Free Mystic Memories by Gillian Doyle, Susan Leslie Liepitz

occasional smoke—or entertained visitors who did.
    She looked around the cabin, wondering about the man who occupied this place. This was his domain. She sensed the power, the independence.
    And a hidden past.
    Cara recalled the startling recurrence of the horrible vision. When she had earlier tried to zero in on Andrew, had she stumbled across the tragic childhood of this man instead?
    She glanced over at the bureau where Masters had been riffling through the drawer. If she could find a personal item, preferably a piece of jewelry, perhaps she could find some clues to her clairvoyant vision. Invasion of privacy was not exactly her favorite thing to do. In her line of business, she often had to breach the private lives of innocent people to find out the truth. There was always justifiable cause, though—a trail of a criminal or a missing person. But was snooping among the belongings of Captain Masters justifiable?
    Not really.
    However, looking for necessary information about her case would certainly be an acceptable reason to explore. For starters, she wanted to know what year it was. Unable to ask anyone without drawing more suspicion to herself, she had hoped to have an opportunity like this one. If her search for a calendar or a captain’s log brought her into contact with some of his personal items, so much the better.

    Walking toward the ship’s galley with his dog at his heels, Blake was certain the widow had lied to him about her husband. On the beach she had said the man had died two years ago. In his cabin, she had claimed to have lost her dear Lars only six short months ago. And it also seemed the Swede might have been Swiss, if not for her adroit explanation that he had chosen not to challenge. What else was she hiding from him? Perhaps she was not a grieving wife at all.
    Blake entered the warm galley as his cook leaned over the oven door and took out a sizable portion of roasted beef and vegetables. Bud crept forward, eager for a handout, only to be shooed away by Keoni, who then slipped the mutt a large bone from the counter.
    “Now get out from under my feet, you old beggar,” he scolded, sending the dog out of the galley to enjoy his treat.
    The aroma of the hot meal wafted under Blake’s nose, prompting a loud rumble from his empty stomach. Keoni gave him a sideways glance.
    “You, too? Here, take this.” The brawny Kanaka tossed a small red apple to Blake, who snatched it out of the air. “You look like hell, Kaikaina .”
    “I appreciate the food, not your opinion.” He bit into the fruit, one of a supply bought from a mission along their coastal run for hides. “Considering what I’ve been through since last night, I’m entitled to look like hell, and I deserve a little sympathy.”
    Keoni laughed off the request for pity. “Not you, oh-great-one. The gods not only save your life, they bring you a woman, too. I say you are entitled to nothing but envy.”
    The mocking respect went unchallenged by Blake. He took another bite, chewed for a moment, then swallowed. “The gods did not bring me that woman. She is a widow searching for her son. Though I suspect you already knew. Your galley is a brew-pot of gossip that rivals an old biddies’ quilting bee.”
    The friendly gibe broadened Keoni’s grin, which soon faded into a serious expression. “Are you going to help her find the boy?”
    “She can’t very well go it alone. A woman? Unescorted? She wouldn’t last a day.”
    “It appears that way.” The cook went back to his chore in the small work space, his dark brows beetled.
    “What bothers you, my friend?”
    “Nothing . . .”
    “You have always spoken your mind to me, Keoni. Don’t tell me you’re going to let your superstitions get the better of you.”
    “It is more than that.” He placed the roast on a large wooden platter with cooked potatoes and carrots, adding a loaf of crusted bread.
    Blake realized there was enough food to feed more than the widow Edwards, and he