Dare to Dream (2 page)

Finding her voice, Meghan addressed the woman politely. “Hello, ma’am. We seemed to have gotten turned around by a detour about twenty miles back. I hate to bother you, but could we use your phone?”

“Come in. Come in.” She waved to Donna. “Come have some tea.”

She had said the magic words.

The smell of sassafras filled the air in the tiny kitchen as the woman moved silently about, collecting enamel cups, honey, and a cast iron teapot.

“Here, let me help.” The pot had to weigh eight pounds empty, closer to ten with water and roots. Donna made a face, and Meghan gave her an elbow to the back of the head.

Donna smiled around clenched teeth then opened her mouth. “Do you have sugar?”

“You can’t—” their hostess and Meghan said in the same breath. The old woman laughed and poured the rich amber tea, leaving Meg to finish. “You can’t use sugar, Donna. The acid in the tea neutralizes the sweetness, so you’d need a ton. Honey works better and it’s all natural, so you won’t die.”

The wrinkled lips smiled, showing a set of near-perfect white teeth. Their hostess offered up the honey pot. Meghan added a decent dollop to her cup then did the same to Donna’s before passing the pot back to their hostess. Meghan inhaled the steam, and a smile split her face. She loved sassafras tea almost as much as she hated spiders.
Oh crap!

“How rude of me—us. I’m Meghan Dennehy, and this is my friend, Donna Andrews.” She stuck out her hand, and the old lady took it in hers, turning the palm up.

“You have a very long life line, and your love line is even longer.” Her gray eyes sparkled, appearing young and bright in a wizened face. Familiar.

Donna snorted tea through her nose and choked. Waving Meg off when she beat on her back, she croaked, “Not Meggie. She can’t keep her nose out of a book long enough to find a man.” Then, without missing a beat, she started her spiel. “I can offer you a real fair price for the stove, enough to get something more modern and easier to use. Who cuts the wood for that thing anyway?”

Meghan felt the heat rise to her face as quickly as the dollar signs had in Donna’s eyes.

“We have a decorating business and specialize in this sort of thing.” She nodded to the stove then raised her cup. “These are collectable now.” Meghan kicked Donna under the table before placing her free hand on top of the one still holding the other. “Honestly, the purchase price for what I’ve seen so far might set you up in a real nice little retirement home. You’re not safe out here all by yourself. Ah, is there anything left in that old barn?”

From the corner of her eye she saw the look of expectation grow on her friend’s face.

The woman rose and walked to the cupboard, drew aside the curtain, and brought out an oilskin wallet. Returning to the table, she set the purse aside and sipped her tea, glancing up once or twice toward the top of Meghan’s head.

“Beg pardon, ma’am.” Meghan snatched the cowboy hat from her head and laid it in her lap, allowing her silver blonde hair to cascade over her shoulders.

“Run on out to the barn before you bust.” She didn’t have to tell them twice.

Her hat forgotten, Meghan and Donna jammed in the doorframe hip to hip. Meghan ducked under Donna’s boobs and ran for all she was worth. Donna reached for the fallen hat.

One door lay on the ground, and the other hung askew from one rusty hand-forged hinge. A cowboy hat sailed past her head as she waited for her eyes to adjust to the dim light filtering through the boards and the hole in the roof. She picked it up and dusted the straw brim off on her jeans. Twirling her long, straight hair around her hand, she wound her mane into a rope on top of her head then plastered the hat over the mound to keep it out of the way.

Exchanging equally delighted grins, they stepped away in opposite directions.

Meghan was in her element and had soon assembled a stack of hames, harnesses, hand-forged horse shoes of varying sizes, the remnants of a McClellan military saddle, a canvas Cavalry feedbag, and a smithy’s bellows. Two broken wagon wheels indicated a buckboard might be around somewhere. Meg pointed them out to her friend when Donna came back empty-handed. At the mere mention, Donna headed for the door to check the shed on the north wall.

“I’ll check the loft.”

Meghan climbed carefully, testing each rung before transferring her full weight, batting at the cobwebs threatening to envelope her. Her first glimpse of the second level made her forget spiders and instead envision cowboys and cattle drives, wild Indians, and mustangs. The loft had been someone’s sleeping quarters.

Two narrow beds sat side by side covered in Indian blankets that for some reason the mice had chosen not to chew. They were filthy, yes, but whole, as were the two moldy leather saddles. Mold was better than dry rot. The leather could be brought back with proper care. Her heart skipped a beat. Her mind turned to gentle hands, calming wild things like the man in her dreams. A sob almost choked her.

“You okay up there?” Donna yelled from below. “I found the buckboard.”

A deep breath steadied her. “I have about ten thousand dollars worth of Indian blankets and saddles. Get the rope, and I’ll lower them down.”

A few minutes later Donna lugged one saddle to the trailer while Meghan secured the other to the rope with a double hitch through the pommel. On Donna’s returning yell, Meghan swung the saddle over the side and lowered the relic into her waiting arms. “I’m gonna poke around up here for a bit. Go check about the phone. Hey, she never said her name.”

Donna laughed. “We didn’t give her much chance.”

Meghan looked over the side and grinned. “True. I’ll be down in a minute. Go get directions and start negotiations. Be nice.”

“I’m always nice.”

“Then be fair!” Her hands itched to open the trunks at the foot of each bunk. She lifted the first lid with reverence, a door back in time. A cavalry uniform, complete with faded yellow suspenders, lay neatly folded. A Bible. She blew away the dust and read the inscription: William Thomas Thornton. Was the old woman a Thornton? Loose pages fell and crumbled to dust in her hands. She wanted to cry for the loss.

Meghan moved to the next trunk and found, of all things, a wedding dress. The lace was yellowed with age but whole. Something furry touched her hand, and she squealed, awaiting the bite that never came. Sucking up her courage she lifted the dress to find molting rabbit fur attached to the frayed netting of a dream catcher. They had been all the rage a few years ago. Like a spider’s web with a totem attached, the disk was supposed to catch bad dreams and keep them from harming the sleeper while letting the good ones in through the spaces in the web.

A rumble of thunder snapped her back to the present. After carefully wrapping the clothing, Bible, and other articles in the Indian blankets, she tied the bundle with the remainder of rope and secured the end to her belt. With the pack on her back she stepped onto the top rung of the ladder. A crack of lightning lit the gloom with the bright white of a strobe. She stared at the hideous thing, not an inch from her left eye. The huge wolf spider swung toward her. Meghan screamed, batting at it with her free hand, and the pack pulled her off balance. The rung broke and she pitched backward into the air. The second scream died on her lips as her head struck the center beam with a sickening thud and searing pain shot through her skull. Her hair pulled her head backward as it caught briefly on the wood. Blackness shrouded her vision.

God love her, Meghan would give stuff away if someone didn’t tie her down. Donna slowly walked to the trailer with the last saddle. The sucker weighed a good fifty pounds, yet her friend had no problem hefting it. Meg’s slender frame and sweet face belied her strength of mind and body. She had always been a fish out of water. If ever someone had been born a century too late, Meghan was the one.

She left the saddle on the trailer in plain view, not that she expected the old woman to accuse them of stealing, but better safe than sorry. Donna turned back toward the house. Wiping the dust from the toes of her boots on the back of her britches’ leg, she rapped on the door and waited. After a second knock with no answer, she tried the handle. Old folks were known to fall and stuff. “Hello?”

When no one responded, she stepped inside, steeling herself against what she might find. Visions of cracked skulls and broken hips filled her mind. “Hello!”

The parlor sat empty as did the kitchen, her next stop. She paused to run a hand over the nickel plate on the Sears and Roebuck steel cook stove. The antique, that probably only cost twenty bucks new, would bring several thousand in mint condition. The dollar signs in her mind gave way to a sense of urgency. Where was the ol’ gal?

“Ma’am? Yoo-hoo. Are you okay?” She tried every door she could find and came up empty. Where had she gotten off to? Donna returned to the kitchen and poured a fresh cup of tea. This stuff was good, but she’d never admit that to Meg. Meghan was her best friend, but Lord she needed a man. The problem was no modern man fit Meghan’s bill. Oh, she liked Dan well enough, but even Donna realized he was one of a kind. That’s why she married him. But Dan let Donna have her way, and deep down, Meghan didn’t want that. She needed someone to take care of her.

Donna idly fingered the oilskin wallet the woman had left on the table. The fat little bundle held her attention. Giving in to temptation, she untied the thong and drew out the papers. The deed to the property fell in her lap. A quick read showed it was comprised of some one hundred and fifty acres, a house, barn, mineral and water rights. The property had been in one family for over a century—Thornton.

She must be seeing things. Donna picked up her cup and sniffed the tea for any signs of narcotics. What the fuck? Fifty years ago today the deed had been signed over to a new owner. Witness signatures and the recorder’s mark were all in place. The new owner was Donna Andrews.

She hadn’t even been born yet!

Leaping from the chair, she ran to the door. As she reached for the handle, the wind blew it open so hard the frame cracked. The sky filled with black storm clouds, and tornadoes of dead leaves whirled in the yard. Donna stuffed the papers into her shirt and ran to the truck. Meghan would shoot her if those saddles got wet. Just as she shoved the last one into the trailer and pulled down the door, a ragged, golden branch of lightning lit up the sky. She headed toward the barn, dodging fat raindrops. As she neared the door, she heard Meghan’s terrified scream. Donna bolted inside.

“Meghan!” she cried again and again, but only the wailing wind driving torrents of rain and the loud rumble of thunder answered her calls.

* * * *

Chickens flew out of the barn in all directions. “Damn varmint!” Charlie swore.

Will grabbed the Winchester off the antlers by the door and lit out at a run. Bad enough there’d be no eggs tomorrow with the hens scared to death, but he’d be damned if he’d let a fox kill the chickens, too.

He slung the massive door back with one good shove and shouldered his gun, not planning to risk a miss shooting from the hip. Not a fox in sight. The only thing out of place, besides the chickens, lay dead on the ground at the foot of the ladder. Where the hell had the little thief come from, and how did he get out here in the middle of nowhere? He kept the rifle up as he scanned the barn but found nothing else amiss. Finally satisfied he wasn’t about to be bushwhacked, Will set his gun aside and approached the boy.

A puddle of blood soaked the clay under his head. The pool didn’t seem to be growing, so best to leave it alone for now. The kid’s body lay arched over the bundle of blankets tied to his back, arms, and legs going every which way. His chest rose and fell in a slow but steady rhythm.
Well, he knocked himself cold for sure.
Time would tell if his head swelled inside. Will ran a finger over the kid’s full lower lip then along his chin. Not even peach fuzz, just a boy in a growing spurt if those tight jeans were any indication. How could the kid stand it? Everything all bound up like that made Will want to tug at his own crotch to loosen things. Hell, Charlie might have to cut the britches off him.

He squatted to straighten the kid’s legs and arms, feeling each for breaks, but finding none. The boy might be black and blue for a couple of months, but other than his head, nothing seemed busted. He stepped back to the door and yelled, “Charlie, bring your bag, we got us a hurt youngin’ out here.”

Charlie’s head popped around the cabin door. “What’cha say?”

“You heard right. Hurry up!”

“I’m comin’. Hold your horses.”

Will walked back to the kid and eased the bundle from under him. Might as well see what he took while he waited for Charlie. His Bible tumbled into his lap. What kind of thief stole a man’s Bible? His dream catcher came out next. What good was either of these things to the boy? He pulled the straw hat off the kid’s face, tugging gently when it caught on something. The sight took him by surprise.

Hair like spun silver tumbled from the hat to cover her face.
A filly?
Will ran his hands over her smooth cheek. His thumb once again stroked that full lower lip before, sliding down her throat, and over her shoulders to rest on her breasts. Two good handfuls. He jerked his hands away.
Ah shit!

“Charlie!”
Will bellowed at the top of his lungs.