OUT OF THE BLUE

by Caroline Clemmons

  Out Of The Blue

  By

  Caroline Clemmons

  Out Of The Blue

  Caroline Clemmons

  Copyright 2012 by Caroline Clemmons

  Front Cover

  Covers by Roberta

  Back Cover

  Cat by Zylotsfor for iStock Photos

  Coin bag by Andy Green

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  Author contact information caroline @ carolineclemmons. com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locales other than the fictitiously used actual Texas towns and lake mentioned is purely coincidental.

  Prologue

  Ireland, 1845

  Deirdre Dougherty crept from the brush twenty y1ards behind her cottage. Gray clouds hid the sun. Tufts of fog drifted close to the ground, but too thin to hide her.

  Hurry.

  Careful.

  Don’t make a sound.

  Icy fingers of fear squeezed around her heart. Breath froze in her chest. She forced herself to exhale and move toward the road. Toward safety. Escape. Freedom.

  “There she goes!”

  She recognized Eogan’s loud yell. Merciful heavens, they’d spotted her. She broke into a run. Eogan’s long legs put him in the lead of those who gave chase.

  She pleaded, “Saints Brighid and Brendan, give me strength.”

  “Stop, witch!”

  Foolish people. If only Deirdre was a witch, she could fly far away.

  She changed direction and climbed over a low stone fence. Clutching her precious carryall to her body, she ran across the field.

  Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe.

  Gasping, she pressed her hand against the pain in her chest and kept running. A rock hit her back and she stumbled, regained her balance, and glanced behind her. Flames and smoke billowed from her cottage. She had nowhere to hide, no hope of help. No one would stand up for her against the bully Eogan and his mob.

  Her life-long tormentor, Eogan, picked up another rock and hurled it. It thudded against her shoulder, but she didn’t stop. Her carryall’s weight slowed her, but she refused to leave it behind. Already too much had been lost.

  Escape. Run. Escape. Don’t fall. Escape.

  But where? They’d blocked her from all sides. Eogan was gaining on her. Only one route remained.

  The cliff.

  She reached land’s end and teetered on the rim. Ma had insisted Deirdre learn to swim, but she’d never dived so far. She feared breaking her body against the jagged cliff face before she reached the water. No doubt underwater rocks waited to batter her. An undertow might swirl her away.

  But the mob was gaining on her.

  No choice.

  Jump.

  “Blessed Saints, I need your help as never before.”

  She looked back once again. A large rock struck her forehead and she fell, almost sliding over the edge.

  Scrambling to her feet, she backed up a few yards to gather momentum for her jump.

  Eogan held a large rock in one giant fist and reached for her the other. He grabbed her arm in a crushing grip. She whirled and poked his eyes with her free hand, gouging deep.

  Screaming in pain, he released her and covered his eyes. “You’ll pay for that, witch.”

  But Deirdre wouldn’t let him catch her again. She dug in her heels to launch her. “Saints Brighid and Brendan, I beg you. Deliver me into the arms of your love.”

  For a few seconds her giant leap propelled her forward. Briefly, she experienced the elation of freedom, almost as if she really could fly.

  Chapter One

  Possum Kingdom Lake, Texas, 2017

  Near the cliff formation known as Hell’s Gate

  Brendan Hunter reeled in his rod and dropped it into the holder on his bass boat. He was tired of wasting time on forced medical leave. What was the point of fishing when he should be searching for the son of a bitch who’d shot him and left his partner bleeding to death?

  He rubbed his shoulder then his thigh. The pain in his muscles had diminished, but he was far from recovered. How could he heal from losing his best friend? Damned if he wouldn’t see the bastard—or bastards—responsible behind bars or turn in his badge.

  A fist-sized rock landed on Brendan’s boat deck. “What the—“

  His mutt, Prince, barked and lunged at the hull. Spray fanned over them from something larger splashing into the lake nearby.

  Pissed at some nut’s thoughtlessness, Brendan adjusted the bill of his ball cap to shade his eyes and gazed toward the top of the sheer cliff behind his boat.

  He yelled, “Hey up there! Watch it.”

  No one was in sight, but a careless idiot had tossed that rock and who knew what else off the edge.

  He scratched the fur on Prince’s neck. “You’re right to be riled, but calm down, you crazy hound. Damn, a few feet this way and it could have killed one of us.”

  Not bad enough he was recovering from near-fatal bullet wounds, now an imbecile was throwing things at him. Prince barked again and would have jumped into the water if Brendan hadn’t grabbed the dog’s collar.

  “Whoa, boy.”

  A person broke the surface nearby.

  “Son of a gun, would you look at that?”

  A woman gasped for air, her long hair floating behind her like dark seaweed. She appeared to be struggling to reach him. He leaned over to assist her, ignoring the burning in his shoulder.

  Slipping the strap of a bag from around her neck, she slapped it into the palm of his outstretched arm. She grabbed for the edge of the boat.

  He tossed the pack onto the deck and heard a strange noise erupt from it. His dog went crazy, barking at the bag as if it were an intruder.

  Brendan yelled, “Quiet,” then reached for the person in the water.

  Prince’s growl rumbled in his throat and he sniffed the pouch.

  Brendan expected the woman to call for help. To reach for him. To climb aboard. She stared at him and appeared to freeze.

  Heedless of his recent injuries, he shot his arms forward. Surely he’d fall from the boat, sink to the bottom. Had the man who shot him also taken his will? Be a man, Hunter. He anchored himself while he stretched over the water to assist her.

  “Give me your hands.”

  She screamed and her head went under. Damn, what was wrong with her? Would he have to jump in to rescue her?

  She resurfaced. He grabbed her arms and tried to haul her aboard. She fought him, pushing against the boat with her feet, twisting away from him. He held tight.

  “You crazy? You may be hell bent on suicide but I’m not letting you kill yourself.”

  Her gurgled scream answered him. Though her struggles continued, she appeared to be losing strength. But at this rate she’d reopen his wounds, pull him into the water with her, or capsize the boat. He secured his grasp on her arms.

  “You trying to take me down with you, lady? You’re going to drown both of us unless you cooperate.”

  Instantly, she stopped struggling, and he hauled her aboard. He slid her arm around his shoulders and grasped her small waist to help her over the side. Her long dress clung to her and revealed voluptuous curves on a slender frame. Coughing and sputtering, she dragged herself to the bass boat’
s back seat and collapsed against it.

  “What the hell’s the matter with you, lady?”

  Instead of answering, she scooped up the canvas bag he’d thrown on the deck. She worked at a toggle then folded back the flap. Damned if a black cat didn’t peer out, wet and spitting.

  The woman’s expression softened. In spite of the feline’s foul mood, the woman stroked its head. “Praise the saints we survived, Cathbad, and you look none the worse for all you’re wet as a fish.”

  She looked at Brendan and her eyes reminded him of the color of the lake water on a cloudy day. “I’ll be thanking you for saving me cat and meself.”

  He registered the musical lilt of her thick Irish accent.

  No tears or hysterics.

  No worries about her hair or clothes.

  No shoes.

  Yet, she had to be the one who threw the rock.

  His anger took over. “What the hell were you thinking, jumping off the cliff with a cat in a bag around your neck? You could have been killed.”

  Her placid expression turned fiery. “Don’t I know that? Sure and I’d have been killed if those chasing me had their way.” She pushed the hair from her face and he spotted a bruised lump on her forehead. A trickle of blood seeped from it.

  Determined to hold on to his anger, he didn’t let the sight of her injury cool his wrath. So she’d been hurt. She should have thought of the danger before she jumped.

  He said, “Oh yeah? I looked up there and didn’t see anyone.”

  She straightened her posture and met his stare. “Believe me or no, it’s the true of it.”

  The cat hissed at Prince and tried to back away, but the woman kept a tight grip. Prince went crazy again, barking his head off. His dog was no fonder of cats than he was.

  Without releasing her cat, she stretched her hand toward the dog, allowing him to sniff. “Quiet, Prince.”

  Brendan was amazed when Prince hushed and licked her hand.

  She smiled at the dog and scratched his head then looked at Brendan. “What kind of dog is this great beastie?”

  “Genuine Heinz 57 mutt.” Wary, Brendan frowned. “How’d you know his name?” Prince was his dog, and didn’t like strangers, especially one who held a cat.

  Deirdre hadn’t realized she’d spoken the dog’s name aloud, but it had come to her out of nowhere. She’d have to be more careful. “You must have said his name.”

  “No, I didn’t, so how’d you know it?” He stared at her, looking as belligerent as a small boy in a giant’s body. “Did someone tell you his name? Did you see me walking by the shore and hear me calling to my dog?”

  She hated to lie again, so she shrugged. Turmoil churned her insides into knots, but she fought to appear calm. As if she could with this man nearby.

  This was the man in her visions.

  Three times in the week since her mother’s funeral, Deirdre’s foresight had shown him reaching for her. She’d thought he meant to choke her. That’s why she’d fought him in the water when first she’d seen his arms stretched toward her, exactly as in her revelations. Now that he’d rescued her, she didn’t know what to think.

  He picked up a broken piece of Connemara marble that lay at his feet. Blood stained a sharp edge of the rock. It must be the one Eogan had thrown at her, but why was it here? And how?

  Panic gripped her heart. Did the marble mean evil Eogan had also fallen? Deirdre had thought her jump would save her from the monster. Fear constricted her chest until she couldn’t breathe.

  She scanned the water around this odd boat. No one swam nearby. The rock was here, so she couldn’t be certain Eogan was not. Her gaze examined the cliff where it met the water. Crannies created hidden spots, but no one was clinging to an outcropping.

  Perhaps she’d escaped Eogan. The band around her chest broke and she inhaled.

  When she looked up, she was surprised. From this angle, the cliff didn’t look nearly as high as it had when she’d jumped. She saw no one at the cliff’s top, so she focused on the man who’d pulled her from the water.

  He slid a small silver thing from a scabbard on his belt. He opened the lid and punched the object with his fingers then put the thing to his ear.

  “Hello.”

  Wondering why he did so, she answered him, “Hello.”

  He held up the silver object. “I was speaking on the phone, not to you.”

  Why was he talking to that thing he called a “phone” as if it were a person?

  “This is Brendan Hunter.”

  Merciful heaven, her rescuer had the name of Saint Brendan, patron saint of navigators, and the very saint she’d prayed to before her leap. Was it a coincidence?

  The man who said his name was Brendan spoke with a strange accent, but she understood most of his words. He related hearing her splash into the water and helping her into the boat—as if he spoke to another person.

  “Yeah, said someone chased her. Jumped to escape.” He appeared to assess her. “Has a nasty mark on her forehead where a rock hit her, otherwise appears okay.”

  Deirdre touched the stinging skin above her brow then looked at the blood that stained her fingers. She couldn’t release Cathbad to search for a handkerchief, so she dabbed at the wound with her soggy sleeve. She looked at the dark cotton and saw a mark from the blood. This was her best dress, and she hoped there wouldn’t be a stain when the fabric dried.

  The man switched the silver thing to his other ear. “You got it...Landed out of the blue beside my boat at Hell’s Gate.”

  Hell’s gate? No! Had she died then and landed in Purgatory? She looked at her cat. True, she loved the animal, but she’d no idea he’d be condemned to share her afterlife. When she raised her head, the man stared at her, his gray eyes assessing her.

  “I’ll take her to my mom’s house...That’s right, 55515 Lakeside Drive. Your deputy can meet us there...Sure thing. Thanks. “Looking at her, he folded the silver thing he’d called a phone and slid it into the holder at his belt. “Guess you heard, my name’s Brendan Hunter.”

  “I-I’m Deirdre Dougherty.” She stroked her cat’s head. “And me cat is Cathbad. A-Are we really at Hell’s gate?”

  “Yeah, where’d you think?” Brendan wrapped the rock in a handkerchief. “We’d better get you ashore, dried off, and treat that bruise. Someone from the sheriff’s office will be around later to talk to you about the people who chased you.”

  “Sheriff?” Why would there be need for a sheriff in Purgatory? Would he set judgement on her? She was tempted to jump over the side and swim for it, but where would she go? Sure and there would be no escaping in the hereafter. She resigned herself to face her fate with dignity. “What kind of vessel is this?”

  “You’ve never ridden in a boat before?”

  Deirdre shook her head. “Haven’t I seen a plenty on trips to Iverdun? But I’d never set foot in one until now.”

  He patted the arms of his captain’s chair. “Don’t worry. This baby’s a Triton. It’ll have us at the dock in a couple of minutes.” He turned something near the ship’s wheel. A roar filled the air and the deck throbbed beneath her feet.

  She screamed, frozen to her seat, defenseless against the unknown cause.

  He tossed her a bulky lump of orange fabric. “Put this on if you’re afraid.”

  Not knowing what it was or how to don it, she clasped it to her with her cat and her bag. Thick and pillowy, it buffered the air rushing at her. Wind whipped at her hair and clothes but the sun’s fiery heat prevented a chill.

  Was this Purgatory, or somewhere else? It was burning hot, but she saw no flames or any of the other things she thought would be in Hell. Perhaps she was in a special place where her fate was decided before she was sent on her way to Heaven, Hell, or Purgatory.

  The terror she’d experienced running from the mob subsided. For good or ill, surely she was beyond their reach—unless Eogan had jumped and survived. She fought back tears at the loss of her wee cottage. Gone were all her possess
ions save those few she carried, but she wouldn’t need them now. She’d be brave and face her fate at Hell’s gates—wherever she was.

  In spite of the blazing sun, she shivered. Would she be forced to prove she wasn’t a witch? How could she? She said a prayer she’d be found fit for Heaven and not sent the other way.

  They approached a small dock near several buildings. The roaring noise grew less as the boat’s speed slowed. When they bumped gently against the pilings, he leaped out and moored the boat.

  “Need help?” He offered his hand.

  She needed more than help—she needed explanations. But she nodded and took his large hand. “If you please.”

  She stepped up on the boat’s cushioned ledge then onto the dock as he’d done. He took the orange thing from her and tossed it back into the boat.

  Who was he and why had he been sent to rescue her? Mayhap he was a wizard, for all that he was named for Saint Brendan. What if he’d used the saint’s name as a trick?

  Saints Brighid and Brendan, if it’s not too late to be asking again, please protect me, our Lord’s servant.

  Likely she’d misunderstood the man. “Your name is Brendan?”

  “Yeah, Brendan Hunter.”

  She couldn’t fathom what sort of thing he’d spoken into nor the noisy magic that had sent the boat skimming across a calm sea without sails or oars. If this really was Hell’s gate, maybe he was a demon who’d taken a man’s form. He had her for now, but she’d be on guard.

  Sure and he was handsome as sin, like the Devil was said to be, and taller than she’d imagined him from her vision. His eyes were exactly as she’d seen, gray as the ocean on a stormy day. Unlike in her revelation, he’d slapped an odd cap onto his head but couldn’t she still see the dark color of his hair?

  Cathbad struggled to get free, but she held her cat tightly. If she released him, she might not find him again. Or, he might be eaten by that great hound. How could anyone call a huge dog with that mass of gray and brown hair a Prince? Beggar would have been a better name—or Pony.