See Me in Your Dreams

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.