Dare to Dream (11 page)

He stooped to pick them up, rose, and held the delicate pieces out to her with a quizzical expression.

Meg’s face heated, but she shrugged it off. “I have a lingerie fetish.”

Meghan worked herself into a lather. As difficult as it was to get into her jeans with two good hands to pull them up, now she had only one, and she had to unlace the moccasins. She remained determined to dress herself.

With her foot propped on the bed, she loosened the laces just enough to pull her foot free, and then repeated the process with the other. Progress was slow with one hand—the wrong hand—doing the job of two. She received immense satisfaction when she finally shook her foot free. She lifted her panties from the bed, tilting her head as she inspected them. They didn’t seem quite right. The lace appeared to be melted in places. What did he do, boil them? Her undies were trashed! She hastily checked her bra to find the garment in a similar condition.
Well, crap!
Going commando should be interesting.

Fear shot through her. If Charlie had washed her jeans in hot water, she’d never get into them. On her fat days, she needed a pair of pliers to zip them. Rather than going through the effort for no reason, she held them in front of her. They’d shrunk at least six inches in length.
Damn the man!
She stormed through the lap in the blankets. She’d give him a piece of her mind.

But she couldn’t. When she opened her mouth, only garbled sounds came forth. She glared at Charlie and held the jeans at her waist.

“Looks like they shrunk a mite.”

Meghan had never wanted to hit anyone so badly in her life. Charlie’s smug expression guaranteed he’d done it on purpose. She turned to White Buffalo and shrugged. Her clothes wouldn’t fit a Barbie doll.

“Have you any of Ghost Walking’s clothes from when he was a boy?”

“Might.”

The red man stared at Charlie until he acquiesced, walked away, and disappeared into the parlor. After a few minutes of loud banging and curses, he emerged with a pair of jeans, a shirt, and what appeared to be a coat made from Indian blankets and fur draped across his arm.

Meghan smelled the cedar before he reached them. The odor wouldn’t be a problem. She liked the aroma, and it would help keep the bugs away. Meg accepted the duds as Charlie grudgingly held them out and then escaped back behind the blankets.

She sat on the bunk and put one leg at a time into the jeans. Much roomier than hers, she had little difficulty pulling them up with only one hand. She cussed a mental blue streak when she saw the button fly. Charlie was a sadist! Five metal buttons to do up with only her left hand. She tried over and over and couldn’t manage a single one. Meg stomped her foot in frustration. Her blood pressure shot up like the mercury in a thermometer on a hot day when she heard Charlie’s chuckle.

Could she swing a cast iron skillet with her left hand? If she managed, she’d knock him into next week!

White Buffalo said something low. Meg listened hard but couldn’t understand a word. The tone seemed clear enough. He was pissed. It wasn’t a strain to figure out with whom.

She hitched Will’s shirt over her head and immediately wished she hadn’t as an icy blast hit her naked back. She stood shivering with her legs splayed to keep her pants up, leaned, and managed to unbutton the top three buttons of the other shirt. She hoped it was as boxy as it looked. After maneuvering her bad arm into the sleeve, she slipped her left in and pulled the flannel over her head. She wriggled a bit, but finally got the thing to slide into place, leaving her exhausted. Common sense overcame stubbornness, and she stepped out into the kitchen.

Will’s grandfather rose from the table, one eyebrow raised in question. His gaze wondered to Meghan’s hand clutching the waist of the britches, and he gave a nod, motioning her to come to him.

Her skin heated as the flush crept up from her toes, all too aware of her lack of undergarments.

He somehow managed to keep his eyes on her face as he deftly did up the buttons. White Buffalo dropped his gaze briefly to the gaping waist, turned to rummage his pack, and produced a length of rope. Pulling a hunting knife from his boot, he cut off a section, worked the cord around the waistband, and tied the makeshift belt in the front.

Well, that solved the slipping pants dilemma. Meghan mentally kicked herself for not going to the pot before getting dressed. She sat when he pointed to a chair, and he went behind the blanket to emerge a moment later with the moccasins. He had them on over her britches’ legs and laced in less time than it had taken her to get out of one of them. She really wanted her arm back.

Rising from kneeling at her feet, he held the coat and coaxed her crooked arm into the sleeve, muttering to himself all the while. Seemingly satisfied with the arm’s position, he held the coat while Meghan got her left one in and then he did up the toggles. “Are you ready?”

I suppose. I’m dying to get out of this house and away from that hateful old man who is conspicuously absent,
Meghan thought. To White Buffalo, she nodded her assent.

He slung his pack onto his shoulder and headed for the door with her bringing up the rear.

A black and white paint stood tied to the rail, a blanket draping his back and butt. The Indian slung his pack across the horse’s withers and held his hand out to Meghan.

Meghan stared at him. Where the hell was his truck? She scanned the area past him as far as the corral but saw no sign of a vehicle. Well, that explained the need for the heavy coat. Perhaps the trail was impassible by truck. He had said the lodge was further up the mountain. Meg stepped toward the horse and stroked his nose. Steam rose from his nostrils as he sniffed her hand. The animal seemed docile enough, and truth be told, she’d always wanted to ride. Horseback riding was on her list of things to do before she died. She put her left hand in White Buffalo’s outstretched one.

He lifted her easily, and she flung her right leg over the horse’s back, using her good hand to steady her. White Buffalo lit beside her in one spring, pulling her back some to settle her rear into his crotch, his knees bracing her legs.

“Hold to the mane and get your balance. If you become tired, lean into me.” He lifted the reins and the paint moved off. Spirit trumpeted from the paddock as if angry at being left behind.

Meg enjoyed the motion of strong muscles moving beneath her, and the scent of warm horseflesh wafting to her nostrils. She might learn to love riding given the opportunity.

The gray sky filled with clouds. The air smelled crisp and cold, like snow moving in. Meghan’s thoughts turned to Will. Had he reached the town? Would he return before the snow came? She wasn’t sure which bothered her more: the thought of being stuck on the mountain with Charlie or the only reason that could possible keep Will away for two weeks. Was it any concern of hers if he spent time with that Kathy girl?

She should be ashamed of herself! Where were her concerns for Donna? She would have been back long ago if something terrible hadn’t befallen her. Donna might lie in a ravine somewhere exposed to this cold air. Wolves lived in Colorado as well as mountain lions, dangerous even for people who knew the backcountry. Donna was a city girl. Meghan barely swallowed past the lump in her throat. Will had to find her.

His hand rested on her thigh and his chest against her back as he pushed her forward. The horse began a steep climb. Meghan needed to lean forward to shift her weight. No wonder the horse minded so well, White Buffalo conveyed what he expected with a touch and a shift of position. Good to know her mental faculties at least equaled that of the horse.

They wound through deer trails and when no trails existed, made their own, climbing ever higher. The trees gave way to bushes and rock. The higher they climbed, the colder the air became, and patches of snow began to dot the landscape. Breathing became more of a struggle for Meghan, and her head felt odd. Just when she thought she would have to ask for a break, the lodge came into view.

Constructed of cedar logs built long and low to the ground, smoke curled from a hole in the top. Did he live here as well? A sweat lodge he had called it. Wasn’t that like a sauna? A hot sauna sounded wonderful to Meghan’s half frozen fingers and cheeks.

The horse came to a stop, and White Buffalo slipped to the ground, and then held up his arms for Meghan. She threw her right leg over the horse’s head until she sat sidesaddle. He grasped her waist and lifted her down, holding her until her legs steadied.

“Stay,” he said as he stepped through the doorway.

Unsure whether he meant her or the horse, Meghan hung an arm over the paint’s neck and stayed where he left her. A few minutes went by, and the smoke coming from the roof got heavier.

He appeared in the doorway wearing only a loincloth, and Meghan felt her eyes bulge.

He held a blanket out to her. “You will want this. Come, I will help you undress.”

Holy Christ on a cracker, did he want her naked?

Will had seen no sign of any other human on the mountain. How had Meghan really come to be in his barn? Where had she come from? If someone came within scent range on horseback, Spirit would have issued challenge. Maybe she just dropped out of the sky, an angel with a broken head instead of a wing.

Oh, he had it bad. He snorted in self-disgust, and Bess answered back.

He figured he’d reach the outskirts of town by evening but hadn’t yet decided whether to find civilized accommodations or camp on the periphery until morning when the general store opened. Normally, he would go to Miss May’s for a late tumble with Kathy and spend the night in her room. As long as he paid for his poke, May didn’t give a hoot what the girls did after-hours. Probably best to make camp, go in early, and get his shopping done then hit the trail before any of the girls got out and about. The plan would sure save on explanations.

His mind made up, he gave Bess her head and scoured the ravine at the edge of the road for any signs of Donna, but found nothing. His nerves remained unsettled since the dream the night before. He couldn’t remember much, just a sense of loss, but that, coupled with Charlie’s attitude, troubled him. Why had the man who raised him suddenly developed a dislike for the girl? He’d steered clear of her since she regained consciousness. Will had sworn he read him wrong, but Charlie seemed pleased at Meghan’s setback. How could anyone wish a stroke on someone? Charlie’s attitude made no sense.

So far, little concerning Meghan did.

Bess stopped, jolting Will from his thoughts. The smell of smoke and meat cooking on more than one campfire drifted up to greet him. Urging Bess forward, they rounded the next bend. A small cavalry troop settled in for the evening.

Things were looking up.

“Ho, the sentry!” Will called to be polite. Surely the man had heard Bess and the wagon coming for a mile.

“Hold.” The trooper stepped from behind a boulder, his rifle trained on Will. “Who might you be?”

Will swallowed the smart-alecky remark on his tongue. “Will Thornton, from up the mountain, coming to town for supplies. Has there been some trouble?”

The guard didn’t answer his question. “Thornton, the horse trader? My lieutenant will want to speak to you. We would have been to your place in a day or so.”

“He has business with me?” Will smothered his grin with a hand, pretending to yawn. He’d closed the deal with the Colonel to furnish remounts for the cavalry, with a handshake over a year ago. He knew Colonel Taylor from his days as a scout and trusted him to keep the bargain, whether the rest of the War Department would prove as trustworthy remained to be seen. He’d get any other offers in writing.

“Last tent on the right,” the trooper said and motioned the wagon through.

Will answered a good-natured shout here and there as he passed campfires where troopers ate, mended their clothing, and visited amongst themselves. He slowed Bess as they came to the picket line. Will noted the horses were in good flesh, their winter coats thick, hooves trimmed and shod. The cavalry taught soldiers to care for the stock, good to know the training stuck.

He pulled Bess up in front of the last tent and dropped anchor. Not knowing how long he’d be, he went to the rear of the wagon and filled the feedbag with oats. Returning to the mule, he undid the side traces, dropped her bridle, fitted the feed bag over her muzzle, and left her eating peaceably.

“You aren’t going to tie her?” the orderly asked as he neared the tent flap.

“She’s not going anywhere. I understand the Lieutenant’s looking for me, Will Thornton.”

“Just a minute, sir.” The lad disappeared inside the tent. A moment later, the flap flipped back. The orderly held it open. “This way, sir.”

“Will.” He slapped the kid on the shoulder as he ducked under his arm. The boy smiled and slipped out. Will stood waiting to be acknowledged. His dislike of the officer was intense and immediate.

He ate from a china plate filled with roast duck and sweet potatoes while his men ate beans and bacon off tin, his uniform neat and tidy while they mended tears in their own. Long yellow hair, clean and brushed, fell around his shoulders like a woman’s. Even his mustache and goatee were groomed. Yet another Custer wannabe. Will’s gorge rose. In a stunning piece of propaganda, the War Department turned a consummate ass into a legend.