Catch a Dream

by Cynthia Breeding

  She closed the book and leaned back. “Do you remember the dinner with Tate-Johnson when I said the slaves would be freed?”

  Miguel fingered the cover of the book soberly. “Yes. And no one believed you. Yet, this is going to—did—happen, only a few years from the date of that dinner. What a horrible time it must have been for families to be so torn apart. Was this the worst war our country’s been in?”

  “Casualty wise, probably. But we’ve been involved in two massive world wars in the twentieth century and conflicts in the Far East, as well. Viet Nam nearly divided this country as much as the Civil War did. Even now, there’s constant strife in the Middle East: Jews against Muslims, Muslims against Christians. The ironic thing is that each side calls the other “the Infidels”.

  Miguel looked up from tracing the cover of the book with his fingers. “That war is centuries old from the time of the Templars. You’re telling me that skirmishing is still going on?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Elizabeth said, “it’s a pity we can’t just tell nations to ‘play nice’ like we would naughty children.”

  Miguel smiled a little. “I don’t know what they’re fighting about now, but originally, the contention wasn’t so much over religion as it was treasure.”

  Elizabeth frowned. “Are you talking about Solomon’s treasure that was supposedly buried under the temple? The rumors were that the Templars who escaped prosecution made off with it and that’s why they became such successful bankers.”

  “More than just rumors, perhaps.”

  She stared at him. “What do you know about it?”

  “My French ancestors left records that were passed down and translated throughout the centuries,” Miguel said quietly. “Tate-Johnson thinks there may be veiled clues or even a map in code if I’d ever get the papers deciphered.”

  Elizabeth shook her head in confusion. “What does Tate-Johnson have to do with the Templars?”

  “He’s a Mason,” Miguel answered. “They’ve always had an abiding interest in anything to do with Solomon’s Temple. But it’s a moot issue; the papers are hidden in the hacienda a hundred fifty years in the past.”

  She sat there for some minutes, trying to make sense of what Miguel was saying. She thought of her mother, still in the south of France researching treasure that was supposed to be buried at Rennes-le-Château. She felt herself getting a headache. It was too much to absorb.

  “This is way too complicated,” she said as she got up and put the book back. “Let’s go to lunch and talk about the 1800s. Life was so much simpler then, with only the Comanche to worry about.”

  Miguel stood too. “I’m with you,” he said. “It seems we haven’t learned our lessons well, does it?”

  “Nope.” She took a deep breath and gave herself a shake. “But enough gloom. The sun is shining outside and the sky is blue. It’s good to be alive, whichever century this is. And,” she added mischievously, slowly and seductively wetting her lips, “after lunch, when we get home, I have a special dessert planned for you.”

  Miguel’s eyes grew darker and he grinned. “That’s what I love about you, Red. Do we really need to stop for lunch?”

  She gave him a wicked look and walked out the door, swinging her hips in a most decadent fashion.

  • ♥ •

  They were leaving Fort Worth’s Water Garden one evening just after sunset when they heard the scream. The cascading water nearly drowned out the sound, but as they moved away, they could see a woman struggling with a man over her purse.

  “A mugging,” Elizabeth said, reaching for her cell phone and dialing 911.

  Miguel sprinted in the woman’s direction and took hold of the man’s shoulder to spin him around.

  What happened next was to be forever jumbled in Elizabeth’s memory. She saw a flash and heard a series of pops and then Miguel was lying on the sidewalk covered in blood. The woman screeched, and the mugger ran away.

  “No!” Elizabeth screamed as she dropped to her knees beside him and cradled his head in her lap. He was bleeding from both lower stomach and upper thigh wounds and there was a streak of blood on his face where a bullet had grazed the side of his head. He appeared to be unconscious. Elizabeth tore at the slip she was wearing and stuffed in on his abdomen, trying to stanch the blood.

  “Help me,” she said to the still stunned woman. “Use your jacket to stop the leg’s bleeding.” The woman just stared. “Do it!” Elizabeth said in her teacher-voice, not even realizing the authority in the tone.

  It worked. The woman dropped beside her, sobbing, and held the cloth against the leg. “I’m so sorry,” she repeated over and over.

  In the distance, Elizabeth could hear the ambulance. Thank God for cell phones. “Hang on, Miguel, help is coming.”

  He groaned and opened his eyes slightly. “I’m shot?”

  “Yes, my love. Don’t talk. Save your strength.” She brushed the hair back from his forehead and applied both hands again to his stomach.

  “Eliza…beth. I…love…you.” Miguel closed his eyes and went still.

  For a brief eternity, she stared and then yowled. “Don’t die on me, Miguel. Don’t die. Not after all we’ve gone through to be together.”

  “Move over, ma’am, please.” The paramedic took hold of her shoulders and gently pushed her aside to take vital signs. The portable EKG machine was hooked up and all Elizabeth could see was a flat line.

  And then Miguel was surrounded by med techs performing CPR, getting the defibrillator ready, inserting needles, hooking up fluids, applying a tourniquet.

  Please God! He can’t die. It was the only phrase she could think of, and she muttered it over and over like a mantra as Miguel was placed on the stretcher and taken to the ambulance.

  “Can I ride with him?” she stuttered.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” the medic said. “It’s going to be crowded in there if we’re going to save him. We’ll be going to John Peter Smith.”

  “I’ll escort her.” A very solid looking police officer appeared at her side. “Don’t you worry about anything.”

  She turned to him in gratitude as the ambulance left, lights flashing, sirens blowing. “He—he’ll be all right, won’t he?”

  “I don’t know. I’m Captain Vargas; my car’s this way.”

  As they quickly walked toward it, he spoke into his radio. Between the crackling noise and the code words, Elizabeth couldn’t really make out what was being said and her mind was too dazed to think rationally, anyway. All she could think of was only moments before, they had been laughing and talking and planning a trip to visit the King Ranch in South Texas. Miguel had been vibrant, full of energy. Alive. And now…she looked at the blood that covered her hands and most of her skirt. “Oh, God. Please. Don’t let him be killed like my father was,” she pleaded silently.

  “We’ve apprehended the suspect,” the captain said as he opened the door to the squad car. “The man’s got a twenty-nine—a warrant for his arrest—on another assault charge as well. Seems like he has a history of priors, too.”

  Elizabeth nodded dumbly. That figured. Way too many scumbags were released on parole only to turn around and commit more crimes.

  The captain escorted her to the ER where she was told Miguel had been taken into surgery. All she could was wait.

  “Is there someone you can call?” the officer asked.

  Before she could answer, a hospital employee approached. “I’m sorry,” the young woman said, “but the media is asking for an interview. They want to do a ‘Good Samaritan’ clip for the ten o’clock news.”

  Elizabeth shook her head. Unbelievable. Here she was, not knowing if her husband was dead or alive, and someone wanted her to go on camera and talk?

  The captain looked at her sympathetically. “Call your friend. I’ll talk to the reporters for now and give them the basic details.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured as she shakily dialed Brooke’s number.

  Time did a distorted space thing. It s
eemed to her hours elapsed before Brooke appeared, somewhat disheveled, and yet when she glanced at her watch, only minutes had gone by. Less than an hour ago, Miguel had been teasing her about what he planned to do with her in bed that night, raising all sorts of delicious shivers. Now, she only hoped she wouldn’t be sleeping alone for the rest of her life. She prayed again, “Please God. Don’t let him die.”

  She was dimly aware of the captain handing her his card, telling her they would be in touch and if she needed anything, to call. Brooke sat patiently holding her hand.

  “He really was a hero,” she said.

  Elizabeth tried to ignore the “was”. Miguel was in surgery. No news right now might be good news. “I wish he’d waited for the police.”

  “I don’t know if this helps,” Brooke said, “but he protected a woman in distress, just like a real knight would. It’s nice to know that there are still men who act like that.”

  Elizabeth nodded numbly. She supposed Miguel had always had that trait of chivalry; she’d just spent so much time defending her silly belief that he’d “use” her she hadn’t seen it. Could she ever make it up to him? She sighed. “Did I tell you he was a Ranger in the other life? That instinct kicked in.” Her father had said it often enough; it didn’t matter if he were in uniform or not, he was always on duty.

  Brooke’s eyes widened. “A Ranger? They’re legendary. All the stories about—”

  “Mrs. de Basque?” A surgeon stood in the doorway, still in scrubs, the mask down around his neck.

  Elizabeth swallowed a lump in her throat. “Yes?”

  “I think he’s going to be okay. He has a slight concussion from the near hit to his head and he’s lost a lot of blood. The bullets didn’t really hit any vital organs—” The surgeon hesitated and Elizabeth looked up quickly.

  “What is it?”

  The doctor took a deep breath. “With two bullets so close to the groin area, I can’t guarantee that no damage has been done. There may be some dysfunction—”

  She stared at him. “My husband could be impotent? Is that what you mean?”

  He nodded. “We don’t know for sure. Time will tell. He’s in ICU, but we can give you five minutes, if you’ll follow me.”

  A big whoosh of air left Elizabeth’s lungs. She hadn’t even realized she’d been holding her breath. “Yes, please.”

  Miguel looked paler than she’d ever seen him, but he seemed alert as he weakly squeezed her hand. “I guess I’ll have to cancel those plans I had for you.”

  Tears sprang to her eyes and she didn’t know whether she was going to laugh or cry. He had to be in pain and yet, that was what he was thinking about? She pushed the thought out of her head that those plans might be permanently canceled.

  “You’ve got a one-track mind, do you know that?” she asked.

  He grinned feebly. “Can’t help it. By the time I get out of here, it’ll be even worse. You’d better be ready, Red.”

  She leaned over to kiss him, careful not to let him see the worry she felt. Obviously, no one had told him, and she wasn’t going to do it, either. Time to deal with that later. He was alive. “I’ll be more than that. You’ll see.”

  • ♥ •

  Miguel wasn’t released for five days, and when he did come home, he was still weak and needed bed rest.

  “You made the news for several nights,” Elizabeth said as she plumped the pillows so that he could prop himself against the headboard.

  “Why?” he asked. “Any man would have stepped in.”

  “Ah, no. Not in the twenty-first century,” Elizabeth said. “Years ago, a young New York woman named Kitty Genovese was attacked and murdered on the street; she screamed for help and her neighbors stood by and watched, too afraid to do anything.”

  “That can’t be true.” Miguel looked thoroughly disgusted.

  “It is,” Elizabeth insisted. “This is a ‘me, me, me’ society; there is no Code of Chivalry, as Brooke would say.”

  “Why would a man attack a woman anyway?” he asked.

  “Drugs,” Elizabeth replied. “Far too many people are addicted. They wake in the morning needing a fix, then the goal for the day is to rob someone to get the money to feed the habit.”

  He looked puzzled. “What’s wrong with doing an honest day’s work?”

  “They’re not interested in working. All they want is the high the drug gives them. That man was a scum bag.”

  “The man needs to pay for his crime.”

  Elizabeth almost laughed. Miguel truly believed that. Well, times were a lot more black and white in his era. How she wished they could go back to that time.

  • ♥ •

  Miguel gained strength quickly once he was home. Although he kissed her and held her against his side at night, he had not initiated anything more than that. Elizabeth hoped it was because his wounds were still healing.

  Then, one night, she had to know. He turned his head away from her when she asked, and Elizabeth felt like a leaden brick had settled in her stomach.

  “I don’t know,” he answered and put an arm up behind his head. “I just haven’t been able—”

  “Shhh,” Elizabeth whispered. “It’s all right.” She nestled down on his shoulder and his other arm went around her. Slowly, she began to stroke the underside of his arm with her fingertips, lightly brushing the skin.

  “That tingles,” he said into her hair.

  “Do you like it?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She burrowed closer and barely grazed his arm again, then let her hand slide gently down his ribs and up again over his chest and then down, letting her palm massage his belly, taking care not to touch the mending scar. She repeated the movements until she could feel him physically relaxing under the sensual massage

  Her hand traced the hard muscles of his thigh, then trailed softly to his testicles. She felt his sharp intake of breath as she gently kneaded them and let her fingers stroke lightly up his shaft. She was beginning to feel it move, a quiver here as she sought the underside, a decided nudge there as she touched the sensitive foreskin, and a most definite push as her hand glided the full length of him. She formed a ring with her thumb and forefinger and began to slide his phallus through it. Miguel moaned, and she provided more friction and speed.

  Ah, that was better. He was growing—really growing—under her hand. With one fluid movement, she slipped down and took him in her mouth, her tongue circling the head before she began to suckle.

  Miguel growled, and she felt herself suddenly being turned, her backside to him. One hand found her breast, the other the little nub that was the center of heaven. Her upper leg came over his and then she felt his now-hard erection plunge into her from behind, filling her completely, thrusting while his hands pleasured her as well. Three sensitive areas being stimulated at one time was too much. The crescendo of passion rose quickly, the need to have him deeper and harder caused her to counter his movements; the other throbbing between her legs where his fingers tortured her threatened to overcome her first. Her toes curled as she arched against him, the tremor starting slowly…slowly building until with a wild cry, she felt that primal contraction that would hold him prisoner inside her until her climax stopped.

  And it did not want to stop. Wave after contracting wave swept over her until she was nearly senseless and then, as she gasped for air, she realized why. He had not stopped, only slowed down to allow her to enjoy her coming. His hand still played with the swollen folds, his fingers still rolled a nipple between them. The thrusting had taken on a slow, rocking cadence, almost like a canter, that was causing a second achy build-up of need. The very nerve tips of her skin cried out for release, and in one final bucking motion, he ground into her. Her body convulsed into spasms.

  She lay panting on her side, too weak to turn to him, and felt his sweat-drenched body press against hers, his arms securely wrapped around her.

  “Well, you’ve answered my question,” Elizabeth whispered, but when she moved he
r head, she saw Miguel was fast asleep.

  Just as well. A third trip like that and she might end up in the ER, too.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN—HOME AGAIN

  As he continued to recuperate, Miguel became more and more interested in the history gap between his time and the present.

  “Do you think we would be able to change history if we went back?” he asked one crisp fall evening as he and Elizabeth sipped glasses of wine in front of the fireplace.

  “I don’t know,” Elizabeth answered. She picked up tongs and carefully turned a slow-burning log. “The question may be: Should we change history?”

  Miguel poked at the history book lying on the coffee table. “A lot of lives could have been saved if shots had never been fired at Fort Sumter.” He thumbed through the part on the Civil War and then looked up. “What if someone from the twenty-first century who knew what disaster lay ahead had coached Douglas and he won the debates? Lincoln wouldn’t have been elected president and there would have been no war.”

  “Slaves would not have been freed, either,” Elizabeth said. “The war was the price for dignity and respect for all humans.”

  Miguel sighed. “You’re right, of course. I never did believe in owning slaves.” He glanced over the material pertaining to Lincoln. “Hmmm. He’s quoted as saying, ‘A house divided against itself cannot stand.’ That sounds like Lincoln didn’t want to split the country; he wanted to unify it.”

  “Sure,” she said, “but I still stand by my question of whether someone has a right to interfere with history. The consequences have a domino cause-and-effect. In science fiction stories, most claimed the generally-accepted code that they could not interfere, morally or ethically.”

  “Science fiction stories?”

  “Stories about starships. The galaxy. Life beyond this planet in the future.” Elizabeth took his hand, a mischievous smile on her face. If you think this century is strange, wait until you see what’s coming.”

  “I don’t know that I want to,” Miguel replied. “I’d still prefer the wide-open spaces, and my horse, and maybe a simple romp in bed with my wife.”