Dare to Dream

Dare to Dream

It’s said love is timeless. Meghan Dennehy and Will Thornton are about to prove it.

Uncomfortable in her world, Meghan seeks happiness between the pages of romance novels or in the world built in her dreams. She longs for a place to belong and a love of her own. The antiques of the past hold far more interest than the fast-paced era she lives in.

Over a hundred years in the past, Will Thornton, a half-breed former army scout is caught between two worlds. Passing for white, he does not forget his native heritage and proudly bears the name Ghost Walking, given to him by his grandfather. Still, his heart yearns for someone to love him for who and what he is.

Fate intercedes to bring them together. But destiny isn't always kind, even to young lovers. It will take more than passion to bind them. It will take faith in a love that transcends time.

Genre:
Historical, Time Travel
Length:
52,865 words
 

Debbie Vaughan

EROTIC ROMANCE

Siren Publishing, Inc.

www.SirenPublishing.com

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A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK

IMPRINT: Erotic Romance

DARE TO DREAM

E-book ISBN: 1-61034-473-1

First E-book Publication: July 2011

Cover design by Jinger Heaston

All cover art and logo copyright © 2011 by Siren Publishing, Inc.

McEntire, Reba Lyrics. "Turn on your Radio."
All the Women I Am
. The Valory Music Co. © 2010

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED:
This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

PUBLISHER

Siren Publishing, Inc.

www.SirenPublishing.com

Letter to Readers

Dear Readers,

If you have purchased this copy of
 
Dare to Dream
 
by Debbie Vaughan from BookStrand.com or its official distributors, thank you. Also, thank you for not sharing your copy of this book.

Regarding E-book Piracy

This book is copyrighted intellectual property. No other individual or group has resale rights, auction rights, membership rights, sharing rights, or any kind of rights to sell or to give away a copy of this book.

The author and the publisher work very hard to bring our paying readers high-quality reading entertainment.

This is Debbie Vaughan’s livelihood.
 
It’s fair and simple. Please respect Ms. Vaughan’s right to earn a living from her work.

Amanda Hilton, Publisher

www.SirenPublishing.com

www.BookStrand.com

For Donna, my best friend since forever, who’s always watched my back. For Janet, a kindred spirit, who will be my friend forevermore. Thank you both for your encouragement and faith in me, even when I had little in myself. May you always follow your hearts and reach for the stars.

DEBBIE VAUGHAN

Copyright © 2011

“I’m dying here!” Donna whined for the zillionth time.

“What am I supposed to do about it?” Meghan waved the bottle of Diet Dr. Pepper under her friend’s nose. “I offered to buy bottled tea to bring along, but no, you need fresh—with hand-squeezed lemons, no less.”

“How was I to know we’d get lost? Maybe I can lick the sweat off the bottle?”

“Eww! You’re the one driving, moron. Your truck, your GPS.”

Donna Andrews was Meghan’s best friend, co-owner of Eclectic Interiors
,
their decorating business, Dolly Parton look-alike, and confirmed iced-tea connoisseur. More tea-colored lemonade in Meghan’s opinion since each sixteen-ounce freshly brewed glass must have exactly three slices of lemon and a cup of sugar. Diet anything had never touched Donna’s lips, so the DDP was safe.

“The GPS is fine. We’re just out of reception range is all.”

“We’re lost, dipshit.” The last detour sign was ever so helpful, an arrow pointing down a dirt road, followed by miles of…nothing. How the hell was anyone supposed to know where they were going? Maybe the locals did, if any existed, but not two girls from Arkansas. One dirt road led to another, more trees, more rocks, more mountains. Rocky Mountain high? Not.

“Just tell me when the little blue light comes on overhead, will ya?”

Meghan replied with a loud Dr. Pepper burp.

Donna diverted her gaze from the road long enough to roll her big blue eyes.

Meghan ignored her and tried to enjoy the scenery.

An hour later, the only life they had seen was a mountain goat. The GPS was still dark, Meghan’s DDP had long since met its tragic end, and of course, she needed to pee.

“Stop. Please stop. I’ll go behind a bush, who’s to see? Seriously,
stop!”

“Oh, all right!”

Donna pulled as far to the left as possible, to avoid the sharp drop on the passenger’s side. She shut the ignition off. Without giving her time to open the door, Meghan scrambled across the seat, bent on climbing over her, tissue in hand.

She pushed Donna’s ample boobs out of the way so she would fit between them and the steering wheel, and began unbuttoning her tight Levi’s before her feet touched the ground. Damn Donna! The girl had a bladder the size of a thimble compared to Meghan’s gallon size. She could hold her water forever, but when forever came, that was it. She did her best to get her boots out of the line of fire. Sighing with relief, she pulled up her undies and jeans then inspected her favorite boots for water marks. Luckily for Donna, she found none.

Meghan gasped as Donna strolled along the rim of the road, perilously close to the edge, sending flurries of pebbles over the side and an army of anxious geese marching up Meg’s back. Seemingly oblivious to the danger, Donna turned her cell phone in every direction, obviously trying to get a signal.

With one arm wrapped around a spindly pine for security, Meghan yanked her back from the edge. “Pay attention. Falling off the side of this mountain won’t get us found any faster. I say the first wide spot we come to, we turn around and go back to Steamboat.”

“Works for me.”

The trouble was they hadn’t seen a space wide enough to turn a tricycle, much less a Dodge Ram dually. The damn truck was a city block long without the near empty twelve-foot trailer tacked on. This trip had been a bust.

Twice a year they set out on a treasure hunt. Their interior design business had taken off like a rocket three years ago and was a natural offshoot to Donna’s rabid hobby of collecting primitives. She had the knack of finding the unfindable and paying next to nothing for it. Her three thousand square foot log home was filled from floor to rafter with her prizes. The business had started accidentally when husband Dan built her a one-room log building to house her extras, and the local newspaper ran an article about her collection. Donna couldn’t seem to part with any of her finds until the lady from a ritzy neighborhood had offered three thousand dollars for the 1800s pine wardrobe Donna had gotten from an old Missouri farmhouse destined for demo. The woman bought the piece sight unseen from a photo displayed in the article.

The one thing Donna liked better than spending money was making it.

Meghan’s contribution was her bookkeeping skills. She worked free for a year to
buy in
since she didn’t have the proverbial pot to piss in. Now she was a full partner, bookkeeper, and interior designer. Meg could mix primitive, Tuscan, urban, and make everything work harmoniously. She had invented shabby chic.

The shop’s rise in popularity was spurred in part by the rise in antique collectors, so pickings had gotten pretty slim in the south. Each year they traveled farther and found less. Now they were lost, the perfect way to end a horrible buying trip. Meghan couldn’t even manage to enjoy the fall foliage and the crisp mountain air. She loved the outdoors and roughing it. Donna’s idea of roughing it involved a king-sized bed and a pool. She sighed in defeat.

“Stop that,” Donna said in exasperation.

“What’d I do?”

“You went all cow-eyed and sighy again. You need to get your nose out of those romance novels, get out into the real world, and most importantly, get laid.”

“Don’t start, I wasn’t—hey, is that smoke?”

The truck rounded another bend, and lo and behold, a farmhouse stood framed against a rock and evergreen background. Smoke curled from the stone chimney, circled the humungous ruin of a barn, and drifted down into the valley below. Donna braked hard, sending the trailer sideways into the drive and dirt flying. She was already yanking on a pair of heavy leather gloves and tying a scarf over her abundant blonde hair.

“Wait, you can’t go in without permission. Fire? That means folks are home.” Meghan scrambled down the side of the truck, tucking her long silver blonde mane under her straw cowboy hat as she went. The brim kept the spiderwebs out of her eyes and off her face. She hated spiders.

The porch was covered in a layer of dust an inch thick, but then, what wasn’t out here? She rapped on the wood door, sending a cloud of dirt flying into her face. Turning to Donna pacing by the truck, she shrugged and took a step. A creaking sound caused her to turn back.

The old woman leaned hard on a curly willow cane. Some optical illusion made the cane look as if it drilled into the ground with each step she took, or perhaps, sprang from it. Her pure white hair hung straight and glossy past her butt. She wore a faded calico dress cinched at the waist with a macramé belt. Beaded deerskin boots met the hem. Her outfit had Native American flair but not her features. Her eyes were the soft gray of misty mornings.