Dare to Dream

by Debbie Vaughan

  She needed his help. He could do this.

  Will wrung the water from the cloth, no need to rewet the bedding, and steadied his hand. His first touch started at the top of her slit and gently followed the path downward. He paused and spread her legs to gain access. His pulse pounded so hard he heard the thud. He rinsed the cloth and repeated the stroke, carefully wiping across the portal his fingers were itching to explore. Ignoring the urge, he cleaned each fold tenderly, memorizing the texture of her skin, the softness of her curls. He covered her finally, and stepped from her side to the door and through onto the porch.

  The cold night air slapped an icy hand across his face, but did nothing for the raging erection his kindness had earned him. He couldn’t think for the blood pounding in both his heads. Flinging the blanket away, he grasped his cock and pumped hard. His head filled with the sight of her body, his nostrils with the scent of her. He stroked more firmly, once, twice, the night echoed with the ragged groan of his release, and as if in answer, wolf howls in the distance and a snort from his stud in the corral.

  He picked the discarded blanket off the planks and wrapped it around him and his finally flaccid dick. Returning to the warmth of the cabin, he washed himself and put on his drawers before returning to her bedside. With her propped on his arm, he held the cup of broth to her lips and tipped some in. She swallowed. He managed to get half a cup down her before she choked. He rolled her onto her side and climbed in behind her to pat her back until the coughing subsided. She spooned into him as if she were made to fit, a key to his lock.

  Had he lost his mind? He didn’t know anything about her. Who was she? Where she came from, why or how she was here? What was she running from? Was someone after her? His thoughts, like a whirlwind, circled faster and faster, creating destruction wherever they went. He’d kill anyone who tried to hurt her. The revelation stunned his mind to stillness.

  What was wrong with him? For all he knew she had a man, a husband sick with worry because his wife had gone missing, or maybe a father looking for his stray daughter. They would be the ones with rights to her, not him. She might be on the run from the law. Had she robbed a bank, killed a man, stolen a horse? Those were all hanging offenses. The thought of her slender neck stretched on the end of a new rope turned his blood cold, and the whirlwind began to spin again. Whether she proved to be saint or sinner, he vowed to keep her from harm. He drew her tightly to his chest.

  He stifled his moan as she snuggled her bare butt into his rising erection. Perhaps the devil had sent her to torment him. As she lay in his arms, he realized he didn’t care how she came to be with him, only that she was. He drifted away, her warm body in his arms and the warmth of the whiskey in his gut.

  * * * *

  The bed shook. He was wet. Where the hell—?

  Stormy eyes glared at him through damp and tangled hair, like a wild thing caught in a trap. Thank God, her fever broke.

  Oh shit, her fever broke!

  Chapter 6

  Why was she naked? Where was she? Why was she naked? Who was the hunk in bed with her with the stormy gray eyes? And, why was she naked? God, she needed to pee! Why did he look at her like he’d seen her naked? Up close and personal naked. Why was he smiling? Oh. Dear. Lord. His smile. Her nipples turned to hard nubs that had nothing to do with being cold and everything to do with the heat radiating through her body—because of him. She yanked the blanket up to her chin as if he hadn’t already seen all she had.

  Meghan stared at the man now kneeling on the bed not ten inches from where she did the same. Of course, she must be dreaming. Her perfect man, the one only found in her dreams. Raven hair that would brush his collar—if he wore a shirt. Lush lips, square jaw, dark brows over eyes like storm clouds rolling in. His had flecks of silver around the pupil. With such a vivid imagination, she should have been a writer. She swallowed hard, which hurt her throat. She coughed, and her head hurt. She raised one hand to grasp her skull so her head wouldn’t bounce across the floor and felt a gash. What happened to her head?

  Wake up, Meghan, before you wet the bed. Tell the beautiful dream man b-bye. She opened her mouth to send him on his way and nothing came out. She tried again. Nothing.

  Her imaginary friend reached for an enamelware cup and held it out to her. She didn’t have a free hand. If she let go, her head would fall off and if she let go of the blanket…? He held the cup to her lips, and she took a sip and choked as fire flamed from her throat to her belly. What had he given her, kerosene? He started to pat her back which put him way too close for comfort. She risked taking the hand from her head to center on his chest before he got any nearer. A jolt seared up her arm like she’d stuck her finger in a light socket. Her eyes shot upward to his face. His lips moved. She stared in fascination but heard nothing. A silent dream? That was new.

  Sorry? His lips formed the word, sorry. He offered another cup, holding the metal to her lips. She drew her brows together and squinched up her nose as she sniffed the liquid. She smelled honey. Honey would be good for a sore throat. His lips remained in motion. She couldn’t concentrate with him so close, too many things happening at once. Her wet body ached, her head was splitting, literally, and she really needed to pee. She mustn’t forget the naked part, and not being able to talk or hear with the man of her dreams inches away, wearing… What was he wearing?

  The thing looked like a union suit, a mangled union suit. She remembered Dan modeling the red one she had gotten him for Christmas last year. She and Donna had laughed themselves silly. Dan had a great body, but no one looked good in a union suit. Except this guy. His had no top and the bottoms ended right above his knees. Maybe they came that way. She thought she might remember seeing a pair of drawers in her reproduction Sears and Roebuck catalog, circa 1882, if she could think without her brain exploding. Funny they would find their way into her subconscious. Mr. Dream Man certainly filled them out—and out. Goodness!

  She dragged her gaze slowly up from his burgeoning erection, across his broad chest with absolutely zero hair, to his corded neck and those full lips. They didn’t move now but froze in a grin, which fell somewhere between shit-eating and I’m about to gobble you up, little girl. She swallowed, had no spit, and choked again. He didn’t move toward her this time, thank God. The silver sparkles in his eyes danced with mischief when her gaze finally reached them and then turned dark. She’d seen that look before, but only in her dreams.

  He put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her to him. She didn’t resist. Why should she? This was her dream. Her pulse pounded in her throat. She knelt mesmerized as he leaned down. Her eyes never left his face as he turned blurry, but stayed firmly focused on those gorgeous lips right up until the moment they touched hers. The world went black.

  * * * *

  Will caught her before she fell, still wanting desperately to finish the kiss he started. She hadn’t fought him. Hell, she’d asked for his advances with the way she eyed him. She hadn’t said a word though, only stared at his mouth—and his crotch—with eyes like a startled doe. If a doe had eyes the color of misty gray autumn skies after a rain. Had he scared her? He must have since she wet herself. His lips curled into a smile. Well, he’d performed worse duties. Untangling his fist from her hair, he lay her down gently and went to fetch warm water for the basin.

  Maybe he’d missed his calling. Or perhaps he couldn’t keep his hands to himself when he was close to her. He remembered the warmth of her body tucked in against his as if she was made to fit. His thoughts only made his need worse as did stroking her tender flesh a second time.

  He took the liberty of bathing her completely to remove the tacky sweat from her skin, even rinsing her hair. Combing through the silky strands calmed him some. It was comforting holding her in his arms next to the stove as her hair dried. He took care to keep her wrapped in a blanket, lest Charlie stroll in. He hadn’t come but would soon enough. He was a bear in the morning until he got his coffee. With that thought in mind, he laid her back on
the fresh linens of the bed and hustled up one of Charlie’s flannel shirts for her until he got the chance to fetch some of his own from the barn.

  He’d just fastened the last button at her throat when Charlie walked through the door. Without looking up, Will said, “Her fever broke during the night.”

  Charlie busied himself with the coffee. After he set the pot to boil, he turned to Will with his poker face on. “She say anything, like fer instance, how she came to be in our barn?”

  Will pulled the fresh blanket over her, and scrubbed a hand over his chin. “No, I think she started to say something, but she got choked and didn’t try again. She might have overdone it a bit, fainted dead away not long after.”

  “Did you get any broth down her?”

  “She drank about half a cup and some more of the birch tea after she got choked.” He saw no need to tell Charlie what caused the spell in the first place. He pondered her actions for a moment. “Would a head banging cause her to lose her hearing?”

  “Might,” Charlie said over his shoulder as he got the biscuit makings together. “Why?”

  “It just now occurred to me she was watching my lips an awful lot. I might have thought of it sooner if someone hadn’t been basting me with toddies last evening.”

  Charlie chuckled. “I only filled the cup, boy, you drank them.” He paused, mixing lard into the flour to ask, “She need tendin’?”

  “I took care of her.” Although unlike Charlie to pussyfoot around, Will sure appreciated his effort. He didn’t understand his emotions well enough to explain them to anyone else, even the man who’d been a father to him from his earliest recollection.

  Charlie began rolling out the dough on the table until it reached the thickness he wanted. Using a tin cutter, he cut the biscuits out then rerolled the dough and cut again. “I slept like a babe out in the barn. I’d about forgot what it was like.”

  Charlie slid the baking pan into the oven and poured two cups of coffee. Will took the one he held out to him. What was the old man thinking? Will didn’t have to wait long to find out.

  “Since you seem to take to nursing, I wondered if you’d like to swap quarters with me for a spell? We’d have to bring the other bunk in o’course,” he added hastily.

  While embarrassed at his insinuation, Will appreciated Charlie’s suggestion. He couldn’t let him. Winter came fast and sudden in the mountains. Charlie’s rheumatism would give him fits if he had to be out in the cold and damp for long. No, best to keep his current accommodations. He eyed the girl. Safer, too.

  “Naw, I got everything settled out yonder. We do need to move the other bunk in, can’t have you sleepin’ on the floor. I can sit with her at night until she’s able to get about, and you can tend her while I get the chores done. Besides, I need to work Spirit some. Since he’s had a taste of the ladies, he’s been a mite piqued. He acts like it’s my fault he did his job too well.” He spoke the truth, especially the part about the stud. Now with all the mares bred, he didn’t have anyone to pleasure himself with. Will was beginning to feel real sorry for the horse.

  A sizzle and snap told him Charlie had the bacon on. The biscuits would be done soon.

  “I’ll go see to the milkin’ and bring the eggs back with me.” He rose and refilled his cup with steaming coffee. He took a sip before setting it down and then pulled his shirt from the peg by the door and ran one long arm into one sleeve, then the other. Will hitched up his britches before tugging his boots on. He buttoned his shirt, tossed on a coat, picked up his coffee, and headed out the door.

  Spirit whinnied as soon as he caught sight of him. Will stopped to pull a carrot from the bin. The root seemed a small consolation for the stud, but the only one he had to offer.

  Chapter 7

  The aromas of breakfast filled the air. Bacon, coffee, and—Meghan inhaled deeply—biscuits. Her stomach rumbled, but she kept her eyes shut hoping he wouldn’t notice. Not the hunk from before, she heard him leave. This one started talking the moment the door closed. Was he nuts, or her? Must be her, this was the strangest damn dream she’d ever had, and she’d had some doozies. She lay still and listened, willing her stomach to silence.

  “Damn, boy, don’t understand what he’s gettin’ into. He don’t know nothin’ ’bout the girl. What if she has a man? Then what? Get all tangled up in God knows what.” Slam, pop, crunch!

  The man cussed a blue streak. Meghan opened one eye to peek, saw the man’s ass peeking from behind the flap in his underwear, and smelled blackberries. A giggle bubbled inside her at the incongruity of her perception. While highly doubtful the man’s butt smelled like blackberries, this was her dream, which made anything possible. With a hand on the small of his back, he straightened and turned. Meg slammed her eye shut.

  “No use playin’ possum on me, missy, I heard you laugh.”

  Shit! Now what? She had experienced interactive dreams before, mostly the erotic kind, but she couldn’t recall ever having a dream accuse her of being awake. What happened to proper protocol? She opened one eye, then the other, and wiggled her fingers at the man in semblance of a wave.

  Now that she saw him clearly, he didn’t look like a bad sort. Another giggle erupted. Gray shot through his brown hair and the bushy beard brushing his chest. His brown eyes crinkled at the corners like he’d spent his life in the sun or laughed a lot, perhaps both. Neither his face nor his stern expression set her to giggling the second time, but rather, his attire. He wore a blue flannel shirt over a union suit which had seen better days. The frayed sleeves of the underwear were visible under the turned back cuffs of his shirt. So was the rest of him, since he hadn’t bothered with britches. His man-bits lolled in the loose fabric under the bulge of his belly. Meghan’s face began to heat. This was the oddest dream. Donna should really wake her up about now.

  “Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat!” The man’s face turned red as a beet. He turned his back to her and clapped a hand over his rear. “Beg pardon!”

  He scuttled through a door in the opposite wall, leaving the bacon to burn. Her hunger seemed very real in this dream, so she couldn’t let that happen. Meghan eased herself into a sitting position, and waited. Her head still hurt, especially around the gash, but the pain was bearable. Oh, she’d dreamed herself a shirt. Smart girl. The ponies on her socks seemed to prance when she swung her legs over the side of the bed, so she sat still until they stopped cavorting. With a hand on the bedpost, she pushed herself into a standing position and held on while the room swam back into focus. At this rate the bacon and biscuits would burn anyway. Why not just yell?

  “Hey! The food’s gonna burn…” She thought clearly, opened her mouth, but she heard nothing. She’d heard the old man, so her ears worked in this dream. She tried again but could only manage a guttural sound. In frustration, she slammed her lips together and pushed away from the bedpost.

  One step, two, on the third she reached her destination, picked up the fork and turned the thick slices of bacon. Good and brown but not yet burned. Meghan bent to open the oven door and almost fell. Her stomach rolled as dizziness took hold. She waited until it passed and then opened the oven door a crack to check the biscuits. They were barely brown, just the way she liked them. Most preferred them a bit more done. Meghan straightened hesitantly and the dizziness eased. She didn’t see an oven mitt or a potholder, just a piece of toweling. She closed her eyes and thought of the objects needed to rescue the baked goods, but when she opened them again, nothing had appeared.

  This dream didn’t work right. Where did everybody go?

  Meghan wrapped the towel around her hands, and squatted to keep her head level. Opening the door proved tricky in that position, but she managed. She grasped the baking sheet. When the heat reached her palms through the towel, she whirled too quickly, barely managing to bang the baking pan on the wooden table. The room spun in circles around her. Both doors flew open at the same time. The icy blast from the outer door hit her as her legs gave way.

  * * * *
<
br />   Milk sloshed on his pants’ leg as Will dropped the bucket and a couple of the eggs. What the hell was she doin’ out of bed? Charlie opened the parlor door at about the same time, still buttoning his britches. Will scowled in his direction but kept his mouth closed on the words he’d later regret. The girl raised her fingers at him, her eyes all but crossed, but stayed where she sat. Pushing the pail aside, he shoved the egg basket into Charlie’s hands.

  Will took a step in her direction and something crunched under his boot. A quick glance showed a broken jar of blackberry jam. He looked at Charlie, who shrugged and set the eggs aside before removing the bacon from the skillet. Skirting the mess, Will squatted at her side. Her eyes stayed closed.

  “I’m gonna lift you up and set you on the bed.” Without waiting for an answer, he put an arm under her knees and another behind her back, smiling when her arms came round his neck. She weighed no more than a spring calf. He rose and stepped around the bed to place her gingerly atop of the wrinkled covers, but kept him arms around her. “How’s the head?”

  * * * *

  Meghan opened her eyes, and her lips curled into a smile. Mr. Dream Man had his arm around her shoulders and one lodged under her thighs. Although his face and hands were flushed from the cold, his gaze set her blood to boil. No wonder she couldn’t find a guy. Who could compare with the one she made up? He was absolutely perfect. She sighed, remembering the touch of his mouth on hers. Oops, pay attention, Meg, he’s talking to you.