Page 17 of Dream Weaver

He nudged my shoulder agreeably.

“You’re in a safe place now,” I assured him. “A safe home. Forever.”

He and a geriatric mare named Annie had been half a day away from the kill pen when I found them. I added them to my mental list of rescues, though I’d lost count of the exact number. Twenty-six? Twenty-seven?

“You have a good home now, and everything will be okay,” I murmured to myself as much as to the horse.

Domino swished his tail and let his head droop as I scratched his withers. Annie wasn’t as trusting, but that was all right. She could have her space.

All seventy-eight acres of it. My heart swelled as I looked around our dusty domain. My great-aunt had left us three sisters her ranch on the outskirts of Sedona, and we were doing the best to keep the place going.

Leaving the horses with a last pat, I continued toward the mesa. Over the years, we’d worn a faint trail to the top, but I branched off to my own special spot five minutes later, stepping on flat-topped rocks to avoid leaving footprints. Once I’d turned a corner, following the contours of the mesa, I slowed at the sight of a rocky outcrop.

One of the foster families I’d lived with as a kid had been regular churchgoers, attending mass every Sunday for the three weeks I’d lasted with them. Their steps would always change as they approached the church doors, and their mood became somber, even spiritual.

The same way I approached that particular outcrop.

I ran a hand over the flat-topped rock that was my pew and gazed out over the box canyon that guarded the northeast side of the ranch. Slowly, I took a seat, resting my chin on my knees, thinking.

First, I thought about someone patient, quiet, and indulging. Had I been too harsh? Was he trustworthy? How soon could I get rid of him? Did I really want to?

Then I wrestled my thoughts around to what really mattered: the axes.

Years ago, I’d come to this very spot to mourn a firefighter’s passing, fret over my loved ones, and mull over my own mortality. I’d barely slept that night and spent the following day in a fit of out-of-nowhere energy that had me banging away at steel for hours. By nightfall, I had forged the most perfectly shaped, perfectly balanced ax of my life.

Rich had wept when I’d brought the ax to the firehouse, and even Alice, the most no-nonsense member of the crew,had commented on the energy that seemed to radiate from it. I’d pooh-poohed that at the time as just another example of Sedona’s overexaggerated magic.

But now, I wasn’t so sure. Was their three-year lucky streak just luck, or was it magic?

Magic I’d never been able to wield…until recently.

I reached out, touching the rock beside me.

Painted Rock Ranch took its name from the art scratched into stones in a long bygone era. This outcrop only boasted a handful of pictographs, but they were enough. Especially one — the spiral symbol.

I inched my hand toward it, holding my breath. Then I exhaled and gently traced the lines, much like I’d patted Domino. Vortexes were highly unpredictable and likely to lash out if you caught them at a bad time.

A little like me.

Sometimes the vortex was dull, even sleepy. Other times, it crackled with energy — mostly angry, but on rare occasions, welcoming.

Now was one of the latter. Whew.

I closed my eyes, thinking about twenty lucky axes. Twenty trusting firefighters. Twenty lives depending on me.

Warmth trickled from the rock to my fingers, telling me I could do it.

All well and good, but how, exactly?

That was the catch — vortexes were rarely specific. So far, I’d only ever experienced two exceptions: the day our ranch had been attacked by Harlon Greene, a lightning-wielding warlock, and the night Pippa had screamed for help while battling ruthless vampires.

Both times, I’d run to the vortex, and both times, I’d been able to harness and direct its explosive energy.

Not that I ever intended to use it again. Doing so had chipped away at the inner dungeon I kept my own inborn magic locked away in. Magic I was afraid to use or even acknowledge.

But when it came to the vortex… I could trust that. I bobbed my head, thanking it silently for its assistance in those life-and-death moments.

Most of the time, the vortex simply provided silent encouragement, like now. But like the ideal parent I’d never had yet strove to be, that was it. Encouragement, but no direct guidance. More like aYou can do it, honey!kind of cheerleading that left me to forge my own way. All I could do was sleep on it…and hope my dreams might help me.

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