Page 3 of Dream Weaver
Some were scary dreams, where I rushed to a critical destination without ever arriving. Other were happy dreams, just as vague but much more welcome. Still others were sensual dreams. Those were also a little fuzzy in terms of details, but scorching and satisfying.
Or not so satisfying, because I always woke up alone. So, like a lot of things in life, I’d learned to enjoy them while I could.
And that Tuesday morning, I was in the middle of a doozy of a sex dream, and boy, was it good. A very large man and I were going at it on a flat, hard surface in a large, industrial building…or was it under the stars? My partner — whoever he was — had gentle hands and a soft voice that contrasted with the firmness of his muscles and — er, other parts. Parts he put to very good use. So good that when I came, the earth moved. Once…twice…
I snapped out of the dream because, whoa. Had the earth really moved?
I closed my eyes and sank back down to the mattress, willing to risk an earthquake for one more taste of that dream.
And for a few blissful moments, I did just that, replaying the part where my mystery man hammered home and rocked my world.
But instead of howling in ecstasy, I jerked out of the dream. Eyes wide, I sat up, every sense piqued.
Something was happening. Something real, not a dream.
The earth moved again, and I tensed. The bed didn’t shake, nor did the walls, but the air — or something in the air — rumbled. Something powerful and mysterious.
Not thunder. Not a plane. Something else.
Magic.
My heart raced.
Sedona was full of it — especially around Painted Rock Ranch, where my sisters and I lived. The most powerful outlets for that magic were Sedona’s famous vortexes — and the couple of secret vortexes right here on our land — but magic was sprinkled all over the spectacular landscape.
I stared out the window, studying the dark, jagged outline of the surrounding mesas. Over on the rug at the foot of the bed, my dog, Roscoe, raised his furry head and looked too. But a moment later, he sighed and settled back to sleep.
For the next few minutes, I strained for any sound or motion, but none came. Had I been imagining things, or had that been real?
Real,instinct told me. Or a real warning, at least.
My hands tightened in the sheets. Warning of what? When? Where?
* * *
The sense of foreboding stayed with me through the long hours of morning and during my commute to work. But once I settled into my latest project, that uneasy feeling dissolved.Strange and unexpected were par for the course in Sedona. Meanwhile, work was work, so I had to concentrate.
Flipping my welder’s mask down, I leaned over the classic Volkswagen and let the plasma torch rip. Sparks flew as I cut a paisley shape into the hood, moving more confidently than I felt. A 1972 VW Beetle might not be worth much, but if I messed up, my client would be furious. And Lord knew my lifetime ratio of successes to mess-ups tilted heavily in the wrong direction.
But, hey. The minor thrill was worth it.
Over on the other side of the shop, my hammers and anvil called to me jealously. I was a blacksmith at heart, but I dabbled in all kinds of metalwork.
Soon,I promised them.
I cut the right side of the teardrop shape, then the left, and finally, across the top. Then,ding! Ding!A few taps of the butt end of the torch freed the cut-out from the surrounding metal, and it clattered to the floor.
I leaned back, checking my work. Five paisleys done. Many, many more to go. But the effect was exactly what I’d hoped for. The car looked as if it were made of lace, not metal.
I gave myself a mental high five, then flipped my mask down and started on the next section.
Behind me, the other three employees of Heavy Metal Sedona were banging away on their projects. Some were functional, others more artistic — a ranch gate here, a custom trellis there, along with whimsical wine racks, all done in metal.
When I stopped for a sip of water, I spotted Rich, chief of the Sedona-based wildfire crew, entering my boss’s office with a guy who could have been a body double for Paul Bunyan, the legendary lumberjack — big, bulky, and clad in the same red-and-black flannel shirt associated with the folk hero.
I whirled, drawn to him instinctively, then — oops. I forced myself to focus on my work.
Well, I tried. But when his scent wafted over, I caught a smoky odor.
