Mystic Memories (12 page)

In lengthy silence, he endured her studied gaze upon him, resisting the impulse to shift his stance like a recalcitrant student under the scrutiny of a disciplining schoolmistress.

Finally she spoke, her voice softened considerably. “It seems I can do nothing right in your eyes, Captain Masters. My mere existence appears to be an aggravation to you. I am sorry you have been forced into a position of responsibility for my safety. If I could somehow change our circumstances, I would. So for now”—She looked heavenward in divine supplication.—“I
will
try extra hard to stay out of your way, to do as I’m told, and to not talk unless spoken to . . .”

Blake interrupted her as she was taking a breath to continue. “Let’s just start with those three, Mrs. Edwards, shall we?”

Her mouth snapped shut.

“Very good. Are you ready to leave now?”

She nodded, already complying with her promise not to talk. He stifled the urge to smile. Confound her anyway. It was impossible to stay angry with the woman.

And yet at some deep level of knowing, he suspected it would be better if he could.

Chapter
7

C
ara braved the harrowing trip to shore in the longboat, wishing she could man one of the oars so she would feel a little more in control of her situation. A few years earlier, white-water rafting with Mark had taught her how to handle even the most dangerous level-four rivers. While today’s experience didn’t measure up to the same degree of danger, it was a challenge to the Sandwich Islanders, who were pulling them toward land against a nasty headwind and waves breaking over the bow.

No words were spoken except orders given by Blake, who sat next to her in the stern. Though he had chosen the four
Kānaka
for their incomparable skill as oarsmen, he had forewarned her of the rough sea conditions they would encounter. She had been willing to take the risk. Now she understood his concern.

Jostled by another wave, she tightened her grip on the gunwale and the seat as salt water sprayed her face. She swiped her hand across her eyes, thankful she hadn’t eaten breakfast. Even her empty stomach felt queasy. Beside her, Blake kept his balance better than she did.

Not much better, she realized, aware of every bump of their shoulders, every brush of their thighs. In spite of the animosity between them, her body reacted to his closeness like a sensitive car alarm that beeped, whooped, and buzzed at the slightest disturbance.

The ominous cliffs grew closer, larger, and more foreboding, taking her mind off Blake, if only temporarily. She cast her gaze up and down the rocky coastline, wondering where they would find a place to put to shore. It looked inaccessible.

She looked at the stoic captain. His jaw was set. His eyes squinted into the wind. He glanced her way, barely acknowledging her silent concern before returning his attention to steering the boat. With his gaze focused on one point ahead, he obviously knew the course to his destination.

Trying to see what he was seeing, she stifled the urge to ask questions, remembering her promise to say as little as possible and stay out of his way.

Soon she realized they were headed into a small cove. The oarsmen rowed the boat toward a narrow strip of sand in the shadow of the thirty-foot cliffs. She craned her neck to see the dizzying height nearly straight overhead. Birds of all different sizes flew in and out of nests in the crevices. Soaring on widespread wings, they were outlined against the gray ceiling of high clouds. The high-pitched screeches of the gulls and the calls of the other birds were all but drowned out by the echoes of crashing waves.

Feeling a little light-headed, she dropped her gaze to the shore ahead of them. A couple of deep breaths revitalized her. Maybe it was just a case of low blood sugar. Once her feet were on terra firma again, she might feel like eating some of the food Blake had brought along.

Upon landing, she followed his lead and lightly vaulted out of the boat, grateful to have her equilibrium fully restored. When he turned to find her directly behind him, he started.

She grinned smugly, and a frown creased his forehead as he noticed his
Kānaka
crewmen gaping at her. When one said something in his foreign tongue, they all laughed approvingly.

Okay, so her leap to the beach wasn’t exactly ladylike. She wasn’t here to play a helpless female in petticoats and crinoline who needed to be hoisted off the boat by a couple of strong men. She had to get it across to them that she was as agile and capable of handling herself in this harsh environment as they were.

“Lopaka!” Blake raised his voice over the loud surf. “We’ll be back here by late afternoon. Be waiting for us.”

“Aye-aye, Cap’nee.”

Cara grabbed Blake’s sleeve, breaking her short-lived vow to keep her distance. “Why aren’t they staying here?” With disdain in his eyes, he looked down at her hand until she dropped it to her side.

“They are needed on the
Valiant
.”

Lopaka waved, then spoke to his dark-skinned brothers in their native language. Chattering among themselves, the four men launched the longboat back out to sea. Clearly, their serious mood had lifted. Probably because she was no longer on board.

“Why did you send them back?”

Answering loudly to be heard over the crashing surf, he watched the
Kānaka
pulling their oars in unison through the choppy waves. “There’s always a risk of the wind changing direction suddenly and sending us another southeaster. We still have another month to six weeks to go of this season. Until then, we cannot be too careful. It’s best if my ship has a full crew aboard.”

Cara glanced at the gloomy skies. “I guess I should consider myself lucky to be on land.”

“If we were in San Diego or Monterey, I would agree. But I never should have risked the
Valiant
or my crew by stopping here today. This particular stretch of the California coast is one of the most treacherous right now.”

A twinge of guilt plucked at her conscience. “Then why did you offer?”

“A poor decision made in haste. It was a promise I should not have tried to keep.”

Considering her earlier remarks about his unkept promise to her the previous night, she wondered if he had put their lives at stake because she’d goaded him.

“Then we’d better get going so we can get back to your ship before nightfall,” she responded, unwilling to be associated with a second shipwreck in the superstitious sailors’ minds. Her stomach complained, prompting her to ask about breakfast.

“The rising tide will soon cover most of this beach. We need to climb first, then eat.”

She looked up and down the thin ribbon of pebbly beach. “Which direction?”

He swung the leather bag over his shoulder, then pointed south. “There is a circuitous path that leads to the top.”

“Good.” Relief crept over her. “I was afraid you were going to say we had to scale the face of this cliff.”

“At times it may feel that way to you.”

“Don’t worry about me, Captain. I’m capable of keeping up with you.”

“I’m sure you are.” His deep voice almost roared over the sound of the sea pounding the rocks. Water spouted from a natural funnel hole in one of the nearby boulders, sending an impressive geyser into the air. “The tide is coming in. We had better move.”

A few yards down the beach, the obscure trail ascended the steep bluffs like the path of a surefooted mountain goat. More than a few times, Cara thought they had lost sight of the route, which seemed barely as wide as one man’s shoe. They crab-walked over several slippery faces of huge granite slabs, searching patiently for tiny outcroppings to use as toeholds and fingerholds. Cara observed Blake’s progress, making sure to remember the places where his boot lost its footing on a loose section of boulder so she could avoid the same misstep when she reached that spot on her climb.

Despite the overcast skies, she was soon damp with perspiration from her exertion. Her throat felt dry and cottony. Their position on the bluffs kept them sheltered from the cold winds coming off the mainland, which was a minor blessing.

When the rocks weren’t giving them trouble, they were hindered by brier and prickly pear. For a while she managed to get past them, then one thorn finally snagged her pants. Yanking her leg away proved futile. Her effort only caused more scratches from the sharp barbs. Leaning down to pull the cotton duck out of the claws of the bushes, she felt a thorn stab the back of her hand.

“Ow—! Dammit!” She shot up and sucked on her knuckle, trying to alleviate the stinging pain. The sudden movement caused a swirling head rush, momentarily blacking out her eyesight. Breathing heavily from the hard climb, she tried to hold perfectly still and wait for the dizzy sensation to pass. A moment later she was fine.

“Do you need help, Mrs. Edwards?” called Blake from his position several feet ahead. His formality agitated her as much as having to admit she needed his assistance.

“Yes!” she reluctantly shouted up to him, then sucked on her sore scratch again. Man, it hurt like the devil.

He ordered, “Stay there.”

“As if I have a choice,” she muttered into her hand.

Almost immediately, he lost his balance, flinging their bag of breakfast high into the air. Nearly breaking his neck in his sudden slide down the hill, he landed in front of her, while the bag ended up a few feet away. It was all Cara could do to maintain her own balance and not fall headfirst into the briar patch. Curses flew like a swarm of angry bees.

Panting and sweating, he got up and dusted himself off with a few aggressive swats at his stained jacket and pants. The action didn’t do much good. The rain-dampened soil stuck to the knees of his britches and smudged the wine stain on his jacket.

“Hold still,” she said calmly, her voice quieter now that they were high above the thunderous sound of the surf. He paused, looking at her. She reached out and gently drew her fingertips across his cheekbone. His thick, dark eyelashes fluttered as he jerked back from her. He might as well have shouted, “Don’t touch!”

She held up her hand to show him the mud on her fingers.

He glanced down at it, then at her. No words were exchanged. He understood her intent and appeared appropriately sheepish for his skittish reaction.

“We’d get through this a lot easier if you weren’t so jumpy and standoffish,” she said cautiously.

“I shall keep that in mind.”

His gaze dropped to her snagged clothing. Kneeling down, he slowly and carefully plucked a number of thorns from the cloth. Lifting the cuff of her pants to inspect her calf, his fingertips grazed her skin, sending a spiral of warmth up into her body.

Good Lord, why did she have to react to him as if everything was a sexual advance? She was a modern-day, independent woman, yet she practically swooned from a brush of his knuckles against her ankle.

“You have some deep scratches,” he said with a gentleness she hadn’t expected. “We’ll have to wait until we reach the mission before we can treat them. Do you think you can last that long?”

He gazed up at her with worry in his ocean-blue eyes. Even though she’d had several moments to rest, her breathing was as shallow now as it had been during their strenuous climb.

“I won’t faint from the pain, if that’s what you mean.” She wanted to sound flippant. She wanted him to think she was still irritated with his earlier behavior. She wanted to keep her armor in place, protecting herself from the attraction between them.

But Blake seemed to see through it all—the glib remark, the dissipated irritation, the weak resolve to shield her emotions.

He stood up. “I believe you can do anything you set your mind to.”

“I usually do.”

His hands wrapped around her upper arms, gently kneading the muscles. “You are strong for a woman. Stronger than I had imagined.”

“I . . . uh, I like to exercise,” she answered lamely, not quite certain how to explain that a private investigator couldn’t be an out-of-shape couch potato and still climb over a chain-link fence or outrun a Doberman guard dog. “I’m not exactly the type to sit and knit sweaters. I enjoy strenuous activity. Keeps me healthy. And in shape. Strong, that is. Just lucky that way, I guess.”

“Rather like your teeth?”

“My teeth?” Suddenly remembering their conversation about white teeth running in her family, she quickly agreed, “Yes, I come from a very healthy family.”

He cocked one eyebrow skeptically.

She knew he didn’t believe her. Growing uncomfortable with his intent gaze, she moved out of his embrace. “I’ve been injured before,” she explained, reassuring him. “Worse than this, actually. It’s only a scratch. I’ll live.”

“Very well, then. Shall we continue? It is not much further to the top.”

In a matter of a few minutes they stood on the crest of the cliffs, their backs to the Pacific. A mile or so across the flat, arid landscape, Cara recognized the first familiar sight since her leap backward in time.

The famous Mission San Juan Capistrano.

Alone on the land, not yet crowded by a twentieth-century city, the solitary mission was a poignant reminder of her bittersweet visits to the historical landmark as a little girl. Every year, Aunt Gabriella had taken Cara to celebrate the return of the swallows on St. Joseph’s Day. During the long drive, her great-aunt told stories of the Spaniards, one of whom had become her own forefather. She’d also described the plight of their Indian ancestors who were pressed into the service of the church.

In those conversations with her aunt, Cara had learned her family’s secret—her Indian heritage, her silent link to the proud natives of this dry and desolate land. Now she felt drawn toward the small huts surrounding the white mission building. These people were a part of her own ancestry, some of them with the same blood in their veins as her own.

A lump formed in her throat. Realizing that she would soon be walking among them, she fervently wished her Aunt Gaby could be with her now, not only to share in this deeply spiritual experience but also to share her wisdom of the supernatural world.

If only you were here to guide me, Aunt Gaby. I could really use your help.

Estoy aquí, mi Cara
.

The sound of her aunt’s voice in her mind startled Cara. But she had distinctly heard the Spanish words for “I am here, my Cara.”