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Just as she did in her own time, according to her last letter to me:
My sweet Callista,
Because you are unique in a way that others will find dangerous and no telling what they might do to stamp out that threat to their power, I’m writing this letter and making legal and financial provisions for you in case they are successful, and I am no longer on this earth to keep you safe.
For your protection, I won’t tell you what we are, you and I. Hopefully you will never discover what I mean, and your life will be no different than any other.
If you do, then you will no doubt have questions, many of them. Most I can’t answer for you. That will be your own journey of discovery, and I wish you much success.
But here are the most important two that I know will plague you, just as they did me.
First, you will ask—Can I?
The answer is—in major events that affect millions of people, I don’t know. Fate is a fickle mistress, and it’s not wise to tempt her strategic plans.
In the smaller events that affect you personally, the answer is—most definitely yes. Your own birth is proof of that. Because by all rights, you shouldn’t even exist.
You see, Callista, your real father’s name is Daniel Ross McEwan Cameron, and he was a fierce Scottish Highlander who did a great sacrificial thing for his people when he was needed most. He was also a wolf shifter, and I will not explain that, for his people’s protection as well as your own.
Either way, don’t bother searching for the man, because you won’t find him, and I won’t tell you why for your own safety’s sake. Just know that he loved me passionately, and he would have loved you too, if he had the chance to know about you. You are the legacy of love that he unknowingly gifted me, and for that I will be forever grateful. I see him in your eyes every time you smile and hear him in your stubborn tenacity when you dig your heels in to get your way, and I am reaffirmed every day you walk this earth that his determination to send me back home when I didn’t want to go was the correct one.
The rest, my sweet girl, you will unfortunately have to learn for yourself. Or maybe not, if nothing extraordinary (and you will know what I mean only if it does) ever happens to you.
Callista, if you are now reading this, then I am gone and you will feel that you are desperately alone. At those moments, remember that you are not. Your father and I are now together, and we will both be looking down to guide you and care for you in any way we can. You are not forgotten and you are not alone. We will always be with you.
But for now, beautiful girl, farewell and be safe. I love you to the moon and back, and all the way to the stars.
Love Always,
Mom
I wiped away the welling tears, recalling Rose McEwan’s letter that had been given to me by her attorney along with the deed to the house and banking and investment information from several countries.
It all made sense now, why she did this, why we impulsively changed our names and moved as often as gypsies. Why no private detective agency could ever locate my birth father. They had been looking in the wrong century.
“Thank you, mom,” I whispered. “I love you. I love you too, dad.”
One last look at Bryant, and I smiled and kissed my fingertips, then pressed them to the glassed framed photograph.
“And I love you, wolfman. With all of my heart. I’ll never forget you. Ever. I promise.”
The bubbles in my abdomen fizzled like soda pop, and I pressed my palm to settle the anxious occupant there.
“Don’t worry, I love you, too,” I told my unborn child who was only now making his tiny presence known. “And someday I’ll tell you all about this amazing father of yours that you’ll never know.
“Michael James Bryant was a wild, stubborn, handsome mountain man, a lone wolf who reluctantly allowed me into his singular life. He was true, selfless hero who did great things for the people under his care. Most of all, he passionately loved me and would have loved you, too. If only he had the chance to know about you.”
“A nice sentiment, to be sure,” a male voice with an Irish lilt said from behind.
I gasped and whirled around, startling to see a very modern looking Michael Bryant in expensive suit and tie, clean shaven, his black hair styled shorter.
But it wasn’t him.
Couldn’t have been him.
“Miss McEwan, I believe?” he asked extending his right hand. “Luke Callaghan, a pleasure to finally meet you. Ms. Devine said that I might find you wandering the place before you fly for home today, and I wanted the opportunity to express my appreciation for your help this last week with the local Snoqualmie tribe.”
“Luke...Callaghan?”
