See Me in Your Dreams

  The McKenna Legacy:

  See Me in Your Dreams

  Patricia Rosemoor

  Copyright © 2010 Patricia Pinianski

  See Me in Your Dreams was previously print-published by Harlequin Intrigue

  In memory of my late husband, Edward Majeski

  Feeling that justice is all too rare in real life, Patricia Rosemoor drives her characters to seek an equitable resolution, no matter the personal sacrifice. Her fascination with "dangerous love" – combining romance with danger – has led her to write various forms of romantic suspense and paranormal romantic thrillers, bringing a different mix of thrills and chills and romance to each book. She believes strongly in breaking down barriers to write crossover fiction that appeals to a large and varied audience.

  The McKenna Legacy

  To My Darling Grandchildren,

  I leave you my love and more. Within thirty-three days of your thirty-third birthday-enough time to know what you are about-you will have in your grasp a legacy of which your dreams are made. Dreams are not always tangible things, but more often are born in the heart. Act selflessly in another’s behalf, and my legacy will be yours.

  Your loving grandmother,

  Moira McKenna

  P.S. Use any other inheritance from me wisely and only for good, lest you destroy yourself or those you love.

  See Me in Your Dreams

  Prologue

  THE DARK SWALLOWED HER WHOLE, making her feel smaller than ever.

  She lay frozen. Waiting. Counting the seconds...the minutes...the hours.

  Finally, the house grew perfectly still.

  Her ragged breath piercing the silence, she gathered her courage and slipped out of bed. She threw off her nightshirt, tugged on soft jeans and an even softer T-shirt. The familiar cotton garments soothed her flesh that was pebbling despite the warmth of the June night.

  She acknowledged her fear.

  And as she stuffed a change of clothing, a sweater and a few personal items into a backpack, her thoughts were as liquid as the waves washing onto shore outside her window.

  Can't stay here any longer.

  Not one minute.

  No more lies.

  She buckled up the backpack. Her hands shook, making her bracelet resonate. Strands of leather intertwined with ancient charms and symbols that she didn't fully understand – and that had somehow become a part of her – tinkled like a fairy windchime.

  Scooting her stockinged feet into high tops, she took a deep breath. She was ready. Except for money. She didn't have enough. She knew where some cash was, though. She'd have to take it.

  That would make me a thief, she thought uneasily.

  No worse than a liar, an inner voice countered.

  A thrill shooting down her spine, she sneaked down the stairs, avoiding the one that creaked. A moment later she was in his study, ransacking his desk for the handful of tens and twenties he always kept available in case of an emergency. She stuffed the cash into her wallet, the wallet into her jeans pocket.

  Returning to the foot of the stairs, backpack straps secured around her shoulders, she stopped for a moment, tears gathering in her eyes...a lump in her throat threatening to choke her.

  Why did he do it?

  Why?

  Now that I know, everything is ruined.

  Sick inside, she rushed toward the front door, knocking into the pedestal, making the new stone sculpture teeter on its base. She caught and steadied the free form that reminded her of an angel about to take flight. Certain her pulse drummed so loud it could be heard in the farthest reaches of the house, she was astonished when no responding sound warned her that she was about to be apprehended.

  Even so, she fled the dwelling as if the hounds of hell were on her heels. She burst into the moonless night, unseeing, moving by rote, by memory tracing her way down into the ravine.

  Brush thrashed around her legs.

  Gasps broke from her heaving chest.

  Lake water battered the nearby shoreline.

  None could drown out the frightened beat of her heart.

  Chapter One

  County Cork, Éire

  AS ALWAYS, WHEN KEELIN MCKENNA entered the work shed behind the old-fashioned thatch-roofed cottage, she sorely missed the solid if diminutive presence who had been part of the place for so many decades. She passed under the bunches of drying herbs and other plants hanging from the rafters, inhaling deeply as she approached the workbench–the healing scents helping to assuage the sorrow that was becoming more distant with each passing day.

  Not that she would ever forget Moira McKenna.

  The year before, at ninety-three, the elderly woman had finally relinquished her earthly existence to join her late, much beloved husband Seamus, and had left Keelin the possession most precious to her – the bit of land with its cottage amidst a field of wild herbs and a carefully cultivated supplemental garden. Over the decades, some of the locals had appointed Moira McKenna healer, while others had disparaged her as witch. Keelin had called the dear woman Gran.

  Knowledge of potions and poultices gathered over the years, from the time she was a toddler at her grandmother's knee, added to the spirit that made her want to help others, were Keelin's true inheritance from the woman who had been the backbone of the McKenna clan.

  She didn't want to think about the other...the darkness that dwelled deep inside her...that, too, had been one of Moira's many facets...the thing that made them both different.

  She shook away the traces of last night's frightening dream and concentrated instead on her purpose. If only her stubborn father had listened to her (if only her voice had been stronger, Keelin thought guiltily) perhaps Da would not have had the heart attack that almost killed him. Well, if she hadn't been vigilant enough before, she would do what she could now.

  Wanting to be at the main house when her father arrived home from hospital, she hurriedly gathered the supplies she needed – root of valerian and dried blue lavender blossoms. Mixing them together, she placed a small handful in each of a dozen muslin pouches. When suspended beneath the tap so that hot water flowed through them, the herbs would make an exquisitely scented fresh infusion that would also be soothing, hopefully relaxing her quick-tempered father and helping him to the restful sleep so necessary to healing.

  Undoubtedly he would refuse any more advanced remedies from her. But, even if he scorned it, rolled his eyes and shook his head as he was wont to do over things he didn't understand, this she could do for him. And one other thing. A truly momentous thing. Perhaps she could bring him some inner peace.

  But how to make the announcement?

  After tying off the last pouch, Keelin gathered all together in a basket, left the shed and headed across the field of wild herbs and over the rolling pasture toward her parents' home. And just in time. Her brother Curran and sister Flanna were helping Da from the car as Ma and Great-aunt Marcella, on short leave from the convent that had been her home for her entire adult life, looked on.

  Basket swinging from her arm, thick auburn hair whipping around her face, Keelin ran to join them. “Da!" she yelled.

  James McKenna turned to wave at his oldest daughter. His whitened hair reflected only glimpses of the red that had once crowned his head. His eyes, though, were still as green as the fields around them, where cows with new calves grazed. They were Moira's eyes. And Flanna's eyes. Like Curran, Keelin had inherited their mother's gray.

  Keelin enveloped the wiry body that should have withstood the curse of high cholesterol, even if her father was a dairy farmer. “How are you doing, Da?”

  "Just grand. Good as new."

  But she could see the lie to Da's words in his eyes. He might be recovering physically, but
his near death experience had affected him deep in his soul, whether he would admit it or no. The reason she had to act, to set things right in the family.

  "See, the sun has even made an appearance to greet me," he said expansively, raising his face to the golden rays.

  Auspicious, Keelin thought, for the weather was more fickle than any lover. Most days were soft with the mist that greened the fields year-round. But the sun could pop in the blink of an eye. A body could take both umbrella and swim suit along on any excursion, for she was sure to have opportunity to use both.

  "Get yourself in the house, James Joseph McKenna, before you expire from heat exhaustion," Keelin's mother Delia demanded. A handsome woman, skin smooth and only a bit of silver threading her black hair, she appeared far younger than her husband, though only five years separated them in truth. "Come along now."

  Da shook his head and made a sound of exasperation even while following orders. "No need to fuss, woman."

  Though all his children knew he loved being fussed over. Keelin exchanged grins with Curran and Flanna. They linked arms, taking up the rear of the group as they entered the two-story limestone house that had for many years sheltered grandparents, parents, and siblings. After Seamus died, however, Moira had moved back to her old cottage. Then, lured away by fine horseflesh, Curran had gone off to Galway; Flanna had entered university in Dublin, after which, she'd chosen to stay to design her jewelry; while Keelin herself had taken a flat in Cork to be near the herbalist shop she ran with two other women. That is, until Moira's inheritance had made a commuter of her.

  At the doorway, Keelin automatically dipped her fingers into the small font of holy water and crossed herself as she entered the foyer. For the past several years, her parents alone had wandered the rambling rooms with tall bay windows and views of the rolling pastures that were green year round. The exception being holidays and the like, when grand stories and laughter once more filled the house. Perhaps she would be able to make certain that soon more such occasions would present themselves, Keelin thought with hope, still wondering how she would tell Da what she was about to do.

  Her father settled in his great stuffed chair before the stone fireplace and looked around him. "Ah, this is satisfying to a simple man such as myself. Having me whole family in attendance."

  "Not your whole family," Marcella corrected him, straightening the collar of her habit. The elderly nun had never been one to mince words.

  "Now, Sister Mary, don't you be bringing them up," he complained.

  "Da, it was you who brought up the subject when you were in a desperate way," Flanna reminded him. "You wished the three could be together one last time before you died!"

  Bless her soul, Keelin thought, gathering her courage.

  "Well, I didn't die, did I?" With the full drama of a true Irishman sorely beleaguered, he said, "And they didn't care enough to come to my side when I was near death, so why should I be giving them a thought?"

  "Ah, Da, you're being unreasonable," Curran told him, swiping his thick black hair away from his forehead. "You wouldn't let us contact them so they would know you were sick in the first place."

  With the way of her Murphy ancestors, Delia teased, "You always did have a bit o' the blarney in you, James. Tsk, tsk, tsk. You know you want a wee peak at Rose and Raymond again..." She suddenly sobered. "God willing."

  An uneasy silence muted all voices for a moment. Keelin hadn't considered her aunt or uncle might have gone on – and her never having set eyes on either of them. She couldn't tell himself what she was about, then. Couldn't raise Da's hopes. A refusal from one of the other two triplets would be bad enough. But if one of them weren't even alive...

  Shaking away the chilling thought, Keelin quickly reconnoitered. "I have an announcement." Though not the one she'd intended.

  Five pairs of quizzical eyes turned to her.

  Da asked, "What is it, lass?"

  "I'm going on a trip. Tomorrow morning, as a matter of fact. Business." Her mouth went dry with the lie. "To meet with other herbalists." Heat rose along her neck like fairy fire. "And it's out of the country."

  "Where to?"

  Taking a big breath, she said, "America," and waited for an explosion of temper.

  "DA'S SUSPICIOUS, YOU KNOW."

  The expected outburst never having come, Keelin still pretended innocence as she and Flanna entered her white-washed, thatch-roofed cottage after supper. "Of what?"

  "I'm neither blind nor daft, Keelin. Nor is anyone else in our family. Everyone is feigning ignorance, when in truth your intentions to contact Aunt Rose and Uncle Raymond are as clear as the waters of Lough Danaan," she said of the small lake edging the McKenna property.

  Keelin moved to the peat-burning stove where the kettle was on the boil. "You do know me."

  "You never could tell a falsehood without turning as red as your hair."

  So true. Keelin sighed. "Tea?"

  "That'd be grand."

  The cottage was merely two rooms, the larger for living, the smaller for sleeping– part of the original bedroom having been converted to a bath. Keelin loved Moira's old house, the place where her grandmother had lived alone before Seamus had come to her rescue when she was in dire straits, and she in turn had tamed his wild heart. The cottage was simple as were the furnishings, but neither mattered to Keelin.

  While she prepared the relaxing chamomile, Flanna fetched the mugs and placed them on the table, then searched the icebox for a lemon and milk. No words passed between them. They'd always had a special rapport, working together seamlessly, as if they had somehow been connected in the womb despite the three years between them. Connected and yet nothing alike. Green-eyed, strawberry blonde, petite but well-filled out, Flanna turned heads. And she was as bold as they came, Keelin knew. Unlike herself. Sometimes she envied her younger sister's outgoing spirit and sense of adventure. By comparison, she was but a mouse.

  "So how will you go about it?" Flanna asked when Keelin set down the teapot and slid into the vacant chair.

  Keelin poured the steaming, aromatic liquid. "Several of the American cousins wrote Gran. She kept the letters in their envelopes, so I have the addresses."

  "Then you'll approach Raymond and Rose through their children." Flanna gave her tea a squeeze of lemon.

  Adding a bit of milk to hers, Keelin nodded. "I thought it a wise idea. I'm certain I'll be needing their help in reuniting three of the most stubborn Irish I've ever heard tell of."

  "The wound goes deep – more than thirty years."

  "Long enough."

  "Aye."

  Dreamily, Keelin sipped at her tea. "I was imagining how grand it would be if they could celebrate their sixtieth birthday together this October with as many McKennas as could be gathered round them."

  "If Rose and Raymond are both still alive," Flanna said softly, echoing Keelin's worst fear.

  "They must be. For Da's sake."

  Later, after Flanna left to retire to the bedroom their parents kept for her, Keelin had reason to further contemplate birthdays. She'd passed her thirty-third unnoticed while Da was in hospital. The day had transpired like any other...except for her thinking heavily on Moira's last words to her.

  Entering the bedroom, she lifted the top of the ancient music box that she'd bought from a Traveller recently, and removed a thick, cream-colored sheet of paper. She sat on the edge of her lace-trimmed bed to once again study the missive written in her grandmother's steady hand.

  To my darling Keelin,

  I leave you my love and more. Within thirty-three days after your thirty-third birthday – enough time to know what you are about – you will have in your grasp a legacy of which your dreams are made. Dreams are not always tangible things, but more often are born in the heart. Act selflessly in another's behalf, and my legacy shall be yours.

  Your loving grandmother,

  Moira McKenna

  P.S. Use any other inheritance from me wisely and only for good lest you harm yourself
or those you love.

  Flanna and Curran both had received like missives, and Keelin supposed the thick cream envelopes the solicitor had sent to the American cousins held more of the same. She had been well and truly caught by the spirit of Moira's bequest to her grandchildren. Moira had wanted them to be happy after the way each of her own children had tainted their personal lives with intolerance and jealousy.

  She and her siblings had poured over the contents of the letter together several times throughout the past year, wondering if their grandmother, truly something of a bean feasa – an old woman with magical powers – could have seen into their futures. Wondering if there was any validity to this legacy that held both fascination and burden for each inheritor.

  Keelin read Gran's words yet again.

  Within thirty-three days after your thirty-third birthday...

  Not even two weeks to go.

  And the reference to dreams reminded her of the one she'd had the night before.

  Act selflessly in another's behalf...

  Keelin swept away a nagging guilt. This was different than the last time, she assured herself. Different from all the others. She didn't know these eyes she saw through. They belonged to a stranger in a strange place. Therefore, she had no control.

  Perhaps this dream had been just that, she thought desperately. A dream rather than one of her dreaded night terrors. Keelin considered. A young woman running away – and her off to America. Of course. That had to be the thing.

  Had to be.

  THE CITY WAS ALWAYS A SCARY PLACE. At night, it was even worse, overflowing with menacing people. Raggedy homeless with blank stares. Uniformed policemen with too sharp gazes. Billed-capped gang members with hot, hungry eyes.

  The stuff nightmares were made of.

  She wasn't very brave, but she forced herself to continue on. Hands stuffed into pockets, head down so she wouldn't have to look at anyone, she rushed east along Monroe Street, taking the bridge over the railroad yard. One foot in front of the other.