Mystic Memories (5 page)

“How is it that you came to be on the
Mystic
?” asked Masters, startling her with the very thought that had been running through her mind. Was it merely a coincidence? Or had he unknowingly picked up on her thoughts? If so, she would need to guard her silent speculations carefully.

Avoiding his gaze, she cautiously answered, “I secretly boarded the ship in Santa Barbara. I’m looking for a little boy. I thought he might be aboard the
Mystic
. I didn’t expect to sail with her. I just—”

“Is he yours?”

“Mine?” Cara quickly calculated the benefit of claiming Andrew to be her own son. It would make it easier to explain her search—far easier than the reality of being a private investigator from the future. “Yes, of course he’s mine. Why else would I go to such dangerous extremes?”

“Why, indeed,” he answered with more of a statement than a question in his voice, while looking at her with sympathetic eyes.

She tried her hardest to make a show of motherly worry for the missing boy.

“Perhaps I may be of some assistance in your search. As soon as I take care of the present state of affairs here, I will be setting sail for San Diego. You may find some answers there.”

“Do you know something about Andrew?” Cara searched his face, hoping for a sign of encouragement. With his tanned olive complexion and fine lines at the corners of his eyes, Masters had the rugged good looks of a strong, healthy athlete.

“I couldn’t say I know the name—Andrew, you say?” When she nodded, he went on, “I recall a few young lads lolling about the hide houses while their ships were in port. He would undoubtedly have brown eyes and hair like yours, I assume.”

“Light-blue eyes. Blond hair.” Seeing his dark brows angle upward in mild surprise, she hastened to add, “He looks like his father who is—was very blond. White-blond, actually. And pale. Yes, Andrew is the spitting image of my Swedish husband. That is, my
deceased
husband, who passed away two years ago.”

She couldn’t resist including one tiny little tidbit of truth. After all, she needed to keep some element of truth in her story or she’d end up tripping over the lies later.

Her deception seemed to be working. He offered his apologies for her loss. “And now to lose a child as well—,” he said gently with a sad shake of his head, “—must be more than you can bear. I only hope . . . Have you considered that—”

“Andrew is alive.”

“You sound so sure. Ah, but then you are his mother. You would never give up hope. And that’s a good thing.”

“This isn’t just about a mother’s hope,” she explained, meeting his gaze with open honesty. “I can sense it. I
know
he’s not dead.”

He stared at her for a long moment, appearing to weigh her words, as if he somehow understood her intuition. Which was ridiculous, she told herself. Few understood, and fewer still accepted.

“Very well, then.” He rose to his feet as two longboats appeared in the distance. “It’s settled. I will take you to San Diego to look for him. For now, however, stay here and rest while I check again on the other two survivors.” Cara watched him walk away with long, purposeful strides. Like her, his clothing was still wet and the cloth of his shirt clung to his broad shoulders and the tapered line of his back. In another time and place, she could easily find herself attracted to a gentleman of his caliber. And his attractive physique. But she couldn’t let her guard down. She had to find Andrew and get back to her own time.

As she tried to draw her wayward thoughts away from the captain, she saw him kneel over a body several hundred feet away and gently roll it over. The arm flopped lifelessly to the sand. Masters shook his head, crossed himself reverently, and moved on to another motionless sailor on the beach.

A chill descended upon her, unlike the physical cold of the ocean breeze on her wet clothes. A sense of fear rippled down her neck to the base of her tailbone. She couldn’t see the spirits of the departed sailors, but she perceived a cumulative presence in the air around her—a feeling of confusion and terror. The dead men were unable to comprehend their state of physical non-existence. Violent or tragic deaths were known to have kept some poor souls from completing their journey to the other side. And what could have been more violent than that deadly storm?

She looked over her shoulder to be certain she was alone—as alone as a person could be with the hovering entities of lost souls.

“There’s no reason to be afraid,” she whispered aloud, knowing that Masters was too far away to hear her talking to the dead. Though she did not know the men, she could not help the swell of sadness in their plight. Tears filled her eyes. A sob caught in her throat. “Look for the light. You’re going to be fine. Just head toward the light. It’s time for you to go.”

She continued to talk to the wind, sensing that each spirit was listening to her. Some went easily. Others took a bit longer. Eventually the air around her felt clearer, as if the weight of fear had been lifted. She had no way of proving any of it. Yet she sensed it in a way that was as normal to her as breathing. Scientifically, there was nothing to convince a person who didn’t have this psychic awareness. But there was also nothing that could convince her differently of her own unique perceptions about life and death.

By the time the two boats from the
Valiant
reached the breaking surf along the beach, Blake had performed the unhappy duty of inspecting all the bodies that had washed ashore after the southeaster. Of the two crewmen still alive, only one was able to move about to identify his dead shipmates. The other was barely alive but looked as if he would survive.

When the familiar bark of a dog caught Blake’s attention, he shaded his eyes against the reflective glare of the sun on the water. On the first of the two longboats, his large black mutt stood with its front paws braced on the bow, barking excitedly. The canine leaped out, splashing into a receding wave, then bounded toward Blake as four of his crew hauled the boats by the gunwales onto the sand.

Meeting the rescue party halfway, Blake knelt on one knee to give Bud a moment of praise and attention before he stood to greet the men.

“Good to see you, Cap’n,” said his first mate, Mr. Bellows, with a mile-wide grin, followed by a similar hearty greeting by seaman McGinty.

“
Aloha, Capnee!
” added Lopaka, a dark-skinned Sandwich Islander. “
Aloha nui!
”

To the white merchantmen, Lopaka and others from the Pacific Islands were individually called
Kanaka
, a variation of their own word for “man.” Addressed as a group, they were
Kānaka
with a line over the first “a”. And they held the unusual and envious position of working for themselves, hiring out to hide-trading ships along the coast without being tied to a contract like a regular sailor.

Blake grinned at the enthusiastic young man. “Yes, Lopaka, a big hello to you, too.”

Then he turned to Keoni Pahinui, who was the ship’s cook and, on occasion, the doctor as well, owning an impressive collection of knives that served both purposes. He was also a cherished friend of many years. There was not another man alive for whom Blake would lay down his own life.

“
Aloha, Kaikua’ana
,”
Hello, big brother
, Blake greeted him.

The large, smiling
Kanaka
shook his head, then grabbed Blake in a gruff hug and slapped him heartily on the back. Highly improper behavior, but Keoni was not one to follow protocol. Ever.

“You scare da hell outta me,
Kaikaina,
” he scolded, referring to Blake as his little brother. “Thought maybe you
make
.”

“If you thought I was dead, you’d have carved up ol’ Bud by now and had him for dinner.”

“‘
A’ole
, not this
Kanaka
. Others eat dog. Not me. Bud, he my family, too.” Keoni lifted his head, distracted by something behind Blake. Following his friend’s curious gaze, Blake saw the short-haired woman in men’s clothing coming down the beach toward the men. “What is this?”

Blake almost smiled at the ease with which Keoni could drop his Islander dialect for the educated demeanor taught at the missionary school on Oahu. “A
wahine
, my friend. Or have you forgotten what a woman looks like after all these weeks?”

All four of the
Valiant
crew stared in silence as Mrs. Edwards approached. He couldn’t blame them. He, too, felt a strange dumbness at the sight of her, despite her unconventional clothing and cropped dark hair. She was truly unlike any female he had ever seen. An exotic mixture of heritage, none of which he could determine.

It was Bud who broke the spell. His tail wagged slowly back and forth as he walked cautiously up to her, his head lowered.

Without fear or hesitation, she dropped to her knees and looked into the dog’s eyes. “Hi, there, fella.” She glanced at Blake, then back at the dog. “What’s his name?”

“Bud.”

The dog twisted his head around at the sound of his name, his tongue lolling out the side of his huge mouth as the woman scratched him behind his ear. Wishing he were the recipient of similar affection, Blake felt a lopsided grin quirk his mouth but quickly stifled it.

He cleared his throat and turned to his first mate. “Mrs. Edwards could use a blanket and some food. I assume you brought supplies with you.”

“Aye-aye, sir.” Mr. Bellows turned to McGinty and Lopaka. “You heard the captain, men. Bring the lady those blankets and the basket of food.”

As the two trotted off down the beach to the longboats, the widow walked up, with the dog at her side. Blake introduced her to the first mate, then the cook, who raised the back of her hand to his lips like a gentleman suitor. The blush that stole over her cheeks did not sit well with Blake, who was all too aware of the easy way his adopted brother charmed the woman. Keoni was a fine-looking
Kanaka
, a few years older than Blake. He was also a man from a culture that enjoyed the pursuit of physical pleasure between the genders without the guilt and restrictions of civilized countries.

Blake felt a nudge beneath his hand and looked down to see Bud gazing up at him. At least someone had noticed he was still around. He stroked the top of his dog’s massive head, then spoke to Mr. Bellows. “Did the
Valiant
fare well?”

“Beautifully, sir.” The first mate gestured toward the cliffs. “Would that be the Mystic, then?”

“Aye, it is. We will need to check for any survivors aboard her.”

“McGinty and I will take care of it, sir.”

“Good. I’ll have Lopaka help me. Keoni—” Blake turned to his friend. “There is an injured sailor in need of your attention.”

Mrs. Edwards spoke up. “Please, may I ask a favor of the men going to the Mystic, Captain Masters? Could they look for my leather backpack?”

“Your leather what?”

“Back—um . . . baggage. Bag, that is. My leather bag. I had it with me on the ship.”

“I doubt they will find it aboard the Mystic, but I will have them look for it.”

By midafternoon, the bodies had been buried in the clay soil on a low hill overlooking the sea. Blake and Lopaka were walking back from their unpleasant duty when the search party of two returned to give their report of the shipwrecked
Mystic
.