Morning Light, Page 3
Catherine Anderson
“Ma’am?” he tried again. “Talk to me. Are you hurt?”
For a long moment that seemed like a small eternity to Clint, she continued to sway on her feet. Clint was about to ask the checker to call for help when she blinked back to awareness like someone waking from a deep sleep. Her blue eyes focused on him.
“Are you hurt?” he asked again.
Her oval face drained of color, and she jerked free of his grasp. Before he could guess what she meant to do, she ran from the market without picking up her credit card or paying for her purchases.
“I hate when people do that,” the clerk said, still holding the bottle of wine in his hand. “Now I’ll have to void the transaction and get someone to put all this stuff back on the shelves.”
Clint collected his hat and settled it on his head. Then he crouched down to pick up the card and the wad of red material. The woman’s name, Loni Kendra MacEwen, was stamped into the plastic.
Handing the card to the checker, Clint said, “She’ll probably be back for this.”
The man took the card and slipped it into the cash drawer. “If not, I’ll give it to the manager and he’ll take care of it. People forget their cards all the time.”
Clint handed over the wad of cloth as well. “I’m not sure what this is.”
“Shopping bag,” the clerk said as his hand closed over the material. “Made out of parachute silk and has handles, just like our plastic shopping bags, only it holds more stuff, won’t tear, and can be used again and again. Greenies buy them on the Net. They claim plastic bags are bad for the environment.”
They were definitely bad for Clint’s environment. He stored them in a kitchen drawer, and it seemed to him the damned things procreated in there.
“It was strange, the way she acted,” Clint remarked, thinking of how the woman had swayed as if she might pass out. “I hope she wasn’t seriously hurt.”
“Moved too fast getting out of here to be seriously hurt,” the checker replied as he punched in number codes to clear the register. “And trust me, I’ve seen stranger things than that. There are some really weird people wandering around out there.”
“Hmm.”
Shaking his head, Clint ran his credit card, signed for the charges, and left the building, carrying his un-sacked purchases in the crook of one arm, his answer to the exploding population of plastic bags in his kitchen drawer.
Loni was shaking too badly to drive. Folding her arms over the steering wheel of her Chevy Suburban, she rested her forehead on the back of her wrists and closed her eyes. Oh, God. She’d finally met her dream cowboy, and his name was Clint Harrigan. So much for Deirdre’s plan to avoid men wearing Stetsons. Loni hadn’t even realized he was behind her in line.
How she knew his name, she wasn’t sure. Normally she didn’t pick up on people’s names when they touched her, only images and thoughts and sensations. But the punch from Clint Harrigan had been the strongest she’d ever felt, the images hitting her so hard and fast that she’d almost collapsed.
His little boy was in terrible danger. The instant Clint Harrigan had touched her, Loni had seen an orange raft capsizing in river rapids. Two adults, a man and a woman, had been thrown into the water along with the child and a Saint Bernard, but only the boy and the dog had resurfaced. Cold, such a horrible cold. The huge canine had seized the chest strap of the child’s life preserver in its teeth and swum toward shore.
Still trembling, Loni sat back and stared through the windshield. Trevor. That was the little boy’s name, and the faithful family dog was called Nana, after the lovable Saint Bernard in Peter Pan. Oh, God, oh, God. The adults hadn’t survived. Though Loni hadn’t been seeing through their eyes, she felt certain they hadn’t resurfaced. Instead they had been sucked under by the powerful currents and carried downstream.
The knowledge made her feel sick. Two people had either just died or were about to die very soon. Yet when she gazed across the parking lot, shoppers went about their business, oblivious to the tragedy she’d just witnessed. A young mother was opening a box of animal crackers for her toddler before taking groceries from the cart and putting them into the back of her SUV. A middle-aged man was thrusting his arm through the partially open window of a Mazda to pet his miniature schnauzer before going inside the store. Loni felt so alone, so horribly alone.
She guessed the woman in her vision was the child’s mother. Sandra. That was the name that whispered in her mind. She wasn’t sure who the man had been. The boy’s stepfather, maybe? Loni only knew that Clint Harrigan, her dream cowboy, was Trevor’s biological father. And though it made no sense, she also knew Clint Harrigan was the only person—the one and only person—who’d be able to save the child’s life. Crazy, so crazy. But Loni had long since learned not to question her visions, only to believe in them.
She jumped with a start when Clint Harrigan emerged from the market and walked across the parking lot toward a blue Ford pickup. After she’d envisioned him in her dreams for most of her life, it felt eerie to be watching him now. He walked with unhurried ease, yet covered a lot of ground with his long, loose-jointed stride. He wore a light blue work shirt stained with dirt at one shoulder, the sleeves folded back over thick, sun-bronzed forearms. A hand-tooled leather belt rode his lean hips, its large silver buckle flashing in the sunlight with every step he took.
Loni studied him with detached fascination, taking in his faded jeans and the way his thighs bunched under the denim with each push of his booted feet. For some reason she’d always thought he’d be taller, possibly because she’d first dreamed of him when she was a child and all men had seemed huge to her. But instead of towering like a pine, he put her more in mind of the shorter juniper trees indigenous to the surrounding high desert terrain—rock hard to the very core and tough enough to withstand almost anything.
His jet-black hair needed a cut, lying in lazy waves over his forehead and caressing the collar of his shirt under the brim of his hat. His features, burnished to teak by exposure to the sun, might have been chiseled from granite, the blade-sharp bridge of his nose jutting out from between thick black eyebrows, high cheekbones underscoring his intense brown eyes. His square jawline, roped with muscle, angled to a deeply cleft chin.
What was it about cowboys that so many women found sexy? For the life of her, Loni couldn’t figure it out. Born and raised in the greater Seattle area, she preferred men in dress shirts, khaki slacks, and slip-on loafers. But she had to admit, if only to herself, that no man in the city had ever made her feel the way she did now. Everything about Clint Harrigan screamed “masculine,” and everything feminine within her responded.
His truck was as rugged-looking as he was, a big, high-clearance vehicle with huge knobby tires, a long wheelbase, and a grill guard and winch attached to the front bumper. Inside the four-door cab, a gun rack hung over the rear window, a lethal-looking rifle cradled in one set of brackets. What kind of man kept a weapon in his pickup? In Washington some private citizens had permits to carry concealed, but Loni couldn’t recall a single instance when she’d actually seen a gun, unless it was holstered at the hip of a policeman or security guard.
Unaware that he was being watched, Harrigan opened the rear door on the driver’s side of the truck, deposited his beer and frozen dinners on the seat, and then paused to slip a small, round can from the back pocket of his jeans. Loni stared in bewildered wonder as he cupped the can in the half circle of his thumb and forefinger, then sharply flicked his wrist to tap the lid. Chewing tobacco. Just the thought made her want to gag. He tucked a pinch inside his lower lip. Nasty. Didn’t he know that stuff caused mouth cancer? He wouldn’t be so handsome with half of his lower jaw surgically removed.
He glanced in her direction just then. Oh, God. Loni dropped lower on the seat, hoping he couldn’t see her. Why, she didn’t know. She had as much right to be in the parking lot as he did. She felt like a silly adolescent girl spying on a boy. His dark eyes swept past her Suburban and then swung back. He n
udged up the brim of the Stetson and seemed to stare directly at her for a second. Then he frowned, tugged the hat back down, and swung up into the truck with the ease of a man who’d mounted a horse thousands of times.
Loni’s heart was pounding like a kettledrum. She shrank even lower on the seat as his diesel truck rumbled by. Her dream cowboy. He was real. Though she’d always known that, deep down, it still came as a shock to actually see him in the flesh.
After he drove away Loni sat there for a long while, trying to regain her composure and right her senses. When she finally felt safe to drive, she headed straight home. Once locked inside the small house, she collapsed on the russet sofa, so exhausted she could barely move. Clint Harrigan. His image was still so vivid in her mind that she could see the crow’s-feet that fanned out from the corners of his eyes and the deep creases that bracketed his mouth.
Two months ago, when she’d first envisioned him here in this house, her only thought had been to avoid meeting him. Now she had a far more complicated problem: how to let him know his son was in mortal danger without jeopardizing the new life she was trying to create for herself in Crystal Falls. If she spoke to him on the phone, he might have caller ID. She could try the blocking code that the phone company had sent her, but what if it didn’t work? Besides, how likely was he to believe a crazy psychic who telephoned him out of the blue? No. A face-to-face conversation would be better, only then he’d see her face. The consequences of that could be disastrous.
Worrying about it was giving Loni a headache, so she decided to let the problem ride for a few minutes. Sometimes she did her best thinking when she let go and thought about something else.
She pushed up from the sofa, kicked off her pumps, and walked barefoot to the kitchen. After putting the teapot on to boil, she let Hannah in from the backyard. Loose jowls wet with drool, the golden mastiff sniffed Loni’s slacks like a jealous wife searching for the scent of strange perfume.
“No, I haven’t been petting any other dogs,” Loni said with a tremulous laugh that brought her perilously close to tears.
It wasn’t easy to watch two people die. A part of Loni wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened. Only what kind of person could witness a tragedy and then push it from her mind? Loni’s mother and grandmother had tried to teach her how to distance herself from what she saw during visions, but so far Loni hadn’t mastered the techniques. Pretend it’s something on television, her mother, Annabel, lectured. Hold part of yourself back, her grandmother Aislinn advised. Only Loni couldn’t do it. When she touched certain things the visions slammed into her mind with stunning force and without any warning. She never had time to brace herself or distance herself emotionally.
Part of the problem—in fact, most of the problem—was the extraordinary power of Loni’s gift. The strawberry marks on her mother’s and grandmother’s napes were pale pink, while hers was a deep crimson. The mark suggested Loni’s psychic abilities were multifaceted and much stronger than theirs. During their visions they saw everything in black and white, and they couldn’t often pick up on many details. Loni’s visions were in living color, blindingly bright and brutally real. She didn’t only see; she felt people’s pain and terror.
Today in the grocery store, she’d felt the shock of the ice-cold water when little Trevor had plunged into the river, then his panic as he’d fought his way to the surface. Then she’d felt the awful numbness in his limbs as the frigid rapids pummeled him, driving the chill deep into his bones. How could she distance herself from that?
Even worse, how could she stop thinking about it?
Trevor’s clothing would be wet now, and soon night would close in. If he was somewhere in central Oregon, and Loni felt certain he was, the temperatures would abruptly drop when the sun went down, possibly to below freezing before daylight tomorrow. How would the little guy survive?
Desperate to chase the frightening possibilities from her mind, Loni crouched down to touch noses with Hannah. Everyone in the MacEwen family had argued against Loni’s purchasing a Fila Brasileiro mastiff. The breed was renowned for being fiercely loyal, protective of their masters, and sometimes vicious. Hannah had proved everyone right on the first two counts; even at only thirteen months she was suspicious of strangers and diligently guarded Loni’s safety. But vicious? Hannah had a sweet, loving nature and would never hurt anyone without good reason.
“You’re a dear heart, aren’t you?” Loni murmured as she ruffled the dog’s floppy ears and folded her loose jowls up over her nose. “Just look how wonderful you are with Deirdre’s little boys, and all the neighbor kids as well. You aren’t mean. No, you aren’t. You’re Mama’s precious girl. Yes, you are.”
Loni sat back on her heels and grinned. In addition to the fact that Hannah made her feel safe when nightmares of Cheryl Blain brought her screaming awake, the mastiff had also become one of her best friends. Hannah never criticized or passed judgment. Her love was strong, steadfast, and without condition.
“We’re a team,” Loni whispered to her dog. “It’s just you and me, baby.”
As Loni looped her arms around the mastiff’s thick neck, a brilliant white light flared before her eyes, and the next instant she was no longer in the kitchen but in rocky terrain peppered with pine trees. For a moment she felt confused and disoriented, but then her senses sharpened and she saw little Trevor huddled near a large boulder, the faithful Nana sitting beside him.
“You’re my best friend,” the child said to the dog. “We’ll take care of each other. Huh, Nana?”
Loni felt the ache of cold in Trevor’s feet, the icy stiffness of his soaked clothing. The smell of wet dog filled her nostrils. All around her, it was dark—oh, so very dark. Only the sliver of a waning quarter moon lit the landscape.
“I need Boo,” Trevor whimpered.
Boo was the child’s stuffed bear with tattered ears and a snub tail that he’d teethed on as a toddler. At home Trevor always needed his night-light on, with Boo and Nana cuddled close before he could go to sleep. Loni wasn’t sure how she knew that. Her gift had always been strong, but never before had she seen and felt things quite this intensely.
Small body shuddering, the child whispered, “I’m cold, Nana. I’m so cold.”
Still damp from the river, the Saint Bernard whined and licked the child’s face.
“I want my mom and dad,” Trevor cried as he hugged the huge dog’s neck. “I had on my life jacket. How come you didn’t save them instead of me?”
Loni’s heart caught at the sound of the child’s sobs. She wanted to catch him up in her arms and hold him tight, only she couldn’t. Then the scene changed, and other images of the boy and dog flashed and swirled through her mind like the changing patterns of a kaleidoscope, all glazed with red. Loni knew what that meant. Blood. Soon it would come, lots and lots of blood.
The shrill whistle of the teapot jerked Loni back to the present. Running her hand along the wall to stay steady on her feet, she hurried to the stove to lift the pot from the burner. The unexpected lightness of the vessel startled her. The water had boiled nearly dry. How long had she been lost in another reality? Several minutes, at least, possibly as much as a quarter hour.
She became filled with alarm. In the past she’d zoned out long enough for people around her to notice, but never for several minutes on end. More important, she’d touched nothing to bring on the episode.
This wasn’t right; it wasn’t right at all.
Hannah whined up at her. Loni was shaking almost as violently as little Trevor had been. “I’m okay,” she assured the dog. “It’s okay.”
Only it wasn’t okay. She might have had a skillet of food on a burner and started a fire. Always before, her waking visions had come to her only when she’d made physical contact with a person or a possession imbued with an individual’s essence.
Frightened by the implications, Loni called her mother. The moment Annabel heard Loni’s story, she asked, “Is this the only time it’s happened?”
“This isn’t right,” her mom said, echoing Loni’s thoughts. “I’ve never in my life had a vision without something to cue me. What if you’d been driving?”
That possibility had already occurred to Loni. “What am I going to do, Mom?”
Annabel fell quiet. Then she said, “Let me call Gram. She’s much more knowledgeable about all this stuff than I am.”
A few minutes after Loni ended the conversation, the phone rang. She picked up on the first ring, knowing it was her grandmother.
Aislinn MacDuff said, “Well, this is a fine kettle of fish. How many times have you had visions without touching anything to bring them on?”
“Once this evening, and once a couple of months ago. I’m worried, Gram. It’s never happened like this before. Suddenly my gift is more out of control than usual. How can I protect myself if the visions start coming to me willy-nilly?”
“I’m worried, too. When I have a vision, this reality is eclipsed by what I’m seeing in my mind. I’m unaware of anything happening around me until it’s over.”
Loni nodded. “I normally zone out for only a few seconds. This time the teapot almost boiled dry. I’m guessing fifteen minutes, give or take, and the only thing I’d touched was Hannah.”
“This is very serious, Loni. Until it stops, you shouldn’t go out.”
“I can’t do that, Gram. They just finished remodeling my shop this week, and I’m right in the middle of moving in. I’d like to get open for business as fast as possible.”
“You have the proceeds from the sale of your house to cover you financially until you get the shop opened. A couple more weeks won’t send you into bankruptcy.”
