Dare to Dream (10 page)

Perhaps she didn’t want to turn around and face her guest until she regained control of her emotions. Possibly the odd sense of déjà vu sending shivers up her back gave her pause. Perhaps her poor, abused, misfiring brain cells were to blame. Whatever her reason, Meghan fixated on the stove. It looked remarkably like the one in the old lady’s house. Meghan turned to glance around the room.

“Is there something wrong? The stove isn’t broken. Sometimes, if the wind changes direction, the smoke comes back down the flue. Your baked goods seem fine.”

“Help yourself,” Meghan responded rather absently as she continued to scan the room which seemed familiar and yet, not. A gust of wind made her grab her shirttail to keep from flashing her guest and returned her mind to the present.

Charlie slammed the door against the harsh late autumn wind, his face frozen in a scowl and whiskers ice-crusted around his mouth. He set the milk pail on the counter and pulled the egg basket from under his coat. “She got you cookin’ for her?”

Whatever tenuous hold Meghan had held on her emotions snapped. Tears flowed down her cheeks. She turned to voice the scathing reply on the tip of her tongue—and couldn’t. Her shriek of frustration rattled the walls, and she stomped her foot like a rebellious toddler. Why couldn’t he just leave her alone?

She threw back the blanket curtain dividing her
room
from the kitchen
,
sat on the bed, and cried her eyes out. She didn’t care if she sounded the fool. Nothing made sense, even when she could think clearly. Where was Donna? Why hadn’t she come for her? If this was the old woman’s house, where had she gotten to?

She paused her blubbering when a thought struck her. Will had said he’d be gone a
fortnight,
which was two weeks if she recalled correctly. Why would he take two weeks to travel the twenty odd miles to Steamboat? A slamming door made her jump to attention. What now?

A hand attached to a red cuff moved the curtain aside moments before a head peered in.

Meghan hastened to make sure her parts were covered before she swiped a hand across her eyes. What was the use?

“You have trouble with your words. They seem to come and go. Your arm is weak. Charlie says this started after you hit your head. May I see?”

Meghan shrugged. He only wanted a peek at her head. She maneuvered her back to him and moments later felt gentle fingers separate her hair and prod the tender edges of the healing gash. She chewed on her lower lip until he finished. When she started to pull away, he grasped her shoulder.

“We need to keep your hair away, so air can get to the wound and so I can put medicine on the cut.”

Meg felt her eyes widen. Oh no, he wouldn’t! He reached into his shirt and pulled out…a comb. Meg sighed. A comb. Her brain must be completely and utterly fried. What did she expect, a tomahawk? Geeze.

As a man with long hair, White Buffalo knew what he was doing. He worked the comb from the bottom up, holding the hair in his other hand so as not to pull on her sore head. Her mop must be a true disaster because he seemed to take forever to work the comb through. When he appeared satisfied with his progress, he made a part down the middle and began to braid.

Meghan closed her eyes in bliss. She may have even purred at some point. Floating into slumber, a warm breath on her neck caused her eyelids to flutter.

A deep voice whispered in her ear, “The biscuits tasted wonderful.”

The left side of Meg’s lip curled up. Now she knew why Charlie slammed the door.

“What do you mean they called off the search?” Donna shrieked at the judge. “It hasn’t even been a week! You know Meghan. She’d fight. She might have gotten away. What if she’s out there lost or hurt…?” The sob choked off her words. She turned and buried her face in Dan’s chest, blotting out her father-in-law and Meghan’s open suitcase on the adjoining bed.

“Be realistic, sweetheart, it will be a week tomorrow. The last three nights have been below freezing—”

“She is not dead, Bob. If you say it again, I’ll scratch your eyes out. I swear I will! She cracked her head. They verified the blood is her type, and the DNA matched the hair they got from her brush, as if that hair color comes naturally to anyone else. They found her cell phone, so they don’t need to take my word for her existence. They haven’t looked hard enough or long enough.”

“What do you expect them to do? The dogs couldn’t pick up a scent. They put out a
be on the lookout
bulletin with her photo at every gas station, restaurant, border crossing, and transit authority. There are no leads. The best thing would be for someone to spot her. They aren’t giving up the investigation. They’re broadening the search area. Wherever she is, it isn’t on the mountain, at least not—”

Donna’s glare cut him short.

“We’ll stay as long as you want.” Dan rubbed her back. “The clerks at the collectors’ office said the deed is legit, and the taxes are paid ahead.”

“A woman I never met in my life left me her home and 150 acres of mountaintop and then—
poof—
disappears, and nobody finds anything the least bit odd?”

“I didn’t say that. I said the deed and the records are legitimate. The fact she had them drawn up by a very young attorney who is still a resident fifty years later helped. Hell, she even had your social.”

Donna felt the tension in her husband’s arms. She pushed back to gaze up at him. “What are you not saying?”

Bob cut Dan off as he always did. “Everything was done legally. The property is yours. A copy is filed at the courthouse, although no one, not even her attorney, had any inkling where the original was when the old lady died.”

“What? Are you nuts? We spoke to her and had tea with her. She wasn’t a ghost.”

Bob reached into his briefcase and pulled out a photocopy of the sketch the FBI artist had drawn of the woman from Donna’s description. He fumbled some more and extracted a copy of a newspaper clipping and then handed them both to her. “That’s the only photo known to exist of her. It was taken fifty-five years ago at some protest or the other about running water up the mountain and building a resort adjoining her land. I made a copy of the entire clipping so you can read the date, June 12, 1965. The article says she was over ninety then. They found her dead five years later. Two weeks after she transferred the deed to you.”

“That’s impossible. I wasn’t even born yet. How could she possibly know what my name would be, much less my social? And more to the point, we saw her. Her.” Donna poked at the photo with her finger. “She made sassafras tea.”

“Perhaps someone impersonated her? There are still several developers trying to get the land. You should be able to get a sale easily enough.”

“I’m not getting rid of anything.” The muscles in Dan’s arm tightened again. She was so tired of this shit. Bob’s shit. Most of the problem was her fault anyway.

“You can’t mean to keep the property!”

The mighty Robert Andrews just sealed the deal. He’d always said she could never do without him, and she’d settled for second best when she traded him for Dan. She considered the trade the best move she’d ever made—for herself. The rivalry between father and son escalated. Dan would never be good enough for his father. Bob allowed no one ahead of him, including his son.

“Yes, I plan to keep it, Dad. I’m staying, and Dan’s staying with me.” She turned in his arms. “You will, right?”

“Try to get rid of me.” He kissed the top of her head.

His arm relaxed, and Donna knew her decision had been the right one. Whatever else happened, they’d live on the mountain. Dan had built one log home. He could damn well build another. They’d have plenty of time to discuss plans when Meghan was back safe and sound. Right now, all thoughts needed to center on finding her.

“Our flight leaves in less than three hours.”

“Your flight. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to spend some time with my husband.” Donna opened the hotel room door with a flourish. The not-so-honorable judge stormed though the opening, and with any luck, out of their lives for good. She leaned her back against the door. “Are you sure you’re okay with this? He’s your father—”

“He stopped being one before you accepted my proposal, sugar. He never liked to lose. That quality may make him a great lawyer and judge, but not a good dad. I never measured up, and I never will. He refuses to believe you actually picked me over him.”

Donna stepped away from the door and walked into his waiting arms. “If I’d met you first, he’d never have stood a chance. His biggest mistake was asking me to meet the plane when you got discharged. One smile and I heard wedding bells.”

“Now, I don’t remember it quite like that.” Dan pulled her close, snuggling his chin in her hair.

“You remember however you want, as long as you believe there was no one else once you entered the picture.”

“If I didn’t believe that, I wouldn’t have married you.”

“So we stay?”

“We stay.”

Donna pushed him backward onto the bed.

* * * *

Damn her hide! Was she a witch? Everybody seemed to lose their minds when they got near her except him. He’d be tempted to kick her butt out if he hadn’t made the promise to Will. But he had, and he always kept his word. Charlie stomped up a cloud of dust in the barn aisle. His guest had sure been riled. White Buffalo usually kept his own counsel, but sure spoke his mind this morning. He’d never known him to lie before.

There was no way a gimpy girl made them biscuits, but the Indian swore she did. He pulled the cold bread from his pocket and took a bite. Well damn, it was tender even cold! When had his friend learned to bake? He’d get him to share the secret if he managed to pry him away from Miss Meghan Dennehy. Well, he’d be damned if he’d be run out of his own house.

Pushing the barn door to with a bang, he met with a snort from Spirit. The stud was in a piss-poor temper today. Charlie kept walking, in no mood to deal with Will’s pride and joy—either of them.

He paused at the cabin door to listen. His mind conjured up all kinds of hateful thoughts involving indelicate things going on between the girl and Will’s grandfather. Not so farfetched either, considering her unmentionables and White Buffalo’s fondness for women. Likely she was a soiled dove on the run from Lord knows what. Maybe she robbed a man? It was known to happen. He pushed the door open, expecting—and hoping—for the worst.

* * * *

“She looked like me?” Meghan asked as White Buffalo laced up a moccasin boot.

“Yes, she had the same color hair, but her eyes were blue like the cornflowers in spring.” The conversation paused briefly by the cold blast of air from the open door. After a glance at who entered, they both ignored Charlie, and the story continued. “When his parents died, I brought Ghost Walking to my old friend.”

“Why?”

“So his life would be easier. The child could pass for white, and with a white father, he would.”

Bigotry never really went away, she supposed. Meghan turned her leg from side to side, admiring the handiwork. “What was her name?”

“Sherry. Little Eagle called her Wild Flower for her eyes.”

Meg smiled at the big man and this time both sides of her mouth curled. The small improvement made her grin broaden even more. She wanted to ask how Will’s parents died, but realized it was none of her business. They died together…a car accident maybe or some natural disaster. She was thankful Will had been spared.

“I can’t believe how quickly you put these together. Do you always carry moccasin makings with you?”

“Cold feet are not pleasant.” He ignored Charlie’s derisive snort.

“I see she’s talkin’ again.”

“The muscles loosen while she sleeps, so speech comes easiest when she wakes. When the muscles tighten, her words cannot force their way past. Her arm is better as well and her smile. I will prepare the lodge. The heat will help, and the medicine will ease her nerves.” The last part of his sentence flung barbs in Charlie’s direction.

“You can’t take a damn woman to a sweat lodge. Have you lost your mind?”

Meghan didn’t have a clue what the undercurrent was between the two, and she didn’t especially care. The idea of being out of the house was like crack to an addict. Her cabin fever seemed to grow in direct proportion to her worry for Donna and her proximity to Charlie.

“Is a sweat lodge somewhere
not
here?”

Both men stared at her.

“My lodge is higher up the mountain.” He eyed her shirt and the bit of bare leg between the hem and boots. He turned to Charlie. “Has she other clothes?”

“Matter’o fact, she does. I’ll go fetch them.” He vanished into the parlor.

White Buffalo and Meghan exchanged surprised glances. Charlie’s suddenly sunny change in disposition was startling.

Charlie returned shortly with a neatly folded bundle. The absence of dust as well as the fresh scent suggested they had been laundered.

“Thanks for washing my clothes. That was very nice of you.” Meghan held out her good arm and even managed to raise her right up about halfway. She missed her hold. And the bundle unfurled in her grasp, spilling its hidden contents on the flour. Her red bra and thong landed on the toe of White Buffalo’s moccasin.