Chapter 14

San Juan Capistrano, CA - 2022

Tuesday night found Halona landing at LAX. She snagged a rental car and made it to her hotel, managing a few restless hours of sleep. A whirlwind of emotions churned within her – nervousness, a flicker of hope that a visit to the farm might jog her memory, and a deep-seated apprehension bordering on fear.

The next morning, Agents Dunbar and Jacoby arrived to pick her up. The black SUV's ride was quiet as Halona stared out the window, the cityscape blurring past. The drive stretched for over an hour, and unfortunately, they were far enough inland for the ocean to be hidden from view.

Los Angeles, her childhood home, felt like a distant memory. It was crowded, perpetually shrouded in smog, and held an unpleasant scent that clung to the air. San Francisco, her adopted city, wasn't much better. But on the rare days when the fog cleared, the city revealed a stunning beauty – cool, bathed in sunshine, and invigorated by the fresh ocean breeze.

As they neared San Juan Capistrano, traffic thinned, and glimpses of the ocean peeked through the trees and buildings. Halona sat up, craning her neck for a better view as they exited the freeway. They must be getting close. They weaved through neighborhoods and passed a golf course, nothing resembling a farm in sight. Her curiosity piqued, she looked up as they drove through a grand iron gate with a sign that proclaimed "Broken Arrow Farm."

The place felt more like a sprawling park than a working farm, she mused as they followed a secluded road lined with ancient oak trees. Then, as they crested a hill, a breath-taking sight unfolded before them. A majestic Victorian mansion, stately and elegant, stood proudly in a clearing. San Francisco's Victorians had always held a special place in her heart, but this one, perched against the backdrop of the vast ocean, was simply stunning. The car came to a stop, and Halona practically leaped out of the back seat, eager to stretch her legs and take in the incredible view. The sprawling cityscape stretched out below, merging seamlessly with the seemingly endless ocean on the horizon.

A middle-aged man with kind eyes and dark brown hair, with a dusting of grey emerged from the house, his smile warm. "Agents, welcome back. And you must be Ms. Blackwater. It's a pleasure to meet you, finally under better circumstances."

Halona offered a weak smile and a handshake. "Thank you."

"I'm Michael," the man continued, "and my wife Jenna is inside. Busy with the grandkids, it's like a cookie factory in there."

"We appreciate your cooperation," Agent Jacoby said, his gruff demeanor a stark contrast to Michael's easygoing nature. Halona fought back a laugh. Agent Jacoby could disarm a bomb with his bare hands, but social niceties? Not his forte.

Michael led them towards a nearby barn. "We certainly hope this visit jogs your memory. This is where we found you, right by the barn here."

Halona scanned the area, her brow furrowed. "This is a very small farm," she noted.

"The whole hillside used to be Broken Arrow Farm," Michael explained, gesturing expansively. "Stretched as far as the eye could see."

"Land values must have skyrocketed," Halona remarked, piecing things together.

"You got that right," Michael chuckled. "My grandparents sold most of the coastal land when prices went crazy and bought more land further inland. Now the farm itself is about fifteen miles east of here. But this," he said, tapping his foot on the ground, "this is the original farmstead."

Intrigued, Halona smiled. "Wow, so this has been in your family for generations? That's amazing. So many family businesses don't make it past one or two."

"This place has been in the family since my fifth great-grandfather started it. Been passed down ever since."

"Well, that's something special," Halona smiled weakly.

"Sir, we just have a few questions for you if we could have a moment of your time, perhaps inside?" Agent Dunbar cut in politely. Then, turning to Halona, he added, "We'll give you some time to explore on your own."

"Absolutely," Michael said, his gaze flickering between Halona and the agents. "Feel free to wander wherever you like. And gentlemen," he added with a smile, "why don't you come in and have some of those fresh cookies?"

With a wave, Michael led the agents back towards the house. Halona, left alone by the barn, took a deep breath and started walking through the orchard, her mind a whirlwind of thoughts. But try as she might, nothing concrete emerged.

Then, as she stepped through the entrance of the barn, a wave of recognition washed over her, intense and undeniable. It was like a dam had broken, flooding her with a torrent of memories. It wasn't the layout, the dusty hay bales, or the faint scent of manure that triggered the memory. It was something smaller, more subtle. A familiar inscription was carved onto the wooden doorway.

Squinting, she tried to decipher the faded markings. Numbers, a single letter... it was faint, barely there, but a tremor of excitement ran through her. Memories, long dormant, stirred within her. Suddenly, a scene unfolded in her mind, vivid and clear.

Laughter echoed in the air, the sound of playful squabbling between children. Halona, her hair pulled back in a messy braid, held a worn pocketknife in her hand.

"What are you doing?" Isaac asked as he watched Halona make a mark above Megan's head on the barn doorway with a knife.

"Marking the doorway." She made the mark slightly deeper and carved an M next to it with the number 1871. "Your turn."

"What's this for?" Isaac stood still.

"Every year we will do this and you can look back and see how tall you grew that year."

"I'm going to be this tall next year." Megan stood on her toes and pointed as high as she could.

Halona ruffled her hair playfully. "Well, if you want to be that tall, you better eat all your vegetables!"

"I'm going to be taller than Papa one day!" Isaac declared, his voice filled with determination.

A hearty laugh boomed from the barn entrance. Buck, his face creased with amusement, rounded the corner and scooped Megan into his arms.

"Is that so my boy?" He teased, tickling Megan's sides before setting her down and patting his sons back protectively.

"Someday I will, Papa!"

The memory faded as quickly as it came, leaving Halona breathless. Her heart ached with a bittersweet pang. This wasn't a dream, a fantasy conjured by her subconscious. This was a real memory, a fragment of her life on the farm with Buck and the children. Her heart hammered in her chest as she traced the faded lines on the wood. The grooves were barely discernible.

Tears welled up in her eyes as she saw markings above the ones she remembered carving. How was this possible? These were her memories, not dreams. But how? Did she witness someone else making these marks as a child, and then somehow incorporate them into her fabricated reality? Shaking her head in disbelief, she leaned against the rough frame of the doorway.

"Those markings, we believe, were made by some of my ancestors as well," Michael said, his voice startling her. He'd been on his way to feed the chickens and noticed the distressed look on her face. "See here, the dates."

She took a shaky breath. "It was... to see how much they grew."

"That's what we think, yes," he said with a kind smile.

A fragile smile touched her lips as she studied the markings. Megan's last recorded height fell several inches short of her own, while Isaac's had grown considerably. A memory flickered to life – Isaac's determined declaration to his father that he'd one day be taller.

"My ancestors bought the farm in 1870." Michael replied. "The big house here, was built in 1871. There was a small home about a mile east. But a fire took it in the nineteen twenties," he explained. "The land was sold and the farm relocated inland until after that. That's when the orchard was planted."

"What was their name?" Her voice hitched as she asked, "Your ancestor?" Dread gnawed at her, but she needed confirmation.

"Cross," he answered, pointing to an inscription on the wall.

"Isaac," she whispered, her mind reeling. Uncertainty warred with a flicker of hope.

"The other marks there would've belonged to his sister, I reckon."

Her breath caught in her throat. "Megan," she breathed, the name tumbling out on a shaky exhale.

"How did you know?" Michael asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"Just a lucky guess," she stammered, forcing her mind back from the brink of overwhelm. This was too much, too surreal. Impossible, yet undeniable.

"They're buried over yonder, past the orchard, in the family cemetery," he offered, gesturing in the direction he'd mentioned earlier. "If you'd like to see..."

"Yes," she managed.

But she couldn't bear to look. She had to look. She now had tangible evidence - she wasn't delusional, losing her mind, or imagining a kidnapping. The reality was far more insane. This was proof, indisputable proof, that she'd lived there in the past. Proof that Buck wasn't a figment of her imagination. Somehow, that knowledge brought a sense of peace, but the heartbreak was all too real.