Apache Dream Bride. Joan Elliott Pickart

a sigh of contentment, she snuggled into a comfortable position.

      What a lovely day it had been, she thought. As more and more time passed, she was emotionally reassured that she’d made the right decision when moving to Prescott. Her life was once again in order and her health restored. Everything was fine.

      Except…

      Kathy sighed. If she was totally honest with herself, she’d have to admit that she often yearned to have a special man to share with, to laugh and talk with; someone she loved and who loved her in return.

      She wished to marry, have children, and still continue to nurture her growing business. She wanted it all, fairytale perfect, greedy person that she was. But the man, his love and the subsequent babies were missing.

      She was learning to accept that fact. She refused to allow that empty place in her life to diminish her happiness and the sense of rightness about the choice she’d made to leave Chicago.

      Who knows, she thought sleepily, maybe her Prince Charming was out there somewhere. He’d suddenly appear in her life and fall madly in love with her as he captured her heart.

      Maybe…maybe…

      Kathy drifted off to sleep.

      * * *

       She was standing in a field of glorious wildflowers, the vibrantly colored, fragrant blossoms dancing in the breeze as far as the eye could see. Her simple dress of pale yellow cotton fell to the tops of her bare feet. A sunbonnet covered her hair, tied loosely beneath her chin.

       She was comfortable in the clothes, knew they were hers and were the proper attire for the West in 1877.

       Raising one hand to shield her eyes against the brilliant sun, she stared into the distance with a sense of wondrous anticipation and excitement.

       He was coming. Yes, she could see him now, racing toward her on his gleaming horse. Closer and closer he came, becoming clearer with every rapid beat of her heart.

       Bronzed and beautiful, he rode bareback, clad only in buckskin pants and moccasins. His broad, tawny, muscled chest was glistening, his shoulder-length hair shining like ebony. His eyes were as dark as a raven’s wing, and his features were bold, rough-hewn, with high cheekbones that were further evidence of his Indian heritage.

       This was her love, her magnificent brave; proud, strong, riding like the wind, and coming to her, only her. He pulled the horse to a stop and dropped to the ground, striding toward her with sensual grace.

       She opened her arms to receive him into her embrace.

       “Hurry,” she whispered. “Oh, please hurry, my love.”

       He was one step away, reaching for her, desire radiating from the depths of his obsidian eyes.

      Then…

      * * *

      Kathy jolted upward in bed, her heart pounding. She heard the insistent shrill of the alarm clock and smacked it off.

      “Blast,” she said aloud. “I missed the best part of my wonderful dream.”

      She looked over her shoulder, intent on glaring at the Dream Catcher for not poking the dream through the hole earlier so it wouldn’t have been cut short by the rude ringing of the alarm.

      But the Dream Catcher wasn’t there.

      “Darn it,” Kathy said, tossing back the blankets and leaving the bed.

      She was certain she’d secured it firmly with a nail tucked through the loop at the top. Apparently, though, both nail and Dream Catcher had fallen to the floor during the night.

      “That’s strange,” she said, seeing the nail still in the wall.

      Kathy dropped to her knees and peered under the bed, discovering only a few dust bunnies. Rising, she slid her hand between the mattress and the wall. Nothing.

      Where on earth had the Dream Catcher disappeared to?

      “Coffee,” she mumbled, starting toward the door. “Coffee, then a more thorough search.”

      She yawned just as she reached the foot of the bed, then stopped, statue-still. Her mouth remained opened from the now-forgotten yawn and her eyes widened. A strange squeak escaped from her throat, and she snapped her mouth closed. The sound of her frantically beating heart echoed in her ears.

      The missing Dream Catcher was on the floor between the bed and the wall.

      But it was no longer three inches around. It was six feet across!

      And there, caught half in and half out of the center hole, lying on the carpet with his eyes closed, was the Indian brave from her dream!

      Her trembling legs refused to hold her for another instant, and Kathy sank onto the edge of the bed, her horrified gaze riveted on the enormous Dream Catcher and the man caught in the webbing. He hadn’t moved. The steady rise and fall of his chest were the only indication that he was even alive.

      No, Kathy thought frantically, he wasn’t alive. Well, he wasn’t dead, either. But he was most definitely not alive in the sense that he was actually there in her bedroom. That was ridiculous. Impossible. Absurd.

      Kathy jumped to her feet, stomped back to the head of the bed, then yanked her Mickey Mouse T-shirt straight over her bikini panties. After getting into bed, she pulled the blankets up to her chin and squeezed her eyes tightly closed.

      That Indian, she told herself, that absolutely gorgeous-beyond-belief man, was not in her bedroom because she was still asleep and dreaming. It was one of the most wide-awake-seeming dreams she’d ever had, but it was a dream, nonetheless. The alarm would go off at any moment now and she’d begin her daily routine on a perfectly normal Monday morning. Fine.

      Several minutes passed as Kathy stayed ramrod stiff under the covers. Then she very tentatively opened one eye to sneak a peek at the clock.

      “Oh, dear heaven,” she said, with a near-sob.

      It was long past time for the alarm to ring because it had already rung!

      She was awake. She was honest-to-goodness awake. The empty nail on the wall above her head seemed to scream at her that the pretty little three-inch Dream Catcher was no longer there, because it was now six feet around and holding fast to the most magnificent man she had ever seen.

      Kathy Maxwell, she admonished herself, stop it. Just cut it out. This was not really happening, because things like this didn’t really happen. There was a perfectly reasonable explanation for this nonsense, but, oh, mercy, she wished she knew what it was.

      She eased herself slowly upward, hardly breathing, then crawled on her hands and knees toward the end of the bed.

      There was, Kathy told herself, nothing on that floor but a section of brown carpet that needed vacuuming.

      As she came to the foot of the bed, she closed her eyes, causing her to nearly fall off the end.

      Slowly, very slowly, she opened her eyes. At that exact same moment, the Indian opened his eyes and looked directly at her.

      “Aaak!” Kathy screamed.

      She scrambled off the side of the bed and came to a stop at the man’s feet. He turned his head to stare at her, a frown knitting his dark brows.

      “Oh. No. Oh, dear,” Kathy said in a voice that was more of a whimper. She hopped from one foot to the other, wringing her hands. “No, no, no.”

      “A death dance?” the Indian said. “I’m dead. So be it.”

      Kathy stopped in mid-hop, and leaned slightly forward. “My goodness, you have a marvelous voice. It’s so deep and rich. Well, that figures. You’re a big man and your voice is exactly right for your size.