Catch a Dream Read online

  Catch a Dream

  Cynthia Breeding

  Catch a Dream

  Copyright© 2018 Cynthia Breeding

  Cover Design Livia Reasoner

  Prairie Rose Publications

  www.prairierosepublications.com

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  CHAPTER ONE—THE TWAIN SHALL MEET

  Caught in a web of dreaming, Elizabeth O’Malley fell, glided through mists, and hurtled downward, the air getting darker until all was pitch. She reached for something to hold on to, but met only swirling vapors as she spiraled on. A speck of light dawned ahead, silhouetting the shape of a flame-haired woman dressed in white leather. The vision became engulfed in a web of blue and green strands as Elizabeth rushed forward. She put her hands out to brace herself and swept right through the mesh, landing with a solid thump onto a floor, bumping her head in the process.

  “Ouch!” Rubbing her forehead, she slowly opened her eyes. She was lying face down in a pile of fresh hay. Her nose twitched. The smell of horses filled her senses. A stable? She must be dreaming, but this felt so real.

  Behind her, a horse gently nickered and stamped a hoof. Elizabeth rolled over and sat up in front of a box stall. The dappled gray who looked at her had large, intelligent eyes set in a broad forehead and well-placed small ears, cocked forward as he leaned over the half-door to nuzzle her.

  Trembling, she stood and stroked his muzzle. The horse felt real, but she often dreamed of horses…or at least, she had until sexy men began appearing in her night visions. And she always dreamed in vivid color.

  She looked down. She was still wearing the black bra and thong with the chiffon wrap her traitorous fiancé would never see. She certainly did not need to relive finding Edward in bed with a Barbie look-alike. Not that she should have been surprised, she grimly reminded herself. Edward was drop-dead gorgeous and had enough ‘bad boy’ attributes to make him alluring to any female. Better she had found out about his promiscuousness now than later.

  Elizabeth fingered the leather strap on her wrist from which a Native American wood-carved fetish dangled. Her history students had given it to her yesterday, before the start of the Christmas holidays, along with a beautiful dream-catcher. The kids loved to tease her about her passion for the Old West, but they’d gotten caught up in the era after she’d brought in vintage John Wayne films and Clint Eastwood’s spaghetti westerns. The fetish probably wasn’t the right accessory for her black lace, but she had not wanted to take it off. Just as she started to close the chiffon wrap—not that it covered much—she heard a sound. She whirled around and gasped.

  A half-naked Indian teenager stood not two feet away, close enough for her to see a slight bead of sweat on his upper lip. It was uncanny how authentic this dream felt—probably the result of seeing too many of those western films. He wore a breechclout and leather leggings. Colored beads hung around his neck and his bare chest. A hawk feather was braided into his long hair, and he had the blackest eyes she had ever seen. He looked like a hungry wolf stalking its prey. Instinctively, she took a step backward.

  The Indian took a silent step forward. “I could have counted coup, you know,” he said. “Touched you without your knowing I was here. But I wanted you to know.”

  Elizabeth drew another shaky breath and tried to cover herself more fully. Why in the world would she be nearly nude in her own dream? The Indian’s glance traveled from her face to her breasts and a small smile played on his mouth. A hard mouth, thin-lipped and straight-lined. She took another step backward and bumped against the wall of the stall. Trapped. The wall felt real, too. Some dream.

  He came closer and reached over to touch her copper hair. “Fire Woman. You must have much magic. Your eyes are the color of our forests—a blessing from the Earth Mother.” He touched the diamond solitaire at her throat with a finger. “A shining star from the heavens. Yes, you have much magic.”

  Elizabeth held herself still, hardly breathing. This would be a really, really good time to wake up. “I don’t have magic. Where am I? Who are you?”

  Drawing himself up, he said proudly. “I am called Swift Hawk. My father is a Comanche chief.” He twisted a strand of her hair around his finger. “To my people, a woman with flaming hair has much power. Many even fear her.”

  She smiled weakly. Good Lord, a Comanche? She had conjured someone from the fiercest of all the Plains Indians to dream of? The finest light cavalry in North America, some said, and the most dangerous fighters. They loved to fight, and feared nothing. Well, except maybe a woman with red hair. Feeling ridiculous to be so deep into the dream, she raised her chin.

  “Take your hand off me if you don’t want to feel my wrath.”

  Swift Hawk laughed and his hand dropped to her shoulder. “I said many fear you, Fire Woman. I do not. I am the son of a chief. I will claim you as my woman and have much honor and power among my father’s people.” He grasped her head in his hands and leaned forward to kiss her. She pushed against him, hard.

  “Don’t you want to know where I came from?” she asked, trying to stall him.

  He looked surprised. “The Great Spirits sent you. I do not question them.” He glanced down at her breasts again. “I like what they’ve clothed you in, too.” His hand slid down to stroke a breast.

  She needed to something to stop this—closing her eyes, she screeched at the top of her lungs.

  Suddenly, he was yanked away. Elizabeth felt cool air surrounding her. Slowly, she opened her eyes and then quickly closed them again. She could not have seen what she thought she had. Clearly, her mind was bent on fantasies tonight.

  Tentatively, she peered out from behind her tousled hair. The man—her rescuer, she assumed, for the Indian boy was gone—was breathtakingly handsome. Far too good-looking to be real, and very much like the delectable man she’d encountered in her sleep a couple of nights ago. She might still be dreaming, but this was much, much better. The stranger’s blackish hair curled just above the collar of the open neck of his shirt and a part of it fell across his forehead, giving him a roguish appearance. She almost reached out to brush it back for him. His eyes were warm brown and deep-set above high cheekbones and a straight nose. He had the most sensuous mouth she had ever seen. Definitely kissable. Well, of course he would. She was dreaming! He was tall, well over six feet, with broad shoulders. With the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up, she could see tan, well-muscled forearms. Her gaze traveled to his tight-fitting jeans and she tried to ignore the bulge lodged there. She focused on his well-developed thighs. Big mistake—better to look down. The boots were hand-tooled. Cowboy boots. Real ones. She really had to stop reading romance novels about the Wild West. Cowboys and Indians. Her students would get a real laugh!

  “Who are you, and how did you get into my barn?” His voice was deep and resonant and held a note of authority. A man would think twice about crossing him, she thought, and almost giggled. She certainly had conjured up her perfect cowboy. And all man. She couldn’t resist extending her dream-fantasy just a little longer…

  “Elizabeth O’Malley,” she said and gave her dream man her best smile, the one her best friend, Brooke, said made her look alluring. “And you are one…hot…fantasy.”

  The man blinked and let his gaze travel slowly over her body and back to her face. A corner of his mouth twitched. “Happy to oblige. My name’s Miguel.”

  Elizabeth became uncomfortably aware
of how much of her body was exposed. She drew her wrap closer which caused her fantasy to grin. It was a lopsided grin, giving him a definite bad boy look. Obviously, her dream-mind hadn’t quite learned its lesson about bad boys. But it was only a dream—

  “How did you get into my barn?” he asked again. “You don’t look like you’re from around here.” His glance lingered on her breasts. “Are you a working girl?”

  Working girl? Did he mean prostitute? This dream was taking an ironic direction, given the fact that, at twenty-four, she was the oldest virgin she knew. Her fantasy man sounded dangerously real. She could almost feel the heat radiating from him. She crossed her arms over her breasts. “I’m a teacher.”

  His eyebrows went up. “Ah. Well, teachers seem to be changing. You don’t look like a schoolmarm.”

  Schoolmarm? An Old West term. She frowned slightly. “Where am I?”

  “You’re obviously in my barn,” Miguel said with a glint in his eye. “And since I’m—hot, did you say? That means desirable, verdad?—we may as well get acquainted.” He took a step toward her and put one hand on either side of the stall she still had her back to, effectively trapping her with his muscular body. He bent his head toward hers.

  This wasn’t going like it should. Somewhere, she had lost control. She could inhale the scent of him. Soap and leather and man. Elizabeth felt a moment of panic. “Where am I?”

  He hesitated, those luscious lips barely an inch from hers and gave her a quizzical look. “You don’t remember how you got here?”

  She began to feel desperate, all too aware of his closeness and an almost irresistible urge to taste him. “I don’t know where here is. I’m dreaming, I think.”

  “Well, if you are, so am I.’’ Miguel straightened and took her hand, intertwining their fingers. “See? Warm flesh and blood. Now, how did you get here?”

  “I don’t know.” The hand that held hers was strong. She could feel the roughened palms, but his touch was exquisitely gentle. Elizabeth tried to ignore the pleasant sensation that was seeping up her arm. Miguel certainly felt like a real man. She pulled her fingers loose and tried to close her wrap. “Please, tell me where I am.”

  He dropped his hand. “All right. I’ll play your game. You’re on the de Basque ranch—my ranch—just southwest of Johnson Station, Texas.”

  Johnson Station? That was the original name for Arlington, back in the 1800s! It couldn’t be. “What year? What month?” she asked suspiciously.

  Miguel grew wary. “December. 1849. Now, if we’re through with your game, I’m willing to share one of mine.” His eyes smoldered and he caressed her cheek lightly with a fingertip. “It’s a little more exciting than yours, I think.”

  His touch was as soft as silk and sent a river of warmth flooding her veins and her knees went weak. Elizabeth braced herself against the wall and looked around wildly. By all the saints, this was real. The sunlight pouring in the door, dust motes riding on its shafts, the horse shifting his weight from hoof to hoof in the stall behind her. The scents, the sounds. All of them were real. Somehow, she had traveled back to the nineteenth century. How was that possible? And this man—her hot fantasy—was propositioning her! Not that she minded his luscious mouth mere inches from hers, but he really thought she was a hooker. Her Irish temper began to simmer. She’d think later about how she got here. She thrust her chin up defiantly.

  “I’m not that kind of girl. If you had any decency, you’d find me something to wear instead of looking at me like that.”

  He grinned indolently. “It’s not often I find an attractive woman in my barn in the morning. And a scantily clad one, at that. What do you call this?” He slipped a finger under her bra strap, slipping it off her shoulder. “It certainly is an improvement over those danged corset laces that get all tangled up.”

  Elizabeth quickly pulled the strap up. Flame seared through her shoulder where his hand had been. Her breasts suddenly felt heavy and ached for his touch. She had never had this reaction with anyone, even that cheating disaster from Dallas she’d thought to marry.

  Turning her back on Miguel, she nearly hit her nose on the wall. He chuckled and then walked away from her, but soon returned and she felt him behind her. A part of her wanted to lean back, press against him, feel the length of his powerful body against hers. The other part of her wanted to cower in a corner.

  He leaned over her shoulder, his breath warm on her ear, and put his arms around her. Something soft fell on her shoulders. She reached up to gather the edges of a saddle blanket, and for one moment, his hands covered hers, then his fingers grazed her neck as he lifted her hair from under the blanket and settled it over her back.

  Elizabeth forced herself to remain still, and not give in to the shudder of delight building within her. How could a man have such an incredibly light touch? Did he have any idea of how her body tingled? Her blood chilled suddenly, and her thoughts stopped. Of course, he did. Bad boys were so good. That’s what made them bad. He knew exactly what he was doing. Just like Edward. Like every good-looking man. God help her, she’d almost fallen for one again. Obviously, she hadn’t learned her lesson about gorgeous men who were born to break women’s hearts.

  When she turned around, he was several feet away, leaning with one arm against a stack of hay bales. “Now, why don’t you tell me where you’re really from?” he asked.

  Would he believe her? That, somehow, she’d time-traveled? She was still having trouble accepting that herself. Maybe it was the fetish. That must be it. Somehow, her students had gotten hold of a real artifact. Maybe if she rubbed it, she’d wake up in her own bed. Quickly, she closed her eyes and tried. Slowly, she opened one. Nope. Fantasy man was still there. She swallowed hard. “I’m from Arlington, Texas.”

  He frowned. “I’ve never heard of it.”

  Elizabeth took a deep breath. “You know it as Johnson Station.”

  Annoyance flickered across his face. “Another game, Miss O’Malley?”

  “No.” Elizabeth hesitated and then plunged on. “Johnson Station will be renamed Arlington. In 1876.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Really? And I suppose you are the Spirit Woman Swift Hawk thinks you are?”

  Elizabeth squelched her temper. “Don’t make fun of me. By the year 2000, Arlington will have nearly 300,000 people living there.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He didn’t believe her. Well, wait until he heard this. “I don’t know how I got here, but I’m from the twenty-first century.”

  “Not possible.” Miguel slipped a sliver of hay between very white teeth. “I say you’ve come to work at Miss Lily’s over by Fort Worth and got off the stage one stop too soon.”

  Elizabeth looked at him suspiciously. “Who is Miss Lily?”

  “The madam who runs the finest bordello north of San Antonio and west of New Orleans,” Miguel answered languidly. “She only hires really attractive ladies.”

  Elizabeth felt her face flush. “You still think I’m that kind of girl?” His eyes glanced over her body and she felt as though he could see straight through the thick blanket.

  “You’re not dressed for much else.” A corner of his mouth quirked up. “Not that I mind. In fact, if that’s how women dress from this place you call Arlington, maybe you could take me there.”

  She pulled the blanket tighter. The man had a one-track mind. “I told you I don’t know how I got here, but I’m not a hooker.”

  “A what?”

  “Hooker. Prostitute. Whore.”

  “Oh.” His dark eyes narrowed, and he studied her. He stepped closer and lightly touched the bruise on her forehead. “Is it possible you hit your head on something and can’t remember where you came from? I’ve heard tell that can happen.”

  “I know where I’m from. The twenty-first century—a hundred and sixty years into the future. We have cars and smart phones and computers—“

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Miguel interrupted, but for the first time he lo
oked undecided. “I think I should take you to Fort Worth to see the Army doctor there. Maybe he can give you something or help you remember—“

  “No! If you won’t believe me—and you found me in your barn like this—what makes you think another person will? He’ll think I’m crazy.”

  Silence met her remark and she looked up to find Miguel regarding her. “You think I’m crazy, too! That I’ve just invented this whole story!” Fear suddenly struck her. She was truly powerless here, stuck in a time warp. “I’ve heard what the insane asylums were like in this century.” She fought to control a rising hysteria bubble in her throat. “I don’t have any relatives here. No one to vouch for me. I’ll be locked away and end up rotting somewhere.” She started shaking uncontrollably.

  Miguel put steadying hands on her shoulders. “All right. Calm down. Working girl or not—and I don’t have anything against them—I won’t send you off to rot, Elizabeth.”

  He’d used her first name. Why did that seem important? Whether it was that or the fact that she suddenly felt safe in his arms, as though she’d known him before. The trembling subsided. She looked up at him with troubled eyes. “What am I going to do?”

  He released her and began pacing. “I don’t know. You seem sane except for this foolishness of being from the future. You’re welcome to stay here while I send out inquiries, or someone comes looking for you.” He hesitated. “Are you sure you’re not trying to hide from someone? Are you on the run? Or in danger? You can tell me.”

  “No! I told you—” A shadow falling across the floor interrupted their conversation. She looked toward the door to see a pretty Native American girl about sixteen standing there. At least, Elizabeth thought she was Indian. Her skin was golden, and she wore her raven-black hair in two braids, but her dress was conventional: a high-necked calico with a fitted bodice and loose skirt. The tips of her shoes showed below the dress and Elizabeth could see that they buttoned up the front. Just one more fact that confirmed she really was in the nineteenth century.