clothes.  Her damp hair drooped around her face and shoulders and her fair skin was flushed red from the cold.

        "A little big?  I could get two or three others in here with me," Randi replied while pulling her eyes from yet another sword hanging in a rack to the left of the front door.  "What is it with you and swords, MacLeod?  Some sort of phallic thing?" 

        "No, they're part of my profession."

        "I thought you sold the antique store."

        "I still dabble."

        "Sure you do," she scoffed.  "And the fact that swords have a psychological connection to the size and length of certain parts of the male anatomy..." 

        "Contrary to popular belief, not everything is connected to sex."  He moved to the rack, brought the katana down and wrapped his hands around the hilt.  "Take hobbies for instance.  Everybody collects, whether it's something tangible, like swords, or ethereal like information."  He handed the katana to her and watched her inspect it more closely.  He had a point to prove-no one was above reproach-and he was going to pound that fact into her skull until she accepted that she had been wrong to follow him.  "We pick something that's important to us, an object or ideal that we hold dear, and after awhile it becomes an obsession." 

        "Not me."  Randi inspected the detail carved into the ivory grip, then handed the object back.  "I don't obsess."

        For a second, Duncan felt another burst of anger - how dare she - but then, remembering who he was dealing with, he burst out laughing.  "Watch your nose there, Pinocchio,"  he mocked.  "What do you call your dogged determination to find me, a passing fancy?"

        She had the grace not to demur.  Instead, she plowed, full steam ahead into dangerous ground.  "Okay, now that you've brought up the subject, why did you fake your own death?"

        He wasn't surprised at her directness.  Mulling over how to handle this, he decided to take the question in its literal sense.  Therefore, he wasn't lying when he answered, "I didn't.  I left town."

        "Granted, there was no official obituary and there weren't any phony death certificates on file in any of the hospitals, but..."

        "Why don't you just quit, Randi?" he asked calmly.  "You found me.  You can ask me questions till you're blue in the face, but you know I'm not going to give you any answers."

        She exhaled her disappointment audibly then stared him straight in the eyes.  They stayed that way for several moments until a devilish expression bloomed on her face when they both heard her stomach growl.  "Would inquiring about dinner be considered a question?"

        <Oh, yes,> Duncan thought.  It's going to be very entertaining for the next few days.>  "In an hour or so.  I just put the stew on."

        Randi started to wander around idly, skimming her hands over objects, inspecting those that interested her more closely.  One of those objects was the frame containing the photograph of Tessa.  "I was sorry to hear about her murder.  It must have been hard for you."

        Duncan felt that familiar pang of loss that would forever be connected with Tess.  The years might have softened the blow but the pain still existed.  "It was," he replied, taking the photo from her to look at it closer.  That warm, loving smile would always be there for him, no matter how much time passed.  He had learned to deal with the hurt.  "But it was awhile ago."

        Randi continued her self-guided tour.  "How old is this place?"

        "About a hundred and fifty years."

        "And you never thought to put in electricity or hot and cold running water?"

        "I've thought about it, but then I remember what this place is all about."

        The Russell sculpture had caught the woman's attention.  She leaned over, examined every facet of the ten inch bronze piece, then stopped to regard him.  "And that is...?"

        "Remembering where we all come from.  As much as we fight it, humans are a primal species.  It's best not to forget that and modern conveniences tend to cloud my perspective."

        "Oh, and I suppose that cell phone over there doesn't count," she mentioned, pointing to the device resting on the coffee table in front of the sofa.

        Duncan shrugged and a sheepish grin tugged up the corners of his mouth.  "Some habits are hard to break."

        "So, what do you do around here for entertainment?"  She had reached a study wooden table on which a chess game looked to be in progress.  Picking up one of the game pieces, she fingered the cool, green, hand-carved jade. 

        "Do you play?" Duncan asked, hopefully.  Although playing chess against oneself filled time, it provided very little challenge.  What was the use of strategy when you knew how your opponent thought?

        "Sorry."  She immediately saw his disappointment and wanted it gone from his face.  "But I play a mean game of checkers."

        He opened a drawer that was set beneath the table top and pulled out a deck of playing cards held together with a rubber band.  "What about card games?"

        "Go Fish, poker, gin rummy, steal the man's old pack.  You know, all the old standbys that don't require a lot of thought.  I'm never one to sit still long enough in one place to play games."

        "If your weather forecast's right, you soon will be.  It could very easily be three or four days before I can take you back."  He took a quick mental inventory of the wood he had split and stacked recently.  It wasn't going to be enough to ward off sub-freezing temperatures for long enough.  "When's the worst of the storm supposed to hit?"

        "I vaguely remember something about tomorrow afternoon but don't quote me on it."  She kept her voice non-committal.  If he found out the truth, there would be hell to pay.

        "Then I guess while we wait for dinner we should get prepared."  He grabbed two heavy jackets off the coat rack and offered one to her.  "Here, put this on.  We've got work to do."

        He split logs, one after another.  Finding a rhythm and keeping it, the pieces piled up around his feet.  Randi loaded them into a wheelbarrow and hauled them to an overhang just to the right of the steps leading up to the front door.  As she stacked them on top of what seemed to be a huge store of wood already, she wondered just how much they would need.  She yearned to be standing in front of the fire now roaring inside. 

        She'd never been as cold as she had been that day.  From the dunk in the icy waters of the lake to this foraging for wood that became buried in the snow after impact from the ax, she was sure she would never thaw out.  While on the other hand, Duncan had removed his jacket and wore only a thick Pendleton shirt.  His forehead dripped with sweat and she could practically see the steam rising from his body.

        When he was satisfied that they had enough wood, he sent her back inside with his jacket, then proceeded to shovel the small amount of snow that had piled up on the stairs.

        Randi checked the stew even though she had no idea what to check for.  She had never been very adept in a kitchen, so she gave it a cursory stir with the wooden spoon resting nearby, then put the lid back on the cast iron pot. 

        She could hear the scraping of the shovel against the steps outside and wondered how much longer he could stay out there before he froze to death.  A momentary pang of fear washed over her at the thought of being left on the island by herself.  She possessed no survival skills whatsoever and was totally dependent upon Duncan, a situation the independent woman in her found unforgivable.  She tried to rationalize that the dependency had nothing to do with male versus female.  Rather, it directly corresponded to the fact that he knew what he was doing while she didn't.  But it still bothered her.

        She wandered around the room some more and chided herself when she felt a wave of claustrophobia.  Not even two hours and already she had cabin fever.  The next few days were going to be a living hell.

        "Stew should be just about done," Duncan announced as he threw the front door open and stomped the snow off his boots before entering.  "There's some corn starch in the cupboard over there.  I'll meet you at the stove."

        "Where did you learn how to cook?" Randi asked.  Rummaging through the cupboard, she found the bright yellow box of corn starch hidden behind several stew and soup cans.

        "Necessity is the mother of invention.  I don't cook, I don't eat."

        "What about these?"  She held up one of the cans for him to see.

        "Emergency provisions.  I may be stubborn but I'm not stupid.  There have been times when the snow's gotten so high that I haven't been able to get outside."

        "Recently?" she asked warily.

        Duncan thought back to that winter in 1877, when he had been trapped for two weeks straight.  He could have used a good store of canned food back then.  He had come close to starving to death.  "No.  It was awhile back," he answered.

        Duncan served the rabbit stew with homemade bread, and Randi couldn't remember eating a meal that had satisfied as thoroughly.  Whether it was the warmth, her hunger, or the fact that Duncan had made it, she had no clue.  It was simply the best and she told him so after she finished the second bowl.

        "That's some appetite you've got for such a little thing," Duncan commented.

        "Yeah, well, I've had a rough day."

        "A bit more exhilarating then chasing down stories or punching a keyboard?"

        "Ice swimming and wood stacking aren't exactly on my resume."

        "How 'bout dishwashing?" he asked as he lifted both bowls off the table and took them to the sink.

        Randi followed, and for the first time saw the cast iron hand pump on the right side of the sink.  "How?" she asked in total perplexity.  "There's no hot water."

        Duncan chuckled.  She certainly was dependent upon modern conveniences.  "You've never even been camping before?"

        "I just never had the chance."  She experimentally lifted and dropped the pump's lever.  A small stream of water flowed from the spigot, then abruptly stopped.

        "Well, my dear, as amazing as it seems, hot water for washing dishes can come from something other than a hot water faucet..."

        "I know that," she interrupted teasingly.  "Dishwashers have hot water."

        Playing along, Duncan changed to his lecture tone.  "Yes, that's one way, but you can actually make your own, on a stove, in a pot." 

He pointed to the erratic bursts of steam dancing around the lid of a pot on the wood stove.  "The trick is to put it on before you eat so it's boiling by the time you're finished."

        "How interesting.  But can you get all the dishes clean with just one pot of hot water?"

        "Absolutely.  First you scrape them off."  Using a wooden spatula, he shoved the scraps into a scullery pot.  "Then you rinse them off with cold water from the pump."  He proceeded to move the lever up and down with his right hand while swooshing the dishes under the stream with his left.  The flow of water under his ministration was considerably harder than under her single experimental attempt, and the leftover gravy that clung to the dishes easily came off.  "Then you bring over the hot water in the pot..."

        By the time Duncan finished with his demonstration,  the dishes and cutlery were all done.  He had really only meant to start her off, but for some reason he had ended up doing them all.  When he realized what had happened, he looked up at her and received a somewhat impish, smug look in return.

        "You seemed to be having so much fun," she explained.  "I just couldn't interrupt."

        "Brat."

        "I know.  My brother called me that all the time when we were kids."

        "Older or younger?"

        "My brother?  Older by six years."  She paused and pictured one of the many confrontations she had had with her brother.  It had also been over doing the dishes.  The fourteen year old girl hadn't understood why the twenty year old brother, home from college for a visit, was being treated like a guest.  No matter how much she had argued, she had ended up having to do the dishes.  Sixteen years later she still didn't understand the double standard, and flaunted it whenever she could.  "Do you have any siblings?"

        "No, I was an only child." 

        "No wonder you don't know how to play fair.  You were socially deprived."

        "Hardly," he replied.  Nothing was more socially structured than a Highland clan in the late sixteenth century.  However, he couldn't use that in an argument.  "But I'd like to know what your excuse is."

        "Youngest child syndrome.  Spoiled, willful, lazy...well, I don't qualify on that one anymore but the others still apply, as you well know."

        Duncan wiped the crumbs off the table and added them to the scullery pot.  Then he moved over to the fireplace in the living room and added two more pieces of wood.  "Yes, I know.  What happened to lazy?"

        Flopping down on the couch, Randi pulled the wool blanket from the back and threw it over herself.  "I was only lazy when I didn't like what I had to do.  Since I've been doing something I love, there's no problem.  Passion does wonders for ambition, don't you think?"

        "Absolutely."  He hadn't meant for his attention to become so enraptured by her, but when he had turned back from the fire, he'd been hit by an impression of vulnerability that he had never thought could be possible with regards to the tenacious reporter.  There was something about the way she had wrapped herself up so snugly in that blanket.  Struggling to maintain distance, he knew he had failed when her expression changed to one of confusion followed by disbelief.

        "What was that?" she boldly asked.

        "What was what?" he answered and guiltily looked away.

        "That look.  You looked at me funny."

        "No I didn't.  I just looked at you."

        "There was something more, MacLeod."

        "No, there wasn't."  Duncan grabbed his jacket from the coat rack and bid a hasty retreat outside with the excuse of bringing more wood inside.

        Randi leaned her head against the back of the couch and closed her eyes as an image of Duncan MacLeod danced in her mind.  Things were definitely getting interesting.  Maybe she wasn't going to be as miserable as she had originally assumed. 

        Duncan brought in four arm-loads of wood, putting two upstairs.  Then he loaded up the stove and put a large kettle of water on to boil.  From the corner of the kitchen area, he dragged out a huge old-fashioned bath tub and began filling it with buckets of cold water. 

        Anything to keep busy.

        The couch faced toward the front door and the kitchen was situated behind.  Randi could hear noises but had no idea what her host was doing.  The constant sounds of water piqued her interest so she sat up on her knees and looked over the back of the couch. 

        "Whatcha doing?"

        Duncan paused mid-bucket to answer her.  "I would assume after your long, trying day that you'd like a bath."

        "In that thing?" She protested while wagging an accusatory forefinger at the copper tub.

        "It's this or nothing.  Or maybe you'd rather take another dunk in the lake with some soap this time."  He waved a bar of soap in the air threateningly.

        "Never again.  I'm not into ice bathing."

        "It'll take awhile for the water to boil."

        "I've only been here a short time, Duncan...I can call you Duncan, can't I...but it seems as though all we do is wait.  Wait for the stew to cook.  Wait for the water to boil.  Wait for the water to boil again..."

        "Life's just one big waiting game," he teased.  "And now we're also waiting for the storm to come in.  And once it gets here, this cabin is going to turn into very tight quarters.  So, if  we don't want to become offensive to the other, we're gonna take baths, everyday.  Okay?"

        "When you put it that way..."

        "Right.  It'll probably be a half hour or so before the hot water's ready.  I'll be in the library."  He walked past her and opened the door of the room built under the loft.

        She hadn't even noticed this part of the cabin before.  Randi followed him, and entered a room, sixteen by twelve foot, lined from ceiling to floor with books.  Books were everywhere.  On the table next to the large over-stuffed chair.  On the floor in front of the wooden love seat.  Piled up on the bench under a large bay window.  Paperbacks, hardbacks, leather bound, new, old, antique. 

        The room smelled like its namesake; musty, from old paper, old ink, old glue and old stitches.  It was wonderful.  From the ceiling hung a large Victorian chandelier with five fixtures and the two end tables held large globed oil lamps with wide wicks and white chimneys to better reflect light.

        Duncan, with his back to her, leaned over to light the lamp next to the chair.  He slid a hassock that had been shoved into a corner and turned around to sit down.  When he saw her staring in awe, he smiled to himself.  "Help yourself.  I'm sure you'll find something to your fancy," he offered as he sat down and opened a leather-bound book whose title she couldn't see.

        Randi drifted around the room, running her fingertips along the spines of those tomes at hand level, running her eyes across the titles she could read.  Grisham, Creighton, Kerouac.  Sand, Asimov, Bradbury.  Twain, Bart, Alger.  English, French, German.  Chaucer,  Shakespeare, Roberts...  Nora Roberts?  Jane Anne Krentz?  Linda Howard?  Wait just one damn minute.  Romance writers? 

        She pulled one of the Krentz hardbacks from the shelf, Family Man>, and opened the cover.  Inside, written in the bold scrawl of a man's hand were the words; "Tess, with love.  Would that I could be.  Mac."

        Randi's eyes instantly misted over.  Intimacy always did that to her.  She felt like she'd intruded into a private moment between two lovers and the profound affection unsettled her.  Closeness had never been her forte.  The very thought of it made her uncomfortable.  Yet, although the thought brought discomfort, she still yearned for this thing that she'd never had a chance to experience.  Silly as it was, she had always maintained this strange love/hate relationship with the concept of relationships.  What it all boiled down to was she was petrified of heartbreak, and with good reason.  Look at what had happened to MacLeod.  He had loved and then, with the blast of a gun barrel, he had lost.  No one should have to go through that.

        "You going to read that or should I get a couple of nails and add you as a new shelf?"

        Randi nervously wiped her eyes.  "No, I'm going to read it."  She sank down on the love seat and opened the book to page one.

        They sat in companionable silence for almost an hour, the only interruptions coming from the rustle of turned pages, and shifting of body positions.  Randi became so lost in her reading, that she jumped reflexively when a book snapped shut, and wooden legs scraped against plank flooring.

        "The water's past ready," Duncan said.  "I'll just get you set up, then you can have at it.  Give me a couple of minutes."

        Randi put her book down and rubbed her fingers over her eyes.  The idea of someone laying out a bath for her had a strange appeal.  She had been independent for so long, it was weird to have someone do things for her.  Was it that, or was it the fact that Duncan was doing it? 

        After all this time of dealing with him from an antagonistic angle, this outward softening toward him not only surprised her but was a little unnerving.  She had always found him extremely appealing, but she needed to maintain her distance or she would never get what she had come to this Godforsaken island for-The Story.  Nothing could get in the way of the truth.  Nothing.  If she had to remind herself a hundred times a minute she would.  She could not, would not, lose her objective.

        While Duncan listened to Randi slosh in the tub, he also struggled with and questioned his changing attitude toward her.  Instead of enjoying her presence, he should have maintained his original wariness.  But as the hours passed, he had found his guard dropping.  Granted, she was irritating with her constant probing.  And although she had stopped the inquisition for the time being, past experience with her had taught him that, by no means, had she given up her attempt at finding out his secrets. 

        In a way, her speculations that he was part of a covert government group helped.  It lent credibility to his evasiveness, but he could only carry that story so far.  He would have to watch himself.  Already he had fallen into an attitude of complacency, and for him, that could have deadly results.  The cabin, on holy ground, might protect his head, but with her around, it was the rest of him and his current life that he should worry about.

        After she finished her bath and dressed in the new set of sweats Duncan had laid out for her, Randi felt only slightly revived.  The long day had finally caught up with her.  Despite the soothing warm water, the muscles in her shoulders, arms and legs were sore from hauling wood.  There was nothing she wanted more than to curl up under a nice warm comforter and fall asleep.

        "You take the bed upstairs," Duncan announced as though he had been reading her mind.

        "I couldn't," Randi replied, giving a feeble performance of resisting the offer.

        "Right, the same way you couldn't stay under my roof or eat my food."

        "I never said I didn't want to stay.  That was your idea."

        "Quit arguing and go upstairs.  You look like you're about to drop."

        "It has been a rough day at the office."  She turned toward the staircase.

        "Speaking of your office.  You didn't exactly plan to stay here.  Do you need to call someone and let them know you're okay?"  Seeing the cat-got-the-canary look wash over her face, Duncan peered more closely. 

        Suddenly he realized that someone in the room beside himself hadn't mastered the art of duplicity and, in response, he blew up.  "You set me up!" he bellowed.  With a huff and a struggle to keep his clenched fist at his side, and not in her face, he started pacing angrily around in circles.  "Of all the...the..."  He abruptly stopped and glared at her, pupils dilated, nostrils flaring.  "I can't believe you set me up.  You sank that canoe on purpose.  Damn it.  I fell for it.  Why you conniving little..."

        "Now, now, now Duncan," she cooed, trying to placate him.  "You're not going to resort to name calling, are you?"  Randi was frightened by his outrage,  She really didn't think he would resort to violence but, watching the fury roll off him in waves, there was a tiny kernel of doubt.

        "I do not appreciate being manipulated," he roared.  "First thing in the morning, you're out of here.  I don't care how you do it, but by noon I want you off this island.  Is that understood?"

        "Yes, sir," she answered obediently and felt a twinge of remorse.  She had expected him to be angry when he found out the truth but, no matter how much she'd prepared herself, his fierceness startled her.  She had seen him engage in more than one fight, and had been impressed by his ability to keep a leash on his violent tendencies.  This barely controlled temper directed at her was a surprise and she knew better than to challenge it.  "I'll call for help if you'll let me use your phone."

        "If it'll get you out of here any faster, help yourself."  He picked up the phone and practically threw it at her.  "By the way, I've changed my mind."  He hurled the afghan toward her.  "I get the bed."  And he took off up the stairs.

        Randi watched him leave.  Even under the influence of anger, he moved like a dancer and she couldn't take her eyes off of him.  Such grace, such poetry of motion.  Damn, he was beautiful.

Chapter Four

        Three hours later, Duncan still tossed and turned in his bed, unable to fall asleep.  In his agitation, he had wrested the bed covers from their folds under the mattress and now his unprotected feet were cold.  He kept kicking the blankets around trying to work them over his toes but he just couldn't seem to get it right, and his frustration grew.  It blossomed to the point where he didn't give a damn about his cold feet anymore, and wanted nothing more than to grab the material and shred it into tiny little strips.  He would have gloried in the rending of it but he stopped himself.  He knew that the willful destruction would be a symbol of what he really wanted to do to Randi McFarland, and after he had vented his anger he would be left without a blanket that couldn't be replaced.  She wasn't worth it.

        He couldn't remember the last time he had been so incensed.  She had been a master at pushing his buttons, knowing exactly the right amount of pressure to use.  When he tried to analyze his real feelings, he couldn't decide if he was angrier with himself or with her.  He had lived for over four hundred years, yet he was still susceptible to cunning females.

        After tossing and turning for hours, he gave up the hope of getting any sleep.  He quickly dressed, threw on his heavy boots and rummaged through the cabin looking for his bow and arrow.  She might be leaving, but the idea of venison still held its appeal.  He would be able to sustain himself for a long time on the kill of a single animal.
 

        He didn't even try being quiet as he tore the library apart.  He finally found his archery set shoved under the love seat and vividly remembered how it had gotten there.  After a successful hunt, Tessa had taken it from him and had promised she was going to hide it where he would never find it again.  Bambi's name had been mentioned in the ensuing argument.  It hadn't mattered to her that Duncan had spent most of his life as a hunter or a warrior.  As long as she was around, he would have to tailor the majority of his lifestyle to that of the late twentieth century.  She had conceded the lack of electricity, the outhouse, and no hot and cold running water in the cabin, but that was as far as she would go.  Whenever she had come to the island with him, they had always brought in more than enough packaged food to last.  Hell, the shelves were still lined with a multitude of canned goods.

        As he left the library he saw Randi's head poking up over the back of the couch, the grip of slumber evident by her heavily drooped eyelids, puffy cheeks and a pouty mouth.

        "I expect you to be gone by the time I get back," Duncan proclaimed coldly.

        Randi scrutinized the harshly set features in his face, his tense grasp on the bow and decided an answer would be neither expected nor appreciated.  <Now I'll never learn your secrets, Duncan MacLeod,> she thought remorsefully as she watched him grab his shearling coat off the rack and go out the door.

        The bitter cold slammed into Duncan's lungs as he walked outside, freezing his breath instantly.  The temperature had dropped well into the single digits, and the snow had stopped falling.  The clouds had broken up enough to allow the full moon's light to fall brilliantly on the surrounding landscape.  Tracking game would be easy.  Duncan put on his snowshoes and set out toward the far end of the island; he had last seen the herd of three buck, eight does and four yearlings three days before.  He stopped periodically to pick up the snares he had left set.  If his hunt proved successful, he wouldn't need them for awhile. 

        He found the herd just after daybreak.  Some were browsing on the twigs of dormant maple and birch trees while the rest were pawing through the snow to get at what frozen grass they could find.  At his approach, all their heads popped up nervously, even though he hadn't made a sound.  He lifted a finger to the wind and found that an erratic shift in the breeze was what had alerted them to his presence.  It quickly shifted back to his favor.  He hunkered down behind a fallen Douglas fir and waited patiently for them to settle down.

        Duncan had not been an indiscriminate hunter for a very long time.  Even when weak with hunger, he had taken his time picking out his victim.  Like the four-legged predators that managed the health of a herd with their kills, he limited his choices to older or incapacitated animals, and the only way to do that was to watch them for awhile-see which one had trouble eating, which one was off on its gait, which one rested longer than the others.

        After a half an hour Duncan made his selection; an older doe that was off on her left hind-leg seemed to be in a lot of pain.  When she turned her left side toward him, he saw the characteristic swelling of a stifled animal.  Somehow, she had popped that knee and there was no way it would ever get better. 

        He brought her down with two of three arrows fired, which surprised and pleased him.  It had been a very long time since he'd used his archery skills.  The rest of herd was well gone, scattered by their flight instinct, by the time he reached the spot where she had fallen.  It was a clean kill.  The first arrow had gone through her heart and the second had caught her in the flank. 

        Duncan dragged the body over to the nearest tree.  He tied up its hind-legs with one end of a rope, threw the rest over a branch, then tied it off once he had hauled the body to a point where it was suspended from the ground.  He efficiently cut the jugular and began the task of skinning.  The cold penetrated through his heavy clothing and his fingerless gloves, and reached deep into his bones.  He tried to work quickly but his frozen hands were awkward and clumsy.

        He smelled the cat before he heard or saw it.  The unmistakable pungent odor permeated the air.  Keenly aware that with the right wind, it could either be hundreds of yards away or just a few feet, he vacillated for a moment, wondering if he should finish his chore back at the cabin.  Surveying the clearing where he stood, he realized too much brush surrounded the circumference to be sure.  Not inclined to share his meat with a cougar, he stopped butchering and brought the deer down.  Keeping his eyes and ears alert, he squatted and lifted the remains onto his shoulders, tucked his knife back into his boot, then leaned over to pick up the bow and arrows he had left in the snow.  That was when the cat chose to attack. 

        Two hundred pounds of solid muscle slammed into him from behind, knocking him over and sent the carcass flying over his head.  He felt the two inch long upper and lower canines sink through his coat, right down to the muscle in his back, just below his left armpit.  One paw wrapped around his neck as the other fought for purchase on his hip, shredding his jeans into his skin.  He tried twisting within the firm grasp of those unforgiving claws but the animal had him pinned.  The more he struggled, the worse the punishment.

        Through the pain, and against the instinct for survival, he forced himself to relax his muscles for a couple of seconds.  True to nature and just as he had hoped, the animal briefly loosened its steely hold on him.  Without hesitation, Duncan whipped out his butcher knife with its six inch blade.  The cat immediately tensed and dug his claws into flesh.  In his awkward position, Duncan couldn't reach a vulnerable spot, but the situation didn't allow for careful planning.  Hoping that if he started stabbing indiscriminately the cat would shift and expose a more vital area, his hand started flying.

        The fight shifted from a struggle over food to a battle for life.  The blood of the cat mixed with that of the Immortal as angry fangs and claws viciously answered the cold bite of steel. 

        Duncan's strength waned as pain overwhelmed him and shock set in.  He'd lost too much blood.  If he didn't end this within seconds, he was bound to lose.  Despite what he had always been told and knew about his immortality and his healing abilities, he questioned his survivability of being feasted on by the local fauna. 

        Gathering everything that he had ever been and everything that he could hope to be, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod focused all of his energy into a bid for life with one last, final thrust.  The blade hit its mark.  He plunged all six inches into the mountain lion's left eye.  Death was instantaneous.

        He lay on his back panting for breath for several minutes.  Every square inch of his body screamed out in agony; if not from the damage the cat had done, then from the cold against which his shredded clothes gave him no protection.  He knew he had to move.  If he didn't, he would be no better off than if the cougar had killed him.  He would freeze to death.

        He forced his muscles to respond and shoved the tawny body off his torso.  Gingerly sitting up, his eyes landed on the circle of blood surrounding him.  Crimson crystals reflecting off the sunlight mingled with the pristine whiteness of the snow displaced during the battle.  Then he got his first real look at his attacker, a large male at least six feet long and in prime condition.  That surprised him.  It was extremely rare for a cat to attack humans, and those that did were usually females that felt their cubs were threatened or animals that were rabid.  If the animal had been healthy it should have gone for the deer carcass only. 

        Rabies was the least of his worries.  His immortality gave him immunity to all viruses, but it wouldn't protect him from death from blood loss, shock or the sub-freezing temperatures.  And there were any number of other creatures on the island that would be overjoyed at finding one hundred and eighty pounds of preserved meat buried in the snow.  He had to get back to the cabin.

        He had lost one of his snowshoes in the foray.  He finally found it, cracked and useless, and in overpowering dismay, he dropped to his knees.  He was going to have to trudge through four feet of snow with only one. 

        He forced himself up and began the arduous journey.  With every other step, he sank up to his hip and had to fight against declining strength to pull himself free. 

        Traversing the three quarters of a mile back to the cabin was one of the most difficult physical feats he had ever had to perform. 

        During the journey, snow began to fall again and the wind picked up.  Harder and harder, the ice crystals swirled around his face, creating white-outs that made it almost impossible to see where he was going.  It took him over an hour to reach the cabin.  By the time he arrived, his hands and feet were frost-bitten and he could no longer feel the pain of his wounds.  Whether because they were already healed or because of the cold, he had no idea.

        He forced his frozen feet up the steps.  Warmth.  That was all he could think about: warmth, as he opened the front door.  The blast of hot air from the interior hit him like a blow to the solar plexus.  He tried to hang on to consciousness but the room was quickly fading from his vision.  He heard a frantic, "Duncan!" then everything went black. 

Chapter Five

        Randi watched in horror as the bloodied body she barely recognized as Duncan crumpled to the floor.  Rushing to his side, she saw that beneath the tattered remnants of clothing on his arms and legs, what undamaged skin there was, held a sickly bluish-gray tint.  Symptoms she vaguely remembered from Girl Scouts came back to her.  Frostbite.  But she had never liked the Girl Scouts and all that outdoorsy stuff.  She'd found it boring and hadn't paid much attention.  While she turned her attention to what lay under the smeared and coagulated blood that covered him, she chastised herself for a transgression she'd committed over twenty years ago.

        She found nothing.  Well, almost nothing.  Certainly nothing serious enough to account for the bloody mess.  There were a few superficial scratches, the worst one cut diagonally across his chest, a couple of red splotches of skin and some minor bruises but for the most part he was undamaged. 

        Red splotches?  How could there be reddening when just a couple of seconds ago his entire body was bluish-gray?  She paused and watched the steady rise and fall of his chest.  She was no doctor, but his breathing certainly looked normal enough.  She rechecked the biggest scratch...but it was gone.  She ran her fingers through his chest-hair searching for it.  She knew it was there.  It had been there just a couple of seconds ago. 

        But now all she found was healthy, warm skin.  What was going on?

        She ran to the kitchen and tore the cupboards apart looking for a large bowl.  She found one tucked into a back corner under the sink.  In her haste, as she turned to the stove, she almost dropped the yellow ceramic to the floor.  Earlier she'd decided it would be a good idea to always keep a pot of water going. 

        What foresight.  She mixed the hot with the cold from the pump, grabbed as many kitchen towels as she could find and returned to where she had left Duncan.

        ...He wasn't there.  Her eyes bobbed around the room in a panic. 

        She expected to find him collapsed somewhere else but he was nowhere to be found.  Just what the hell was going on?

        "I thought you'd be gone by now."

        Randi's head jerked toward the voice.  Duncan, carrying an armful of clean clothes and towels, calmly walked down the stairs from the loft.  He had removed the shredded jacket, shirt and jeans and had replaced them with only a pair of bright red sweatpants.  All that covered his bare chest were the smudged blotches of blood.  She stood rooted to the spot and rendered speechless, not only from the fact that he seemed to be fully recovered when a minutes ago he had dropped to floor in an unconscious heap, but by the impact his semi-nakedness made on her senses.

        She glanced down at the bowl of warm water in her hand and felt totally ridiculous.  That vision of masculine perfection coming down the staircase certainly didn't need her piddling little first-aid remedies.

        "Well..."

        She felt her face turn red with anger at his inconsiderate attitude.  He had scared her half to death.  "Don't you 'well' me, Mr. MacLeod."  She spat his name out like a curse.  "Like I owe you some sort of explanation," she mumbled to herself, then confronted him eye to eye.   "After what  just happened here, I'd say you're the one who needs to be doing the explaining."

        Duncan opened his mouth to speak but she gave him no chance to utter a word.  "And don't give me that 'you won't understand' or 'you won't believe me if I did' crap."  There was a fraction of a second pause.  He watched her face scrunch up in concentration as though she was looking for further footnotes to add to her diatribe.  "And don't try hiding under the cover of national security.  I'm not going to take any more bullshit from you." 

        She put the bowl down on the coffee table with such force that the water sloshed out over the side, then crossed her arms below her breasts and glared challengingly at him.

        Amusement crept into Duncan's features.  "May I take a bath first?  I got a bit dirty playing with my friend outside."

        "Who or what is your friend?"

        He took her infuriating answer to a question with a question as a yes, and continued into the kitchen where he dragged the bath tub out.  He noticed the steaming pot on the stove and gave a silent prayer that he wouldn't have to wait long before he could wash off the gore.

        "Assuming you can do more than one thing at a time, you could be talking while you're doing that."

        He stopped pouring a bucket full of water into the tub and stared her down.  "Have you always been a bitch or is it something you do only when you're around me?"

        "Don't get caught up in your self-importance, MacLeod."

        "Oh, so you're always like this.  Well, that answers one of my questions, but what about the one about why you're still here when I distinctly remember telling you to leave."

        Randi sat down in one of the kitchen chairs and nervously chewed the inside of her cheek.  He could clearly tell that she was no more happy with the situation than he was.  "It was all set up.  My friend, the pilot who flies the helicopter for the station, was supposed to come out first thing this morning.  We had it all set up but he called around...geez, I don't know what time it was.  If you had some clocks around here...  Anyway, he said the weather was too bad to take the bird out.  Oh, and by the way."  She pulled the cell phone out of her sweatshirt pocket and placed it on the table.  "The battery's dead."

        He lifted the phone and shook it as though he thought that might bring the battery back to life.  "Just how many calls did you make?" he asked incredulously.

        "A few," she admitted.  "I tried everyone I could think of to get me off your precious island 'cause I knew you'd be mad if I was still here when you got back, but nobody will rescue me because of the storm."  She gave him a daring look.  "So, it looks like you're stuck with me..."  She searched around the kitchen.  "What's for breakfast?"

        "Nothing till I've had my bath."  He tested the water and found the temperature suitable.  "Now, unless you're interested in taking notes on my bathing techniques, might I suggest we continue this conversation when I'm done."  He tucked his fingers into the waistband of the sweatpants and started to tug them downward.

        Randi was sorely tempted to call his bluff, but the thought of seeing the rest of that gorgeous body was too much for her.  Already his presence unsettled her.  What would happen if her fantasies were given the fodder of reality?  She would never recover.  She fled into the library without a word.
 

 Chapter Six

        Duncan was laughing as he stripped and climbed into the tub.  He knew that ruffling her feathers wouldn't make her forget what she had seen.  But maybe, just maybe, he could keep her off-balance long enough to give himself time to recover, if not forget the questions altogether.

        Tessa had once told him that his looks alone were enough to unsettle any female, but it was really his presence that mesmerized them.  They had made a bet.  He knew his physical attributes were somewhat pleasing.  He couldn't have lived for four hundred years without having that proven a time or two.  But this thing about bearing and presence?  He hadn't believed her until she had pointed out the reaction he had evoked when they had gone out to dinner with the intention of proving or disproving the theory. 

 

---

        Tessa giggled as they walked toward a table behind the maitre d'.  "You see, Duncan.  Take a look around.  They're all checking you out.  Every last woman in here."

        "No, they aren't," he insisted.  To prove a point, he had specifically worn his baggiest clothes to camouflage his physique.  "It's you they're looking at."  He gave the hand he held a little squeeze of affection.

        "If they are, it's only to plot my murder," she laughed.  "And those clothes you're wearing might hide the rest of you but your pretty face is still showing."

        They sat down at their table, and at Tessa's prodding Duncan peered closer.  He met smiles and winks and nods of acknowledgment.  Some were subtle; others were blatantly overt.  He could feel the blush rise on his face.

        "Poor Duncan," Tessa teased.  "Such a beautiful package but with nothing between your ears."

        "I beg your pardon," he challenged.

        "Almost four centuries old and you think I'm going to believe you aren't aware of how you effect women?  Silly boy.  As I recall, you used that famous MacLeod charm on me the first time we met."

---

        Duncan smiled at the memory and languished in the tub until the water turned cold.  It felt good to be alive, something he had a tendency to take for granted after such a long life.  These brushes with death, even those involving other Immortals, were healthy reminders that, even with the Game looming everywhere,  he was thankful for what he was.  Life was a precious gift that could be revoked at any time.  He would do well not to forget that.

        He toweled himself off, dressed in yet another pair of sweats and started bailing out the tub.  The water had a pinkish tint to it, reminders of a life that had been revoked by his own hand not so long ago.  Thinking about the cougar reminded him of the deer and the carcass he had had to leave behind.  Better that she feed the woodland creatures than him.  Luckily, he still had all the stores of canned food that had built up over the years that Tessa had come to the cabin with him.  With Randi staying, and the weather as bad as it was, they were going to extremely thankful to a woman who had died over two years ago.

        Rummaging through the cupboard, he brought out a can of Dinty Moore Stew, dumped the contents into a pot and set it on the stove.  He refilled the water pot and brought out a washboard from the broom closet.  He gave the wood and glass combination a disdainful look. 

        Of all the modern conveniences he had grown accustomed to, a washing machine and dryer were, by far, the ones he missed the most when he stayed at the cabin.  How he loathed the chore of washing clothes by hand.  But he had barely brought enough clothing for himself.  Now, not only was he having to share them with Randi, but he had sacrificed a perfectly good pair of jeans, his well-loved Pendleton and the warmest coat he had ever owned to the mountain lion.  There was no way to put off the inevitable. 

        He gave the washboard another withering look and leaned it against the counter.  It could at least wait until after breakfast.

        "Whatever it is I smell certainly doesn't smell like your regular breakfast fare, but I don't care," Randi rattled off as she stormed into the kitchen and made a bee-line for the bubbling pot on the stove.  "I'm famished."  She eyeballed the contents and wrinkled her nose a little.  "For breakfast?" she asked, giving him a perplexed look.

        "For breakfast, for lunch and quite possibly even dinner," Duncan informed her.  "Get used to it.  For the next few days we have a choice of stew, soup, canned vegetables, beans..."

        "I get the picture, MacLeod," she interrupted.  "Bor...ring."  She checked the storm's progress through the window over the kitchen sink.  "It's coming down really good, isn't it?"

        Duncan glanced over his shoulder, and because it was so dark, he could barely make out the trees only thirty feet away from the cabin.  "That's an understatement.  And it's only around eleven."

        "Which brings up another question.  How come you don't have any clocks in here?"

        A short burst of laughter escaped the Immortal's lips.  "You certainly do have an endless array of them, don't you?  What, do you have an appointment you might be late for?"

        "No, but I'd like to have a general idea of how the day's progressing."

        "It's going to progress slowly enough, take my word for it.  You'll be glad there aren't any clocks to remind you of just how slowly."

        "Surely you have a wristwatch or something," she pleaded.  "Mine stopped after..."  She checked herself.  No need to bring up sore subjects again.  "...Well, mine's not working right now."

        "Nope.  Never had a need for one here."  He picked up the large wooden spoon and gave the stew a casual stir.  "The sun goes down, the sun comes up and in between is nighttime.  What more do you need to know?" 

        "Smart ass," she chided.

        Duncan gave her a predatory smile.  "I thought we weren't going to stoop to name-calling."

        "Double smart ass," she responded proudly.

        Starting at her feet, he ran a slow appraisal up her body and paused with one eyebrow slightly raised when he met her eyes.  "Funny, you don't look like you're ten years old."

        She met him squarely with no sign of intimidation.  "It's no worse than what you did to me with those guts yesterday."

        He chuckled.  "As much as I hate to admit it, Randi, you handled yourself well.  Even later on when I lost my temper."

        "Has anyone ever told you that you're not as scary as you think you are?"  she asked.  "I mean, there you were, boiling mad and ranting and raving, but the whole time you were dancing around the room.  You are so graceful.  So now I have to ask.  Are you or have you ever been a professional dancer?"

        To some, sword fighting might look like a ballet but he didn't think that counted.  "No.  I've done a variety of things in my life but I've never been a dancer."

        "So, you're not really a Russian ballet star living in exile who missed that little news story about the fall of the Iron Curtain so you're still hiding out?"

        "How clichéd and didn't someone do a movie about that?  Actually, I was born in Scotland."

        "You don't sound it.  How long ago?"

        "If that's a not so subtle way of asking how old I am..."

        "Of course it is."

        "Didn't your mother ever tell you it's rude to ask someone their age?"

        "Duncan, that's what the girl's supposed to say."  She returned the same silent appraisal he had just given her, and with a twinkle in her eye, added seductively, "And you're definitely not the girl."

        "Don't you ever stop asking questions?"

        "Only after I get satisfying answers, dear."

        "And you're going to continue badgering me until you do, aren't you?  I'll have no peace until you know every little secret about me."

        "That about sums it up."  She leaned up against the counter, her expression glowing with a smug  look of triumph.  "So spill your guts or go insane."

        Duncan walked around her to the cabinet where the clean dishes were stored.  He took two bowls out and placed them on the table.  All the while, he was thinking about a way out of this dilemma.  There had to be a way to get her off his back.  But how?

        Suddenly, he was hit by an ingenious idea, or he hoped it was ingenious.

        "If I tell you, you have to promise not to repeat anything I say."

        "What's the point in learning the truth after all these years if I can't publish it?"

        "That's the deal, Randi.  You can't tell anyone else."  He pulled the pot off the stove and filled the bowls.  He caught her face skew into an expression of extreme conflict in his peripheral vision.  She was definitely weakening.

        "Oh, all right," she conceded then immediately brightened.  She settled into one of the chairs.  "So, tell me." 

        He shifted his body toward her conspiratorially and quickly scanned the room for potential eavesdroppers.  "I'm a visitor from another planet," he whispered out of the side of his mouth.

        There was a momentary pause while she waited for him to follow that ludicrous statement with a laugh.  But when his expression remained serious, she pushed the chair away from the table in frustration.  "Oh, give me a break, MacLeod."

        "Aye, 'tis true, lass."  He easily slipped into his old accent.  "'Tis called Glenfinnan."

        She digested what he had said for a couple of seconds then decided, what the hell, let him tell his fairy tale.  They had nothing but time to kill anyway.  "Okay, I'll bite," she prosaically announced.  "I'll listen to your stories." 

        Duncan took a place across the table from her and passed her a spoon and a paper towel.  He stared at the bowlful of unappetizing mush and forced himself to take a bite.  How had Tessa liked this stuff?  He watched Randi sample a mouthful, and from her disdainful expression, concluded that the remaining ten cans would be used only if they ran out of everything else.

        "So, isn't it story time yet?" she asked as she shoved the unfinished bowl away.

        Duncan echoed her movement, then leaned against the back of the chair.  "It's barbaric, this place where I'm from."

        "Yeah, I've heard that about Scotland," she baited.

        "We lived and breathed by the sword."

        "Hence your extraordinary healing powers."

        He shifted uncomfortably, then leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table.  "You were supposed to be gone," he stated seriously.

        "Well, I wasn't.  And when you came in, you were a hair's breadth away from death, and the next thing I know, you're taking a bath."  She picked up the paper towel and began shredding it.  Anything to keep her nervous fingers busy.  After stripping off a couple of pieces, she shoved the remainder away, disgusted.  " I'm not going to even hope for an explanation about how you managed that little feat, but I am curious about how you got in that condition in the first place.  Did you wrestle with a dragon or something?"

        "Close.  I took down a deer and a mountain lion tried to lay claim to it," he mentioned.  His casualness belied the unmitigated terror he had felt during that battle.  "I got in the way."

        "But you barely had a scratch, while your clothes were all torn to shreds like this paper."  She lifted up the strips between thumb and forefinger and waved them around.  "Does this have something to do with that weird ER doctor who died?  I'm a little hazy on the details but wasn't he working on something related to recuperative powers?  Are you the result of the physiological experiments he was conducting?"

        "Do I look like a laboratory rat to you?"

        "No but this story sure smells like one."  She grabbed the bowls, got up from the table and began to clean-up.  "That's all right, MacLeod," she said with a hint of sarcasm.  She scraped the left-over food into the scullery pot, then rinsed off the dishes.  "You don't have to tell me anything," she announced without turning away from the sink. 
 

Chapter Seven

        She finished washing, placed the clean enamelware in the dish rack, then wiped off her hands with a soft terry-cloth towel before turning back toward him.  Her expression was confrontational, mouth pursed, brow furrowed, when she spoke.  "You leave burning buildings with smoldering clothes but you don't even have third degree burns.  You tangle with mountain lions and come away with barely a scratch and the one that I did see disappeared almost before my eyes.  Who am I to question that?  Everybody comes out of cataclysmic events unscathed." 

        She folded the towel and carefully placed it on the kitchen counter, trying desperately to hide her frustration with mundane tasks.  But she couldn't contain herself.  She took a giant step which brought her to the table, rested her hands on the top and leaned over him.  "That's not even including your supposed death," she scolded.  "I heard you took a header off a balcony or a building or something equally death inducing, yet here you are, walking and talking like nothing's out of the ordinary.  When I saw you the other day I figured it had all been just a rumor but now...I don't know.  Maybe you did die but then you came back to life.  Mind explaining that one?"

        Duncan met her fiery, blue eyes, and what he saw in the shadowy depths caused his resolve to slip a notch.  There was pain buried beneath the irritation, a level of hurt so deep he wondered if she was even aware that it existed.

        "The truth matters to you," he realized with a dawning of comprehension.  After living with the perception of her as a nosy, intrusive pest for so long, it had taken just a look for him to finally understand what motivated her.  The truth.  That was her obsession, not the story.  His felt his animosity toward her disintegrate.  She didn't probe for answers merely to validate her job description of reporter.  She lived veracity just like he lived honor.  It wasn't just what they did.  It was who they were.

        Randi dropped her eyes to the spot where her palms lay flat on the table and noticed that the back of her hands had turned red from the scalding water.  She hadn't even felt it.  "I can't abide by lies, half-truths, innuendoes, secrets...whatever you want to call them.  I had enough of them when I was growing up.  My parents, my teachers, the church, the media.  None of them told the truth.  And most of them still wouldn't if given a chance to make up their own versions." 

        She stood up straight and stared into the brilliant white spectacle outside the window.  The snow was coming in at almost a ninety degree angle, so hard was the wind blowing, but inside they could barely even hear a faint whistle.  Why then did she feel so cold?  She turned back to find Duncan's warm, brown gaze fixed on her.  She had to make him understand.  "History has always been written by the victor, whether the victory is a monumental world occurrence or merely an inconsequential little event in someone's personal life.  I can't abide by that.  I know people don't like me.  I know I piss them off and have therefore alienated myself from practically everyone I know, but accuracy can be the only reality.  I've sacrificed my life and any hope for happiness to it, so yes, I guess you could say the truth really matters to me."

        "Some secrets are kept to protect others," Duncan said softly, hoping to appease her. 

        Randi's disgusted huff of breath expelled through her nose let him know how much she agreed with that observation.  "Yeah, like white lies and tact, but they only end up causing pain when the truth finally comes out."

        "Who hurt you, Randi?" he asked, genuinely concerned.

        "It's not important," she spat.  "What's important is it taught me a lesson I'll never forget.  So quit your pussy-footing around, MacLeod.  I don't want your sympathy.  I want the truth."

        Duncan was truly torn.  On the one hand he wanted to give her what she asked.  After what she had seen, he felt honor-bound to do so.  But on the other hand, who was he to expose all the other Immortals who still lived on this planet.  Hadn't that battle already been fought?  Look at the hate that had arisen when just a small faction of people had known about them.  What would happen if the rest of the population was enlightened?  More heads would roll then had rolled during the Reign of Terror all because of his inane sense of honor. 

        His voice contained genuine regret when he quietly announced, "I'm sorry but I can't."  It was just too damned risky.

        Randi's entire body trembled with frustration.  She had gotten so close to convincing him to reveal whatever it was he was hiding, only to fail.  She had once heard someone say that close only counts in horseshoes and hand-grenades--not reporting.  That statement had never impressed her more than it did right at this moment.  She turned on her heels and briskly walked out of the room.  Duncan heard the door close to the library while he stared at the shredded pieces of paper towel.  He picked them up, crumpled them in his fist, got up and angrily threw them into the wood stove.  He shouldn't have let her see him, not at the fire, nor after the cougar.  There was no excuse for the first sighting.  He knew he should have left the fire the moment he saw the news crews arrive, but he had let his concern for Richie get in the way.  But after the attack?  He really hadn't had a choice then.  Survival had taken precedence over reticence, and there was no place else he could have gone.

        Giving up the battle of "what ifs" and "if onlys," he pulled a whetstone out of a drawer, picked up a couple of soft cloths and went upstairs to work on his katana.  That should get his mind centered on the risks of immortality, and how the fewer people who knew about it the better.  How ironic that a life that was designed to go on forever was so closely and painfully connected to death.

        With each stoke of the stone down the hand-forged  blade he was reminded of what he was, and how that set him apart from mortals.  His immortality hadn't helped him save Little Deer.  That difference was what had killed Tessa, not a random act of violence.  And it had destroyed any hope of a relationship with Anne, although she was reluctant to admit it.  But what was the point of living forever if he had to do it alone?  Admittedly,  he had his periodic needs for seclusion, what Richie called his dark moods, but he was not a solitary creature by nature.  And he had been alone for far too long. 

        The only reason he was here, in exile this time, was because of Randi McFarland.  If he explained who and what he was to her, then convinced and trusted her that she couldn't and wouldn't tell another living soul, he would be able to return.  Very large "ifs."

        He wiped the finely honed blade and replaced it in its rack on the bed frame.  Looking around the bedroom and feeling the walls closing in on him, he decided that only a good workout would help clear his head.  Maybe afterward he could come to some sort of decision.

        When staying at the cabin, Duncan usually performed katas outside, but with the blizzard in full force, that wasn't an option.  He returned downstairs, and moved the furniture around to provide enough space for uninhibited movement.  With all the noise the furniture scraping against the floor planks made, he expected Randi to stick her nose out the library to find out what was going on.  The door remained closed though, not only a symbolic but a physical barrier between them.

        Before he started, he threw a couple of good sized logs into the fireplace, performed a series of stretching exercises, then removed his sweatshirt when he found the material restricting.  Suitably limber, he easily shifted his body into a precise, centuries-old routine.  Within moments, he was oblivious to everything around him.  The motion became the focal point, the connection between  nerve impulses and muscle and sinew, as finely honed as the katana