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scanned the orange skies and his native mountains in the distance, trying to pinpoint the spot which cradled a cabin on Hazel Creek. That one-room dwelling had housed the first generation of Danvers to ever live in the Unakas. It had offered solitude with unhampered growth of forest on every side. It was the one place he was lord of himself and his surroundings. And the only place which gave his eagle heart the wing room it craved.
    A thrush landed on a persimmon branch, whistling a soft, fluty ah-ee-oo-lay . Mack stopped, watching it ascend high into the tree as it embellished its song with a variety of flourishes.
    This would be his last taste of freedom, of the outdoors, of everything he loved. The thought of being cooped up in some dark, dank basement for several months made his hands clammy. For the hundredth time, he considered turning back. And for the hundredth time, he forced himself to go on. Ora Lou’s welfare depended upon it.
    He may have told Mrs. Vanderbilt women were nothing more than domestic animals, but those were his grandfather’s words, not his father’s and definitely not his. He’d only said it to make the lady mad, because the Vanderbilts represented everything he hated about society. Where he came from there was no servility or headship by right of birth. Their leaders – when needed – arose from their clan by virtue of ability.
    Still, his pa had been an outsider – a “furriner.” The Southern Unakas highlanders had not taken kindly to the teacher who’d devoted his life to bringing a decent education to them. He’d traveled from home to home in that corner of the mountain, and though he was treated with hospitality, he was never really accepted . . . until he met Ma.
    What was supposed to have been a week’s stay turned into a wintering. As a guest, he’d had to stand by and watch as Grandpa used his fists on the children. But the minute he saw Grandpa raise a hand to Ma, he intervened, then whisked her away.
    Eventually Pa had reconciled with his father-in-law, but in no way had he adopted the highlander’s attitude toward women. He doted on Ma. Catered to her. Respected her. Even chopped the wood for her. And if that weren’t enough, he then saw to his children’s education. He was the laughingstock of that region. But it never seemed to bother him.
    A giant gatepost topped by a female centaur signaled the entrance to Biltmore House. Mack’s chest tightened. It might as well have been the entrance to Central Prison in Raleigh.
    Taking a deep breath, he stepped past the post, rounded the corner, then came up short. A huge carpet of green lined with saplings spread before a fawn-colored castle of such enormity, such magnificence, such height he could do no more than gawk.
    Soaring spires. Octagonal towers. Medieval turrets. Sharp gables. Steep roofs. Stone pillars. Dormer windows. Multiple chimneys. Snarling gargoyles.
    The sprawling structure was unlike anything he’d ever seen. Yet somehow its grandeur fit in with the panorama of mountains flanking it. He stayed rooted to the spot trying to figure how a structure of such gigantic proportions could remain hidden until the last second. Had the Yankee planned that, too?
    Finally, he placed one foot in front of the other. Counting windows would be like counting the hairs on his head. Yet he knew someone was responsible for cleaning them. Would that fall to him now? He hoped so. It would give him a chance to be out-of-doors.
    He’d heard Biltmore had two hundred fifty rooms but had never given much credence to the statement. Now he wondered if that estimate had been too modest. Vanderbilt had been a bachelor until a few months ago. What did he need two hundred fifty rooms for? What did anyone need that many rooms for?
    Dozens of chimneys graced the roofs. Chimneys which led to scores of fireplaces. It would take a lot of chopping to supply enough wood for that many fireplaces. He wondered how many hundreds of stairsteps it would