Page 2 of Dream Weaver (Spellbound in Sedona #3)

ABBY

Dreams visited my sleep the way tourists visited Sedona — lots of them and all too often. I rarely remembered them, though, other than the overall feeling.

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.

Firefighter, my nose said.

A heightened sense of smell was one of the few supernatural traits my mother had passed down to me. And as far as I was concerned, the fewer, the better.

Unfortunately, picking out a person’s scent from half a workshop away was normal for me — and not particularly practical in a shop filled with sweaty men.

But underneath that smoky aroma was something nice. Different. I found myself sniffing delicately, picking apart a dreamy scent that swept me away to the banks of a mossy creek somewhere high in the Rockies.

I closed my eyes. The scent was that soothing.

Then someone started banging at metal, and the feeling evaporated. I blinked and went back to work.

Several paisleys later, something bumped my legs, and I turned to find Louie, my boss’s floppy-eared mutt.

I petted him, then tensed, spotting his master approaching.

“Hi, Abby,” Walt said, smiling broadly.

Uh-oh. Something was up.

Walt gave me The Look — the one that said Remember who’s boss here — then shooed Louie away and indicated one of the two men beside him.

“You know Rich, right?”

I forced a tight smile. “Hi.”

Not that I didn’t like Rich. As the leader of the elite firefighting crew based in Sedona, he was one of a handful of men on my green list. The remainder of his crew were on my equally short list of neutral yellow, while every other man in the world fell into the red list. Maybe they didn’t all deserve to be there, but it was safer to assume that.

Like the flannel-clad, dark-haired Paul Bunyan crowding the space next to Rich. Definitely red-list material. No matter how good he smelled or how well he faked a friendly smile.

“This is Cooper, who’s joined our squad for this season. Cooper, meet Abby,” Rich said. “She used to work on a hotshot crew back in Colorado.”

You could judge a man by his facial hair, and this Cooper guy had long, slicing sideburns that angled toward his chin, like Hugo Jackman in one of Wolverine’s more endearing moments. A man to lust after, maybe, but definitely, definitely not to be trusted.

“Hi,” Cooper rumbled.

The voice went with the scent — all deep, earthy, and grainy.

“I guess you’re here about the ax, huh?” I asked, knowing Rich had called Walt yesterday.

Rich nodded. “Axes, actually.”

I tilted my head. The ax I’d made three years ago might have been laced with a little low-grade magic, but it certainly wasn’t capable of asexual reproduction.

Well, I hoped not. But, yikes. Anything was possible, given the hit-or-miss nature of my magic. The little bit I had inherited from my father, at least.

“You know the theft of our ax made the Phoenix newspapers, right?” Rich asked, and I nodded for him to go on. “One lady was so touched by the ax and…well, you know, Kevin’s story…” His voice went a little gritty, and he cleared his throat. “She wants to sponsor a new set of lucky custom axes — twenty, enough for the whole squad.”

My jaw swung open and stayed there. So many reasons, such mixed emotions.

Three years ago, I’d made the ax in honor of a local firefighter killed in a horrific blaze. His family had gifted it back to the squad, saying that was where his spirit would live on. Over the years, the ax had gained a reputation as a lucky charm.

And now, I was supposed to make twenty of them? Not just twenty axes, but lucky axes for men and women in one of the world’s most dangerous professions?

Pressure, anyone?

“Um… Uh…” I hemmed and hawed, trying to figure out how to talk my way out of this.

Yes, the original ax had a little magic forged into the metal. But only a tiny dose, and very amateurish, in hopes of keeping it sharp and shiny. Otherwise, all I’d poured into that project were heart, soul, and sorrow. I hadn’t known Kevin, but I’d been a firefighter too, and every tragedy struck deep into my soul.

“I know it’s a lot,” Rich added. “But if anyone can do it, you can. I know it.”

That mound of no pressure grew into Everest, towering so high, clouds covered the peak.

My hold on my welding mask turned into a death grip as I did the math.

“Twenty axes…for this season? Which starts in…three weeks?”

“Officially,” Rich said quickly.

Ha. We both knew how meaningless officially was when it came to Mother Nature and climate change. The number of wildfires had skyrocketed over the years, and we’d endured longer fire seasons with record blazes.

Case in point: Rich’s crew had already returned from their first preseason fire. I’d read about it in the newspaper, but it showed just as clearly in the dark rings around his eyes.

Walt gave me a significant look.

I waved at the Volkswagen. “I’d love to make them, but the client who commissioned this project—”

“Has kindly agreed to put it on hold for a good cause,” Walt cut in.

I blinked. Oh.

Walt’s eyes twinkled. All in all, he was a fair boss who respected my skills and my desire to be left alone. He was also a good businessman and a keen supporter of firefighters, partly because it was the right thing to do, partly due to tax benefits. This project ticked both those boxes.

Still, twenty axes in three weeks would be tight. Really tight.

I rubbed my chin. “From scratch or refurbishments?”

Rich didn’t hesitate. “From scratch. Like last time.”

Oh. My. A man who believed in miracles.

“You know the lucky part was just…well, luck, right?” I tried.

Rich chuckled. “Sure. But we know we can count on you.”

My stomach twisted, and I could already see the headlines. Crew wielding “lucky” axes meets tragic end in unforeseen circumstances…

I’d come a long way since my younger, wilder days and prided myself on being a responsible person. But, hell. That kind of responsibility?

I did a quick calculation. “I can make an ax a day at best, and only a basic one. Kevin’s was much more intricate.”

Rich nodded, and I was sure his mind, like mine, was recalling every swirl I’d etched into the gleaming surface. Each of those artistic elements had taken hours.

“We want these to be just like Kevin’s,” he insisted.

I turned to Walt, praying for the voice of reason to speak.

But, ha. Prayers answered versus ignored was another ratio that tilted the wrong way in my life.

Walt thumped my shoulder. “I told Rich I’m confident you can do it.”

The subtext jumped out at me in neon subtitles.

“This is important, Abby,” Walt added gravely. “Our top priority.”

I stuck up my hands. “I can make twenty axes by…mid-May, maybe. You can phase them in gradually.”

Rich shook his head. “Our sponsor wants to present them in a ceremony in Kevin’s honor at the end of the month.”

“ This month?” I yelped.

Rich nodded. “Kevin’s family has agreed to be there and everything. And although we’re not in this for the publicity… Well, you know as well as I that we could use all the recognition we can get.”

We meant the firefighting profession, and I couldn’t agree more. That and funding were always at the top of a firefighter’s wish list.

But, shit. What about the fallout if — when? — the axes didn’t prove all that lucky?

Walt patted the air with his hands. “I have it all figured out.”

Ha. He’d said the same thing about employee 401(k) plans, and those still hadn’t materialized.

“You can get it done with a little help,” he continued.

My heart sank as I glanced around the shop. Walt was going to make this a group project, wasn’t he? Even as far back as first grade, I’d hated group projects. I still hated them.

“I work alone.” I glared.

“Call it an opportunity to develop your leadership skills,” Walt shot back.

Dammit, I hated when he anticipated my arguments.

“What about your other clients?” I tried. “You haven’t talked them all into postponing their deadlines, have you?”

Walt shook his head. “The other guys will stay on their projects. We’ve found you a different assistant.”

I frowned. We, who?

Walt and Rich grinned at each other, then turned to Paul Bunyan — er, Cooper.

He blinked at them, then did a double take.

“Me?”

Rich clapped him on his boulder of a shoulder. “Yes, you. Didn’t you say you do some metalwork in the off-season?”

Cooper’s eyes just about bugged out of his head. Very nice, warm brown eyes, I couldn’t help noticing. Warm and deep, like there was a whole world to discover beneath the surface.

Red list, I reminded myself. Nothing to get all hot and bothered by.

“I do a lot of woodwork in the off-season. I’ve helped my uncle with a few metal projects, but nothing like this.” His stiff posture and clipped tone made it clear he wanted no part of this.

Good. That made two of us.

“Don’t worry,” Walt said. “Abby will get the job done. All you have to do is assist.”

My eyes met Cooper’s by angling way, way up. I came to about the height of his shoulders, and if I’d wanted to peek behind him, I would have had to lean way out to one side. He was that broad, and all that bulk was muscle. But once we locked eyes, I knew we were absolutely, totally, completely on the same page about one thing: not wanting this job. Otherwise, I could already tell we had nothing in common. He looked like a nice, polite, grounded guy who’d been raised in a normal nuclear family.

I’d had flames tattooed on my arms when I was fifteen.

His mother, I was sure, would flip out at such a thing. My mother hadn’t noticed the artwork until about a year in.

There was no way this was going to work, and I opened my mouth to say so.

But a funny thing happened as our eyes remained locked. My inner alarms faded, replaced by a flush of warmth, along with a sense of soul-deep connection. And for that split second, my soul did what it rarely did.

It felt at peace. Absolute, calm, complete peace. A little like some evenings after I tucked my daughter into bed and stayed there, listening to her steady breaths after she fell asleep.

Then I snapped back to my senses. “I don’t want or need an assistant.”

And, ouch. My own tone made me mourn. Was I that jaded? That isolated?

But the walls of my inner fortress were already flying up, the drawbridge drawn, the moat filled.

Walt sighed, then turned to Rich. “Can you give us a second, please?”

Without waiting for a response, he pulled me gently aside.

“Now, Abby…”

As a kid, I’d dreamed of a father figure who spoke in exactly that calm, steady tone. Someone to explain how the world worked and how I could fit in. Instead, I’d had to figure things out for myself — and always, always, the hard way.

I crossed my arms and glared.

“This is an important contract, and there’s no one who can do it better than you.”

Making me feel good was stage one of Walt’s argument. Stage two would be the business side, I knew.

“It’s a great opportunity for us too,” Walt continued. “Not just for the paycheck, but for the publicity.”

In my mental dictionary, paycheck stood in big, bold, gold-embossed text. Publicity was the dirty word in the bottom corner of the P page.

I glanced over at Cooper, who was getting a similar lecture from Rich.

“It should be quiet for the next few weeks,” Rich told him. “And if we do get called out to a fire, you’ll have plenty of time to get to the station.”

If Cooper shoved his fists any deeper into his pockets, he’d be tickling his toes. Firefighters craved action, satisfaction, and thrills. They also craved sweat, blood, and tears. I knew, because I’d been one myself.

But unless you had a creative streak and enjoyed hammering at your inner demons, metal shop assistant scored high on sweat and low in satisfaction .

And, oops. My body heated with an alternative context to sweaty and satisfied . My eyes roamed Cooper’s shoulders and chest, while my imagination put me horizontal and between those sculpted arms.

Bang, bang, bang, my inner vixen giggled.

I puffed air up over my face. Hormones were a bitch.

“I can do the job myself,” I assured Walt. “I just need the time to do it right.”

“You will have time to do it right — three weeks, with an assistant,” Walt said, then switched to bad cop mode. “You are going to do this job, Abby. You are going to do it well. And you are going to do it with Cooper’s help.” Then he turned to Rich with a huge smile, as if I’d actually agreed. “We’re on. Starting tomorrow. That will give Abby some time to prepare.”

Ha. A century wouldn’t be enough.

Pablo, another of Walt’s employees, was working a forge a few steps away, and I stared into the glowing embers. Step by mental step, I wandered into them, seeking refuge.

Every person had a place of mental retreat, I figured. For my sister Erin, it was gliding through the sky. For Pippa, it was shaping molten glass. When my daughter, Claire, needed to get away from it all — not all too often, thank goodness — she hunkered down under a blanket with her stuffed animals.

Fire was my refuge. Flames. Crackling, purifying heat. A place where I was invincible, where no one dared follow.

My breaths slowed, and I stroked the ink on my arms.

This is no big deal. Everything will be okay. The familiar old mantra looped around my mind, again and again. I’ve survived a lifetime of hard knocks. I will survive this too.

Vaguely, I sensed Walt and Rich shaking hands on the deal. I sensed Cooper looking at me, not at all pleased. I registered the bustle and clatter of the metal shop, a million miles away. But it was only when Walt clapped me on the back that I slipped out of my refuge.

“So, all set to start tomorrow. Right, Abby?”

His eyes lasered into me, stern but encouraging. You can do this.

You will do this was more like it, but hell. I was a responsible adult now, and a job was a job.

I jutted my chin, then forced a curt nod. That was all Walt was getting out of me.

“Perfect,” he announced. “See you tomorrow, Cooper. Nine a.m. sharp.”

“See you tomorrow,” Rich chirped.

Cooper growled. So quietly, I doubted Rich or Walt heard.

But I did. I whipped around in time to see the stubble on his chin thicken. His eyes glowed too, no longer warm brown but brick red.

Sensing my gaze, he met my eyes, and I stared.

Shifter?

His nostrils flared, testing the air.

Shifter. Definitely.

He didn’t come out and growl, What are you? but the message was clear.

If I had a simple, one-word answer for that, I might have replied. But I didn’t, being one of those rare cases where two halves didn’t equal a whole.

I took a deep breath then turned away, shaking my head in dismay.

I had a few short weeks to handcraft twenty axes. Lucky axes that would protect hardworking people’s lives. With a big, burly shifter — species unknown — huffing over my shoulder the whole time.

I could have screamed.

Instead, I flipped down my welder’s mask and hit the trigger of my plasma torch, releasing a torrent of fire.