Apache Dream Bride. Joan Elliott Pickart

with honor befitting a Chiricahua Apache, but apparently I have angered the gods. I have been sentenced to spend my eternal beyond with a shrieking witch-woman.”

      Kathy planted her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes. “That was very rude. I am not a shrieking witch-woman, for Pete’s sake. How would you feel if your Dream Catcher grew from three inches to six feet and plopped a guy from your dream on the floor in your bedroom? Huh? Answer that one. You’d be shook up, too.”

      “Dream Catcher?” he repeated, glancing at the apparatus surrounding him. “Yes, this is a Dream Catcher, but I have never seen one this large. Why am I being held captive in this enormous Dream Catcher?”

      “Beats me,” Kathy said, shrugging. She giggled, realizing at once that there was a hysterical edge to the sound. She pressed one hand to her forehead. “No fever. Drat. But, darn it, this is not happening. It just can’t be.”

      The Indian began to shift, struggling to escape from the tight webbing surrounding the center circle where he was held fast.

      “Don’t you move,” Kathy said. “I’m warning you, I’ll call the police, and the sheriff, and the fire department, and…and…I mean it, you stay right there.”

      The Indian glowered at her and continued to wrestle with the Dream Catcher. Kathy inched backward until she thudded against the wall, then wrapped her hands around her elbows in a protective gesture.

      She watched with wide eyes as the man worked his way free.

      One part of her exhausted brain was terrified at the thought of what he might do to her.

      Another section of her frazzled mind was mesmerized by the intriguingly sensuous and blatantly masculine play of the bunching muscles beneath his taut, tawny skin.

      Yet another piece of her mind continued to deny that this bizarre scenario was taking place.

      “Mmm,” the Indian said as he accomplished his goal. He rolled to his feet in a smooth, graceful motion, standing close to six feet tall.

      “Don’t kill me,” Kathy said, her voice trembling. “Don’t scalp me. Don’t do anything, except go away.” She flapped her hands at him. “Shoo. Be gone. Disappear. Right now.”

      “Woman,” he said gruffly, crossing his arms over his broad chest, “you talk too much. I must be dead. There’s no other explanation for this. Unless…” He narrowed his eyes. “It is possible, although I seriously doubt it, that you possess magical powers that you combined with those of the Dream Catcher. Indian legends and folklore should not be tampered with. Not ever.”

      Kathy shook her head. “I don’t have any magical abilities. And I certainly didn’t tamper with the powers of the Dream Catcher.” She paused. “I hung the Dream Catcher above my bed, deciding its legend was enchanting. Then just before I fell asleep I was thinking about how wonderful it would be if a special man…I had a dream about…Oh, dear heaven. No, forget it. This whole thing is impossible.”

      “I agree. Therefore, I am definitely dead.”

      “No,” she said, sighing, “you’re not dead. I can’t explain this. I don’t really believe it, but…I wish you’d crawl back into that Dream Catcher and transport yourself to 1877 where you belong.”

      “If I am not dead, if I am actually here, I would prefer not to be. But I do not possess the power to command a Dream Catcher.” He shook his head. “No, I refuse to believe this is happening.”

      Kathy inched her way carefully around him to sink onto the edge of the bed.

      “Look,” she said, “we agree that this really isn’t taking place, but repeating over and over that it can’t be true isn’t getting us anywhere. Let’s just stop for a minute and take the approach that it did happen. That’s probably very foolish, but I’m getting a tad desperate here.”

      The Indian shrugged. “It is foolish, but I do not have a better idea right now.”

      “Fine. We’ll just calm down and discuss this like mature adults. I suppose I should introduce myself. I’m Kathy Maxwell. Do you have a name?”

      “Dakota.”

      “Dakota what?”

      “Dakota what?” he repeated, obviously confused.

      “Don’t you have a last name? Two names?”

      “One man. One name.”

      “Oh, well, that’s reasonable, I guess, considering the fact that no one in your tribe would be putting together a telephone book.”

      “Pardon me?”

      “Never mind. Dakota, this is not 1877. It’s 125 years later than that, give or take a handful.”

      “That is ridiculous.”

      “I know, but for now we’re pretending that it isn’t ridiculous. Okay? Do you remember what you were doing before you woke up here?”

      He nodded. “I was riding my horse on open land. There were wildflowers in all directions. My thoughts were—” He stopped speaking and frowned. “An Indian brave deals with his own problems, solves them privately.”

      “Dakota, please,” Kathy said gently, “I understand and respect that, I truly do, because I often keep troubling things within myself, too. But this is so important. Share with me, tell me what you were thinking as you rode through the wildflowers. Your inner feelings are safe with me, Dakota.”

      He stared at her for a long moment, and she met his gaze directly, aware that he was weighing and measuring, deciding if he would do as she’d asked.

      “Yes, all right,” he said with a weary-sounding sigh. “I was dwelling on the condition of my life, the emptiness of it, the loneliness. My people have all gone to the reservation, but I chose not to go, not to be penned up like an animal. I could not survive like that, and I knew I had to stay behind. Yet at that moment, I was wishing I had a place to belong, somewhere I could call home.”

      “Oh, Dakota,” Kathy said, hearing the pain in his voice, “I’m so sorry.”

      He cleared his throat. “My thoughts were interrupted as I saw a woman standing in the distance. A white woman. I did not know her, but then…I did know her. I was going to her, she was waiting for me. This does not make sense, because I would never approach a white woman.”

      Kathy got to her feet. “Yes, it does make sense, because that was my dream. Oh, my gosh, Dakota, don’t you see what this means? I somehow connected to your airwaves, or brain waves, or something. That was me standing there in that yellow dress. Do you understand?”

      “Then you did tamper with the powers of the Dream Catcher.”

      “Not intentionally. I bought it at a craft show because I thought it was pretty and I liked the legend it represented. Dakota, I hate to say this, but I think we’d better start accepting the fact that you really were transported through time in the Dream Catcher.”

      “I do not know, I just do not know. How is it that you speak Apache?”

      “I don’t. I’m speaking English and so are you.”

      “No. I know only my native tongue.”

      Kathy threw up her hands. “This is more evidence that this whole thing is true. We’re both talking in our own language, but we can understand each other. That must be part of the Dream Catcher’s power.”

      “I will have to think about this,” Dakota said, shaking his head. “I speak so you can understand me in this era, yet I wear my own clothing.” His gaze slid over the soft T-shirt Kathy wore. It clearly outlined the swell of her breasts. “Is that your usual attire? Is that an image of the god you worship?”

      For the first time since the bizarre beginning of the morning, Kathy became acutely aware of her