The Heart Sees

By Jeanine Duval Spikes

Djasakid. Locator. One who walks in the Land of Souls. Mi’kmaq Indian George Thibeau believes his solitary existence is the price for such a gift. His life path is simple. Dedication to his work with Canadian law enforcement keeps him busy, but passion for his work with tribal youth at his summer camp fills the void. Camp of the Singing Winds is his refuge. There are no furtive glances. He is neither judged- nor feared...​

Dreams. For months Samantha Maillet has dreamed... of a place that both frightens and intrigues her. Of a man whose eyes speak of fire. Of belonging. Images that fill her nights, but not her days. Until now. George Thibeau is the man of her dreams- literally. When a company shake-up lands her at Singing Winds, the meaning she’s been searching for, the belonging, slowly grows. So do her feelings for George. But is this real? Or part of the dream?

They flirt with hope of a future together until a child goes missing, and the search for her forces them to face the truth: To choose her could cost George his gift. To choose him could cost Samantha her belonging.

A woman he should not love, a man who could shatter her dream, a love that would find a way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeanine Duval Spikes
• Release date: Dec 14, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311246523

Jeanine Duval Spikes

Jeanine Duval Spikes is a spinner of tales – romantic adventure with a touch of the supernatural. Lifelong research and experience with the paranormal infuse her stories with spirit while belief in love fills them with heart. A former paranormal investigator, she still jumps in when the need arises, bringing old school talent to a now more high-tech field. When not writing or researching, you can find her cooking, gardening, horseback riding, or forever getting lost in secondhand shops. The mother of two grown sons, she lives in Rhode Island, the Ocean State, with her very own hero-husband Tim, their rambunctious Schnauzer mix rescue Chloe, and a ‘wrangle that’ yard.She is also known as JD Spikes, author of The Secret Journals collection. Spooky stories for teens about Guys, Girls and Things that Go Bump in the Night.

Book preview

Introduction

Nova Scotia, Canada, twenty years ago~

He sat on the rug in her living room, the fire burning brightly at his back while the dim of evening spun itself out beyond her window. He and his best friend had been here earlier, to hear the warrior stories, but George had come back. He knew the old medicine woman would expect it of him. She didn’t treat him like he was only ten.

She held the smoldering sage bundle before him, and George scooped the smoke to waft it over his body with a prayer. Embrace it into his soul. When he finished she nodded her approval and began the lesson.

In the time of our fathers there was a leader. One who could find food in the drought, a missing child, escape from our enemies when there would seem none.

Vision Woman kept her voice low, and George leaned forward to catch every word. Her gaze shifted back and forth between him and the fire, then landed on him and held. The bright old eyes locked on his.

This leader had a gift, beyond the Shaman. He could speak with the ancestors, yes, but he spoke the language of the guides, too. And he could walk with spirit, along the road to Waso’q and into it. Among the ancestors and the Ancients…

Chapter 1

He did not often dream. George Thibeau spent too much time chasing shadows in daylight to be bothered with their puzzles in the night. He had found a way to close down for sleep at day’s end that even the spirit realm seldom breached.

This was not spirit or dream, though it tried to hide within dream’s cover. He’d not felt this weight before, nor had his temper worn through his patience. Time to force the hand of who, or what, kept vigil at his back.

George repositioned himself, lying flat with palms up across his hips, in preparation for his crossing. He breathed in, deep and slow. Shadows took shape around him, both guides and guardians recognizing the signs.

In moments, he stood at the precipice and stepped forward. Beyond the grey divide the pond emerged, draped in night, the scene this particular haunt had created to lure him over.

Gooseflesh bumped up between his shoulders. A warning? He held his ground, his back to the dark. Watched.

He would learn its identity.

Brows drawing downward, he turned…

* * *

Eyes. Eyes dark as night searched her out. Eyes that beckoned. Probed.

Samantha Maillet stumbled back. Blackness enveloped her, and she hit something solid. She reached blindly across its surface. Her hand landed on a familiar object, and she slammed the switch upward.

Light flooded the room. She sagged against the wall, her breath a shallow rattle in her throat. The dream faded. Her clenched heart restarted in her chest as the cool of the wall seeped through her cotton tank.

Her bedroom. Yet her acute relief warred with bitter disappointment.

What the hell was going on?

Tea, she announced, the sound of her voice in the quiet of the room solidifying her presence. I need tea.

She made her way to the kitchen. The dim light from the stove hood pushed shadows to the corners. She pulled a cup from the cupboard and set about making tea. Her gaze sought the orange glow of the oven clock though she knew it was way too early to be awake.

She forced herself to relax. It’s just that dream. There’s no reason to be afraid. Quiet descended, until Amy Hastings, her best friend, scuffed into the kitchen with a yawn.

It’s 3 a.m., Sam. Why on earth are you up? Is everything okay?

Sam dangled her tea cup as question, and Amy nodded yes. Pulling another cup from the cupboard, Sam heaved a sigh and decided to confide in her friend. Sort of.

Just a dream, Ames.

Amy donned her ‘Keep talking trash’ look. Then it was pretty vivid, because I heard the thump.

Sam allowed a tight smile to stretch her lips, but avoided eye contact.

She believed in dreams, and Amy knew it. She even studied dream interpretation as a hobby and had become quite skilled at it.

But this. This dream felt so real, she’d swear the scent of pine lingered on her clothing.

She would not be telling Amy that yet.

It was disturbing. But I’m over it. Or will be once I’ve had my tea.

Amy stared at her a moment then grinned. You’ll get over it faster if you share.

Probably true. Sam pulled out a chair and sat, and Amy did the same.

Elbows propped on the table, Amy leaned forward. So spill.

Sam sighed and rubbed her hands together in her lap. A light chill tickled her neck, and she fought the urge to shake it off. This dream. It’s usually pretty benign.

Usually? So it’s recurring?

Yeah. Except, Sam paused. It’s changing.

Amy tilted her head. I thought recurring dreams always stay the same.

In theory. Apparently not in practice. Sam gave in to the next shudder but disguised it as a shrug. I guess that’s what’s throwing me. I’m sure it’s just the mess of symbols that need decoding, but if it’s going to start shifting, how will I figure it out?

The teapot whistled, the warm comfort of steam filling the kitchen as the two women prepared their tea. Sam brought a plate of cookies to the table, and they snacked and talked some more, then headed back to bed.

She hugged Amy at the guest room door, You really are a best friend.

Back in her own room, she crawled into bed and pulled the covers up tight beneath her chin. The long tendrils of dreamtime reached for her. Once again, her heart pounded, but this time she knew the truth. More than fear hammered her heart. Warmth flooded her, starting low in her belly and spreading through her, forehead to toes. Her heart beat faster still.

Desire.

Him.

She flipped the covers off and rolled to her stomach. Yes, she had dreamed before of the place; the pond, the path, the moonlight so familiar she had even asked her mother about it, hoping to rediscover a lost memory from childhood.

The man, though, was a recent addition. A to-die-for addition, if she dared to admit it.

A blush flashed through her, embarrassment mixed in with the heat.

This is crazy, she mumbled into her pillow.

And it was costing her sleep.

Samantha rolled again and tugged the covers back up, over her face. The crisp sheet cooled her, and she sighed on a silent vow: I will NOT dream. When sleep comes, I won’t think and I won’t dream.

Emptying her mind, she drifted off and settled into deeper sleep. Twisting in her covers, she felt the pull, knowing on some level what would come, but powerless to stop it. A thin sheen of cold sweat beaded her forehead, and she tried to swipe it away. Her leaden hand dropped to the pillow. She moved along the misted path, her dragging feet unable to slow her.

She had no choice. The dream led to her future, the puzzle of her place here hidden in its symbols. The Indian man might not be an intimate part of that future for she claimed no Indian blood, but he must hold the key. If she could only be brave enough to face him, perhaps she could wrest it away.

That face. Her lips parted on a quivering sigh.

Risk loomed yet she waited, breathless, near the edge of the path. Hidden. She hoped. The full moon hung large and round in the night sky, its brightness blotting out the lesser light of nearby stars, making her feel exposed. She peered through the thicket, straining to see.

Someone was out there, she was sure of it. She eased cautiously to her right in the eerie quiet. The presence pulled at her, like the branch hooked on her sleeve. She plucked the twig away and leaned further.

Now she could see the pond, the moonlight dissolved on a silvery surface. She held her breath.

Materializing before her eyes, a figure appeared at the water’s edge. Raven hair flowed like a satin river down his back reaching his waist, the smooth skin of his broad shoulders a burnished mahogany in the moonlight. His profile revealed a face chiseled by shadow and light. Stern, but not forbidding. Intense. Determined. Of the forest.

He lifted his left arm high into the air, muscles defined by the movement, and a small bird landed on his hand. Brought near to be heard, the tiny creature showed no fear. Its message delivered, the bird took flight. She watched as it disappeared across the water.

Switching her attention back to the man, she tensed. He had cocked his ear in her direction. If he turned, would he spot her? She thought herself safe, hidden, and yet—

Without warning he swung about, and she found herself pinned by the deepest, darkest eyes she had ever encountered. They blazed with an intensity that seared her to her core. He stilled her heart, even as he made it pound beneath her ribs. There surely was no more handsome a man on earth.

He placed his right hand against his heart, thumb and fingers pointing down, slightly cupped. She realized with a start he was signing. His movements were graceful but his expression urgent. Finished, he dropped his arms to his sides, but his stance remained tense as if awaiting her response. If he saw her, how would she explain that she didn’t understand?

He stepped toward her, his eyes never leaving hers, the directness of his gaze rooting her to the spot.

Just when she believed she would burn in their fiery black depths, he held out his hand to her and said, in a voice deep and resonant, Do not be afraid.

Chapter 2

I will have your answer, Runs With Lightning. The old woman’s Mi’kmaq words stung, with the door not yet closed behind him.

George let his tribal name wash over him, relishing the sound if not the tone in which it was spoken. It had been months since he’d heard it and fitting that his tribe’s Medicine Woman be the first to use it.

He switched gears, an automatic pocketing of his work self, as he embraced his home and language. The outside world would not intrude on the return to his mentor. He never missed a visit with Vision Woman when he came home to the reservation.

Some would snicker at this, secretly or not-so-secretly. Even a few of the elders shook their heads. That didn’t bother him. Their belief it was time he take her place was misguided. Many of the young might not understand her or her medicines and vision magic, but he would change that. Prove she was not just a foolish old woman, beyond her time.

So he endured the ribbing and the smiles. His visits made him more aware—of his people, of their ways, of himself, and they made Vision Woman happy.

At least, they usually made her happy. Today, though, she was in a mood.

Bossy as always, Old Woman, he answered back. His attempt at gruffness, as usual, failed. He watched her try on a frown and laughed to break her ill-humor, bending low to touch his cheek to hers. His unbound hair slid forward over his shoulders but he ignored it, waiting for her words of welcome so he could speak with her about the dreams.

I said, I will have your answer. Now.

Her lack of welcome held him unmoving, though her house beckoned. The scents of sage and sweet grass, long burned into memory, clung to the parlor air. It would dissolve to woodland herbs on approach to her kitchen, the center of her existence and the scene of many a childhood outburst from him that eventually bloomed into knowledge.

His gaze flicked around the room beyond her. He craved the familiar comfort of sinking into the short overstuffed couch, feet stretched to the fire while Vision Woman spoke or shared the silence. She would occupy the wingback, her chair. It all but swallowed her from sight, yet could not conceal her presence. That, to him, overwhelmed all else in this house.

He considered. She had let him in before he knocked, obviously watchful of his approach. She had seen him arrive in her dream last night, she had told him on the telephone at breakfast, and Wind had whispered it to her again at dawn.

She frowned in earnest now, shaking her head. I will not die on you on the way. I will not be a burden. I travel light.

It was his turn for sternness. He mustered as fierce an expression as he dared.

She refused to retreat, her legendary stubbornness on full display in the set of her jaw and the tone of her voice. Forget your warface, Stormchaser. It does not work on me as it does the others.

His resolve slipped, her use of his nickname touching him. She had bestowed it on him in his teens, as a sign of his passage to manhood and her belief in his judgment and strength of character. Yet in the same breath she called him to task. The insult could not be ignored.

I am not afraid to take you to the States, Vision Woman. You will want to stay in Rhode Island at least a week though, will you not? I cannot say when I might take such an extended leave. And I would have you go in fair weather, to better enjoy your stay.

I will have your answer, she replied, her tone still mulish.

George stalked the four steps to her wide front window. Arms folded across his chest and brows drawn, he braced his legs for battle.

Restlessness dusted the air. Anticipation scuttled across the floorboards. He turned. The sight of the slight woman standing but two feet behind him, staring crossly, back rigid with pride, softened him further. He threw his arms up. "Yes, Old Woman. Yes. You know I will take you. But when I say we go. Agreed?"

She looked at him, defiance still bright in her eyes, but she had taught him well.

Agreed? he repeated, refolding his arms, re-establishing his frown.

Agreed. With the short reply she spread her arms toward him in her traditional greeting. "Kji-niskam is good to return you to us."

Before he could respond she hurried off toward the kitchen, so he followed. While he watched from the threshold, Vision Woman gathered several items from a small corner cabinet, the only clutter in her otherwise neat kitchen, and arranged them on the table. Familiarity settled on him like hide in Winter, warm and comforting, and he relaxed.

Until he noticed the difference in her kitchen.

His radar flicked to life, heightening his focus, his attention to detail. Her window was covered, reserved for matters of great import, her ceremonial shawl draped across her chair. She had brought out her medicine bag, and wore her beaded belt tied around her waist.

Vision Woman knew he would recognize all these signs, so many the hours he had spent in her tutelage. Why would she disrupt his refuge on his first day back?

Water bubbled on the stove. Two wooden cups sat on the table, a small woven basket on the counter top. She poured the water into a wooden bowl and brought it to the table. Running her finger along the neckline of her shift, she pulled forth a leather pouch that dangled from a rawhide strip around her neck.

She motioned him to sit. Once he was settled she stood in front of her chair, across the worn but gleaming table, and began adding to the steaming bowl from her assortment of goods.

He was not sure what most of her ingredients were today, but was sure that he didn’t want to know, or he might not care to drink. He tried to clear his mind as she had taught him, but couldn’t.

What was the Old Woman up to? She pinched and broke, scattered and stirred, and her murmured singsong of ancient words filled the air.

He darted a look behind him. Restlessness again shimmered through, expectation on its heels. They were beginning to feel like old friends.

Vision Woman said his name, and he caught the words for destiny and settle. She held her hands over the bowl and swayed gently, then dance walked to the counter top. She picked up the miniature basket from which dangled four narrow leather strips covered with jingles. The snipped metal clinked with her movement as she made her way back to the table.

Gooseflesh rose between his shoulders. He took a deep breath and watched with keen interest, trying to distinguish her mumbled words.

Wiping her brow, she shook a finger at him as she did so, still speaking in their native tongue. Do not ruin my work by not cooperating. Clear yourself. You will know soon enough.

Chastised, he obeyed, and lowered his eyes as Vision Woman bowed low over the bowl, waving the steam first to her form then to the sky. She lifted the basket to the ceiling, evidenced by the rattling ascent of the jingles. His sharp ears followed the sound as she honored the four directions, toward the window for the heavens, the bowl and cups and their contents for Earth. All the while she continued her chant, calling on the sacred spirits to guide and guard and keep mischief away.

A creak of wood indicated she was finished and seated. George lifted his gaze. Her head was bowed. Suddenly she raised her face to his but repressed her smile. Bringing the bowl toward her, she dipped the cups into it, placing one in front of him and one in front of herself.

He waited for her to sip, but again she surprised him. You must drink first, Stormchaser. It is the way with this ritual.

He did not hesitate to do her bidding. To his surprise, the brew was not uninviting. There was a back taste to it that, while strong and woodsy, was not unpleasant.

Ah, Stormchaser, we begin your journey at last. Both relief and excitement colored her voice. We will send you down the path awaiting your footprints, the one that must run together with your present trail if you are to find happiness. Wind whispered to me this morning of your coming, and Brother Wolf called for your attention even as you made your way home. Brother Wolf has need of you. He will show you the way. She took a swallow from her cup. Drink, for I have waited long to see this day.

His journey? She obviously did not refer to their future trip to the States. Wariness tempered his curiosity. Following her lead, he drank the rest of the potion down in one long swallow, trapping the floating ingredients as best he could and spitting them back into the wooden cup.

She took it from him and gazed into it; closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Her words were measured.

You will be called upon for a great favor, to do a small deed. It will not seem so at the time, but you must accept. Brother Wolf will guide you. Listen to him. This small deed will start you down the path to a great deed. It is there that you will find your answer.

But I have no question. The words escaped him, uttered without thought, and he stared at her. She seemed unsurprised by his remark, not angry he had spoken before the ritual was over. Rather than the sharp look he expected she sighed and suddenly looked all of her eighty-nine years.

Her slow smile holding all the wisdom of the ancients, she spoke. You may hide from the others, Stormchaser, and even sometimes from me, but the ancient ones know that you cannot hide from yourself. You are ready, and your destiny awaits you. You wish to… Her eyes shifted on his, the way they did when she searched for an appropriate modern phrase. Settle down.

He stiffened. His mouth opened as if to respond, but she lifted her hand, halting any words with his own respect for her position.

Do not try to deny it. I know there are none here who please you. Again her hand held off his protest, And I know this disheartens you, as you wish for someone who would walk in both worlds. I tell you now, she is out there. Searching for you. Follow the little dove, and you will find what you seek. It is the message of the ancients.

With that, Vision Woman rose from her chair and began to clear the table. He rose to help. She wouldn’t allow it, waving him off.

Go. The children gather soon near the Teaching Tree for a story. They will know you have returned. And there is a horse nearby who stomps the ground and demands your attention.

As when he entered, he bent low and pressed his cheek to hers then hesitated. She asked the impossible.

Vision Woman seemed to read his mind. She touched his face, holding it briefly in place against hers. You are a good man, Stormchaser. Sleep on it. You will do the right thing.

She returned to her work, effectively dismissing him.

* * *

Once Runs With Lightning was safely away, Vision Woman took his cup and flipped it with care onto a piece of thin cloth placed on the windowsill earlier that morning. The distinctive pattern of a bird in flight glistened up at her.

The spirits smiled on her.

She removed a small pouch from the basket and placed it beside the sodden herbs, nodding her head, pleased. Runs With Lightning had pushed his will against hers. He stepped nearer to claiming his calling as her replacement, unaware that she pushed him nearer to meeting his destiny. Her storm chaser needed more than a wizened old woman in his life. His silver lining waited.

Fear not, little dove, she murmured. He will follow.

She left the herbs to dry. Later she would put them into the special pouch she had made just for this day.

I will keep his dream for him, she thought, until it is so.

Chapter 3

George crooned softly as he entered the small barn and watched his horse lift its head from its graze. The Appaloosa nickered and shook its neck, then loped towards him.

The horse nuzzled his sleeve, so he scratched up under its forelock then along the chestnut roan neck and withers, favorite spots. Manitou’s head drooped, though one ear remained trained on George. He snapped the lead rope in place and led the gelding inside.

Once the horse was groomed and saddled, George opened the paddock gate. In one smooth motion he swung up onto the horse’s back, and the Appaloosa shot forward like an arrow into the waiting coolness of the trees.

The path stretched wide and flat before him; both he and Manitou knew it well. George embraced the day as they melded into the world around them. He guided his horse toward the trail’s curve out to the sea. They would ride the coastline to the Point. From there they could climb the rocky trail along the trap rock and slip back into the forest, crossing to their original path and home.

Whispers.

George watched Manitou’s ears flick like radar and reined him in to an easy jog. George, too, heard the birds above and the skittering of creatures through the underbrush. He heard the air like insect wings and the pulling of time.

His thoughts turned inward. While he would deny it vehemently, in truth Vision Woman was not far off the mark. Of late he wondered too often what it would be like to have someone waiting. A knowing, caring, accepting someone to come home to. One to whom he could speak freely. Or not speak at all.

You have that, the spirits mocked him.

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he amended that thought. A young someone.

The grin faded. A dreamtime wish from long ago intruded, for a woman who would not fear the path he must tread. One who could see and not turn away.

He banished the memory. He’d been young and foolish, barely more than a teen. Life had taught him, too harshly since then, that his would be a singular existence.

His own mother had panicked at his gift, her face registering denial. ‘But, George,’ she had murmured. Her voice, firm yet quiet, had borne a slight tremble. ‘The djasakid possessed a