Catch a Dream

by Cynthia Breeding

  “Cactus Flower. What are you doing here?” Miguel asked.

  “Swift Hawk told me that we had a guest,” she answered in a soft voice. “I came to see for myself.” She walked toward Elizabeth, her eyes focused on the red hair. “It is as he says. You are Fire Woman. Welcome.”

  “Her name is Elizabeth,” Miguel said with a slight hint of irritation. “She’s—lost. A blow to her head, I think. She doesn’t remember where she came from.”

  Elizabeth glanced sideways at Miguel, but for now, she was willing to go along with the story. No use in telling another person she was from the future. Native Americans might think her a true witch, then. She tried to remember if any witches had been hanged in the old West or if that stopped with Salem. She had the distinct feeling she knew how those victims had felt. The more she tried to proclaim the truth, the less she was believed.

  Cactus Flower looked at Elizabeth, her brown eyes sympathetic. “In time, you will remember.” Glancing at the leather bracelet with its small fetish, she said, “See? The spirits of our ancestors sent you. It is all we have to know for now.”

  Miguel gave a small groan. “Why don’t you take Elizabeth to the house and find her some clothes? She—uh—was waylaid by banditos, I think. Got bumped on the head and when she woke, they had taken all her things.”

  In spite of the situation, Elizabeth almost laughed. He was the worst liar she had ever met. But why argue? Clearly, he would not accept her story. Besides, it might be better not to press the point. He did have the power to have her locked up somewhere if she kept talking like a lunatic. She had no means of defending herself against that, much as she hated to admit it. She needed time to think and let reality sink in. Then she definitely had to find a way to return to her own world.

  As Cactus Flower led her away, she wondered what Miguel would do with her. Involuntarily, heat shot upward through her body like a fiery sword as she remembered his sensual touch and those erotically full lips just inches from hers. He’d almost kissed her! Then she bit her own lip. Because he thought she was a hooker. To be used.

  Far, far better—and safer—to stick to her original plan. Elizabeth O’Malley had sworn off good-looking men. But did Miguel de Basque have to be the hottest hunk of Texas cowboy she’d ever met?

  CHAPTER TWO—WHERE THE WEST BEGINS

  Miguel grinned as he watched her walk across the yard, her long, nude legs swinging enticingly beneath the saddle blanket. Elizabeth was certainly one spirited woman, nothing docile there. Nor was what she was wearing. Some frilly see-through thing—and those undergarments! Hardly scraps of cloth! The strap he had played with had an easy stretch, nothing he had ever felt before. His fingers itched to have played with the lace edging that covered her full breasts, tugging it lower to expose a pink nipple, teasing it to tautness.

  He stopped smiling and frowned slightly. Why hadn’t she been willing to let him kiss her? Women in her trade were used to it; most of them expected some sort of foreplay. Even the pretty ones—and she was one of the most alluring women he’d ever seen with that wild, flame-colored hair—didn’t usually play hard-to-get unless that was the man’s pleasure. How many evenings had he listened to Lily patiently explain the more practical details of operating a bordello?

  His frown deepened. Miss O’Malley had been screaming desperately when he’d run in and seen Swift Hawk trying to kiss her. Granted, she might have been frightened by an Indian if she were from the East, but she didn’t sound Eastern. Something about her seemed vaguely familiar, as though he’d met her before. He shrugged off the feeling. He’d check with Lily tomorrow and find out if she’d hired anyone new.

  Miguel opened the door to Diablo’s stall. “One thing’s for sure,” he said as he led the dappled gray Andalusian out, “Elizabeth is no schoolmarm. Not dressed like that.”

  His collie, Brina, settled on the hay with her head on her paws and watched as Miguel began to brush the stallion. The horse nudged his arm.

  Miguel laughed. “Okay, Diablo. Treats first.” He dug into his pocket and brought out two lumps of sugar.

  Diablo arched his neck gracefully and accepted the offering, his muzzle softly sweeping Miguel’s palm.

  “You’re spoiled rotten,” Miguel said affectionately as he briskly curried the silky coat. He wondered if the flame-haired woman in his house was spoiled rotten, too. Memories of his late wife filtered through his mind. He’d given his heart to the beautiful Elena, even though it had been an arranged marriage. She came from the same Spanish nobility of Navarre that he did. Her father had brought her to New Orleans and they had married there. But Elena had hated the wide-open space and sky of Texas when he brought her back. She’d refused to help his housekeeper, Olga, with any chores, and detested being pregnant. Elena had let him know he would not be touching her again. Unfortunately, her wish came true in a macabre way—she’d died in childbirth. He’d resolved there would be no more wives after that.

  Resolutely, he pushed thoughts of her away and turned back to the stallion. “You and I have been together a long time.” Diablo was the last foal born of the magnificent Andalusian stallion imported from southern Spain eight years ago when his father was still alive. Ten mares had accompanied that horse and over the years, more stock had been bred, but only the best colts were not gelded. Above all else, the bloodline must be kept pure and strong as it had been since the 1400s. More than that, though, Miguel knew he loved Diablo for his intelligence, courage, and loyalty. He and Diablo had shared many a long ride when he needed to get away from Elena’s shrill complaining.

  As Miguel turned Diablo out into the corral, he heard hoof beats. They hadn’t had snow yet this year, so the gravel crunched under the steady cadence. He closed the gate and went outside, Brina at his heels.

  Lt. Colonel Middleton Tate-Johnson of Colonel Peter Bell’s Ranger regiment dismounted. From the looks of his dusty blue uniform, he’d ridden all the way from Fort Worth, although his horse didn’t look blown.

  “Come on in to the house,” Miguel said as they shook hands. “Trouble?”

  He shook his head. “Can’t stay. Just wanted to let you know that on my way back home, I saw a lot of fences torn down.”

  “Comanche?”

  “Most likely. We’ve had an uneasy peace since the ’41 Village Creek rout. They don’t like the sod-busters.”

  Miguel nodded. “I can’t say I blame them. Several hundred families from Peter’s Colony moving in right after that. The Comanche own thousands of horses. They need the land for grazing.”

  The colonel looked at him. “You don’t fence your stock, except for those beautiful Andalusians you breed. Don’t you ever lose cattle?”

  “A few,” Miguel answered, “but when my family was granted this land it was with the understanding New Spain and the Indians could live together.” It was an unusual alliance, but Miguel’s great-grandfather on the French side of his ancestry had backed Spanish Charles during the Revolutionary War. Instead of interest, his great-grandfather had asked for 100,000 acres of untouched land in the New World. “Anyway, I let them graze their horses; they leave my cattle alone. Rustlers fear the Comanche a lot more than they do swinging at the end of a rope, so they don’t bother my herds.”

  The colonel nodded. “You still have the hostages, too?”

  Miguel grimaced. “I try not to think of them that way. Cactus Flower and Swift Hawk could very well be the bridge we need between our people. They are being educated in the white man’s ways.” Briefly, he thought back to when the shaman’s daughter and the chief’s son had been taken in a raid several years ago and nearly murdered; the Comanche went on the warpath. The Rangers intervened and saved the two children, but were in a quagmire as to what to do with them. If they gave them back, there was no guarantee Chief Jim Ned wouldn’t continue his raiding out of revenge. That would bring in the full army and ignite a Plains war. Miguel had negotiated to foster them until they were twenty-one.

  Johnson looked skeptical. “Well,
” he said, “keep an eye on them. You know a Comanche can count coup before his enemy even knows he’s there.”

  Miguel grinned. “I know. Swift Hawk tried it on me several times when he first arrived here, but he’s grown out of it.”

  The colonel mounted. “Still scheduled for dinner tomorrow night?”

  “Yep.” The small group of Rangers, Army officers and businessmen rotated their monthly meeting place. “Olga’s looking forward to it.”

  The colonel paused. “You know, it wouldn’t hurt you to think about getting married again.”

  “No, thanks. Once was enough.”

  “Raul could use a mother.”

  “He’s got Olga.” Miguel grinned suddenly to ease the moment. “Anyway, if I got married, I’d break Miss Lily’s heart.”

  Johnson laughed. “If anyone could, it’d be you.” He touched two fingers to his cap in way of salute and cantered toward the road.

  Miguel tipped his hat back and stared after the man while he absently scratched the dog’s ears. He didn’t even know what he’d do with the girl who showed up so unexpectedly in his barn. But he was sure about this: a woman complicating his life was the last thing he needed.

  • ♥ •

  Swift Hawk was brushing a white mare when Miguel returned to the stable. The boy’s long, straight hair glistened raven-blue in the shaft of sunlight filtering through the door. Miguel remembered suggesting once that he cut it and received such a look of outrage he hadn’t brought the subject up again. He’d even given up on trying to get the boy into conventional vaquero clothes. Swift Hawk insisted on wearing the traditional leather breechclout and leggings. Except for the coldest days, he wore no shirt, either. After all, he would remind Miguel, he was a chief’s son and would never accept the white man’s ways. Still, it would have made it easier for him to fit in with the other young men who lived in the bunkhouse and worked at the ranch. Most of them resented him. Not that Swift Hawk seemed to care. He cared only for the horses, as all the Comanche did. Cactus Flower was of a much gentler nature.

  “When you’re finished with the mare, there are a couple of fillies that need halter-breaking,” Miguel said.

  Swift Hawk flashed a brief smile that didn’t quite reach his nearly-black eyes. Along with his aloofness, his looks made him enticing to the girls, a fact he was very aware of. More than once, Miguel had caught sight of him with one of the maids or the daughter of one of the ranch hands. If the girl was of age, Miguel didn’t interfere. He felt some sympathy for the boy. He was eighteen. As an Indian, he couldn’t very well go into Johnson’s Station and proposition a saloon girl or even visit Miss Lily’s. Not without getting a noose around his neck.

  Thoughts of the fiery and very skimpily dressed woman who was now his guest almost blurred Miguel’s vision. If she were a working girl—ummm. He didn’t want to become a regular at Lily’s, although they were good friends. He felt a familiar stirring inside his denims as he thought of Elizabeth writhing beneath him begging for mercy, of him taking his sweet time in granting her request, building the passion, and then plunging into that warm, wet wonder between her legs and— He stopped. He was thinking like a schoolboy. Damn. Maybe a trip to Lily’s would be a good idea, after all. Unless— if Elizabeth actually were willing—

  Swift Hawk was watching him. “Which fillies did you want me to work with?”

  Reluctantly, Miguel left his fantasy. “I’ll get them for you.” He considered jumping into the cold water of the horse trough as he left the barn.

  • ♥ •

  Cactus Flower hurried across the yard and Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief as she was bustled up the back stairs of the hacienda. No one had seen her, wrapped in only a saddle blanket, thank goodness. It was going to be hard enough to convince Miguel she wasn’t a hooker.

  She hardly had time to notice the highly waxed, inlaid floors with the thick carpet runners over them or to stop to study any of the ornately framed oil portraits of what must be Miguel’s ancestors hanging along the corridor.

  “In here,” Cactus Flower said as she opened a door and took a quick look up and down the hall before she closed it behind them.

  The room was one of contrasts. A china wash basin and ewer stood on a delicately carved dresser that matched a small table near the window. The velvet brocade chair was feminine too, but the bed had a woven Indian blanket of bold reds, blues, and yellows spread across it. A completely white dream catcher hung above the headboard, reminding Elizabeth of the beautiful blue and green one that had been her students’ gift. Her breath caught in her throat. Would she ever see it—or them—again?

  “Here,” Cactus Flower said as she handed her a garment. “You can begin by putting those on.”

  “These are actually bloomers!” Elizabeth held the pair of frilled cotton trousers up in amazement.

  Cactus Flower looked up briefly from rummaging through the clothespress in her bedroom. “Yes. Of course.”

  Elizabeth felt herself blush. She was supposed to know about bloomers.

  The young Indian girl inspected the homespun dress she took from the wardrobe. “This is the longest dress I own, but I’m shorter than you are. I’m afraid your ankles are still going to show.”

  Elizabeth almost laughed, but remembered that in the 1800s, showing an ankle was something decent women didn’t do. Well, she’d certainly showed more than an ankle this morning. She felt heat flush her face at the memory of Miguel’s more-than-casual lingering gaze at her body.

  “Come.” Cactus Flower tugged at the horse blanket before Elizabeth could clutch it tight and slipped it off. She stared. “What are you wearing?”

  How to explain a thong? “Uh—it’s a new fashion—in the East. Ladies wear this—uh—to keep their bloomers clean.”

  “And this?” Cactus Flower pointed to her bra. “Does it keep your corset clean?”

  “Ah—well, actually, we don’t really need a corset if we wear this.”

  Cactus Flower tilted her head to one side and considered. “It is practical. Maybe don Miguel could order me one, if you’ll tell him where you got it. He doesn’t usually expect us to wear corsets.”

  Elizabeth barely refrained from exploding. “He doesn’t expect…what business is it of his? Your body is your own.” She suddenly remembered his remark in the barn about struggling with corsets. Did he try to seduce every woman who was a guest in his house? “How would he know?” For a brief moment, she felt his fingers lightly graze her cheek again. If those strong hands went around her waist… “He doesn’t touch you and actually feel for it, does he?” she asked in alarm as she slipped the chemise over her head.

  The Indian girl giggled. “Of course not. Only when he has to entertain the Army officers and their wives, he asks we dress properly.”

  Wives. Did Miguel have one? “Do he and his wife do much entertaining?”

  Cactus Flower shook her head. “His wife died before I was brought here. Don Miguel doesn’t like formal dinners. We’re having a small one tonight, though, which is why you haven’t met Olga yet. She’s busy with preparations.”

  “Olga?” Elizabeth pictured a leggy, blonde Scandinavian beauty. After that near seduction in the barn this morning, it would be just like him to have someone like that as his paramour. “Is she his lady friend?”

  For a moment the girl looked puzzled. “No. Olga…she runs this place…and everyone on it. We all love her and her husband, Olaf. She is the one who taught me so much of the white man’s ways. I have good manners, do you think?”

  Elizabeth smiled. “Yes, you do. It’s just too bad that Indian boy doesn’t.”

  “Swift Hawk? For him, it has been hard. He thinks he will fail his people if he accepts the white man’s ways.”

  “He certainly didn’t have any trouble behaving like a white man this morning. He practically tried to rape me,” Elizabeth said sardonically.

  A worried expression came into the girl’s eyes. “He touched you?”

  “Yes,” E
lizabeth nodded. “He had my hair in his hands and he was trying to kiss me when Miguel—don Miguel—came in. I’ve never been so frightened in my life.” The look on the young girl’s face was not settling her nerves any. “Why?”

  Cactus Flower studied her silently for a moment and then she said, so softly that Elizabeth had to bend over to hear, “He has claimed you. It is our way. To him, you are his woman.”

  Elizabeth snorted. “That’s ridiculous. I’m not going to be anyone’s woman.”

  “You have strange ideas, wherever you come from,” Cactus Flower answered, “but I would tell don Miguel. Stay close to him while you are here. He will protect you.”

  As hysteria threatened to bubble to the surface, a wild idea skittered across her brain that she would probably need more protecting from Miguel than by him. “That’s silly,” she said shakily.

  Cactus Flower shrugged. “I will talk to Swift Hawk.” She walked to the door and turned before she left. “I’ve never known him to take back his word, though. It would mean disgrace among our people. Be careful.”

  • ♥ •

  Elizabeth sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed her temples. So much had happened in such a short time. Last night—at least she thought it was; how did time-travel happen anyhow?—she had planned to give her virginity to a man who loved her. Ha. Instead, she’d drunk herself into a stupor and awakened in the nineteenth century.

  Would anyone miss her? Brooke, certainly. Her mother? Jacqueline O’Malley was on leave from her professorship at the university, and in the south of France trying to establish a link about Templars. When her mother was on a research project, she was like a small terrier with a bone. Nothing would deter her. She wouldn’t even know her daughter was missing for months.

  Her police-officer father would have been frantic if he were alive. Elizabeth swallowed a big lump in her throat. Even though it had been ten years since he’d been killed in the line of duty, she missed him horribly. It was the promise she’d made to him to wait for true love that kept her still a virgin at twenty-four.