Paranormal Heartbreakers Boxed Set

by Jeanne Rose

  The way he looked at her told her she’d surprised him. “We?”

  “If I actually have abilities, I’m going to develop them. I’m sure you and Isabel can help me.”

  His scowling brows met in a straight line. “I can’t help anybody. And Grandmother is weak and tired.”

  “She’ll soon be dead, if we don’t do something. Would you rather have that?” Emotional, she couldn’t stop tears from stinging her eyes. “I can’t stand by and let someone die,

  Luke . . . not a second time.”

  “This isn’t your problem.”

  “Quit saying that.” She snuffled, wiped her nose with a tissue. She couldn’t believe he was still arguing. “It’s been my problem ever since I found myself in Isabel’s dreaming place. If you’d use your logic, try to make sense, you would know that’s true. I can dreamwalk.”

  ”Be quiet.” His hand on her arm tightened painfully.

  Angry, hurting, she started to object, then realized that the conversations around them had quieted. People were listening. She noticed Charlie Mahooty standing some feet away with his stoop-shoulder pal, Delgado. As usual, Mahooty looked far from friendly.

  She smiled wanly anyway and placed her hand on Luke’s to get him to loosen his hold. He did so as a pretty young woman with long black hair approached.

  “I’m Rebecca’s granddaughter, Ginnie,” she said, addressing Mara. Her eyes were red but she seemed in charge of herself. “You said you’re a friend of my grandmother’s?”

  Mara nodded. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” She meant that with all her heart. “I only met Rebecca a short time ago, but I really liked her.”

  Luke added, “My grandmother introduced them. Mara runs the art gallery that shows my paintings in Santa Fe.”

  Ginnie nodded. “It was nice of you to come. The funeral will be held day after tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be there,” Mara told her, thinking she’d once again have to juggle hours at the gallery.

  But then, she’d be taking off whatever time she needed to deal with the dreamwalking. Nothing was as important as life and death.

  Ginnie introduced her parents, along with a couple of other relatives who lived in the area, if not on the reservation. Mara chatted a few minutes and offered more condolences, happy that Luke stuck by her side.

  As soon as Ginnie moved away, Mara headed for the couch and Isabel, Luke in her wake. She nodded to Tom Chalas.

  The man greeted her in return. He looked drawn himself, as if he was deeply affected. “You seem to be out here a lot.” His tone was neutral, not unfriendly.

  “I wish my visit were for a better reason today.”

  “Don’t we all.”

  So Chalas was upset, too. Ginnie had said he’d donated several cases of soft drinks for this occasion. Perhaps he’d especially liked Rebecca. Thinking how decent the man seemed, how upset he’d been when she’d rejected his art some days before, she felt bad all over again.

  A priest had arrived at the gathering and was drawing a chair up beside Isabel, making Mara pause. She glanced at Luke.

  “He does mass here on Sunday,” he said in explanation.

  They both hovered some distance away as Isabel and the priest discussed Rebecca’s funeral.

  “I will take care of the prayer feathers she will hold,” said Isabel. “And her wedding robe is in the chest at the foot of her bed.”

  The traditional burial garb for Pueblo-descended women, Mara knew from reading Southwestern Indian books.

  “Grandmother will guide us in special ceremonies after the priest is through,” Luke told her in a low tone. “The pall-bearers will be purified with juniper smoke and sacred corn meal will be scattered from the cemetery to Rebecca’s house.”

  So that the dead woman’s soul could visit home one last time before going to the next world, Mara thought. Indians in this part of the country had been blending Catholicism with their own beliefs for close to three hundred years.

  “She was your best friend,” the priest was saying, patting Isabel’s hand. He was a Hispanic man with large sad eyes and a comforting manner. “May God give you strength.”

  “She was more than a friend, Padre. She was like a sister.” Isabel sighed. “And she had been my eyes since I became blind.”

  The priest shook his head in sympathy. “A second death in so short a time. And another heart attack. But I guess many of the reservation’s population are growing older.”

  Mara glanced at Luke. A second death?

  He narrowed his eyes, and mouthed the word, Later.

  “Rebecca wasn’t that old,” objected Onida. “She was only sixty-six and hadn’t had so much as the flu for more than a year.”

  “Are you saying you think there should be an autopsy?” asked the priest.

  “No autopsy,” Isabel said. “I have spoken with the family and no one thinks it necessary.”

  The priest patted Isabel’s hand one last time before rising. “I need to talk to the family again myself. They say other relatives will be arriving from out-of-state.”

  Mara waited until the clergyman disappeared into the crowd. The room was buzzing with conversation again, leaving Isabel and Onida alone on the couch.

  Mara took the vacated chair and leaned in close, keeping her voice low. “Isabel? I know this sounds strange, but I’ve come out here to try to help.” Even though the woman had virtually told her to stay away from the pueblo.

  Isabel turned her face in Mara’s direction, recognition in her expression. She sat up straighter, looked a little stronger. She even appeared less pale and tired.

  “At last. So the spirits have not abandoned us.”

  Spirits? Feeling nervous, hesitant, Mara pointed out, “It’s just that you don’t seem to have anyone else.”

  ”There is no need for explanation,” Isabel cut in. “I will train you, Mara Fitzgerald.”

  Mara was surprised that Isabel reacted so positively and so swiftly. She also felt a strange underlying sense of excitement. And Luke’s disapproval was evident by his hand clamping down tight on her shoulder.

  “I don’t know who you really are,” Isabel went on, “But you are right. You . . . and my grandson . . . are my only hope in this darkness.” She asked, “When can you begin?”

  “She can’t do this,” Luke growled. “It’s too dangerous.”

  Mara ignored him. “Today? Tomorrow? How much time will it take?”

  “As much as you can spare.” Isabel added, “Though I don’t think you could stand more than three or four hours to start. Come to my house at dawn tomorrow. I’m feeling far too weak to do anything this day.”

  Dawn. Calculating quickly, Mara realized she could work her gallery hours around that. This was a life and death matter but the material world wouldn’t disappear entirely.

  “What about you, Luke?” Isabel asked.

  “What about me?”

  “The Kisi need you, Luke. I need you.”

  “You don’t know what you ask, Grandmother.”

  Isabel raised a brow.

  “There are things you don’t know, maybe because I’m your own blood,” Luke insisted, sounding urgent. “I would die for you, if I had to . . . and maybe I should. Taking a leap off a cliff might be the best plan of action.”

  Then, face stormy, he turned and pushed his way through the crowd.

  Mara stood there flabbergasted. Was he actually threatening to kill himself? She gazed at Onida and Isabel, assuming the poor women must be upset.

  Onida’s eyes were round with shock, but Isabel seemed unusually calm.

  “Go talk to him,” the wise woman told Mara. “You are connected. If anyone can reach him, it is you.”

  Without questioning what Isabel knew about the bond with Luke or how she came to know it, Mara rose to wend her way through the growing crowd. Not an easy task. The small house was packed. Even more people were arriving as she left the front door and walked out to the road.

  Luke was nowhere in sight
. Wondering where he’d disappeared to so fast, she headed for his house at the bottom of the slope. She knocked on the door and, receiving no response, went on in.

  “Luke?”

  No answer. Feeling a bit like an intruder, Mara explored, peeking into every room. She even entered what must be Luke’s private quarters, noting several paintings sitting around in the studio part, the rumpled sheets in his bedroom.

  Remembering once again the passion they’d shared the night before, she stared at the bed. There was no use lying about her attraction for Lucas Naha or the bond that burned between them. If she didn’t watch out, she’d be falling in love with the man.

  If she wasn’t already head over heels.

  Concerned for his life at the moment, Mara abandoned the house when she realized it was empty. Outside, the Jeep sat quietly under the cottonwoods. So he hadn’t taken a drive. Walking out to the road again, she looked all around, finally spotting a young boy petting an appaloosa horse in the fenced pasture area bordering Luke’s house.

  She strode toward him. “Excuse me, have you seen Luke Naha?”

  The boy pointed north. “He went that way.”

  A narrow, winding path led toward a big flat-topped, terra-cotta mesa. Beyond that lay foothills, mountains, any of which offered sheer drops.

  Mara took off, remembering she hadn’t thanked the boy until she was too far away. When she looked back, he was no longer standing near the pasture.

  She forged on until the path ended near the mesa, glad she’d worn practical pants and walking shoes. The ground was rutted, rough and sometimes torn up by hoof prints.

  “Luke!”

  But her voice only echoed back at her, bouncing off the sides of the mesa. She glanced up, noticing the size and shape of the flat rocky outcropping, its red color. Lightning Over Red Mesa – this spot must have been the inspiration for Luke’s painting. Not to mention that it was the setting for a dream she’d shared with Isabel and another with Luke.

  But Luke wasn’t here now.

  Calling his name a couple more times, hearing no response, she skirted the edge of the mesa and plunged onward. The ground began to rise and footing became rougher. Rocks rolled beneath her feet and prickly desert grasses plucked at her as she passed. Soon, she seemed to be isolated in nature, the mountainous horizon endless, the sky a huge blue expanse.

  “Luke!”

  No answer, though the sun dimmed for a moment and she glanced up to see a cloud passing over. A spray of brilliant light suddenly shot through, giving the illusion of linking sky to land. A vast, wild land that seemed very familiar.

  Sun Dog. A thrill passed through her as she recognized another setting that could have inspired a Naha painting.

  And she herself was the tiny figure moving around in the landscape.

  The thrill turned to chills. Mara stopped dead. What was going on? Were his paintings alive? Did they shift, waver, fluctuate, change like dreams? Like life itself?

  For a moment, everything seemed to flow together, human and sky and earth. She felt like she was part of the whole, a design so overwhelming and grandiose, she was only one segment of a much larger plan.

  The wind touched her cheek but time stood still.

  Time.

  Minutes and days and years swirled together, with Mara standing in the middle . . .

  She could almost see it . . . the cliff from which she’d gazed in her dream. There were other people, though she could feel them, not see them. There were a myriad of emotions, pain and fear, hope and resignation, love. Mara closed her eyes, taking a deep breath of the past and the present, almost able to feel the future approaching . . .

  Thud, thud, thud. Thud, thud, thud.

  Vibrating earth. Heavy breathing. Something was coming, something large enough to cast a shadow.

  Were nightmares about to blend with reality?

  Mara cried out as she turned to see who or what was swooping down on her.

  CHAPTER TEN

  LUKE LOCKED ONTO Mara’s shocked, frightened expression as he galloped his horse toward her. She shouted at him in Kisi. And as he reined in his lathered buckskin, she backed away, stumbling.

  He dismounted, let the reins drop, went to her. “What do you think you’re doing?” he growled, even as he was torn between wanting to take her in his arms and wanting to shake some sense into her. He did neither. “You shouldn’t be out in the desert alone on foot. If coyotes are going to track you in Santa Fe, you could meet up with a lot worse out here.”

  The fearful look faded, changed to anger. He wanted to touch her in the worst way, but he could tell she wasn’t exactly in a receptive mood.

  “Don’t you yell at me, Luke. I was searching for you. I thought you were going to throw yourself off a cliff.”

  And that she could stop him? Actually, he hadn’t been looking for that cliff . . . yet. Instead, he’d saddled one of the horses he kept in the pueblo’s community pasture and had ridden hell bent for leather into the hills looking for some sort of refuge in nature.

  He told her, “I wanted to get away from people.”

  “Like your mother and your grandmother? Don’t you care that they’re upset?”

  “They might be better off without me.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Because you’re afraid you caused a fire?”

  “More than that. I may be a murderer.”

  He saw questions fill her eyes. Questions that alarmed her. He suggested, “Let’s take a walk. The horse needs to cool off.”

  He picked up the reins and they stated off.

  “What made you say such a fool thing, anyway?” Mara demanded. “What kinds of things don’t the rest of us know?”

  “My dream this morning, for one.”

  Luke gave her an edited version of the illusion that had caused Rebecca’s heart to stop. He could tell that the gorier details sickened her.

  “How would I know such things, if I didn’t create them myself?” he asked.

  “But why would you create them? You had no reason to want Rebecca dead.”

  “I liked her . . . but I was furious with her yesterday. She tried to force me into agreeing to be trained for dreamwalking.”

  “You were furious enough to kill? Even someone you cared about?”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time,” he stated flatly.

  That got her attention. Her eyes widened to a startled blue. That he wanted to lose himself in those eyes, in that soft body of hers, despite the horrific situation he was trying to deal with, infuriated him. When had he lost control of his conscious self?

  “I told you I can’t control my powers,” he said angrily. “I never could. In Arizona . . .”

  He fell silent, thinking he’d never talked about his other life to anyone but his grandmother and mother before. He wouldn’t be talking about it now if he weren’t in such a terrible situation.

  “What about Arizona?” she probed as they continued to walk together.

  “I lost my wife and my three-year old son.”

  “They died?”

  “Six years ago, in a fire.”

  The admission was difficult to make. It still hurt him to talk about the incident. And maybe he was a fool to do so, but he couldn’t help himself. He and Mara were connected in a way that most people couldn’t even dream about. She had a right to know the truth. Then maybe she’d be smart enough to run in the other direction, to stay far away from him.

  “I’d had a fight with my wife. She was Navajo and we had a lot of problems with her family . . . not to mention with my temper. But she never talked about divorce before.” And he’d never before felt so willing to reveal the memory. “I walked out crazy mad, got into our old pickup and took off. I don’t remember where I drove or how fast. When I ran out of gas, it was dark, so I stopped and fell asleep. I had terrible dreams. The next morning, when I came home, I found the house had burned down during the night.”

  This time, Mara didn’t hurry to his defense. Looking thoughtfu
l, she ambled along beside him. Until the buckskin snorted. She glanced at the animal warily, seeming uncomfortable. Perhaps having lived in San Francisco most of her life, she wasn’t used to horses.

  “You dreamed of fire that night in Arizona?” she asked.

  “That’s the theme of most of my nightmares.”

  “What about before you were married?”

  Surprised that she wasn’t probing about the deaths, he said, “Did I dream of fire? As a kid, sure.”

  “Did anything burn up then . . . in reality?”

  Actually, “No.” And that was strange, now that he thought about it.

  “Did you always have a bad temper?”

  “It’s gotten worse over the years. And lately, well, whenever I feel angry with someone . . . I’m not sure what I’ll do.”

  “But it sounds like you’ve always been temperamental. And that you’ve always been haunted by inexplicable nightmares just as I have.”

  “The difference being that your dreams are chases, with you playing the role of the victim,” he said darkly. “Mine are about fire . . . and my wife and child were victims for real.”

  “How can you be certain you were at fault? Wasn’t there an investigation?”

  “Of course. Though the fire department was baffled. They finally said that rags soaked with turpentine must have been to blame, materials I’d been using for the paintings I was working on when I wasn’t out driving a truck to support my family. But the blaze was so hot, so intense, it was next to impossible to pinpoint exactly how it began.”

  She nodded. “Still, you might only be torturing yourself with guilt, trying to make yourself responsible . . . a classic way of dealing with grief and situations you can’t control. There was no real proof that you caused the fire.”

  “I don’t know why you’re trying to offer excuses for me,” he said bitterly. “Nothing will bring back two lives.”

  “But surely you know you have to come to terms with the tragedy. And rags could indeed have been to blame.”