Dare to Dream (3 page)

* * * *

Donna flew down the mountainside, oblivious to the downpour. She couldn’t see anyway, mascara filled her eyes, and they burned like mad. The sting would wash away soon enough. She couldn’t stop crying.

She couldn’t find her—them—either of them. They vanished. No sign, other than the weird deed. Any tracks would have been washed away in the rain. None of it made sense. She’d been there the whole time. How could anyone have slipped in without her seeing?

Three sets of blue lights swung into place on either side and behind the speeding truck as she neared the sheriff’s office in Steamboat Springs. She jammed on the brakes, and the truck and trailer jackknifed in the mud before sliding to a stop an inch away from the surprised deputy and his cruiser. Donna paid no mind, climbed from her truck into the ankle-deep mud, and ran to the station door. Everyone stopped what they were doing to stare. It took her a second to get the wet hair out of her eyes before she realized they all stared behind her.

Donna turned slowly to face three deputies, pointing three guns at her head, and then the floor came up to kiss her good night.

Awakened by the acrid smell of ammonia, she choked. She slapped the hand holding the smelling salts, which got her handcuffed.

“I want my phone call.
Now
!”

She knew her rights. Donna also knew what she was about to tell them sounded nuts. The deed made her look guilty as hell. If anyone in the world could get her off without a stretch in the looney bin, it was her father-in-law, Bob Andrews, aka “The Judge.” That was his occupation, the honorable Judge Robert Andrews.

Apparently unwilling to uncuff the crazy lady, the matron dialed and held the phone to Donna’s ear.

“District Judge’s office, how may I help you?”

“Kelly, let me talk to Dad.”

“Hold please, Donna.”

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Dad, I need you—now.” She could just see the self-satisfied smirk on his face.

“Donna? Is something wrong? Are you hurt?”

“I’m not hurt. I’m in jail.” She hated asking for his help.

Even the matron had sense enough to move the phone away from Donna’s ear. She put it back when the yelling died down to a roar.

“
Dad
, Meg’s gone missing. I’m in Steamboat Springs, Colorado. And Dad, bring Dan with you.”

“I’ll ask the governor if I can borrow the jet. We’ll be there in a couple of hours. Don’t talk to
anyone
until we get there.”

“Believe me, Bob, this is a story I only plan to tell once.” Her comment was met with silence. Now he knew how bad things really were. Donna
never
called him by his name, not since Dan asked her to marry him.

“Three hours.” The line went dead.

The matron’s eyes appeared a little buggy. It was a good look for her. She better be scared. The whole fucking department should be. The judge was a force to be reckoned with. Donna knew that all too well.

He always said, “The truth will set you free.” Well, that was just peachy keen if a body happened to know the truth.

Donna didn’t have a clue.

Her insides started to vibrate, and the motion worked its way outward. She didn’t know how to stop it.

“Call Doc Mason, pronto!” someone yelled from far, far away.

“Well, missy, I ain’t sure how you got in them britches, but I may have to cut you out of them.” Charlie knew she probably couldn’t hear him, but talking to himself was a habit and he took comfort in it. It wasn’t everyday he got to strip a filly bare. As a matter of fact, the last time he’d seen a gal in her all-together was the boy’s sixteenth birthday. They had ridden the twenty or so miles into town to visit the rooms above the saloon. Tarnation! Had it been twelve years?

This gal didn’t look like a whore, leastways not like any he’d ever seen. He’d known quite a few in his younger years before White Buffalo brought him the boy. He pulled her boots off, pausing to stare at her stocking feet. Bright blue with white ponies running round her trim little ankles, the knitting so fine there was hardly a bump. He’d never seen the like. Seemed he’d thought that a lot today. Her boots had an odd heel, higher than most, to keep her foot from sliding through the stirrup, no doubt. The maker hailed from Texas—Durango was his brand. If she came from Texas, how the hell did she get all the way out here?

Boots out of the way, Charlie undid her britches, grabbed hold of the ankles, and hauled for all he was worth. They didn’t budge, but the gal slid a foot. “Will, get in here!”

Will hurried in from the porch. “Has she taken a turn?”

“Naw, ’bout the same. She’s mumbled a bit. Nothin’ I could make out. Something about sheep.”

“Sheep?”

Charlie shrugged. “Sounded like ram to me. Hitch her up some so I can get these britches down. Gal must’a put them on with goose grease, else they shrunk to her.”

Will swallowed hard, but nodded and then positioned himself at the head of the bunk. He slipped his arms carefully under her shoulders, continuing on until he reached her waist. Hands wrapping either side of her body, he lifted, holding her while Charlie tugged and cussed. Once past her knees, the pants came off easily enough. Charlie’s gaze followed Will’s stare.

“Get!” Charlie ordered. He flung the blanket over the gal as heat rushed to his cheeks. The boy didn’t move. One eyebrow stuck at half-mast over wide eyes. He’d seen an eyeful—no doubt. He took a deep breath and said what had to be said. “Boy, she’s hit her head right hard. The fact she cracked it might be a good thing, let the pressure out. But head wounds can be tricky. She might be right as rain in a day or two, or she might not wake up a’tall.” The boy’s gaze rose slowly to meet his. “You remember the fawn last spring?”

Will’s gut wrenched. The poor little thing tried to follow its dam and ran headlong into the rail fence. He’d thought it was dead, it wasn’t, but not right either. When the wee critter finally managed to get his feet back under him, he’d walked in a circle, always to the right. In the end, Will had been forced to shoot him. He looked at the girl and prayed she’d go peaceable on her own if it came to that.

“I can’t believe she didn’t break nothing else. Well I never.…”

Will’s eyes shifted to the gap in the red plaid flannel shirt Charlie unbuttoned. He stared at the scrap of flaming red lace covering her bosom, the same color as the wee bit covering her lower parts. Or not covering. The vision forever seared into his brain. He wasn’t sure whether to cuss or say thank you when Charlie drew the blanket up under her chin. Even the ladies at Miss May’s wore more than that under their wrappers. Hell, they wore more than that when you took them for a tumble! He waited for Charlie to pull the shirt out from under her and then slid his hands out. Her skin felt like hot velvet to his callused fingers, sending a different heat straight to his crotch. He stuffed his hands in his pockets.

“I’ll go fetch a bucket of fresh water. I think she’s feverish.” He made his escape before the old man turned around. Will’s britches felt as tight as the girl’s had been. His rampant cock reminded him it had been far too long since he’d been with a woman. The water from the creek was colder than the well. He snatched the buckets from the bench by the door and headed across the yard before turning right at the barn onto the path leading up the hill.

“That boy needs a gal.” Charlie mumbled to himself and the filly as he removed her frilly bits. He inspected them. He’d never seen the like. The top piece was an odd bit of work. Lace cups with wire strung under them, a little ribbon and some hooks at the back, was all there was to it. And even less to the bottom! As small as the front piece was, there appeared to be no back at all, only a piece of ribbon to circle her waist and split her cheeks. No wonder the boy was in such a state. “You best not die on me, missy.”

He smoothed a gnarled hand over her cheek. Will called it right. His hand heated against her skin. The water in the remaining bucket would have to do until the boy got back. Pouring some into a basin, he added a rag then turned back to the stove to strike the kindling. The rest of the water went into a pot, which he set on the front eye to heat. He’d make some broth with the jerky.

Pulling a stool to the bedside, he sponged her face and throat. As an afterthought, he pulled her arms from the blankets and wet them as well, repeating the procedure with each leg. When his hand returned to her cheek, it felt even hotter. “Where is that consarned boy?”

* * * *

Will squatted by the stream and swore a blue streak. His britches damn near gelded him! Small wonder since his cock had swollen the size of his stud’s. What the hell had she been wearing? He knew three cures for what ailed him: one lay unconscious at the cabin, one held the water bucket, and the other gurgled merrily in front of him. The first was impossible. The second would be easy, especially with the vision of red lace against creamy skin burned into his brain. Pleasuring himself just seemed wrong with her lying there so ill, maybe dying. The thought took his pecker down a notch. He shucked his clothes and waded into the icy stream, which took care of the remainder of his problem.

Climbing over the mossy rocks, he reached the bank. Shaking the water from his hair, he ran a hand through to squeeze out the rest. He dried with his shirt then pulled his jeans, stockings, and boots back on. Between the cold water and the chill mountain air, it would be a wonder if he had anything left to piss through.

Halfway down the trail he froze. A snow-white doe stepped from the forest edge and turned her head in his direction. Her large, liquid eyes gazed at him. Her body seemed to glow in the dusky light. Will’s heart hammered. A spirit guide outside the lodge? Not his, his was a medicine-hat stallion with an eagle on his chest. Hers then? The doe pawed the ground, gave a gentle snort, and disappeared into the trees as if she’d never been there at all.

In near panic, he moved down the mountain as quickly as he could without sloshing the water from the buckets.

* * * *

“’Bout damn time!” Charlie grabbed a bucket from Will before the boy even reached the stoop. He turned and tossed the contents on the girl, drenching her, the bed covers, and the floor. “Her skin feels like she’s on fire.”

The girl panted like she’d been running for miles. Her eyelids flickered and quivered like a hummingbird’s wings but never opened. The boy went to the bedside. He hesitated an instant and then touched her cheek, snatching his hand back like he’d been scalded.

“I was gonna make some broth, but I put birch in instead. It’s steepin’ now.” It wasn’t the first time nor likely to be the last that Charlie had been thankful for the shaman’s teaching. He’d learned to make the earth work for him as the Indians had done for generations. He sure wished White Buffalo was here now. He mixed a tad of the icy water with the steaming brew to cool it and spooned the liquid into her mouth, holding her nose until she forced a swallow.

He looked into Will’s worried eyes. “I’m sorry son. The birch tea will take time. I don’t know what else to do ’cept pray the fever don’t fry her brain before the brew takes hold.”

* * * *

Will shoved Charlie out of the way. Time was one thing they didn’t have. Scooping the girl into his arms, he carried her through the door and into the night. Surefooted as any mountain goat, he retraced his steps. Without pausing to strip, he waded into the icy water with the girl in his arms and began the chant his grandfather had taught him.

Would the spirits save her or take her?

He saw his spirit guide, the stallion, standing in the clearing pawing the ground with fire in his eyes. He tossed his head from side to side, and the fire danced.

* * * *

“Sweet Jesus! Son, come out of there—come out—Will, you’re froze solid!” Charlie’s lantern swung wildly as he tugged at the arm wrapped tightly around the girl’s legs. It felt like a block of ice. Will’s eyes were focused within, like when he sat in the sweat lodge. Instead of the heat of the lodge, he stood waist-deep in ice water, but the chant remained the same, calling the Fathers. “Will!”

Charlie said a prayer of his own, or perhaps a threat, to the Almighty or whoever cared to listen. “Don’t you dare take that boy from me.” Charlie tugged on the girl’s legs to get Will’s attention. It worked. Whether Will thought he’d lost his hold, his prayers had ended, or the Lord decided to be kind to an old man. He moved toward the bank.

Charlie rubbed Will with a rough blanket as soon as he stepped from the water in hopes of restoring some of his circulation. Wrapping the other around him and the girl, he led them home by the light of his lantern.

Time would tell if the icy water would cure or kill not only the girl, but Will as well.

The sheriff’s office was in a tizzy, not knowing what to expect and dreading the worst. Donna had done nothing to dispel their notions. Doctor Mason seemed like a nice guy. When she’d regained consciousness, he’d been in the process of chewing out all and sundry for leaving her cold and wet. His concern focused on her when she gave in to a fit of giggling. It wasn’t her fault his bright red mustache and hair reminded her of Yosemite Sam, not that she said so aloud. The doc wanted to give her a sedative, but she refused, so he settled for a B-12 shot to help her body cope with the stress.