Dare to Dream

by Debbie Vaughan

  He spread his bedroll in the wagon and climbed in. After shooing the mule back from the oat sack, he tied the grain bag securely and propped his head on it. He’d stay warm tonight with all the extra blankets Charlie sent along. Not that the old goat believed a word Meghan said or wrote. Will knew the blankets were to humor him. Charlie thought she was hiding something. Each of his outlandish notions seemed worse than the one before. His latest put her in the family way. What if she was? Why should that rile Charlie so? Hadn’t he taken him in when he was a babe, with no more than White Buffalo’s say so? Charlie was the only father Will remembered.

  Little Eagle, Will’s true father, had been White Buffalo’s son. They hailed from farther east than Colorado, Texas territory. Little Eagle went to the white man’s schools and married him a white woman, and they had made him. Times were even more unsettled back then. The Civil War came to an end but not the hard feelings. The tribes forced onto reservations would not open their arms to a white woman, much less a half-breed kid. His parents set out along with a Negro man to find a place further west. They’d never reached their destination.

  White Buffalo trailed the wagon and found it in flames, with only Will left alive, shielded by the body of the black man. He’d brought him to Charlie. His grandfather thought it would easier to be raised in a white man’s world. With his light eyes, Will could pass.

  The story involved a lot more, Will realized, but both Charlie and his grandpa seemed reluctant to elaborate. Will snorted. He’d never been brave enough to call him that to his face. The stern, overbearing Indian preferred to be called White Buffalo or occasionally allowed Grandfather. Of course, his grandfather never called him Will. William Thomas Thornton was the name his ma had written in the Bible the day of his birth. That was his white name. White Buffalo had given him his tribal name of Ghost Walking.

  What would Meghan think if she knew he was a half-breed? Most women would cross the street to avoid him if they knew. Was she like them? Charlie would have him think so.

  Whatever her story turned out to be, they’d find a way through it. He didn’t want to think about what life would be like with her gone. He’d only known her less than a week. Hell, he didn’t really know her at all. But Spirit sure took to her. He took that as a promising sign.

  Time enough to figure things out when he got back, which he planned to do as quick as possible. He’d turn around now if they didn’t need winter stores and he hadn’t promised Meghan he’d search for her friend. He made no plans to visit Miss May’s or Kathy. The woman in his sights wore hair the color of corn silk in the moonlight, not the rust red of a clay bank. She needed to get well fast. He wasn’t sure how much more self-control he kept in reserve.

  He hunkered down under his blankets thinking of pale tan thighs with silver curls between them. Closing his eyes, he remembered her scent and softness, the sound of her protests, and the sighs they turned into. He’d make her his soon, or die trying. His britches strangled him again, damn them, but relief wouldn’t be found in his hand or a whore. Only one body held the comfort he sought, and he figured she’d be worth the wait.

  He unbuttoned his pants, which provided small relief, and pushed the mule’s head away from his pillow. “Go rest, Bess and leave me be. I’ll have enough trouble sleeping tonight without you breathing down my neck.”

  He drifted off to the sound of a lonely owl and the snuffling of the mule. His dreams overflowed with images of Meghan as his subconscious built their future together. She was happy, whole, and loving, but the sunny dream soon turned ragged and dark, like a picture burned around the edges. Will tossed and turned, fighting against the encroaching threat to his love and his life.

  He awoke with a yell. Birds, startled from their slumber, cried out in protest. Will took a moment to remember where he was. The sky remained black and stars peeped from amongst the clouds, dawn nowhere near. The sweat chilled on his skin as he rearranged the feed sack and his blankets. White Buffalo put great stock in dreams. He said they were messages sent by the Fathers, warnings to be heeded. But Will couldn’t remember the dream other than he and Meghan were happy, and then his world filled with sorrow.

  Chapter 12

  Meghan pushed herself up on her left elbow, curled her legs under her, and struggled into a sitting position. After a mental pat on the back, she swung her legs over the side of the bunk and made her way to the chamber pot. It reeked!

  With a vow to go to the outhouse next time, she hovered over the pot, listing slightly to the left even with her good arm out for balance. Job done, she wished for a bidet since using her left hand proved difficult anytime, especially if she wanted to avoid paper cuts. Were they really so frugal they couldn’t buy toilet tissue? Maybe they ran out and only went to town once a week? What day was it anyway? She washed her hand in the basin as best she could.

  She seemed to be alone for now. Charlie must be out doing Will’s chores. Well, she could wait for him to come start breakfast or try her hand—literally. Nothing ventured and all…

  She pulled the dough bowl from the counter easily enough. Getting the flour from the bin proved a tad more difficult. The tambour stuck. She finally got the roll top to open and scooped out what she hoped made four cups of flour. She located a can of lard—ew!—in the pantry but no shortening. Donna would have a conniption over the bucket which held the fat. She held the can between her knees to spoon out the appropriate amount, thankful again her legs functioned. She located the baking powder, almost empty, but enough for today anyway.

  With all the ingredients in the bowl except for the milk, she realized the refrigerator was missing. She’d been here three or four days at least, hard to say how long since she’d been unconscious, and only now noticed the absent appliance? She would have slapped herself in the head, but her lone hand held the bowl. She set the bowl on the table and opened the one door she was sure didn’t lead outside. The portal led to a parlor, complete with red velvet-covered Victorian furniture. Good color choice!

  Where would they keep stuff cold?

  She meandered back through the kitchen and paused to toss a blanket across her shoulders. As much as she hated the idea, Meg forced herself to go ask that hateful old man. An icy blast greeted her as she pulled the door open and almost tripped over the bucket of fresh milk. Afraid she’d spill more than she saved if she tried to carry it in, she got a cup from the cupboard and took only what she needed, leaving the remainder of the bucket outside in the cold.

  With the bowl wedged between her knees, she managed to stir the ingredients together. Now came the hard part. She tried to move her right arm from the locked position over her right breast, but it wouldn’t budge. With a heavy sigh she floured her left hand and began to knead the dough, carefully at first until she was sure her knees wedged the bowl tight enough, then with more vigor. That step accomplished, she moved on to the next.

  She floured the board then turned the dough out into the middle of it, flattening it with the heel of her hand. Meg eyed the large round dowel Charlie used as a rolling pin, trying to figure out how to make do single-handed. With a shrug she placed the roller over the dough, and with her hand dead center, managed to do a passable job of rolling it out.

  Cutting the dough seemed simple in comparison to the rest. Meg balanced the baking sheet using her difficult off hand and managed finally to get the biscuits into the oven. She didn’t realize how tense she had become until she tried to straighten up. Her back ached, and she would have bruises on her thighs tomorrow from clutching the bowl. She arched backward slowly, afraid she’d tip, and froze when she heard the door open and frigid air shot up her neck.

  “Ah, hi…” So far so good.

  The tall Native American with shoulder-length gray hair stared at her, his expression a combination of trepidation and disbelief. His gaze traveled from her head to her feet then back to her face as he pushed the door to.

  “Do you have a name, girl?”

  Not sure what, if anything, would co
me out, Meg remained hopeful and opened her mouth. “Well, sure. I’m Meghan, Meghan Dennehy. And you’d be?”

  Pleased her speech came clearly, at least for now, she gave him the once-over, too. He wore a woven coat over a red calico shirt and leather pants tucked into tall moccasins.

  “White Buffalo.”

  “Excuse me?” Meghan asked, caught in her thoughts.

  “My name is White Buffalo. I came to visit with my grandson, Ghost Walking.”

  “Are you sure you have the right address? There is no one by that name here.” Her voice wavered, slurring slightly. Double damn!

  He smiled slowly, but when it reached its zenith, the resemblance was unmistakable.

  “You’re Will’s grandpa?” Grandpa didn’t sound quite right.

  While he winced at the term, he didn’t deny the accusation. Their resemblance struck Meghan clearly now. They seemed close to the same height with Will perhaps a couple of inches taller. His grandpa bore the same broad shoulders, funneling to narrow waist and hips. Will’s skin was lighter, and his eyes were gray not brown. His nose was shorter and straight, but he carried the same high cheekbones, chiseled jaw, and full, sensuous lips as his grandfather.

  Reminded of her manners, she told him, “I think Charlie is feeding the stock, but Will’s gone to town. I’m making breakfast, would you like to stay?” Her speech slurred more, making her t sounds come out like sh.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Meghan suddenly remembered she hadn’t seen a mirror in days, and had only just crawled out of bed. A glance at her shirt showed a dusting of flour. Her arm resembled a broken chicken wing, and God only knew what her face and hair must look like. She batted her eyes furiously to keep the tears from flooding over and shoved her hair behind her ear.

  She found the gumption to say, “Please, excuse my appearance. I only just got up, and as I’m sure you can tell, I’ve been ill. I must look a sight!” She grimaced at all the serpentine sounds in her sentences.

  In answer, he glanced at the oven and the smoke billowing out.

  “Oh my!” Meghan dropped the door and with her good hand, fanned the smoke. When her vision cleared, she was shocked her biscuits weren’t burnt. She wrapped the towel around her hand and attempted to pull the baking sheet from the oven. A long arm covered in red fabric took the rag from her hand, pulled the pan out, and set the biscuits on the stove top. The sigh slipped out before she could stop it. “Thanks.”

  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.

  Chapter 13

  “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 at
torney, 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.