Dream Weaver Read online

  DREAM WEAVER

  by

  Shirley Martin

  ISBN: 978-1-927111-44-4

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Books We Love

  192 Lakeside Greens Drive

  Chestermere, Alberta, T1X 1C2

  Canada

  Copyright 2011 Shirley Martin

  Cover art by Michelle Lee Copyright 2011

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  Prologue

  Southwestern Pennsylvania

  Gwen Emrys maneuvered her turquoise Saturn through the heavy early morning traffic, headed for her teaching job at a local high school. She drove with her window down, grateful for the light spring breeze that bathed her face and kept her alert. Groggy after another night of troubling dreams, she pressed her hand to her aching head, trying to concentrate on her driving. She wondered why these senseless dreams plagued her sleep, night after night.

  A sudden wave of dizziness rattled her. Goose bumps raced along her arms and legs. Without warning, the asphalt road disappeared, and a narrow dirt path through a dense forest replaced it.. Hemmed in on both sides by thick clusters of maples and oaks, the car hugged the road. Fighting for breath, Gwen clenched her hands on the steering wheel. Ahead of her, at the end of the path, loomed a desolate cabin.

  From nowhere, fiery arrows rained down on the cabin. Flames leaped from the outside walls, soon engulfing the log house.

  Gwen slammed her foot on the brake.

  On the edge of her consciousness, she heard a honk, honk, honk, like a loud blaring of horns. Or geese?

  She gasped.

  Frantic honking jerked her back to reality.

  "Hey, lady, where'd you get your license--Walmart's?" His window down, the driver shook his fist at her. "You trying to have an accident?"

  Heart pounding, Gwen gazed around her.

  She eased into the outside lane, then parked her car near a gas station, waiting for her frantic heartbeat to subside. Her head throbbed, one of her headaches coming on.

  Every detail of her dreams returned to haunt her--a lone cabin in the woods and a young man dressed like a colonist.

  Other images disturbed her sleep every night, visions of a vast fort and wounded soldiers lying across a battlefield.

  She saw destruction...and death.

  Chapter One

  "What's the matter, Gwen? A headache?"

  Gwen dropped her hand from her forehead, aware she needed to perk up before classes began. "I keep thinking about these crazy dreams I have night after night." In the teachers' lounge of the local high school, she tried to relax with a colleague, making the most of the few spare minutes before she headed for her classroom. "Do you ever have recurring dreams?"

  "Sure, don't we all. So what are yours?"

  Gwen shifted in her chair. "Promise you won't laugh. But I often dream about a lonely cabin in the woods. There's a man--"

  "The man of your dreams!"

  "Well, he's certainly in just about every one," Gwen said, smiling. "But wait 'til you hear this," she said, reaching for her purse on a nearby table. Digging through her cellphone, compact, lipstick, keys, and all her other paraphernalia, she found what she was looking for. "You know how I enjoy history--well, I teach it--so I sent away for this pamphlet of a restored village several miles east of here. The pamphlet was advertised in a magazine." She handed her the booklet across the table. "Sarah, look at the house on page two. It looks just like the one in my dreams, as crazy as that sounds. I'll tell you something--nothing's going to stop me from visiting the village this Saturday. It's all I've been able to think about. Who knows? Maybe it is the same house."

  "You really think so? Well, stranger things have happened."

  After Sarah glanced at the pamphlet and handed it back, Gwen returned it to her purse. "So if you don't see me next Monday," she said, "you'll know the man of my dreams swept me off my feet."

  * * *

  This is it. Recently arrived at the restored village, Gwen drew a deep breath, her befuddled brain confusing dreams and reality. She stared at a log cabin, one of many quaint buildings in this tourist attraction near her hometown. Was this the same cabin that had haunted her for months? Every beat of her heart, every breath, every instinct, told her so.

  Gwen carried a page from another pamphlet in her pocket, one that showed a diagram of Fort Pitt. Aware now that her visions lent an urgency to glean as much historical information as possible about this area, she intended to drive to the Fort Pitt Museum, a few miles to the west, after she finished here.

  She saw a spreading oak tree a few yards away, and an eerie feeling overtook her. Curious despite her foreboding, she headed in that direction across the dry grass, her steps hesitant. Reaching the tree, she saw the initials CN carved into the bark. She traced the initials with her finger, and visions flooded her mind.

  Her face turned hot, then cold. Tremors shook her body. She ran sweaty palms down her long rayon skirt, wondering if her mind was playing tricks.

  Chills raced across her arms and legs. Wave after wave of dizziness washed over her. She slipped her bag from her shoulder and dropped it on the ground, happy to be relieved of that encumbrance.

  Tingling erupted over every part of her body. Her dizziness swept over her in gigantic waves. A buzzing sounded in her ears. The ground tilted crazily. An uncontrollable force was dragging her down, down, down, and she couldn't fight it.

  She sank into total darkness.

  * * *

  Gradually returned to consciousness, Gwen considered her dilemma...and gasped. A glance around revealed nothing but wilderness and the cabin in a clearing. Where was the village? What about her purse, with her car keys and wallet?

  She gazed around, unsure what to do, where to go for help. Struggling to her feet, she brushed off her skirt, then cautiously approached the house. She peered through the open window, standing to the side so no one would see her while she visually cased the place. A girl couldn't be too careful these days.

  A man sitting at a long wooden table read a book, his brow creased in concentration as he turned the pages. The very same man, only this time he was real! What was happening to her? Was she losing her mind?

  She guessed he was in his late twenties but couldn't imagine where he'd come from. And why was he dressed in such an old style, with his long white shirt and dark tan pants? Like in her dreams.

  By the bright sunlight through the open window, she studied the man's features. The light glinted on his dark, wavy hair, making it appear deep brown one moment, and the next, jet black. He wore his hair long, tied in back. A straight nose, high cheekbones, and a square jaw with a cleft in his chin reminded her of Sir Lawrence Olivier, an English actor she'd seen in a late-night movie on TV.

  The man scraped his chair back and stood, heading for a bookcase to return the book, slipping it between several other volumes. At least six feet tall, he was well-built, his muscular thighs encased by leggings that disappeared inside calf-high leather boots. Exuding strength and energy, he reminded Gwen of a tiger. Sleek. Powerful. Sinewy. She wondered how a man who appeared so strong and well-muscled could move with such easy masculine grace.

  Gathering her courage, she walked to the open front door, her sandaled feet padding along the rough wooden planks. She needed help. After knocking on the door frame, she waited.

  * * *

  His medical rounds completed, his fields neglected this one day, Christian sat at hi
s table to study the Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society, reading an account of smallpox inoculation. He tapped his fingers on the table, his mind on his dream of inoculating the settlers against this dread disease. Just think of his own family...

  He gazed off into space, his thoughts going beyond smallpox prevention. If he could be the best doctor in western Pennsylvania, if he could minister to all those who needed medical help, then he could put the past behind him and know he was accomplishing something worthwhile in life.

  Suppressing painful memories of his family's deaths, he returned to his reading. After underlining several sentences, he closed the pamphlet and scraped his chair back to return it to his bookcase, tucking it between other medical publications.

  "May I come in?"

  Christian spun around. What in God's name? Who was this woman who stood at his doorstep, shifting from one foot to the other? Speechless, he stared at her. Why, just look at her gown--surely the most shocking attire he'd ever seen. Long and silky, it skimmed her ankles and clung to every curve of her body, making it obvious she wore no petticoat beneath. And her hair! Flowing, tawny tresses hung wantonly down her back, with not even a cap on her head.

  What ailed the lady?

  "Sir?" she murmured.

  He found his voice, uttering the only question that came to mind. "Madam, are you in need of assistance?"

  The young lady stepped across the threshold, hugging her arms. "I...uh, looks like I'm lost."

  "Where did you come from?"

  "May I come in?" she repeated. At his answering nod, she slowly approached him, a look of bewilderment on her face. “I...uh, I’ll tell you about it in a few minutes, as soon as I get my bearings." She clenched her hands at her sides, her gaze covering the common room.

  Who in the world was she? A hundred questions collided in his head while he studied this extraordinary woman making her hesitant way across the floor.

  He stared at her long brown hair, tresses that glowed golden by the firelight. She was pretty, aye, but where had she found such odd apparel?

  He tried to act nonchalant, as if there was nothing unusual about her visit. Why, yes, strange ladies like this one appeared at his doorstep every day.

  "Won't you sit down, madam," he said, holding a chair for her. Her scent, sweet as the forest flowers with a hint of spice, drifted his way and aroused his senses, emotions he'd stifled far too long.

  "Now, pray explain how you came to be lost." He folded his arms across his chest. "And I don't believe you spoke your name."

  She cleared her throat, an uneasy look in her eyes. "Gwendolyn Emrys," she said in a voice slightly above a whisper. "My friends call me Gwen."

  He made a slight bow. "Christian Norgard, at your service."

  Though she spoke with an unusual accent, he found her voice pleasing, low and soft with a trace of huskiness. His glance ran over her, from the crown of her lustrous hair, to a well-rounded bosom that thrust against her silky bodice.

  Her gaze covered the room. "I've never seen a house like this before...at least, not while I was awake," she said under her breath.

  "What?" Christian drew up a chair across from her and sat down, leaning forward on the table. "Are you from Philadelphia, madam? Frankly, I don't understand how you came to be lost. You're not from around these parts, that much I know."

  "Not from Philadelphia...but I..." She opened her mouth, then shut it again, giving another perplexed glance around the cabin. "Your wife--"

  "No wife. I live alone." Nor was he ready to marry. His profession gave him but little time for courting the ladies. Despite his shock, he remembered his manners. "May I offer you tea, Miss Emrys?" Where was this lady's family or husband? And when would she explain how she had gone astray? In his medical practice, Christian had learned patience long ago. He knew better than to rush her, assuming she'd explain her dilemma betimes.

  She threw him a hopeful look. "How about a Coke?"

  Christian blinked his eyes. "I beg your pardon?"

  "Never mind, tea sounds good." She fidgeted in her chair, speaking in a strained voice. "Looks as if I've interrupted your meal."

  He made a negligent gesture and rose to take two earthenware mugs from the mantel, then set them on the table. "I'm happy to share with you." He lifted an iron kettle from the fireplace and poured the steaming brew.

  "Bohea tea." He eased the mug toward her. "'Twill help you feel better, I doubt not." He reclaimed his chair and gave her a thoughtful look, still wondering where she hailed from. After slicing the loaf of bread with his barlow knife, he placed a piece on the pewter plate.

  "Injun bread, madam? 'Tis very good, made from rye and corn meal."

  She reached for the tea. "No thanks, I'm not hungry." Her hand shook, the tea spilling down the side. She set the mug on the table with a soft thud. "You want to know where I'm from."

  "An understatement, Miss Emrys." Aware of his tense muscles, he stretched his legs out under the table. He raised the mug to his mouth and took a cautious sip of the piping hot brew.

  "I--I don't know how to explain. I don't even understand how I came to be here." She pressed her hand to her head, her face pinched with anguish. "I honestly don't know!"

  Christian raised his eyebrows and sipped his tea, more confused than before. Memory loss. In the early days of his practice, he'd known a woman with this very problem. Might this young lady be suffering from such an affliction? Poor lady! If only he could help her.

  "Madam, have you had a bad fall recently?"

  "As a matter of fact, no." The lady twisted her fingers together. "You'll never believe me, but I want to tell you...” She paused, her glance shifting to the stone fireplace, then back to him. "I want to tell you..."

  "And I'm eager to hear. Enlighten me, pray." He drummed his fingers on the table a few times, then stopped, reminding himself he must project a calm demeanor for the woman's sake, if not for his own. A dying ember in the fireplace hissed and sparked, sounding like thunder in the quiet of the room. He toyed with his earthenware mug and gave her a long, level look, determined not to let her seductive charms distract him. "You were saying, madam?"

  "Well, I..." She ran a hand through her thick mass of hair. "It's no use. You'll never believe me."

  "You already said that, Miss Emrys."

  "Yes, well..." The young lady looked down at her hands, then raised troubled eyes to his. "I...I was visiting a restored village and--"

  "Pardon me, madam, the nearest village is Fort Pitt, miles to the west."

  "Well, I was at a restored village, and somehow," she said in a shaky voice, "somehow I ended up here, in the middle of a forest." She leaned forward, her hands resting on the table. Such pretty, well-groomed hands she had, the fingers slender, her skin smooth. This lady was definitely not a servant.

  "Just tell me one thing," she said. "What's today's date?"

  "The date is the third of May, Miss Emrys."

  "And the year?" she asked with a wary look.

  "The year? Madam, this is 1762." Why didn't she know that?

  "Seventeen sixty-two?" She jerked in her chair, a fearful look on her face. "Oh, no, it can't be," she whispered.

  Christian strove for patience, increasingly convinced the lady had maggots in her head. "Nor am I jesting. I assure you it is 1762."

  "Uh, uh. Don't expect me to believe that." She spoke with bravado, but her face held a look of doubt.

  "'Tis true, madam." He looked into her eyes, unable to discern if they were blue or green in the shifting light, but clearly the prettiest he'd ever seen. Disregarding her charms, he persisted. "Pray tell me your purpose for being in these parts, since it's obvious you don't belong here." She must be a lunatic, Christian thought as he wondered how she'd escaped her keepers. More than anything, he wanted to help her, but oftimes this malady defied a cure.

  "You've got that right! I don't belong here!" She took a deep breath. "And I don't know why I'm here, Mr. Norgard. Like I said, I was with a group of
tourists, visiting a restored village, and--"

  "Miss Emrys, you are speaking nonsense."

  "I'm speaking the truth, damn it!"

  "Madam, please!" Despite her unladylike language, Christian struggled against an attraction for this strange woman who'd appeared out of nowhere. 'Struth, she was lovely, but he needed all his faculties to deal with her. What an odd manner of speech she employed, like nothing he'd ever heard. No matter, he liked the fresh, clean look of her pretty face, with its dusting of freckles on her nose and cheeks, her flashing her eyes, as if he should dare question her.

  "Tell me something," he said. "How did you arrive at my doorstep?"

  "I told you, I was at a restored village in the year two-thousand and three--"

  "Two-thousand and three!"

  "Right! The twenty-first century."

  His eyes raked her with cool appraisal. "Don't play me for a fool. You appear at my house in strange circumstances, certainly. You give me some outlandish story about a restored village--whatever that means--in 2003. And you expect me to believe your tale?"

  "I don't care what you believe. I'm telling the truth!" She reached into her pocket and drew out a handkerchief. A paper fell to the floor.

  Christian bent to retrieve the paper, stunned to see it revealed a diagram of Fort Pitt, every angle, every bastion of the six-sided fort. My God, now it all made sense! On his most recent trip to the fort, he'd heard talk of a spy, someone passing information to the French. Several important papers were missing from the commandant's desk.

  He slapped the paper on the table. "How did you come by this diagram of Fort Pitt?"

  She fluttered her fingers. "Oh, that! I was reading about the fort, and I intended to visit the place, if I can ever find my way out of this forest."

  "Madam, you are either a skilled liar or--"

  "I'm not lying!"