Wild Dream

by Duncan, Alice

  Wild Dream

  By Alice Duncan

  Wild Dream

  Copyright © 1997 by Alice Duncan

  All rights reserved

  Published 1997 by Dell Publishing,

  A division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc.

  Smashwords Edition September 3, 2009

  Visit aliceduncan.net

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  I hate the title of this book. I had nothing whatever to do with it, and it’s not my fault.

  Chapter 1

  Stars spattered the black night sky, as if a mischievous god had tossed a handful of twinkling diamonds onto the velvet carpet of the heavens. A full moon nestled among them like a luminescent pearl, mysterious, deep; keeping its secrets locked tight, much as might a beautiful woman or a dark and dangerous stranger.

  It seemed to Princess Adelaide, as she rested her chin in her cupped hands and peered at the magnificent firmament outside her turret window, that if ever a night was crafted for rescue, this was it. If only such a thrilling miracle might occur. She sighed deeply as she stared at the enigmatic moon and listened to a couple of coyotes singing to one another in the distance.

  Adelaide herself, trapped in this tawdry castle, alone and forlorn, fairly ached for life. Unfortunately, life itself seemed determined to elude her. Longing for deliverance, love and adventure, it almost seemed as though tonight she might unlock the moon’s secrets if only—if only—

  Suddenly, the thunder of horses’ hooves jolted Addie Blewitt out of her nightly moondream.

  “My goodness,” she murmured. “Who could be riding hell for leather in the pitch dark out here in the middle of nowhere? You don’t suppose old man Stevenson’s pigs got into the green alfalfa and went demented again, do you?”

  Since Addie was alone in her room, no answer was forthcoming. Abandoning her role as tortured princess, she jumped down from her window seat and shoved her feet into her old, tattered slippers. Pausing only to grab her robe and a candle, she ran for the kitchen. There she snatched up a kerosene lamp, lit it with her stub of candle, darted down the hallway, through the front door and out onto the porch.

  “I wonder if I should wake Aunt Ivy,” she mused as she stared in the direction of the noise. Almost immediately, she answered herself. “No. It’s probably nothing.” A little bitterly, she added, “It’s always nothing.”

  She set the lamp on a porch newel and waited. One hand rested on the pot of freshly planted geraniums squatting next to the lamp, the other shaded her eyes as she squinted into the night. As the night was black as pitch the gesture, however dramatic, was wasted.

  Although it had been a warm spring so far, the nights here in southeastern New Mexico Territory were cold, and Addie found herself hugging her robe tightly to her body as she peered at the blackness. Somehow, waiting on the porch in the dark enabled her to resuscitate a semblance of her pleasant whimsy.

  Addie had been alone so much of her life, living as she did on the edge of the vast American frontier, that she greeted her dreams the way another young girl in a more civilized part of the country might greet old and well-loved friends. In the space of a heartbeat, she found herself fancying it was her hero thundering towards her through the inky gloom.

  He was a knight just returned from the Holy Land, where he’d slain a hundred infidels. Of course, every minute he was away, he longed to be at his beloved Princess Adelaide’s side. It was only her evil guardian’s fiendish designs upon her that had parted them in the first place.

  No.

  What it was, was, her hero had been at sea for years. He’d been pressed into Her Majesty’s service and spirited away a scant day or two before their wedding was to have taken place. Now he carried treasure in his saddlebags, claimed in some deathless adventure undoubtedly involving pirates. As soon as his gallant steed galloped him into the farmyard, he’d throw the bags at Addie’s feet and kneel before her, begging her to be his.

  No. Addie smiled dreamily and tossed aside her last fantasy like so much fluff.

  Better than anything. Best, in fact, of all: He was a gallant southern gentleman. Oh, mercy, yes. Addie’s fertile brain whirled with old images implanted during the endless romantic tales her aunt Ivy had fed her. Even though Addie knew that Ivy’d related the stories merely to keep the both of them from losing their minds in this infinite nothingness they called home, still Addie loved them.

  She also now knew exactly who this person galloping toward her had to be.

  A brave and magnificent Confederate soldier, he’d been daring in battle, wounded in action—undoubtedly saving General Lee himself—then nearly starved to death in a vile Yankee prison camp. Being the hero he was, he’d made a bold escape. Of course he’d rescued his fellow prisoners as he did it. Probably he’d been wounded. Yes. Definitely, he’d been wounded. Some lovely Yankee maiden, fearing for her honor but unwilling to let such a noble, handsome, fearless soldier die, had nursed him back to health.

  No. No, no, no. Addie scowled. She hated it when her dreams got jumbled up. Forget the wound.

  Anyway, he’d escaped and taken his fellow prisoners with him. Now here he was, riding back to her, pounding over the ground, unable to bear being parted from her a single instant longer.

  One thing for sure, Addie thought as her dreams crashed into a heap at her feet, whoever he was he’d whip past her perch on the porch sooner or later. Since there was nothing around for miles in any direction except low scrub, the Blewitt apple orchard, and the occasional prairie dog hole, he couldn’t miss it even in the dark. The only semblance of a road anywhere nearby was the half-hearted stretch of beaten earth ambling right past the Blewitt farmhouse.

  Sure enough, the hoof beats got louder and louder as Addie waited. It wasn’t long before she was able to discern voices, too, although she couldn’t make out any words.

  There’s more than one, then. Excitement bubbled in her breast. Those voices clearly emanated from male members of the species.

  Her eyes opened wide when the black night sky suddenly turned blue as vile curses sped to her across the Cimmerian desert.

  Mercy sakes. She wondered if her gallant knight had taken to cursing from having been separated from her so long.

  “Son of a bitch!” she heard. “Damnation.”

  “You gonna make it, Charley?”

  “Damned if I know. I think they only winged my upper arm. Hurts like a bastard, though.”

  He was injured! Addie knew it was her knight who was the wounded party because his was the voice she liked: baritone, rich, deep and handsome. The other one sounded too high-pitched and squeaky to be heroic. Thrusting aside her distaste for her prince’s inelegant language, Addie raised her lantern high above her head and swung it, hoping to attract the poor wandering, wounded soul’s attention.

  When she heard, “Damn! Look at that light! You don’t suppose it’s the law do you?” she almost dropped the lamp. Since, however, it was the deep, resonant voice who’d uttered the worry, she didn’t.

  Instead she called, “Over here!” then frowned when she heard herself. When she hollered like that, her voice sounded not at all musical.

  She heard the horses draw to a stop. They must have been ridden hard for quite a while, because they blew and panted once they were still.

  The voice she lik
ed said, “Who’s there?” It sounded mistrustful.

  She cleared her throat and strove for a finer timbre when she sang back, “My name is Miss Adelaide Blewitt, sir, and I will help you in your hour of distress.”

  The twangy voice whispered, “Wha’d she say?”

  Addie heard no answer. Instead, she held her breath in anticipation when she heard a horse whicker and begin to walk towards her. Her heart almost stopped when, out of the ebon depths and into the circle of yellow lamplight, a horseman gradually emerged. She directed her lamp to guide his path.

  With a gasp, Addie pressed her palm to her galloping heart. The ring of amber light shuddered with the trembling of her hand. She couldn’t believe the sight she beheld.

  The stranger’s hat had been blown from his head in his wild ride and his hair, dark and curling, fell in poetic waves over his aristocratic forehead. His eyes looked dark—oh, so dark—and were framed by the thickest lashes Addie’d ever seen. Light and shadow etched his face and revealed a chin sculpted and regal, and a nose hawk-like and perfect. With a quick glance at his limbs, encased in worn, clinging buckskin, Addie decided with a soaring heart that he was tall and well-muscled, too.

  Sweet Lord, have mercy.

  If the man had been crafted to her specifications, he couldn’t be more right. He was absolutely perfect. Addie knew it in her heart: Her knight had come at last.

  Charley Wilde shoved a lock of hair out of his eye and glowered. Blast it, the fool girl was going to drop that lamp and catch the whole house on fire if she wasn’t careful.

  “We won’t hurt you,” he snapped, mistaking her trembles for fright. Damn, his whole arm hurt now, and he knew he’d lost a lot of blood. “We were attacked by a gang of thieves and one of them winged me.”

  It galled him to utter such a blatant lie but under the circumstances, he couldn’t see much choice. He never used to be a liar.

  “Oh, my,” the creature on the porch whispered.

  Charley couldn’t see her. She held the lamp away from her face. He squinted against the glare and wondered if she was simple or merely being silly, but he didn’t suppose it much mattered.

  Schooling his voice to betray none of the impatience chewing at his guts, he said, “If it isn’t too much trouble, ma’am, may we come in and tend to my arm?”

  “Of course! Oh, of course! My home is yours to command.”

  She had the silkiest southern drawl Charley had ever heard in his entire life. A native of America City, Georgia, Charley had begun to get used to the hateful Yankee twangs he’d encountered during his perilous travels West. It took him aback to be listening to a voice sounding as though it belonged to a girl just stepped out from a plantation ball back home.

  Then she drew the lantern closer to herself and he finally got a peek at her face. The yellow kerosene glow shifted and played games with light and dark, and he couldn’t distinguish her features. All he could tell was that her eyes were huge and seemed to be dark. They also shone with an expression Charley recognized with shock as absolute excitement.

  No. That was impossible. She should be scared of him, or at the very least, a little timid.

  “Wait here,” Charley commanded Lester Frogg, his friend and partner. He rode closer to the light, wishing the lady would give him a clue what to do now. For pity’s sake, they couldn’t just leave their sweaty horses out here in the cold night air.

  As if reading his mind, the girl said, “Why doesn’t your friend take the horses to the barn, sir. You come inside and let me see to your arm.” She gave her smile to Lester, as though what she’d suggested were the most natural thing in the world.

  Charley heard Lester gulp and then say, “Winged ‘im.”

  It didn’t surprise Charley any when the girl looked puzzled. He crossed his hands over his saddle horn and said irritably, “Aren’t you even going to ask us who we are, ma’am? Inviting perfect strangers into your house isn’t a very safe thing to do, you know.”

  Lester poked him in the ribs and Charley glared at him. If this woman didn’t have sense enough to worry about her own safety, somebody had to do it.

  The silly girl just laughed. “Why, sir, I know you can’t be bad men. Just listen to your voices. I swan, you sound just like a couple of Georgia boys to me.”

  Charley wanted to holler at her and ask her what being from Georgia had to say to anything, that this was New Mexico Territory and home to thousands of desperate criminals. Just look at him and Lester, if she needed any proof—and they were only crooks by accident. Anybody else would surely take advantage of this girl’s innocence. All of Charley’s protective instincts rose in his breast, along with a lecture he longed to deliver on the folly of opening her home to strangers.

  Stifling his aggravation with difficulty, he decided Lester was right; they might as well accept the woman’s hospitality. He wasn’t sure how badly he was hurt, but he knew the wound needed attention. He’d already begun to feel light-headed.

  “All right, ma’am. But at least let me tell you that my name is Charley Wilde. My friend here is Lester Frogg.”

  The creature on the porch dipped a perfect curtsy. “Pleased to meet you both. My name is Miss Adelaide Evangeline Blewitt.”

  “Ma’am.” Lester bobbed his head and looked embarrassed. Lester was always embarrassed before the ladies. It was one of his few failings, as Charley had often told him.

  With a grunt, Charley heaved himself off his horse. His arm protested painfully. “Our pleasure, Miss Blewitt,” he said through gritted teeth.

  Miss Adelaide Blewitt bustled before him into the house. It seemed rather a makeshift place, Charley noted as he looked around, although he guessed that was about normal for this neck of the woods. Living in the territory was a hard-scrabble affair. God knew, he and his partners were having a hard go of it. His frown deepened. And no matter what they did, things always turned out wrong.

  “Do you farm this place, ma’am?”

  “We certainly do, sir.” She shot him a glorious smile over her shoulder.

  “Your mama and papa live here with you?” Charley wasn’t altogether sure he wanted to deal with this female’s father. She was obviously friendly, but he’d noted before that when girls took to him, their fathers invariably didn’t. And this girl sure seemed to have taken to him.

  Ushering him into the kitchen, Addie said, “Oh, no. Papa passed on to glory two years ago this May, and we miss him like crazy. My aunt Ivy—Ivy Blewitt?—well, my aunt Ivy and I run the place together.”

  Charley tried to hide his relief. “That so?” Then the import of her words struck him and he stared at her back, astonished. “You work this place alone? Just the two of you ladies?”

  “Why, certainly.”

  She spoke as though two females running a farm all by themselves in the middle of New Mexico Territory wasn’t as unusual as snow in August. “Must be mighty hard, ma’am, just the two of you.”

  “Oh, it is. It’s awful hard, but we have some help. We have a hired hand who helps us plow sometimes, and he sends his sons over to help with the apple and pecan harvest.”

  Two women and one part-time plower. It still sounded impossible to Charley. His arm hurt too much to reflect on how this woman managed her life, though.

  He made a grunt of what he hoped sounded like appropriate interest. Now that the expectation of having his wound attended to stared him in the face, he actually found himself having to contain an unmanly urge to snivel. Life had been so hard lately. For the good Lord’s sake, he’d lived through a war without getting shot. But he’d been shot tonight; no mistake.

  And who knew where the rest of his men were? Anything was liable to happen to them. Although Charley loved each one of them like a brother, he wasn’t foolish enough to think they could fend for themselves without his guidance. Worry gnawed at him in time to the throbbing of his arm.

  “Sit here,” his nurse commanded, gesturing to a table.

  Charley sat and looked about the kitchen. I
t was neat as a pin, a condition he found didn’t surprise him. Ladies always tended to be orderly in his experience. Pots and pans hung in a tidy row above the stove, and cooking utensils gleamed from a crockery jar on the counter. The table at which he sat had been spread with a worse-for-wear oilskin cloth and decorated with a jar of wildflowers and apple blossoms.

  His mama used to put flowers on the kitchen table, he remembered. Said they made her feel good. He suppressed the sudden spasm of nostalgia the room evoked in his sentimental innards. Those days were over. They were gone and would never return, and the sooner he stopped mooning about them the better off he’d be.

  “Now, why don’t you tell me all about what happened to you and your friend? You say you were set upon by brigands? How dreadful!”

  Astonished by the fanciful words Addie used to describe his earlier lie, Charley watched her shoulders give an eloquent shudder as she pumped water into a basin.

  “Er, yes. I guess.”

  “My goodness, how terrible.” The way she said it conveyed exactly the opposite. “Where did this happen? What were you doing out so late? It gets so terribly dark on the desert with only the moon and stars to guide one.”

  “Er, yes,” Charley said again. He opened his mouth to tell another lie and embellish his first, when the fey creature spoke again.

  “Why, I’ll bet it was some awful gang who did it, Mr. Wilde. There are gangs of beastly, desperate men all over the place out here.” She set the bowl of water on the table. “Now, I know it’s shockin’ of me, but I’m going to have to ask you to remove your shirt, sir, because otherwise I won’t be able to clean your wound, and cleanin’ is the very first thing it needs.”

  Wondering if he’d passed out and landed in a dream torn from his lost youth, Charley mumbled, “Oh. Sure,” and began to unbutton his shirt. He took another look at his surroundings and decided this wasn’t a dream. She might sound like an addle-pated southern belle, but this rustic cabin was obviously New Mexican. There were, to Charley’s certain knowledge, no horned toads in Georgia.