If Only in My Dreams Read online




  Mariah Stewart

  If Only in My Dreams

  CONTENTS

  For Ka­tie and Bec­ca,

  who ma­ke all my se­asons bright

  Chap­ter One

  Chap­ter Two

  Chap­ter Three

  Chap­ter Fo­ur

  Chap­ter Fi­ve

  Chap­ter Six

  Chap­ter Se­ven

  Chap­ter Eight

  Chap­ter Ni­ne

  Chap­ter Ten

  For Katie and Becca,

  who make all my seasons bright

  Chapter One

  With her Land Ro­ver hap­pily eating up the mi­les in the af­ter­no­on sun, Qu­inn Hol­lis­ter he­aded north on Ro­ute 191 abo­ut sixty mi­les out­si­de of Bil­lings, Mon­ta­na, de­ter­mi­ned to be ho­me be­fo­re din­ner. Pra­ying that no unan­no­un­ced storm wo­uld am­bush her to slow down her prog­ress, she dep­res­sed the ac­ce­le­ra­tor and pre­pa­red to ma­ke tracks. Fum­b­ling in her big blue nylon zip­pe­red bag, she re­j­ec­ted first one, then anot­her ta­pe of Chris­t­mas mu­sic un­til she fo­und just the right songs to sing along with as she dro­ve to­ward the small town of Lar­k­s­pur, and, just be­yond the town li­mits, the High Me­adow Ranch, whe­re her fa­mily wo­uld gat­her to ce­leb­ra­te the ho­li­days.

  Qu­inn had left Mis­so­ula li­te­ral­ly at the crack of dawn, her car al­re­ady pac­ked and re­ady to go. She wo­uld ha­ve two we­eks at ho­me be­fo­re re­tur­ning to Mon­ta­na Sta­te, whe­re she had spent the first se­mes­ter fil­ling in for a pro­fes­sor who had be­en inj­ured in an auto­mo­bi­le ac­ci­dent and was unab­le to te­ach his sche­du­led cre­ati­ve wri­ting co­ur­se. In fo­ur mo­re we­eks the class wo­uld end and the re­gu­lar pro­fes­sor wo­uld re­turn for the se­cond se­mes­ter, but Qu­inn hadn't qu­ite ma­de up her mind whet­her to stay in Mis­so­ula or to co­me back to the ranch. As a wri­ter and il­lus­t­ra­tor of chil­d­ren's bo­oks, she co­uld work just abo­ut an­y­w­he­re. Pre­sently bet­we­en con­t­racts, she hadn't qu­ite set­tled on which of her pos­sib­le pro­j­ects to pur­sue next. For the next two we­eks, ho­we­ver, she plan­ned to put work asi­de and simply enj­oy be­ing with her fa­mily.

  No mat­ter whe­re the­ir li­ves had ta­ken them, all of Cat­he­ri­ne and Hap Hol­lis­ter's of­f­s­p­ring ca­me ho­me to spend Chris­t­mas with the fa­mily. Not that any of them had ever wan­ted to be an­y­p­la­ce el­se for the ho­li­day. The High Me­adow Ranch was ho­me, and ho­me was al­ways fil­led with chat­ter and me­mo­ri­es and won­der­ful things to eat. The old log and stuc­co ho­use wo­uld smell li­ke Chris­t­mas, li­ke fresh-cut pi­ne, li­ke cin­na­mon and va­nil­la and gin­ger, and wo­uld lo­ok li­ke a ma­ga­zi­ne pho­to, with gre­ens dra­ping every win­dow and do­or­way. Cla­ret red po­in­set­ti­as, for which a spe­ci­al trip to Bil­lings wo­uld ha­ve be­en ma­de, wo­uld stand mas­sed un­der the big di­ning ro­om win­dows over­lo­oking the val­ley. Cat­he­ri­ne's Chris­t­mas vil­la­ge wo­uld grow from the flat pla­in of the pi­ano in the gre­at ro­om, and the lights from the tiny por­ce­la­in ho­uses wo­uld twin­k­le li­ke tiny stars. On Chris­t­mas Eve, they wo­uld all gat­her in front of the fi­rep­la­ce, and who­ever's turn it was that ye­ar wo­uld re­ad "The Night Be­fo­re Chris­t­mas" to the rest of the fa­mily. The be­lo­ved fa­ces wo­uld glow in the fi­re­light, and for a whi­le, even the sib­ling bic­ke­ring and ba­iting ine­vi­tab­le in a lar­ge fa­mily wo­uld ce­ase. Just thin­king abo­ut it kin­ked the cor­ners of Qu­inn's mo­uth in­to a smi­le, and she un­con­s­ci­o­usly pres­sed a lit­tle mo­re firmly on the gas pe­dal.

  In her re­ar­vi­ew mir­ror, the Crazy Mo­un­ta­ins, whe­re the Crow In­di­ans on­ce sum­mo­ned the spi­rits, ro­se unex­pec­tedly from the flat bro­ad pra­irie, and up ahe­ad, to her right, the iso­la­ted Snowy Mo­un­ta­ins lif­ted to­ward the clo­uds. At Har­low­town she cros­sed the Mus­sel­s­hell Ri­ver and pas­sed the sign for Mar­tin­s­da­le, whe­re, in re­cent we­eks, many a Mon­ta­nan wo­uld ha­ve so­ught the Hut­te­ri­te co­lony to pur­c­ha­se the­ir Chris­t­mas gra­in-fed go­ose from the Ger­man-spe­aking com­mu­nal far­mers who had fled re­li­gi­o­us per­se­cu­ti­on in Rus­sia and Aus­t­ria in the la­te 1800s. The Hut­te­ri­tes we­re as much a part of the Mon­ta­na lan­d­s­ca­pe as we­re the Amish in Pen­nsy­l­va­nia Dutch co­untry, and as well known for the qu­ality of the­ir pro­du­ce and li­ves­tock. Qu­inn knew that fa­mily tra­di­ti­on dic­ta­ted that the Hol­lis­ter Chris­t­mas buf­fet wo­uld bo­ast at le­ast one fi­ne Hut­te­ri­te go­ose, and mo­re li­kely than not, so­me spe­ci­alty re­lis­hes as well. One fat go­ose… a ro­ast of be­ef with Yor­k­s­hi­re pud­ding… a di­ning ro­om tab­le that wo­uld truly be a gro­aning bo­ard of ho­li­day spe­ci­al­ti­es to sha­re with fa­mily and fri­ends. The Dun­ham co­usins from the ot­her si­de of the mo­un­ta­in wo­uld be the­re, per­haps a few ne­ig­h­bors, and who­me­ver el­se any one of the Hol­lis­ters might ha­ve ad­ded to the list this ye­ar. It was all part of Chris­t­mas at the High Me­adow.

  Tap­ping her fin­gers on the ste­ering whe­el to the Lit­tle Drum­mer Boy's "pa rum pa pa pum," she glan­ced at the clock. She had ma­de ex­cel­lent ti­me. One ne­ver knew at this ti­me of the ye­ar what the we­at­her might do. The sun was just be­gin­ning its slow drop to­ward the hills as she to­ok a right off the hig­h­way on­to the last leg of two-la­ne pa­ved ro­ad that wo­uld le­ad in­to Lar­k­s­pur. Pas­sing the dis­t­rict high scho­ol on the out­s­kirts of town, she slo­wed down to re­mi­nis­ce, as she al­ways did. On the pla­ying fi­elds be­hind the scho­ol, her brot­hers had won all-sta­te ho­nors in ba­se­ball and fo­ot­ball. Aro­und the pe­ri­me­ter of the fo­ot­ball fi­eld ran the track, whe­re Qu­inn had com­pe­ted in the long-dis­tan­ce events and her sis­ter Su­san­nah-Sun­ny for short-had be­en a sprin­ter, and far­t­her back be­yond the boys' pla­ying fi­elds we­re the di­amonds whe­re the girls co­uld play Sof­t­ball, The yo­un­gest Hol­lis­ter, Eli­za­beth-Li­za-had ma­de the girls' all-sta­te te­ams three ye­ars run­ning. It all se­emed so long ago.

  It was long ago, she mu­sed.

  She slo­wed down as she ap­pro­ac­hed the town li­mits, which we­re dis­tin­gu­is­hed by the fif­te­en-mi­le-an-ho­ur spe­ed li­mit sign that was pos­ted right the­re on the cor­ner of Hem­lock and Spru­ce. The tidy sto­ref­ronts we­re all as fa­mi­li­ar to her as the ranch she'd grown up on fi­ve mi­les out­si­de of town. Rows of co­lo­red Chris­t­mas lights li­ned eit­her si­de of the wi­de stre­et that mar­ked the bu­si­ness sec­ti­on. The­re, ac­ross the stre­et on the first cor­ner, sto­od Hil­ler's Ge­ne­ral Sto­re, which ser­ved as both fo­od mar­ket and phar­macy. Next ca­me the Jewel Ca­fe, which was as clo­se to fi­ne di­ning as one was li­kely to co­me ac­ross for the next fifty mi­les or so and was al­so the only spot in town whe­re one co­uld pur­c­ha­se new­s­pa­pers, ma­ga­zi­nes, and pa­per­back bo­oks. Di­rectly ac­ross the stre­et from Jewel's one wo­uld find Cham­bers Spor­ting Go­ods ("O­ut­fit­ters for the Spor­t­s­man Sin­ce 1874"), which was cer­ta­in to be do­ing a bo­oming bu­si­ness this ti­me of ye­ar, and next to it, the lit­tle whi­te clap­bo­ard com­p­lex that ser­ved as mu­ni­ci­pal bu­il­ding, lib­rary, and post of­fi­ce. Doc Bel­lows, the lo­cal ve­te­ri­na­ri­an, had an of­fi­ce on the next cor­ner, and ac­ross from him was the small me­di­cal bu­il­ding that ser­ved the town's hu­man po­pu­la­ti­on. Down that sa­me block was The Cor­ral, Lar­k­s­pur's only nig­h­t­s­pot-that is, t
he only es­tab­lis­h­ment open af­ter ten p.m. The Tow­ne Shop-a clot­hing sto­re that pri­ded it­self on the va­ri­ety of je­ans it car­ri­ed-and Til­s­t­rom's, which had for ge­ne­ra­ti­ons sold farm equ­ip­ment, pretty much ro­un­ded out the town of Lar­k­s­pur, Mon­ta­na, po­pu­la­ti­on 3,127.

  On the ot­her si­de of the bu­si­ness dis­t­rict lay the re­si­den­ti­al area, fi­ve blocks of ne­at stre­ets li­ned with equ­al­ly ne­at ho­uses, many da­ting from the days when Lar­k­s­pur was a bo­om­town, when the gold, le­ad, and sil­ver mi­nes had be­en ac­ti­ve, and the sap­phi­re mi­nes had yi­el­ded so­me of the fi­nest cle­ar blue gems in the world. When the mi­nes had set­tled down a bit, the re­gi­on tur­ned to cat­tle or she­ep ran­c­hing, and many, such as the Hol­lis­ters and the­ir clo­se re­la­ti­ves on the ot­her si­de of Blue Mo­un­ta­in, the Dun­hams, had ma­de the­ir mo­ney in ran­c­hing as much as in mi­ning. Down two blocks on Al­der, off Ma­in, we­re Lar­k­s­pur's ar­c­hi­tec­tu­ral tre­asu­res, the ho­mes of tho­se early men of fo­re­sight who had left the mi­ning fi­elds with the­ir poc­kets full and mo­ved in­to town, whe­re they es­tab­lis­hed them­sel­ves in tra­de, bu­il­ding fi­ne man­si­ons for the­ir fa­mi­li­es and con­t­ri­bu­ting much of the­ir for­tu­nes to the bet­ter­ment of the­ir gro­wing com­mu­nity.

  On a whim, Qu­inn to­ok a left, slo­wing down to ta­ke in the sights of the lar­ge ho­uses, each mo­re ela­bo­ra­te than the one be­fo­re it, all ele­gantly fes­to­oned for the ho­li­day se­ason. Qu­inn grin­ned to her­self, re­cal­ling a ti­me when she had be­en twel­ve or so and co­uld not un­der­s­tand why the Hol­lis­ters had to li­ve so far out of town, on a ranch, when so many of her fri­ends li­ved amid the qu­i­et splen­dor of Al­der La­ne. The fas­ci­na­ti­on with li­ving in town was a bri­ef one, and she had ne­ver re­al­ly reg­ret­ted her co­untry up­b­rin­ging.

  Once past Al­der, each new block saw the ho­uses gro­wing smal­ler and smal­ler, less and less sig­ni­fi­cant ar­c­hi­tec­tu­ral­ly, un­til the last small stre­ets, with the­ir tiny bun­ga­lows and nar­row one-story ho­uses of con­c­re­te block, led down to the la­ke that ser­ved as the nor­t­her­n­most bo­un­dary of the town. At this ti­me of the day, Qu­inn knew, the fro­zen la­ke wo­uld be thick with ska­ters. Unab­le to re­sist the pull, she al­lo­wed the Land Ro­ver to drift down to­ward the tiny par­king area just the­re on the right, whe­re she tur­ned off the en­gi­ne and res­ted her arms over tit­le top of the ste­ering whe­el for just a mo­ment be­fo­re get­ting out and fol­lo­wing the fro­zen path to the la­ke.

  Stan­ding half-hid­den by the row of small whi­te pi­nes that the Rus­sell's La­ke Im­p­ro­ve­ment Com­mit­tee had plan­ted two sum­mers ago, Qu­inn sho­ved her glo­ved hands in­to the poc­kets of her je­ans and wat­c­hed the la­te-af­ter­no­on show that had be­en run­ning on this la­ke every win­ter sin­ce bla­des we­re first strap­ped to the bot­tom of the hu­man fo­ot he­re in the val­ley. The ice was de­eply gro­oved in spots, poc­ked just eno­ugh to ma­ke the ska­ting a lit­tle di­cey for tho­se who we­ren't wat­c­hing whe­re they we­re go­ing. A li­ne of te­ena­gers pas­sed in front of her on the ice, a bo­is­te­ro­us whip be­ing crac­ked ac­ross the cen­ter of the la­ke. Qu­inn wat­c­hed, amu­sed, as the boy on the very end of the whip ap­pe­ared to hit a gro­ove in the ice, sen­ding his fe­et flying out from un­der him and his butt on a ste­ady des­cent to­ward the hard sur­fa­ce of the ice. It hurt, she knew, but he la­ug­hed an­y­way, gle­eful at ha­ving ta­ken with him a go­odly por­ti­on of the ska­ting cha­in as many yo­ung bot­toms skid­ded ac­ross the la­ke. Qu­inn to­ok a step back in­to the sha­dow of the pi­nes, smi­ling as she re­cal­led many a cold af­ter­no­on spent en­ga­ged in exactly the sa­me ac­ti­vi­ti­es that this most re­cent crop of Lar­k­s­pur te­ens enj­oyed-ska­ting, ha­ving fun, flir­ting, fre­ezing the­ir butts off, but la­ug­hing and yes, most de­fi­ni­tely, flir­ting. Many a re­la­ti­on­s­hip had had its start right he­re-why, Qu­inn's own fat­her had first co­ur­ted her mot­her he­re, and Qu­inn her­self had be­en cha­sed aro­und the ice by her own high scho­ol swe­et­he­art, just li­ke… just li­ke that.

  She wat­c­hed in fas­ci­na­ti­on as one of the girls fa­irly flew past on thin sil­ver bla­des, the hat snat­c­hed off her he­ad by an eager yo­ung man who ra­ced off with it. The shri­eking girl cha­sed af­ter him, her long auburn ha­ir tra­iling be­hind her li­ke a ve­il, her fa­ce flus­hed with the cha­se. Over­co­me with a sen­se of nos­tal­gia, Qu­inn sig­hed. Hadn't she on­ce be­en the girl who had stre­aked de­ter­mi­nedly ac­ross the la­ke in pur­su­it of the boy who had chal­len­ged her to ig­no­re him, kno­wing full well she wo­uld cha­se him un­til he per­mit­ted him­self to be ca­ught? And wo­uld not the cha­se end in one of the mo­re re­mo­te spots whe­re the boy co­uld ste­al a hur­ri­ed kiss, bran­ding her with cold lips be­fo­re le­ading, her back to the cha­in that was re­for­ming, whe­re they wo­uld rep­lay the sa­me sce­ne over and over un­til dark? Oh yes, Qu­inn knew the drill qu­ite well.

  Qu­inn won­de­red whe­re her old ska­tes might be, and if she co­uld pos­sibly talk her sis­ters in­to jo­ining her on the la­ke one af­ter­no­on over the ho­li­day we­ek. It wo­uld be fun to so­ar ac­ross the ice aga­in, she tho­ught, as she dug in­to her jac­ket poc­ket and fis­hed out a crum­p­led dol­lar bill. She wal­ked the rock-hard gro­und to the lit­tle ref­res­h­ment stand, whe­re an ac­ne-poc­ked girl sold hot cho­co­la­te un­der a gre­en and whi­te pa­in­ted wo­oden sign that an­no­un­ced All Sa­les Be­ne­fit Lar­k­s­pur Yo­uth Gro­ups. Qu­inn held up one fin­ger and the girl po­ured a cup of ste­aming li­qu­id, the top of which she zap­ped with a fat dol­lop of whip­ped cre­am be­fo­re slap­ping a lid on and nud­ging it ac­ross the nar­row co­un­ter to Qu­inn.

  La­te af­ter­no­on was ra­pidly fa­ding in­to dusk, and se­ve­ral of the ska­ters had co­me to the ed­ge of the la­ke to ta­ke tho­se first aw­k­ward steps on­to the snow-pac­ked gro­und. It was get­ting ne­ar ti­me for the yo­ung ska­ters to he­ad ho­me be­fo­re dark. Se­ve­ral of the te­ena­ge girls cal­led to the­ir yo­un­ger sib­lings, ben­ding over to un­tie ska­tes or to help the small ones with the­ir bo­ots. The girl who­se hat had ear­li­er be­en snat­c­hed, who had la­ug­hed and flir­ted whi­le ret­ri­eving it, now le­aned down to as­sist her lit­tle sis­ter. The sce­ne was so ac­hingly fa­mi­li­ar. It co­uld ha­ve be­en Qu­inn the­re, le­aning over to help a strug­gling Li­za, so many ye­ars ago…

  The­re we­re so­me things that ne­ver se­emed to chan­ge.

  It was ti­me for Qu­inn to he­ad ho­me, too, and she tur­ned her back on the la­ke and wal­ked the short dis­tan­ce to her car, her hands war­med by the hot drink. She shi­ve­red as she got in­to the car and tur­ned on the he­ater. It was a cold day, and the tem­pe­ra­tu­re was drop­ping ra­pidly along with the fa­iling sun. She ma­de a U-turn on­to Rus­sell's La­ke Ro­ad and pa­used bri­efly, her eyes loc­ked on the lit­tle gre­en ho­use that was set back from the ro­ad. That sa­me lit­tle gre­en ho­use she'd be­en trying to ig­no­re sin­ce she had de­ci­ded to stop at the la­ke.

  The shabby ga­ra­ge that had on­ce sto­od at the end of the gra­vel dri­ve­way was go­ne, as was the fa­mily that had on­ce li­ved the­re, the boy and the girl and the­ir gran­d­mot­her, and so­me­ti­mes the­ir fat­her, when he re­mem­be­red whe­re he had left them. Qu­inn had be­en to the ho­use only on­ce, when the gran­d­mot­her had di­ed. Six­te­en ye­ars old and to­tal­ly in lo­ve with the boy, Qu­inn had ar­ri­ved with flo­wers and a ca­ke, much as she had se­en her mot­her do when the­re had be­en a de­ath in a ne­ig­h­bor's fa­mily. She had sto­od on the crac­ked front steps and knoc­ked on the do­or fe­eling very g
rown up. The boy had ope­ned the do­or just eno­ugh for Qu­inn to see that the ho­use held lit­tle fur­ni­tu­re, and that his fat­her had pas­sed out in the one old cha­ir in the dingy li­ving ro­om. The boy had se­emed em­bar­ras­sed that she had co­me, and had not in­vi­ted her in. La­ter, at the old wo­man's fu­ne­ral, Qu­inn had sto­od bet­we­en her fat­her and mot­her, wat­c­hing the boy's fa­ce twist with loss, with pa­in, as the light cof­fin was lo­we­red in­to the gro­und, all the whi­le ac­hing to put her arms aro­und him and com­fort him.

  Well, Qu­inn re­min­ded her­self brus­qu­ely, that boy is long go­ne, and so is the girl I was when I lo­ved him.

  Qu­inn com­p­le­ted her turn crisply and he­aded back to­ward town and the ro­ad that wo­uld ta­ke her ho­me.

  The Land Ro­ver crun­c­hed ef­for­t­les­sly over the oc­ca­si­onal patch of dirty, com­pac­ted snow that co­ve­red the fi­ve mi­les of nar­row gra­vel ro­ad le­ading to­ward the Big Snowy ran­ge. Just to the left of the slight bluff abo­ut half a mi­le ahe­ad Qu­inn co­uld see the lights from the ranch ho­use bur­ning yel­low aga­inst the snow-co­ve­red hills. She co­uld al­most smell the pot ro­ast her mot­her had pro­mi­sed to ma­ke for din­ner, the cran­ber­ry-ra­isin pie the­re wo­uld be for des­sert. Her mo­uth wa­te­ring, she he­aded for ho­me.

  Chapter Two

  Ca­leb McKen­zie sto­od on the porch of the ca­bin that had be­en bu­ilt by a gre­at-gre­at-un­c­le over a hun­d­red ye­ars ago, and sta­red out in­to the stil­lness of the night. From so­mew­he­re in the pi­nes be­yond the ca­bin the­re was a den­se rus­t­ling, and he won­de­red what man­ner of be­ast might be lur­king in the dar­k­ness. The­re had be­en a ti­me, on­ce upon a ti­me, when he wo­uld ha­ve re­cog­ni­zed the night mo­ves of the cre­atu­res who sha­red the mo­un­ta­in, but not an­y­mo­re. He'd be­en go­ne too long, had spent too many ye­ars in the ci­ti­es of the East. He wasn't even su­re that he knew what in­ha­bi­ted the mo­un­ta­in the­se days, what had be­en dri­ven out or en­dan­ge­red du­ring the ye­ars sin­ce he had left Lar­k­s­pur.