Three Wishes Read online

  But then I frowned as two edged in opposite directions. Was that…?

  Another wave crashed against the boulders, the tide clearly intent on retaking the rocks. Again I ignored it, intent on the pool before me, waiting for the white froth to recede and clear water to show me I’d been wrong…seeing things. I squeezed my fingers impatiently, waiting, waiting.

  But when the water was once again clear to the bottom, I saw that the starfish had moved away from the center, all clinging to the edges now. It made no sense. Starfish were too slow, edging quietly over a rock in the course of an hour, not minutes. I looked to the center of the pool and frowned. There, nestled among the rocks and sand was the glint of gold.

  Not starfish gold. Gold-gold.

  I didn’t hesitate. I stepped down and into the pool, my skirt rising around me, and leaned down and grabbed the edge of the object. It lifted easily, as if it’d been placed there just for me, and I looked around for the fisherman, now gone, even as another wave crashed against the rocks and thoroughly soaked me.

  I clambered out of the pool and waited for the wave to recede back to the sea, leaving my path exposed. Then I hopped from rock to rock again, until I was at last climbing on soft sand between the big boulders that rose on this side of the beach. Safe from view of any early-morning runners, I sat down heavily, pushed aside my dripping curls, and studied the golden object. It looked like a small oil lamp, encrusted by a bunch of tiny white sea creatures of some sort on one side. It was clearly old, really old. I looked out to the Pacific, wondering if it was a remnant of some ancient galleon that had run aground, crashing on the reef that bordered the coast or even in our small cove. In all my years of walking this beach, I’d never found such an object—or heard of anyone else finding one like it either.

  I used my nails to try and pry off some of the ocean muck that clung to it, then ran my fingertips over the soft, golden lip and then across the worn, foreign lettering that wound around the width of it. The lid was missing, and there had clearly been a spout at one time, giving it almost a genie-lamp feel, making me think of my abuela and her questions. What do you want most, Grillita?

  I cradled the lamp to my chest, memories of her so vivid, her voice in my head so loud, it was like I was with her again.

  What had I said? What had she said?

  Adventure…to know true love…to discover what it meant to have a real family.

  A blinding flash of light made me blink, and the ground seemed to shift. I reached for the nearest boulder, wondering if we were having an earthquake. My stomach twisted, and I felt a wave of nausea. Then my ears popped, and popped again, like when we were driving up and down from the mountains. But as I waited, there was nothing more.

  Well, that was weird. Seriously weird.

  I winced, holding my stomach as it settled, wondering what exactly was going on with my body. But then the heavy object in my hands distracted me again. What would a treasure like this be worth? Could it pay for my college? Maybe the guy at the pawn shop could tell me something…

  I rose and walked around the boulder, looking down to the main part of the beach, wondering when Glen, the old leather-skinned lifeguard, would show up for duty. He’d think this thing was cool.

  I sucked in a quick breath, blinking rapidly.

  There was no lifeguard tower.

  No runners on the beach, like there usually were by this time.

  The million-dollar houses that had lined the cliffs above the beach when I got here were gone—only waving grass greeted my eyes on the bluff above. I glanced out to sea, wondering if somehow, I had walked up the wrong beach, distracted by the golden object in my hands.

  I turned in a slow circle, eying the cliffs and the water. It was my beach for sure. It had to be. Except it didn’t look like my beach. The tide pools were gone. The beach was wider and strewn with washed-up logs. And halfway across the broad expanse was the broken, skeletal frame of a shipwreck.

  A shipwreck.

  I frowned, shook my head and turned around in another slow three-sixty. “Wh-what’s going on?” I muttered, now thinking I was hallucinating or something. Maybe I was just so tired…maybe this was some weird response to grief over my abuela…

  I studied the bluff and the rocks beside me. It was the same cove, the same beach. My cove. My cove. It had to be.

  But it wasn’t. It was different. Radically different. Raw and undeveloped and—

  A gunshot startled me—a gunshot? I flinched and peeked around the big volcanic boulder, down toward the long stretch of beach the surfers favored. Now what? Some sort of gang—

  My eyes widened in shock. In the distance, there was a man on horseback, charging in my direction, four men on horseback behind him—in pursuit?—galloping at the same pace, hooves tossing up clods of sand behind them. Another gunshot cracked through the air, the only other sound besides the wash of the waves.

  I could feel the rumble of the horses’ hooves beneath my own bare feet and saw the men approaching at a frightening pace.

  Everything was wrong. Terribly wrong.

  I sank back between the big rocks, desperately seeking some sort of shelter. I glanced up the dunes to the bluff above and knew there was no way I’d make it up there in time. And even if I did, there wasn’t a house to run to, a door to knock on…

  I peeked around the edge of the big boulder again, watching as the first guy galloped ever nearer. I took in his tailored, tightly buttoned jacket and his dark good looks before pulling back around the rock, attempting to hide. I crouched down, eyes wide, waiting for him to pass.

  The mare kicked up clods of sand that pelted the rock beside and above me. I thought the rider glanced under his arm at me, our eyes meeting for a second, but he never paused. He definitely wanted to get away from those who pursued him, which made my heart pound. What is happening? His saddle was clearly an antique, all gorgeous tooled leather, inlaid with gold and red in an old-Mexico feel. Everything about him and his horse said Old Mexico, when I thought about it.

  Maybe they’re shooting a movie. Maybe this isn’t my beach. Maybe I passed out, the waves moved my unconscious body to another beach…one I haven’t ever been to.

  But I’d been on every beach within twenty miles. I looked up the bluff again. This was my cove. Tainter Cove. It had to be. It had to be, but…

  I sank back an inch further, wishing I could become one with the rock as the others finally passed by me, in pursuit of the first man. There were four of them, and as they passed, they were shouting in Spanish. “¡Cerrémosle el paso! ¡Separémonos! Debemos matarlo antes que llegue al límite del rancho.”

  Cut him off, I translated in my head. Divide up. We must kill him before he reaches the rancho border.

  Rancho? There hadn’t been ranchos in this part of California for more than a century. I remembered that much from my state history class. Sure, there was Rancho Cucamonga, and Rancho Santa Margarita and Rancho Palos Verdes, but those were just nods to the past…a developer’s romantic name for sprawling subdivisions of suburban houses. Right?

  But their Spanish had sounded odd to my ears. Crisp. Formal. Not anything like our slurred, local Spanglish. Not even like the Spanish they spoke down across the border, in Tijuana. More like Spanish-Spanish. Old Spanish.

  And they had been in odd clothing too. Tight pants, worn boots, cropped jackets, and trim hats like the vaqueros used to wear. And one had passed near enough for me to take in more finely tooled stirrups and another saddle like I’d never seen—not that I’d seen a ton of variation when I worked at camp one summer and hung out with the girls who ran the trail rides. The saddle hadn’t been as elegant and elaborate as the first man’s, the one they pursued. But old.

  Movie. I have to be on a movie set. The director dude is going to be so pissed when he finds me here. They’ll have to crop me out, or shoot this whole scene again…

  But then where were the cameras? The track running alongside the horses to catch the shot? The sound guys with
those long sticks and microphones?

  On shaking legs, I rose and dared to edge out again, looking up the beach, where the four in pursuit were just urging the horses up the dunes and over the edge, never looking back. I had to figure this out. Maybe I was dreaming.

  I gathered up Abuela’s shawl, shook it out, and wrapped it around my shoulders. It was like she was with me now, giving me courage, comfort. I grabbed the golden lamp and, crouching over, scurried away from the rocks and toward the nearest dune. There I hunkered down, panting, my heart thundering in my chest, waiting. But there was no sound other than waves on the shore and wind rustling the summer-dry grasses by my head. Except for…the lowing of cows?

  No honking of horns or traffic.

  No thunder of a train racing down the tracks that bordered the beach.

  Cows.

  I swallowed hard, then forced myself to scurry up the next dune and the next, until I reached the top and peered over toward the PCH.

  I gasped and blinked.

  There was no Pacific Coast Highway. No buildings. No railroad track. Just miles and miles of grass and trees. A herd of cattle, not too far off.

  In the distance, I could see the men, still in pursuit of the other. But now more men were riding toward him, down from another hill, as if to meet them. In battle? To defend the first? Or to finish him off?

  I turned in a slow circle, letting the shawl fall, trying to make sense of what was all around me. It felt like home, but it was all so very different.

  So wrong. So foreign…and yet so familiar, too.

  My knees gave way, and I collapsed to the sand and rocks, cutting my hand as I fell. But I gave it little notice, grabbing hold of the golden lamp and staring furiously at it. Intuitively, I knew that all of this…around me…had something to do with this, in my hands.

  I thought back to the flash of light, the popping of my ears. What I’d been thinking right before that. About Abuela. About what I’d wished for most. A passionate, adventurous life. True love. Family.

  And what had I gotten?

  Some sort of odd transport to a place that seemed farther from those things than ever before.

  CHAPTER 2

  I have to get back. Reverse whatever’s happened here.

  I forced myself to rise, stumbling back to the rocks below, to the place I’d been when all of this began. Dimly I realized that I was leaving Abuela’s shawl behind, but I was so focused on what was ahead, so driven, that I couldn’t seem to stop myself. I was totally desperate.

  Panting, I knelt on the sand between the rocks. No, I’d been sitting. Quickly I shifted, trying to get exactly back in position. Like I’d been before all of this crazy stuff started happening. My fingers had been holding it like this… No, like that… I shifted the object in my hands, trying to get it right. But nothing felt right. I couldn’t quite remember.

  Focus on the familiar, Zara. I looked outward. To the tide, now receding. Then upward to the clouds I liked to study. Cirrus clouds. Usually forming above 18,000 feet and sometimes called “mare’s tails.” Floating west to east…

  It’s all right, I told myself. It’s all right. You’re still you. You’re not crazy. Just take a deep breath. Close your eyes. This will all be over in a sec.

  But when I opened my eyes, all was the same.

  Over and over I tried. Waiting for hours for another flash of light, the popping of my ears. Waited as the cirrus clouds gave way to a brilliant, blue sky and I had to shelter in the shade of the rock. Seeing no one in all that time and getting nowhere in my concentrate-my-way-back scheme, I ventured down the beach and wandered through the bones of the old ship, running my hands over the beams to confirm they were real. I went to the other end, where I’d found the lamp in the tide pools, thinking that if I set it back in the pool among the starfish, then Scotty might beam me back. That’s it. I’ve landed in some weird Star Trek episode…

  But there were no pools to be found. Just a wide band of sand.

  I shielded my eyes and waded partway out, wondering if the pools were here, just covered by the tide. But then I realized, by studying the cliffs, that the pools were buried by a good fifty feet of sand beneath my feet, yet to be exposed by the ravages of time.

  I wandered back, feeling oddly separate from myself, distantly thinking that I was probably in some sort of shock. Mostly I felt beat, so tired I had a hard time putting one foot in front of the other, until I reached the sheltering boulders again. It was as if I’d run a marathon or had to stay late at the restaurant, closing after 2 a.m.

  Nestling close to the sun-warmed rock and hugging the golden lamp close to my chest, I lay back, praying that if I just slept for a bit, I’d wake up to the familiar.

  It’s okay, Zara. You’re just dreaming. That’s why you’re so tired. You’ll just have to give in to this nightmare a bit more, and then you can wake up.

  So I allowed it, drifting off in a moment.

  I awoke to the prick of a knife at my throat.

  “¿Quién es usted?” a man barked at me. Who are you?

  I blinked, trying to focus, staring up at silhouette of a man, standing against a high-noon sun. I saw first his blade—not a knife, but a long, thin, silver sword. The handle was all ornate, elegant coils and curves around his strong, brown hand. He shifted, and I could see his face better.

  It was the first man, the one the others had pursued.

  “What is this?” he continued in Spanish, reaching down and grabbing my lamp.

  “No!” I cried, pushing away his blade and rising, wincing as I noted how it sliced through the same hand I’d injured earlier. But I was wholly focused on the golden treasure. “Give it back to me!” I shouted in English.

  He frowned and brought the tip of his sword toward me again. “¡Quédate atrás!” Stay back. He glanced at the lamp, turning it in his hands a bit, but I seemed to be his main focus.

  He looked me over from head to toe, and I felt the spare cami above the long, black maxiskirt that had dried, clinging to my legs. He was movie-star handsome, but that didn’t give him the right to look me over like my abuela used to look at a perfect pork butt before she put it in the pot. I crossed my arms. “Give that back to me,” I said, gesturing toward the lamp.

  He frowned again. “¿Por qué habla inglés?” he said, taking a turn around me, the sword still between us. Why are you speaking English? “You look like a Mexican maiden,” he continued in Spanish, “but your clothing is…foreign.” Was that a hint of a blush in his dark cheeks? The way he’d said foreign, and kept his eyes just on my face now, made me feel half-naked. I glanced around for Abuela’s shawl.

  “I am a Mexican maiden,” I said, trying to make my Spanish match his in clarity. His accent was so weird.

  “A spy,” he said, bringing the tip of his sword below my chin and lifting it, forcing me to look at him again.

  “No,” I said, guessing from his tone that that would be the worst. “I…I fell off a ship in the night and washed ashore.”

  “Oh?” he said, slowly lowering his sword. “Which ship?”

  “The…the Santa Maria.” It was all I could think of on the spur of the moment. Columbus’s ship.

  He squinted at me, and I stared back. About twenty or twenty-one. Over six feet tall. Broad shoulders, accentuated by the tailored, tight jacket. Scruffy, short facial hair around full lips and over his chin and cheeks—like he hadn’t shaved in a few days. Shoulder-length, curly black hair, partially covering one eye. Dark lashes lacing steamy eyes that seemed to see far more than I wanted. Almost into me and through my lie.

  “The Santa Maria,” he repeated dully, tossing my lamp in one hand. I moved to grab it, but he swiftly brought the sword up between us again.

  He’s big, but he’s fast, I decided. But I’d taken on guys this big before in Krav Maga. I lifted my chin and stared back at him, forcing myself to drop my shoulders.

  A tiny smile tugged at his lips. “And just who is the…Santa Maria’s captain?”

>   “Capitán DiCaprio,” I said without pause. “Leonardo DiCaprio.”

  “And from where does she hail?”

  “Puerto Vallarta,” I said blithely.

  Again, he squinted at me, as if trying to figure me out. “There is no such port in all of Mexico. Nor is there such a ship. About thirty ships pass these shores this time of year, and the Santa Maria is not one of them. And I know a hundred seafaring families and merchants who hail from Mexico, and this…Leonardo DiCaprio is not one of their captains.” He turned, tossed my lamp to the sand next to his horse, sheathed his sword at his waist, and crossed his arms. “Now you shall tell me the truth, girl. Who are you, really? What are you doing here?”

  The truth. I vacillated. Lay it on him, all of it? Or refuse to speak at all? Tell him I was a mermaid, looking for her man? Maybe that’d make him freak and run off, leaving me to find my way back to my own time.

  He stepped forward, and I tensed. “Tell me, girl. Or I will tie you up and take you back to my rancho, keeping you there until you tell me. Were you with those men who gave me chase?”

  “Wh-what? No!”

  He stepped even closer, taking hold of my arms. “Tell me the truth!”

  I was about to take him down when a low growl behind me made us both freeze.

  He looked over my shoulder and then slowly pulled me to his side, as if he wished to protect me.

  But the wolf seemed to be looking only at him, baring her teeth.

  The young man slowly withdrew a pistol from his side, pulled back the hammer, and aimed.

  “No!” I cried, pushing up his arm at the last second, finally understanding that he meant to kill the animal. The crack of gunfire made my ears ring.

  “Why did you do that, woman?” he asked, turning to face me. He gestured toward the wolf, now tearing up the dunes, running away from us as fast as she could. “Those filthy beasts cost me countless sheep every year!”