Frank Mulcahey sucked in his breath sharply and made a rapid sign of the cross. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph! What did he mean?”
“He didn’t mean anything,” Megan put in quickly. “She was dreaming. Deirdre, it was just a nightmare. It must have been.”
“But it wasn’t!” Deirdre insisted, gazing at her sister with wide, guileless eyes. “Dennis was here. He was as clear to me as you are. He stood right there and looked at me with such pain and despair. I couldn’t be mistaken.”
“But, darling…”
Her younger sister gave her a look of mingled reproach and pity. “Don’t you think I know the difference between a nightmare and a vision? I’ve had both of them often enough.”
“Of course you have,” their father responded, and turned to glower at Megan. “Just because there are things you cannot see or hear, it doesn’t mean they don’t exist. Why, I could tell you tales that would make your hair stand on end.”
“Yes, and you have on many occasions,” Megan responded, her tart tone of voice softened by the smile she directed at her father.
Frank Mulcahey was a short, wiry man, full of energy and a love of life. At the age of fifteen, he had come to New York from his native Ireland, and he was always ready to tell anyone who would listen how his dreams had all come true in America. He had built a thriving business as a greengrocer, married a beautiful blond American girl and raised a family of healthy, happy children. Only those who knew him well knew of the hardships he had endured—the years of working and scrimping to open his grocery, the death of his beloved wife shortly after Deirdre’s birth, the hard task of raising six children on his own and, finally, the death of his oldest son ten years ago. Many another man would have broken under the blows of fate, but Frank Mulcahey had absorbed them and moved on, his spirit wounded but never vanquished.
In coloring he resembled his daughter Megan; his close-cropped hair was the same warm reddish brown, though now liberally streaked through with gray, and if he had allowed it to grow longer, it would have curled just as riotously. The line of freckles across Megan’s nose came from her father, too, and her eyes were the same mahogany color, their brown depths warmed by an elusive hint of red. They were alike, too, in their drive and determination—and, as Deirdre had pointed out more than once, in their sheer bullheadedness, a fact that had caused them to clash on many occasions.
“Clearly you did not listen to the tales well enough,” Frank told Megan now. “Or you did not keep an open mind.”
Megan knew she would never convince her father of the unlikelihood of her brother returning from the grave, so she tried a different tack. “Why would Dennis come back now? How could he need our help?”
“Why, that’s clear as a bell,” her father responded. “He’s asking us to avenge his death.”
“After ten years?”
“Sure, and he’s waited long enough, don’t you think?” Frank retorted, his Irish brogue thickening in his agitation. “It’s me own fault. I should have gone over there and taken care of that filthy murderin’ English lord as soon as we learned what happened to Dennis. It’s no wonder he’s come back to nudge us. The sin is that he had to. I’ve shirked me duty as a father.”
“Da, don’t.” Megan laid a comforting hand on her father’s arm. “You did nothing wrong. You couldn’t have gone to England when Dennis died. You had children to raise. Deirdre was but ten, and the boys only a little older. You had to stay here and work, and see after us.”
Frank sighed and nodded. “I know. But there’s nothing holding me back now. You’re all grown now. Even the store could get by without me, with your brother Sean helping me run it. There’s nothing to stop me from going to England and taking care of the matter. Hasn’t been for years. It’s remiss I’ve been, and that’s a fact. No wonder Denny had to come and give me a poke.”
“Da, I’m sure that’s not why Dennis came back,” Megan said quickly, casting a look of appeal at her sister. The last thing she wanted was for her father to go running off to England and do God-knew-what in his thirst to avenge his son’s death. He could wind up in jail—or worse—if his temper led him to attack the English lord who had killed Dennis. “Is it, Deirdre?”
To Megan’s dismay, her sister wrinkled her brow and said, “I’m not sure. Dennis didn’t say anything about his death. But he was so distraught, so desperate. It was clear he needs our help.”
“Of course he does.” Frank nodded. “He wants me to avenge his murder.”
“How?” Megan protested, alarmed. “You can’t go over there and take the law into your own hands.”
Her father looked at her. “I didna say I was going to kill the lyin’ bastard—not that I wouldn’t like to, you understand. But I’ll not have a man’s blood on my conscience. I intend to bring him to justice.”
“After all this time? But, Da—”
“Are you suggesting that we stand by and do nothing?” Frank thundered, his brows rising incredulously. “Let the man get away with murdering your brother? I would not have thought it of you.”
“Of course I don’t think he should get away with it,” Megan retorted heatedly, her eyes flashing. “I want him to pay for what he did to Dennis just as much as you do.”
Her brother had been only two years older than she, and they had been very close all their lives, united not only by blood, but also by their similar personalities and their quick, impish wit. Curious, energetic and determined, each of them had wanted to make a mark upon the world. Dennis had yearned to see that world, to explore uncharted territories. Megan had her sights set on becoming a newspaper reporter.
She had achieved her dream, after much persistence landing an assignment on a small New York City rag, writing for the Society section. Through skill, determination and hard work, she had eventually made her way onto the news pages and then to a larger paper. But it had been a bittersweet accomplishment, for Dennis had not been there to share in her joy. He had died on his first journey up the Amazon.
“Aye, I know,” Frank admitted, taking his daughter’s hand and squeezing it. “I spoke in heat. I know you want him punished. We all do.”
“I just don’t know what proof can be found, after all this time,” Megan pointed out.
“There was something more,” Deirdre spoke up. “Dennis was—I think he was searching for something.”
Megan stared at her sister. “Searching for what?”
“I’m not sure. But it was very precious to him. He cannot rest until he has it back.”
“He said that?” Again Megan felt a chill creep up her back. She did not believe that the dead came back to speak with the living. Still…
“He said something about having to find them—or it. I’m not sure,” Deirdre explained. “But I could feel how desperate he was, how much it meant to him.”
“The man killed Dennis for some reason,” their father pointed out, his voice tinged with excitement. “We never knew the why of it, but there must have been one. It would make sense, don’t you think, that it was over some object, something Dennis had that he wanted?”
“And he killed Dennis to get it?” Megan asked. “But what would Dennis have had that the man couldn’t have bought? He is wealthy.”
“Something they found on their trip,” Frank answered. “Something Dennis found.”
“In the jungle?” Megan quirked an eyebrow in disbelief, but even as she said it, her mind went to the history of South America. “Wait. Of course. What did the Spanish find there? Gold. Emeralds. Dennis could have stumbled on an old mine—or wherever it is you get jewels.”
“Of