Catch a Dream

by Cynthia Breeding

  She glanced over at him in horror. She’d known he was obsessed with her red hair, but to kidnap her? “Let me go. You know don Miguel will come for me.”

  “Probably,” he answered, “but by the time he finds us, it will be too late. You will already be my woman. No more talking now. We ride.”

  • ♥ •

  They rode through the night. Fresh horses waited for them and Elizabeth realized then that Swift Hawk had planned well. The dynamite had been set intentionally to throw the herd into panic. Elizabeth fell silent as they rode through the next day, entering the canyon land to the west that Olga had told her about. The Comanche were skilled at hiding in the many caves and hills.

  They finally arrived at the camp hidden well in a gulch behind huge boulders. It was near dusk when she was thrust inside the tepee with orders not to leave. Elizabeth looked around the inside of the tepee in which she was being held captive. The tanned buffalo hide stretched over four angled poles, thick and rough, the edges held to the ground by large rocks. A circle of stones in the center of the tepee held a small fire, the smoke curling upward toward the hole where the poles met. To one side, piles of hides made for a sleeping pallet. Soft wolf fur pelts replaced traditional blankets.

  Sometime later, an elderly squaw bought her a bowl of steaming succotash—a mixture of boiled corn and beans—along with flatbread. In spite of her circumstances, Elizabeth was ravenous, and the food tasted surprisingly good.

  If only she could have faith in being rescued. She realized now why Swift Hawk had always made her uneasy—afraid even—the feeling had been a premonition. His infatuation with her hair had been far more than that. He actually meant to keep her as his woman. Elizabeth felt a hysterical bubble of laughter arise in her throat at the irony. She wasn’t willing to let Miguel, her most virile fantasy, “keep” her, and now it appeared her worst nightmare would be doing just that. What could be worse than to have Swift Hawk rape her? For that’s what it would be; she would never willingly consent to become his woman.

  She had no more than finished that thought when Swift Hawk appeared at the entranceway. He had never seemed particularly tall to her before—certainly not as tall as Miguel—but now he loomed large in the small entrance, blocking the fading light totally with his body. He had returned to his native dress and in the dim firelight his bare chest glistened with some sort of oil that gave off a faintly pungent aroma. He had also painted red and orange circles on his face and outlined his black eyes with the same colors. It gave him a demonic appearance and Elizabeth shrank back against the furs.

  Swift Hawk smiled. “That’s just where I want you.”

  As if the pelts had singed her hands, Elizabeth scuttled away from them toward the fire and looked for a burning stick or something she could use to keep him at bay. Her eyes scanned the embers. Nothing.

  As though he read her thoughts, he kicked dirt over the dying fire, leaving them in near darkness. In two strides, he was squatting beside her.

  “This is marriage paint. Tomorrow, the women will prepare you.” He brought both hands to her shoulders and lifted her hair. “Comanche women cut their hair when they marry and give it to their man.” He fisted a handful, and Elizabeth nearly cried out in pain. “I will weave it into my braid, Fire Woman, and it will bring me both recognition and power.” Abruptly, he released it and pulled her closer to him. “But tonight, I did not come for that.”

  Elizabeth fought her rising nausea. She managed to turn her face away and his lips brushed her cheek instead, then suddenly she felt his hands cradling her head roughly, forcing her to look at him.

  “You are mine. Do not think you can avoid me.”

  She tried to push away from him, but his arms were like steel. She had handled emotionally-disturbed students before. What would work with Swift Hawk?

  “Do you truly care for me, Swift Hawk?” she asked in as neutral a voice as she could muster.

  “Yes. Why?”

  As much as she hated to cower, she had to appeal to his male pride. “If I am to become your wife, would you grant me a small favor first?”

  A look of wariness crossed his face. “Maybe. What is it?”

  “Well.” She forced herself to relax and managed to put a little space between them. “In the white man’s world, a virgin bride is considered valuable. Is it not the same with your people?”

  He stared at her and then grinned. “You are a virgin? Don’t tell me the don wasn’t able to seduce you.”

  She shook her head vehemently, thinking of all those times he nearly had. “No. Not once.” She widened her eyes and hoped she looked guileless. She was so not good at acting helpless. “I have always wanted to save myself for my husband.”

  “Then I’m glad you did. All the more reason you will bring me luck.” His fingers began to fondle her breast.

  Definitely not the direction she wanted this conversation to take. Quickly, she caught his hand. “What I meant was—was I had hoped to save myself for my wedding night.” If she could just buy some time!

  He seemed to consider, and then he shook his head. “It matters not which night it is. I have wanted you for too long. I shall make you mine tonight. Right now.” His other hand began to unbutton her shirt.

  She caught it, too. “I didn’t think a Comanche could be so weak.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Weak? Be careful, Fire Woman, or I will show you—“

  “I don’t mean physically,” she interrupted, trying to sound calm and rational. “I know how strong you are. I’ve seen you working the horses. I know you can force me to do your bidding. I’m too weak to fight you.” She tried to look demure and biddable. She hated feeling vulnerable, but she was vulnerable. “All I ask is that you honor my wish to remain virginal until my wedding night. Surely, the son of a chief has been taught patience?”

  He lifted his chin, straightened his back and stared beyond her. The illusion of the warrior shimmered in the air. Elizabeth could almost see the horned buffalo head on his, the stream of war feathers trailing down.

  “I have both strength and patience. I will wait.” He rose lithely and silently moved to the flap door. “In two nights, there will be the Comanchería moon. We will wed then.”

  Elizabeth found herself trembling after he had gone. At least, she had bought herself some time. Maybe in the daylight, she could find a means to escape. She had no idea of where she was, but this was spring. The weather was not too hot or too cold. She would be able to scavenge her way to civilization somehow if she could just get away.

  She had serious doubts Miguel would be able to find her in this wild country. Another thought struck an even deeper fear. What if he didn’t even bother to look? They were deep within Indian lands, she knew. Would he even risk riding this far in? She’d caused him so much trouble, maybe he would just be glad to be rid of her.

  A young Indian maid lifted the flap and slipped inside. “I am Little Fox, Swift Hawk’s sister,” she said, gazing in awe at Elizabeth’s hair. “He asked me to bring you this,” she finished shyly, dipping her head.

  “This” was traditional Indian dress. The smooth doeskin of the fringed skirt was softer than velvet, and beads had been intricately woven into patterns on the tunic. Fur-lined moccasins completed the outfit. Even to Elizabeth’s untrained eye, she knew the clothing was special garb. All she needed was to braid her hair and attach feathers, she thought ironically. She would not wear it.

  “Tell him I’m comfortable with what I have on.”

  The girl’s eyes widened. “You must not refuse. You are to see our father, the chief, soon.”

  The chief. Miguel had said Chief Jim Ned spoke English. Maybe she could persuade him to release her from Swift Hawk’s obsession. She lifted her head. “Very well, then. I will meet the chief as he wishes. I’m sure he wants Swift Hawk to be happy. When I tell him I have no wish to marry your brother, he’ll let me return home.”

  Little Fox furrowed her brows. “Marrying Swift Hawk would be the best thi
ng you could do.”

  Elizabeth kept her face neutral. Of course his sister would feel so. For that matter, probably all of the unmarried girls in the tribe would feel fortunate to marry the chief’s son. He was young and strong and, in his own somewhat diabolical way, handsome. “It is our custom to love the man we marry,” she answered as gently as she could. “I don’t love Swift Hawk. Surely, any of your women would be honored.”

  “They would,” she said, “and Father had already chosen the daughter of Chief Feathertail for him. He is not pleased with these arrangements.”

  Elizabeth restrained herself from showing the elation she felt. If the chief didn’t want this marriage, she was all but home. She’d be ready to leave tonight. But Little Fox was still frowning; something wasn’t right. “So if your father has a bride for Swift Hawk, why do you say it would be the best thing I could do to marry him?”

  The Indian girl turned soft brown eyes toward her. “He could protect you.”

  “From what?”

  “From the shaman.” Her voice was barely audible.

  Cactus Flower’s father? How would she be in danger from a healer? Considering Cactus Flower’s sweet disposition, he was probably a kind and gentle man. “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “It’s your hair,” Little Fox whispered. “The shaman believes Sky Father sent you to save us from being sent to a reservation.”

  That magic stuff again. She may not know how she arrived in the nineteenth century, but Elizabeth knew she didn’t possess any magical powers. She’d just have to explain that. “Why is red hair so important to your people?”

  Little Fox shuddered. “It is the color of blood. Blood replenishes Earth. Your blood will bind us to this land.”

  Blood always had. From the druids through Biblical times to the present Middle-Eastern turmoil. Apprehension began to give Elizabeth an uneasy feeling. She suddenly recalled Mary, and the ritual the braves who were still sitting in the fort’s brig had tried. But the chief had said they were renegades. Surely, he wouldn’t allow something like that to take place.

  “Blood?” she asked shakily. “Do you mean the shaman wants to carve a symbol into my skin and collect the droplets?”

  “Oh, no.” Little Fox looked miserable. “He says Earth Mother requires much more to make the binding permanent. He intends to sacrifice you to Morning Star.”

  • ♥ •

  Miguel swore a string of oaths as the realization of what Swift Hawk had done hit him like another dynamite charge. Quickly, he dispatched two of his most trusted men—one to round up the Rangers and gather Cactus Flower, for he could use her as a negotiating hostage, and the other to inform Major Arnold that he wanted the cavalry behind him. The chief would not be so foolish as to incite a war with the U.S. Army.

  “You don’t mean to ride alone into Indian territory, do you?” his trail boss asked.

  “I don’t have any choice,” Miguel answered. “I can’t take any more of you away from the herd. They’re spooked, they’ll be hard to handle for a day or two. And if I’m going to track Hawk at all, I can’t afford to stall.” Lord, if Elizabeth has already been harmed… He checked his rage. What he needed now was a calm head.

  “What if they’re waiting for you? You know how hard a Comanche is to spot; they smear leaves, mud, and ashes on themselves to blend into the landscape. Hell, the cowdogs couldn’t even pick up their scent with the ashes.”

  “I don’t think they’ll leave anyone behind. The idea was to get Elizabeth away as fast as possible. Anyway, it’s a chance I’ll have to take.” He accepted the hastily prepared sack of food and canteen of water from Cooky and looked back at the trail boss. “I’m leaving you in charge, José. If anything happens to me, Olaf has my will. Get back to him as soon as you can.” With that, he turned Diablo and gave him his head. The stallion leaped forward into a dead gallop as though he knew his master’s mind.

  Miguel picked up the trail easily enough since the Comanche had not taken the usual trouble of dragging brush behind them to erase any tracks. And there were too many of them. Miguel counted at least ten horses, and he recognized the distinct nail pattern of the shoes that Plata wore on her hooves.

  “Damn you, Hawk,” he said, and then silently cursed his own foolishness for allowing Elizabeth along. He should have defied both her and his men. What had he been thinking? He knew what he had been thinking. Sensible or not, he wanted her with him. When he was in her presence, he felt different. Somehow whole, as though she completed a part of him that had always been empty.

  He reflected as Diablo covered the ground in a mile-eating steady canter. Elizabeth. Stubborn, argumentative. Yet, she had defended his peace treaties with the Comanche when a lot of people would have agreed with the major. He admired that. Elena would never have done it. So what if Elizabeth had some silly notion she was from the future? Suddenly, he didn’t care anymore. If she was a bit off in the head, what did it matter? She was rational and intelligent in all other respects and physically, her responses to him promised much, much more. Just running his fingers down her arm could give him a harder erection than Katy ever did. What’s more, he didn’t give a damn if she was a prostitute, although the idea seemed more and more remote. Someday she’d remember, but he didn’t care. He wanted her, and not just for a night, or a month, or a year. He needed her. The thought that had been niggling at the back of his mind came forward with such intensity that he felt dizzy and nearly lost his balance. He loved her. Loved her more than he had Elena—had he even really loved her to begin with? Elizabeth was the woman he wanted to share the rest of his life with.

  There was no more question about it.

  He prayed he would not be too late.

  • ♥ •

  After Elizabeth had changed into the clothes Swift Hawk had sent, she had been led to the Council and stood before them now, her hands bound behind her. Some way to treat a goddess…or whatever she was supposed to be. There was no place for her to run, either—an Indian brave with spear stood on either side of her. Elizabeth frantically looked from the chief to his shaman, trying to understand what they were saying, but most of the conversation was in their native tongue.

  She prayed Miguel would rescue her, although she knew knights-in-shining-armor only came riding out of nowhere in fantasies—and this was no dream. If he did come, through some miracle, she would never again doubt him even if he did think she was a prostitute. Her mind and body and soul would be his. Miserably, she wished she had let him take her. She would have known exquisite pleasure at least once before she was either made Swift Hawk’s property—or worse. She refused to take the thought beyond “worse”.

  Swift Hawk was angrily defying the shaman. Had he not been the chief’s son, Elizabeth had no doubt he would have been beaten senseless. Even so, the stern faces of the Council told her they did not approve his arguing.

  “Flame-colored hair brings much magic,” he said with deadly quiet. “If our children bear red hair, think of the power and respect we will have among our tribe.”

  The shaman shrugged. “Even so, it is her blood that will seal our fate to this land. The spirits spoke to me this afternoon in the sweat lodge.”

  “The smoke of your pipe speaks to you,” Swift Hawk answered bitterly as he paced in front of his father and the shaman. “I brought her here to be my woman.”

  “That will not be,” Chief Jim Ned said severely. “You have been chosen for another. I will not risk war between the tribes because you dishonor Feathertail’s daughter.”

  “Risk war?” Swift Hawk turned on him. “What do you suppose will happen if Fire Woman is killed? I have learned the white man’s ways only too well. De Basque will have the whole damn U.S. Army invading us.”

  Elizabeth felt a glimmer of hope at those words. Would Miguel do it? How many soldiers were at Fort Worth, and how many more could he muster? Enough to take on the Comanche? She felt a slight warmth toward Swift Hawk in the way that deprived prisoners often learned to
cling to their captors. At least, he was trying to defend her.

  “Tomorrow night is the Comanchería moon,” the shaman said. “The Sun Dance will be done during the day to pay respect to Sky Father.” He paused. “If you wish it, son of the chief, she will spend the day in the medicine lodge. The sacred weed will allow her to feel no pain.”

  Swift Hawk gave a feral howl and from beyond the gully, a lone wolf answered.

  The shaman nodded. “The wolf is a good omen.” He continued in English, “Tomorrow night, as Dream Catcher raises the moon, we will give the blood of the woman to our Earth Mother. When Morning Star appears, it will be finished.”

  The words were like a stake through her heart. She was going to die. Her blood turned cold. There was no way Miguel would arrive in time.

  • ♥ •

  Elizabeth refused to eat the next morning. She did not want to take the chance that peyote or mescal had been mixed with her food, and that she’d be dragged to the medicine lodge to spend the day—her last?—in some stupor. She needed her wits about her if she were to survive—and she intended to survive.

  She sat outside in the sunshine later with Little Fox and most of the women from the camp. Her leg had been tied to a strong stake and anytime she moved to scratch at the rawhide binding, one of the squaws would slap her hand away. Fat chance she had of escaping. And the green leather was tightening as the sun rose.

  Still, it wasn’t as bad as the ghastly sight she was being forced to witness. She had read about Sun Dances and War Dances, but had never imagined they would be so brutal. A tall pole rose to her left and green rawhide thongs with wooden skewers at their ends dangled from it this morning, much like a Maypole. She didn’t realize what the intent was until seven braves, including Swift Hawk, stepped forward.

  The skewers were thrust through the skin of the brave’s chest. Once the point had protruded, it was wrapped in thin rawhide and its end also attached to the long ropelike thong. The braves stepped back until the tethers were taut, and then a rock was placed by each Indian’s foot. He would not be able to step forward of that stone as the sun gradually tightened the new hide until muscle and skin were strained and tearing. The object, from what Elizabeth could tell, was to test the bravery of the young men as they struggled to free themselves without the use of their hands which were bound behind them. Swift Hawk had managed to place himself where he had a direct view of her and throughout the day, his eyes did not leave her face.