Sea of Dreams (The American Heroes Series Book 2) (8 page)

As they pulled up to a stop in front of the house, he could see that the attic vents on the pitched roofline were shaped like a cross.  He climbed out of the car, rather fascinated with what he was witnessing.  The house looked like an old California mission that had been converted into living quarters.  Without even knowing anything about the house, he could see that it was very old and very early California authentic.

“So this is the house?” he asked with some amazement, turning to look at her as she rounded the front of the car. “How old is this place?”

Blakesley came to stand next to him, peering up at the house just as he was.  She seemed to have a look of great satisfaction and affection on her face.

“Really, really old,” she told him. “There’s quite a story attached to it.”

He wriggled is eyebrows. “No doubt,” he said. “What’s the story?”

Initial inspection finished and pleased to note that at least the exterior looked intact, Blakesley pulled out a key and began walking towards the wing nearest the driveway.  There was an enormous Spanish-style door with great wrought-iron detailing staring them down.

“Well,” Blakesley said as she fumbled with the key. “My great-great-great grandfather came to San Diego back when California was still part of Mexico.  He fought in the Mexican-American war at the battle of San Pasqual, which isn’t far from here.  He was rewarded for valor in the battle, married a Mexican woman, and settled down in San Diego as one of the first town marshals after California joined the United States.”

Beck watched her fiddle with the very old lock on the door. “Wow,” he exclaimed softly. “That’s very cool.  So you didn’t move to San Diego as much as you were just coming back home again?”

She smiled, having difficulty turning the old tumblers. “Something like that,” she agreed. “Anyway, he built this house in 1847.  It’s one of the oldest homes in San Diego and somewhere around here, there used to be a sign declaring the Benjamin and Dulcinea Earp Home a State of California Historical Landmark.”

He gently pushed her aside to see if he would have better luck with the old lock. “Earp?” he repeated. “Like Wyatt Earp?”

She nodded as he managed to move the tumblers. “Benjamin Outsen Earp was a younger brother of Nicholas Earp, Wyatt’s father,” she told him. “My mother’s father was an Earp, but he had two girls, so my mother inherited the house when he died.  Her name was Mollie Earp Thorne. This is the first time in one hundred and sixty years that an Earp hasn’t owned the house.”

He managed to get the door open but he didn’t go in; he handed her back the key and stared at her. “You’re related to Wyatt Earp?”

“He’s my cousin several generations back.”

He lifted his eyebrows with amazement. “That’s pretty darn cool. I’ve never met anyone famous.”

She grinned. “You still haven’t,” she said as she pushed the door open. “Shall we go in?”

He stepped back, gesturing in gentleman fashion for her to enter first.   The first thing that greeted them was a spectacular wrought iron staircase inlaid with exquisite Spanish tile, twisting up to the gallery on the second floor.  But even though the staircase was intact, they immediately could see that someone had marked up the walls with black and green spray paint, and two of the big stained glass windows that overlooked the staircase were broken.   Blakesley gasped in horror at the sight.

“Oh, no,” she breathed, eyes on the glass windows. “Those windows are well over one hundred years old. I can’t believe they damaged them.”

Beck followed her in to the house, glancing around at a structure rarely seen.  The walls were enormously thick and old adobe tile lined the entry floor.  There seemed to be several levels as well – two steps led into a room to their right while directly in front of them, a small flight of stairs led down into a room beyond. He couldn’t see much of it, but there were certainly stairs everywhere, all inlaid with gorgeous Mexican tile.  The distinctive ambiance of Old California was everywhere.

Blakesley went into the room on their right and he followed.  This room was enormous, at least forty feet in length, with a big vaulted ceiling and great oak beams stretching across the length of it.  Two enormous wrought iron chandeliers hung from the ceiling with only one light bulb between them, and an enormous second floor gallery ran the length of the room on the east side of the chamber.  He could see three doors  up off of the gallery, leading into darkened second floor rooms. The floor of the room was very uneven, and very old, tile, and it seemed as if the entire place was old and dusty and run down.  Even so, the grandeur was not lost. Beck stood in the doorway, looking at the room with surprise.

“Holy Smokes,” he ran a hand through his cropped blond hair. “This is a hell of a room.”

Standing in the middle of the room, Blakesley turned to him and smiled.  “Back when the house was first built, this was the public section of the house. Did you notice there are two wings?”  When he nodded, she continued. “My great-great-great granddaddy used this as kind of a marshal’s office and courtroom and public gathering place all rolled in to one.  Although the Whaley House in old town San Diego was used as the main courthouse, this was kind of annex for the marshal.  Come here and take a look at this.”

She waved him to follow and he came up on her heels as she went into a smaller room just off the main room, one that sat underneath the galleried second floor.  It was very dark inside, the old tile floor uneven and worn, and stuck against one wall of the small room were two very small cells with ancient iron bars. 

Grinning, Beck took a look at the old cells, the doors having long since been removed.  The iron was extremely old, with big fat rivets holding pieces in place.  When Blakesley opened up the blinds over the windows, letting bright white light into the room, he squinted at the brightness but never lost sight of inspecting the cells.

“This is one of the most amazing things I’ve ever seen,” he told her. “Who knew something like this still existed around here?”

She smiled, watching him run his big hands over the iron bars. “The whole house is like this,” she told him. “It was built for public use and since it’s been in the family since it was built, nothing has really been changed.  The other wing was the family living quarters and it’s laid out pretty much like this wing.  I was thinking about restoring all of this and opening this wing to the public for tours.  There’s a lot of history here that people would pay to see and the income would help pay for the upkeep.”

He nodded at her plans, her logic, his green-eyed gaze moving over the low-ceilinged, rather run-down room.

“I think that’s a great idea,” he said sincerely. “I’d pay to come see it. I know a lot of people who would.”

She grinned. “I hope so.”

He took his eyes off the old iron, fixing on her, seeing such a bright and lovely woman. He was becoming more enamored with her by the second.  He reached out, taking her soft hand in his big, calloused fingers.  The touch was pure magic.

“Show me more,” he asked softly.

She did.  Blakesley took him through the entire wing, the upstairs rooms that once had been used for traveling judges and lawmen, the one and only bathroom in the wing that had the oldest fixtures Beck had ever seen, and even a small room in the southeast corner of the house with exterior access that used to house horses. Then she took him to the second wing, which was attached to the other wing by a tiled and overgrown courtyard complete with fountain.

This had been the wing where her cousin and his family had lived for several years and this, they quickly discovered, was where the true vandalism had happened.  Every room had damaged walls, windows or fixtures, which sent Blakesley into a mournful depression.  Most of the fixtures were original and priceless, and the great adobe walls were going to be difficult to repair.  They had even torn a couple of the interior doors off their old hinges, leaving twisted messes in their wake.

Beck inspected the wing along with her, remaining silent as she lamented the damage.   He felt sorry for her, of course, but he also felt a good deal of disgust for the person that created the damage.   They had even stuffed paper, wood and other debris into the chimney of the enormous fireplace in the big living room. As Beck stuck his head into the fireplace to get a better look at the blockage, Blakesley went into the kitchen to see if she could find something with which to dislodge the mess.  Maybe there was a broom or something they could use. Finding a small utility room off the kitchen that had an exterior door leading to the yard, she was rummaging around in a small closet when the back door suddenly jerked open and a body entered.

Startled, Blakesley screamed when she came face to face with a dirty, unfamiliar man. He seemed equally startled.  She screamed again when he seemed to grab her purely as a reflex action, but her fear was short-lived when Beck came flying through the kitchen, dropping the man with a crushing blow to the jaw.  He fell like a stone as Beck grabbed Blakesley and pulled her out of the utility room and back into the kitchen.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his arms still around her. “Did he hurt you?”

She was trembling, pressed against him tightly. “No,” she gasped, shaking her head. “He just scared me.  The back door flew open and there he was, and it just scared me.”

Beck still held her close, his gaze on the body in the next room.  The man was old and bearded, dressed in a green jumpsuit or something like it, all ratty and dirty, that made him look like some kind of maintenance worker.  They could smell him from where he stood; he smelled like old moldy leaves. Giving Blakesley a comforting squeeze, he gently cupped her face, kissed her cheek, and went back out to the utility room.

Beck stood over the man, now beginning to stir, and jabbed him with a steel-toed boot.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low and controlled. “Get up.”

The man groaned and began to roll around.  Blakesley crept back into the utility room, huddling behind Beck’s big presence as Beck shoved the man again with his boot.

“Get up,” Beck commanded again.

The man rolled onto his belly, lifted his head and shook it. “Hey!” he groaned, peering up at Beck and Blakesley. “Why’d you do that?”

“Who the hell are you?” Blakesley demanded, still wedged in behind Beck. “What are you doing in my house?”

The man pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, looking up at Blakesley. “Who are you?”

“I own this house. Who are you?”

The man set back on his heels, still shaking off the bells from Beck’s blow. “Name’s Mike,” he said. “I work for Jimmy.”

“Jimmy?” Beck repeated.

Blakesley stepped out from around Beck, now looking more curious than scared. “Jimmy?” she said. “Jimmy Armstrong?”

“Yep,” Mike nodded his head, looking up at the pair and rubbing his jaw where Beck clobbered him.  “Where is he?”

Beck looked at Blakesley, confused. “Who’s Jimmy?”

Blakesley put her hand on his arm although she was still looking at the man on the floor. “My cousin,” she said softy, her voice growing louder as she addressed Mike. “He doesn’t live here anymore. He left yesterday. What did you do for him?”

Mike shrugged. “Tried to keep the place from overrunning itself,” he said. “Cuttin’ trees, vines, fixing the plumbing, that kind of thing. This place is a lot of work.  He moved out yesterday, you say?”

“Yes,” Blakesley answered. “I live here now.”

Mike stood up, weaving unsteadily.  His gaze was on Beck, the enormous blond man with the pan-sized fists.  He pointed a finger at him. “Did you bring your own army with you?”

Blakesley looked at Beck. “Kind of,” she said, biting off her smile when Beck winked at her. “Look, Mike, I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t need anyone working for me.”

Mike looked at her, looking rather surprised. “You don’t?”

“No.”

“Then who’s going to keep the place up?”

Beck cocked an eyebrow at him. “Not you, that’s for sure,” he said pointedly. “This place looks like hell.  And who trashed it? Can you seriously say you didn’t know Jimmy moved out? Where in the hell were you when he was knocking holes in the walls and breaking windows?”

Mike blinked at the big man as if startled by the words, rubbing his jaw again. “I… I was down in the canyon,” he said, looking uncomfortable and averting his gaze. “I live down there. I didn’t hear nothing.”

“How’s that possible?”

Mike shrugged, inching away from Beck and moving towards the door.  “I sleep down there,” he told him. “There’s an old shaft that’s been around since the old days.  I live in it.”

Blakesley’s curiosity had her; no longer fearful or confused, his words had her interest. “A shaft?” she repeated. “What kind of a shaft?”

Mike looked at her. “It’s dug into the side of the canyon,” he told her. “It used to be a place they’d hide from the Indians and Mexicans back in the old days.  You know there was a lot of trouble around here back when this house was built.  My dad granddad told me so. He was just a young kid, but he remembered the trouble. “

“Show me,” Blakesley commanded softly.

Unfortunately, Blakesley wasn’t dressed to make it down the narrow trail leading down into the canyon.  In her five inch heels, she could barely make it though the rocky back yard.  By the time they reached the path that led into the canyon, she was thinking that she would have to do this another time when she had better shoes on. 

Beck agreed because she had been holding on to him since they’d walked out of the house.  Every little rock or dip had her teetering, so by the time they reached the canyon edge, she was forced to admit she could make it no further.   Mike kept going down the canyon, ignoring Blakesley’s and Beck’s calls to return, finally disappearing in the bramble.  The two of them stood at the edge of the overgrown canyon, peering down into the heavy foliage.

“Well?” Beck turned to her, hands on his hips. “Do you want me to go down there and get him out of there?”

Blakesley shrugged. “If it doesn’t involve covert operations, C-4 explosives and big knives, then I’d don’t suppose it’s worth it to you, huh?”