that her sister was still alive echoed in his mind. He understood the draw Sara felt, the difficulty in letting a loved one go. Did Sara suffer from survivor guilt as he did?
The sound of a flute echoed in the wind, and he closed his eyes, remembering their marriage ceremony. The traditional Love Flute playing, the fire ceremony with the golden glow illuminating Mara’s beautiful face, the Rite of Seven Steps, the moment the traditional blue blanket had been removed from around them and the white one enfolded them, signifying their new ways of happiness and peace.
Yet that happiness and peace had been shattered a month later with bullets that had been meant for him. Mara had been struck instead and died in his place.
Hell. A fat lot of good his vision or gift, whatever the hell it was, had done him.
He hadn’t foreseen Mara’s death or he might have been able to stop it.
“What should I do, Mara? I don’t want this gift, and I sure as hell don’t want that little girl to have it.”
But he had felt something kinetic pass between them when he’d touched Sara’s tiny hand. He’d seen the dark images in her mind. Felt the violence she felt.
And he’d witnessed a little girl identical to Sara running for her life, disappearing into the dark woods just as Sara had described….
What if Sara was right? What if her sister was alive and in trouble?
“I know I failed you,” Caleb said in a pained voice. “I just pray I do not fail this little girl.”
Madelyn’s big, green eyes and frail smile flashed in his head, and a twinge of guilt assaulted him. He had also experienced a faint flicker of awareness when he’d touched Madelyn, a current of desire he hadn’t felt since Mara.
But that was wrong. Mara had been his wife. He owed her his dedication. His life.
The wind suddenly whipped through the trees, hissing as it tossed dry leaves to the ground and sent them swirling across the cemetery. The scent of wilted roses filled the air, the sound of broken limbs snapping mingled with the echoes of the dead.
He waited, hoped, prayed he would hear Mara’s voice one more time, but a bleak silence followed.
He turned and hurried back to his Jeep, started the engine and peeled from the parking lot. Tomorrow was the exhumation. It wouldn’t be easy for Madelyn.
But nothing personal could or would happen between them.
Not ever.
NIGHTMARES OF MARA AND HIS son tormented Caleb all night. He woke drenched in sweat. No wonder he had connected with Madelyn and her daughter.
He and Madelyn had both lost a child.
A five-mile run and shower, then he grabbed a Thermos of coffee and jumped in his Jeep. But dread filled him as he drove across the mountain to Sanctuary Gardens. The sheriff’s car was parked in the cemetery parking lot, a crew of men a few feet away preparing to exhume the body.
Anxiety needled him as he swerved in beside the patrol car, jammed his hands in the pockets of his jacket and strode toward the sheriff.
Sheriff Gray extended his hand. “You must be Caleb Walker?”
Caleb nodded. “Thanks for arranging this so quickly. You have the paperwork in order?”
Gray indicated the envelope in his hand. “Signature from Madelyn Andrews giving us permission. The license. And—” he gestured toward a tall, white-haired man with glasses wearing a lab coat “—Environmental Health Officer present, as required by law.”
Caleb glanced at the E.H. Officer as he met up with the men designated to dig the grave. The transport service with the second coffin arrived and the driver stepped out, then crossed the graveyard to speak to the sheriff while two men from the funeral home erected a tent around the grave for privacy and to show respect for the grave while the exhumation took place.
Sheriff Gray introduced him to the medical examiner, Dr. Hal Rollo, who seemed pensive as he waited to do his job.
Caleb had witnessed a couple of exhumations before, but none for a child.
The thought made his stomach knot.
“You really believe there’s truth to the woman’s story?” Sheriff Gray asked. “I heard her kid is the one stirring things up, that she claims she sees her dead twin.”
So much for keeping that part of the story under wraps to avoid skepticism. “I guess we’ll know soon enough.”
He followed Gray over to the Lost Angels corner of the cemetery, noting the wrought-iron gate protecting the resting place for the little souls. Ivory doves were perched above a bubbling fountain, and a statue of Jesus, hands folded in prayer as he looked toward the heavens, sat at the head of the plots as if guarding the angels below. Bright flowers, toy trucks, teddy bears, dolls and various other toys had been left as if to keep the children company, marking birthdays and holidays. His throat tightened at the sight. Two rows back, he spotted the marker for Cissy Andrews.
The plot had been well maintained, her marker adorned with plastic sunflowers. A small photo of Madelyn and Sara also sat at the head as if to reassure Cissy she wasn’t forgotten or alone.
Drawn to the spot, he walked over and knelt beside it, his vision blurring as he studied Cissy’s name and birth date. Sometimes touching objects, items of clothing, people triggered his visions.
His hands shook as he reached out to press them over the small grave. Behind him the other men’s voices faded to a distant hum. He hesitated, a sliver of apprehension needling him. He might see nothing.
Or he might see the child’s small body in the ground.
Sucking in a sharp breath, he told himself he had to do this.
Reality slipped away and the wind screamed through the trees as he laid his hand on the mound.
Chapter Three
Madelyn’s emotions pinged back and forth as she drove Sara to her mother’s home. She had already called her assistant at the craft shop and asked her to cover for her for a few days. She needed time to see this through, and Sara needed her.
She so did not want to see Cissy’s grave upturned. Or her body desecrated.
But she’d trusted Dr. Emery and the hospital staff, virtual strangers, with her daughter before, because of her vulnerable emotional state, and she refused to do that now.
She had to know for sure if Cissy was buried and, if not, where she was.
The images Sara had painted tormented her.
Please dear God, if she did survive, let her be okay.
She glanced at Sara who gripped her blanket in one hand, a bouquet of sunflowers in her other for her grandmother. Sara never visited without a bouquet, and she always insisted they were from her and Cissy, not just her. Why was Sara obsessed with sunflowers?
Could her daughter possibly have some kind of psychic ability? Madelyn had never actually believed in anything supernatural, but what if she was wrong?
Perspiration trickled down the back of her neck, and she gripped the steering wheel tighter, mentally giving herself a pep talk as she had over the years.
She could do this. She was strong.
She had Sara, and no matter what happened, nothing was going to change that.
“Mommy, I liked Mr. Firewalker.”
Madelyn smiled, ignoring the tickle in her belly that the mere mention of the man’s name evoked. “I think he liked you, too, sweet pea.” She tousled Sara’s hair, well aware that Sara didn’t always make friends easily. Some of the children in preschool shied away when she boasted about a sister they couldn’t see. “After all, how could he not? You’re adorable and smart and have that gorgeous smile.”