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 Color-- -1- -2- -3- -4- -5- -6- -7- -8- -9-Text Size-- 10-- 11-- 12-- 13-- 14-- 15-- 16-- 17-- 18-- 19-- 20-- 21-- 22-- 23-- 24In My DreamsBySusan SizemoreContentsPrologueChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter TenChapter ElevenChapter TwelveChapter ThirteenChapter FourteenChapter FifteenChapter SixteenChapter SeventeenChapter EighteenChapter NineteenChapter TwentyChapter Twenty-OneChapter Twenty-TwoChapter Twenty-ThreeEpilogue STRANGER IN A STRANGE LAND Sammy looked around and scratched his head. "This place really looks familiar, but it's certainly not California." He peered at Brianna, squinting. "Am I in Ireland?""Eire?" she questioned back."Yeah, Eire. Ireland."She nodded.His tanned face went pale, his eyes widened in shock. His breath caught in a gasp. He stumbled and sat down on a block of stone just outside the hut."Sammy?"He looked at Brianna in a dazed way that frightened her. She took his hands and he held on to her tightly."How did I get to Ireland?" he asked."I called you here," she admitted, certain now that the singing spell had worked. "Across the sea to me." Books by Susan Sizemore Wings of the StormMy First DuchessMy Own True LoveIn My DreamsNothing Else MattersAfter the StormThe Autumn Lord*Published by HarperPaperbacks *coming soon This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.HarperPaperbacks A Division of HarperCollins Publishers10 East 53rd Street, New York, N.Y. 10022Copyright 1994 by Susan Sizemore Cover illustration by John Ennis First printing: October 1994Special edition printing: February 1996 Printed in the United States of America HarperPaperbacks, HarperMonogram, and colophon are trademarks of HarperCollins Publishers This book is dedicated to Carolyn Marino,who encourages me in my writing,and Karen Solem, who lets her.In all other ways they are responsible adults.AcknowledgmentsFor technical assistance on this book I want to thank Jody Lynn Nye, who knows Irish history; Jane Kauf-fenberg, who knows how to break bricks with her bare hands; Marguerite Krause, who rides motorcycles and plays French horn (not usually at the same time); and Susan Kay Law, who owns a laser printer.PrologueLos Angeles, a.d. 1993"My last girlfriend said I'm more like a golden retriever than a pit bull. What do you think she meant by that?"The tattoo artist didn't reply but kept on working on the white crane he was putting on Sammy's bicep. Sammy thought maybe he better keep quiet rather than distract the man. He wouldn't want to end up ruining a masterpiece he was going to be wearing permanently on his skin.Still, he was puzzled about why Cary had said what she did, and then smiled, kissed him, and rode off up Highway 1 with another guy. He wasn't upset, just puzzled. Having ex-girlfriends was standard operating procedure for Sammy. He liked it that way. Once he thought he'd met a girl he could settle down with, but that had been a big mistake. He knew now that he was meant to be a loner."You're nice, that's what she meant," Joe, the tattoo artist, answered after a few minutes. "Nicest guy I ever met. You have this way of taking in birds with broken wings."Sammy laughed. "Right.""You do. You fix their wings then they fly away.""That's for sure.""Every girlfriend of yours I've ever met says you're the best thing that ever happened to them. You've been the best man at lots of their weddings.""I was asked to be maid of honor once, too.""1 remember that. Well, you were Lois's best friend. Like I said, you're nice. Everybody likes you. Women love you, guys like you. I even like you. You're disgusting."Sammy snorted. "Nice isn't good for my image.""So you're a fourth dan black belt," Joe said. "A fourth dan black belt in karate can afford to be nice.""Yeah, I guess." Sammy would have shrugged but that really would have messed up the design of the tattoo. "This hurts like hell, you know."Joe was covered in colorful tats from head to toe; of course he knew it hurt. He just chuckled.This was Sammy's first tattoo, and he'd been putting it off for years because he decidedly did not like needles. Just about everybody he knew had tats, all of the guys and plenty of the women. Sammy'd always intended to get one but kept putting it off, waiting for inspiration.The only reason he'd finally come to his friend's Sunset Boulevard hole-in-the-wall shop as a customer was the dream. He'd been dreaming about this big white bird off and on for weeks. Sometimes the bird changed into a woman, but he could never quite make out what she looked like. So finally he'd decided it was a sign. Cary, who was into shamanism, had taught him about spirit guides. His way was more Zen than Native American, but he could get into the idea of a totem animal. He'd figured the white crane was his totem. Besides, the design Joe had come up with when Sammy told him what he wanted was fantastic."This is going to be sore for a few days," Joe said when he finally put the needles away.Sammy rolled his shoulder while he looked at his arm in the wall mirror. "Looks good." He could deal with pain, it was just a matter of training and concentration. And pure dumb endurance. "Looks real good." He stood up, pushed his heavy blond curls out of his face, and reached for his motorcycle helmet. "Gotta go," he said. "Got a class to teach."Joe just nodded, not mentioning a bill, and Sammy left the shop with a wave and a grin as he went out the door. When he reached the Santa Monica Freeway, riding his Harley toward Venice Beach, he heard the singing.Again.Above the roar of the engine and the heavy traffic, a haunting voice—a clear, sweet soprano—did just that: it haunted him. He didn't get it. It worried him a lot.The voice sure was pretty."You ever been to Ireland, Brother Bill?" Sammy asked the question out loud but also with his hands, since his friend was deaf. Sammy also knew the answer even before he asked his burly, bearded, and bald drinking buddy. The farthest Bill had ever been was Milwaukee, Wisconsin. And, of course, Sturgis. Bill and his club, Holy Thunder, went to the August biker gathering in South Dakota every year to preach the Good Word to other bikers.Sammy usually went with them, but he wouldn't be going this year. Not with Jerry Park's trial scheduled for August, which was only three weeks away. The rally was important to Sammy, but not as important as seeing justice done."Ireland?" Bill asked, his hands moving in the elegant motions of American Sign Language. "Why would I want to go to Ireland?""It's pretty there," Sammy signed back. "Rains a lot, but that makes it real green and moody. I like it there."Sammy leaned back and propped his big feet up on Bill's battered old desk. Every piece of furniture in this warehouse converted into a mission was bruised and beaten up but comfortable. Brother Bill believed the folks he took in should be comfortable."I spent a month in Ireland right after I got out of the marines. Did I ever tell you about Mary? She was an archaeologist."Brother Bill chuckled. "Another girlfriend.""Yeah. I rented this tiny little car and just drove around, you know? You wouldn't believe what passes for roads over there." Sammy smiled at the memories. The driving had been a challenge, and he liked challenges. "My car broke down just as I got to this old village some archaeologists were digging up. That's where I met Mary. She was a graduate student. She taught me a lot."Bill snorted. "I bet.""Yeah, we spent a couple weeks together, but I meant she taught me about Irish history. This village, it had all these little stone houses people lived in over a thousand years ago. I helped them dig up this old church that had been burned down." Sammy traced his fingers over the Harley-Davidson logo on his wide silver belt buckle, and then resumed signing. "It was ugly, the way the Vikings destroyed that place. A real shame. You know, I've always wished there was some way I could have helped those people.""You can't change the past, son.""I know. But working the dig taught me that nothing's really new. 1 remember we found this carving—it was all full of curlicues and stuff—but I swear it was the Harley eagle all done up to look Irish."Brother Bill savored another sip of beer before he signed, "There's nothing new under the sun, says so in the Scriptures.""Yeah, I guess." Sammy ran a hand through his unruly hair, which was still damp. He'd taken a shower after teaching a self-defense class to some battered women who'd run away from their old men and ended up at Bill's warehouse.Bill leaned forward. "You have the look of a worried man under that dumb I-don't-need-nothing-or-nobody act of yours. What's the matter, son?"Sammy didn't like to think of his attitude as a dumb act, he just liked to leave himself cheerfully open to whatever came his way without any needs or wants getting in the way—it was a Zen thing. Brother Bill was perceptive, and he never judged anybody.Sammy considered just saying that he was pissed off about what the women he was teaching had gone through. He was, but that wasn't his immediate concern. He had to talk to somebody about this, though."Okay," Sammy admitted, "I think I'm losing it. Big time.""Losing it?""My mind. I'm goin' crazy, man." Sammy slapped his feet down off the desk and stood; years of martial arts training made... [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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