Mystic Memories by Gillian Doyle, Susan Leslie Liepitz Read Free Book Online Page A

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