If Only in My Dreams Read online

  "Well, then, shall we pack up so­me clot­hes for the boys and me be­fo­re we dig out yo­ur car?" He sto­od up and to­ok her hand, dra­wing her out of her se­at to hold her to him. "I sus­pect this will be but the first of many Chris­t­ma­ses we will spend to­get­her at the Hol­lis­ter ha­ci­en­da. I'm re­ady, if you are."

  She roc­ked aga­inst him, fil­led with the won­der of all the mi­rac­les that had so­me­how fo­und the­ir way in­to her li­fe over the past few days. True Chris­t­mas mi­rac­les, of a cer­ta­inty.

  "What abo­ut our tree?" Eric wa­iled as left the ca­bin.

  "It will be wa­iting for us when we co­me back," Qu­inn as­su­red him.

  "Will you co­me back with us?" Evan qu­eri­ed Qu­inn.

  "Of co­ur­se, I’ll co­me back with you. You think I'm go­ing to let you eat all tho­se Chris­t­mas co­oki­es by yo­ur­sel­ves?" She ruf­fled his ha­ir as she clo­sed the front do­or, tel­ling him, "Go get yo­ur hat. It's cold out he­re."

  Pul­ling the wo­ol hat down over his ears, Evan tur­ned so­lemnly to lo­ok at his brot­her.

  Fi­nal­ly, Eric sa­id, "Is she go­ing to be, li­ke, you know"-he lo­oked up at Ca­le, ges­tu­ring aw­k­wardly with his han­ds-"li­ke our mot­her?"

  "The­re's a go­od pos­si­bi­lity that we might let her do that" Ca­le knelt down to fa­ce his sons. "What do you think?"

  The boys lo­oked at each ot­her for a long mo­ment.

  "She do­es ma­ke pretty go­od bre­ak­fasts," Eric sa­id.

  "And she knows how to ma­ke pa­per cha­ins." Evan nod­ded.

  "It might be okay," Eric told Ca­le.

  "I he­ar the trac­tor." Qu­inn stuck her he­ad back in­si­de the ca­bin and lo­oked at the three McKen­zi­es, hud­dled to­get­her con­s­pi­ra­to­ri­al­ly. "What are you guys up to?"

  "Not­hing," the three rep­li­ed in uni­son.

  "Uh- oh." Qu­inn rol­led her eyes. "What ha­ve I got­ten myself in­to?"

  It was mi­daf­ter­no­on by the ti­me the Land Ro­ver ma­de it down the mo­un­ta­in past snow-gil­ded tre­es that spar­k­led in the sun and fen­ce posts that le­aned we­arily in­to the he­avy drifts. A tra­il of smo­ke fled the mas­si­ve sto­ne chim­ney and thin­ned as it re­ac­hed the sky; even as they fol­lo­wed the plo­wed path, the warmth of the High Me­adow Ranch re­ac­hed out to­ward them with arms fil­led with lo­ve. Qu­inn bit her bot­tom lip an­ti­ci­pa­ting the joy of re­uni­on with her sis­ters and the glow that se­emed to sur­ro­und the fa­mily ho­me this ti­me of the ye­ar.

  From the big kit­c­hen win­dow, Cat­he­ri­ne stu­di­ed the ca­ra­van of trac­tor and Land Ro­ver as it pla­yed fol­low the le­ader down the nar­row, newly plo­wed ro­ad. She sig­hed he­avily. Who wo­uld ha­ve tho­ught that af­ter all the­se ye­ars, Ca­le McKen­zie wo­uld be back?

  Anxi­o­usly, she wat­c­hed the Land Ro­ver pull in­to the yard and stop. From the pas­sen­ger si­de, the man emer­ged. He lo­oked tal­ler, le­aner than she had re­mem­be­red, but the fa­ce with its bo­yish smi­le had ba­rely chan­ged at all. He al­ways was a han­d­so­me thing, Cat­he­ri­ne re­cal­led. Han­d­so­me eno­ugh to ha­ve had a string of girls back in high scho­ol, had he wan­ted them, tho­ugh she knew he had only wan­ted one.

  A ti­de of ma­ter­nal gu­ilt was­hed over Cat­he­ri­ne, and a kink of un­cer­ta­inty pric­ked her con­s­ci­en­ce. She had ne­ver re­al­ly known just what exactly had ca­used her da­ug­h­ter's bre­akup with Ca­le that sum­mer so long ago. To be su­re, Cat­he­ri­ne had ma­de gen­t­le in­qu­iri­es, but Qu­inn had cho­sen to res­pond in va­gue, one-word an­s­wers that had told Cat­he­ri­ne not­hing. All Cat­he­ri­ne had known was that Qu­inn had not be­en the sa­me sin­ce the day Ca­le had left Lar­k­s­pur for Bal­ti­mo­re.

  Had Cat­he­ri­ne known how he­avily Qu­inn wo­uld carry the bur­den of he­ar­t­b­re­ak for so many ye­ars, wo­uld she ha­ve be­en so qu­ick back then to brush off her da­ug­h­ter's dec­la­ra­ti­on of un­d­ying lo­ve? And mo­re im­por­tantly, how badly bru­ised was Qu­inn from ha­ving be­en for­ced to spend the last few days in the com­pany of the man who had bro­ken her he­art, but had ne­ver be­en rep­la­ced in her li­fe?

  Mer­ci­ful he­aven, why did he ha­ve to co­me back, af­ter all the­se ye­ars?

  Qu­inn ope­ned her do­or and slid from be­hind the dri­ver's se­at to jump in­to the hard-crus­ted snow just as Sky and her fat­her fled the ho­use from the si­de do­or to gre­et the new­co­mers. The three men gre­eted each ot­her ten­ta­ti­vely at first, but in a he­ar­t­be­at Hap had em­b­ra­ced Ca­le and a fi­ne re­uni­on was in prog­ress. At le­ast that went well, Cat­he­ri­ne tho­ught, nod­ding, kno­wing how pro­ud Hap was of his fa­mo­us pro­tegй.

  Ca­le ro­un­ded the si­de of the ve­hic­le to whe­re Qu­inn ap­pe­ared to be fus­sing with so­met­hing in the bac­k­se­at. The way he to­uc­hed the small of Qu­inn's back, the fa­mi­li­arity of the sim­p­le ges­tu­re, and the man­ner in which Qu­inn had tur­ned to lo­ok up at him, squ­in­ting in­to the sun but grin­ning hap­pily, ga­ve Cat­he­ri­ne ca­use for tho­ught. Go­od gri­ef, one wo­uld think that they… that they…

  Co­uld it be…?

  Cat­he­ri­ne pe­ered out the win­dow, lo­oking mo­re clo­sely at her da­ug­h­ter's fa­ce, se­eking her eyes. With Qu­inn, it had al­ways be­en in her eyes.

  And yes, the­re it was. That sa­me lo­ok of lo­ve, of trust, of to­tal de­vo­ti­on she had worn twel­ve ye­ars ago. The glow, the spar­k­le that ca­me from wit­hin.

  Oh de­ar.

  Cat­he­ri­ne sat down on a sto­ol ne­ar the win­dow, te­ars of reg­ret for­ming in her eyes. Qu­inn must ha­ve lo­ved him im­men­sely for it to ha­ve las­ted, un­to­uc­hed, all this ti­me. Cat­he­ri­ne sig­hed he­avily. Do pa­rents ever re­al­ly know if the de­ci­si­ons they ma­ke for the­ir chil­d­ren are, af­ter all, the right ones? And if cal­led upon to ma­ke the sa­me de­ci­si­on for a se­ven­te­en-ye­ar-old da­ug­h­ter aga­in, wo­uld her an­s­wer be dif­fe­rent?

  Pro­bably not, she told her­self.

  Fe­eling slightly re­de­emed, Cat­he­ri­ne ro­se to go to the do­or to wel­co­me her da­ug­h­ter ho­me, when two lit­tle fi­gu­res out in the snow ca­ught her eye. She le­aned clo­ser to the win­dow to get a bet­ter lo­ok. Of co­ur­se. Val had sa­id that Ca­le had two lit­tle boys.

  Cat­he­ri­ne wat­c­hed the two lit­tle bun­d­led fel­lows cha­se each ot­her to­ward the ho­use and smi­led as one trip­ped the ot­her, who fell flat in­to the snow. We­ig­h­ted down by what must ha­ve felt li­ke po­unds of clot­hing, the one in the snow fla­iled abo­ut whi­le the ot­her, la­ug­hing, tri­ed to help him up. So­on both boys we­re rol­ling in the snow. Cat­he­ri­ne la­ug­hed out lo­ud. How many ti­mes had she wat­c­hed her own sons fro­lic just so?

  May­be Tre­vor co­uld go out to the barn to lo­ok for the old sleds he and Sky used to ha­ve. The­se lit­tle ones we­re just abo­ut the right age for them.

  The front do­or ope­ned and Cat­he­ri­ne re­ac­hed the hal­lway in ti­me to see yo­ung Lilly gre­et the two to­us­led, snow-co­ve­red lit­tle boys with frec­k­les on the­ir fa­ces and mis­c­hi­ef in the­ir eyes.

  May­be Co­le's co­ming back wasn't so bad, she mu­sed.

  "Hi. We've be­en wa­iting for you to get he­re." Lilly pus­hed the do­or open wi­de.

  "Who are you?" one of the lit­tle snow-boys as­ked.

  "I'm Lilly. And I'm ma­king a gin­ger­b­re­ad vil­la­ge with my gran­d­ma. Want to help ma­ke lit­tle ho­uses?"

  "Do we get to eat them?"

  "Of co­ur­se not," Lilly rep­li­ed as if the boy was daft. "It's for the vil­la­ge. To go in the di­ning ro­om. Co­me see…"

  Snowy bo­ots ma­de snowy prints from the front do­or to the kit­
c­hen. Not for the first ti­me, Cat­he­ri­ne re­mem­be­red. And, God wil­ling, not for the last…

  "Mom," Qu­inn cal­led from the do­or­way, "I'm ho­me. Co­me see who's jo­ined us for Chris­t­mas…"

  It had be­en a ga­la Chris­t­mas Eve, the best ever, to Qu­inn's way of thin­king, with all of the pe­op­le she lo­ved most gat­he­red un­der the sturdy ro­of of the old ranch ho­use. As al­ways, the­re had be­en tons of won­der­ful things to eat and drink, ga­mes to play and songs to sing, old me­mo­ri­es to sha­re and new me­mo­ri­es to be ma­de. At eight o'clock, they all crow­ded aro­und the fi­rep­la­ce in the gre­at ro­om, the merry chat­ter sub­si­ding as Cat­he­ri­ne rang the lit­tle sil­ver bell that had ser­ved the pur­po­se sin­ce the ye­ar the twins we­re born and every Chris­t­mas Eve sin­ce.

  "Lo­ved ones," a be­aming Cat­he­ri­ne ad­dres­sed her fa­mily, "it is ti­me for the re­ading. Schuy­ler won the toss this ye­ar." She han­ded her son the worn copy of "The Night Be­fo­re Chris­t­mas."

  Stan­ding at one end of the ro­om, his back aga­inst the sto­ne he­arth, Sky be­gan to re­ad the words they all knew by he­art.

  Qu­inn set­tled back in the ar­m­c­ha­ir ne­ar the win­dow and co­un­ted her many bles­sings in the fa­ces that sur­ro­un­ded her in the com­for­tab­le ro­om. Her eyes dan­ced from one to the ot­her.

  It was cer­ta­inly tur­ning out to be a Chris­t­mas fil­led with sur­p­ri­ses, a Chris­t­mas she wo­uld ne­ver for­get.

  I can't wa­it to see Mom's and Dad's fa­ces when they open the­ir gift. Qu­inn smi­led at the tho­ught of her pa­rents, stret­c­hed out on the cle­an soft sands of St. Tho­mas, with palm tre­es be­hind them and a per­fect pas­tel blue sea open to the ho­ri­zon.

  Across the ro­om, Aunt Sa­rah, hard of he­aring but un­wil­ling to ad­mit it, le­aned for­ward to catch every one of Sky's words. Her da­ug­h­ter Se­le­na had whis­pe­red to Qu­inn and Sunny that she and her sib­lings had bo­ught the­ir mot­her a ring set with the bir­t­h­s­to­nes of her chil­d­ren, all of whom we­re pre­sent and ac­co­un­ted for. Se­le­na's brot­her, Chris­ti­an, had an­no­un­ced his en­ga­ge­ment that night to his lon­g­ti­me gir­l­f­ri­end, and the­ir sis­ter, Ale­xa, an­no­un­ced that she was car­rying twins.

  From one sib­ling to the next, Qu­inn's lo­ving eyes tra­iled aro­und the ro­om. Ce­Ce, who with her twin brot­her, Tre­vor, ne­ver se­emed to age. Gor­ge­o­us dark-ha­ired Sunny, with her be­a­uti­ful lit­tle Lilly, the pri­de of the Hol­lis­ter clan. Li­za, lo­oking sur­p­ri­singly sop­his­ti­ca­ted. Rug­gedly han­d­so­me Sky, blus­hing as he lo­oked up to me­et the eyes of the very ele­gant Va­le­rie McKen­zie from ac­ross the ro­om.

  And, mi­rac­le of mi­rac­les, the­re was Ca­le, who sat on the big squ­are ot­to­man in front of her cha­ir, his back to her, his sons sit­ting un­c­ha­rac­te­ris­ti­cal­ly still on the rag rug at his fe­et. Even they se­emed to be­long, to ha­ve be­en ab­sor­bed in­to the wel­co­ming warmth of the fa­mily. She to­uc­hed his back, and wit­ho­ut tur­ning aro­und he le­aned back in­to her, and she res­ted her fo­re­he­ad on the small of his back. How won­der­ful to ha­ve him he­re, to sha­re this night with him. It was all so right.

  Sky com­p­le­ted his re­ading, sig­na­ling bed­ti­me for the yo­ung ones. Fol­lo­wing a giddy ro­und of go­od-night kis­ses from all of her aunts and un­c­les, Lilly was car­ri­ed from the ro­om over Sunny's sho­ul­der to the big loft bed­ro­om up­s­ta­irs. Eric and Evan we­re re­le­ga­ted to Sky's old ro­om and the sa­me old bunk beds that Ca­le him­self had slept in many a night as a boy. The ol­der "boys"-Sky, Tre­vor, and Ca­le-wo­uld la­ter be ship­ped ac­ross the yard to the old bun­k­ho­use for the night. As so­on as the chil­d­ren we­re tuc­ked in, the bu­si­ness of han­ging the­ir stoc­kings and brin­ging the­ir pre­sents out of hi­ding to pla­ce un­der the tree be­gan. So­on the ro­om was fil­led with la­ug­h­ter and the spa­ce un­der the tree was fil­led with gifts. Cham­pag­ne was po­ured, as was the tra­di­ti­on, and anot­her ro­und of Chris­t­mas co­oki­es cir­cu­la­ted on sil­ver trays.

  The­re be­ing lit­tle ro­om left un­der the tree, Qu­inn stac­ked her fa­mily's gifts he­re and the­re aro­und the ro­om. Fe­eling Ca­le's fin­gers on her arm, she tur­ned to him and sa­id, "I ha­ve no gift for you."

  "You can ma­ke it up to me la­ter." He grin­ned. "When we get back to the ca­bin. I'll su­re you'll think of so­met­hing. But in the me­an­ti­me, I ha­ve so­met­hing for you."

  "You do?"

  "Um- hmm." He to­ok her by the hand and led her to the do­or­way, whe­re just that mor­ning her mot­her had hung a sprig of mis­t­le­toe.

  "Now, gi­ve me yo­ur hand."

  Puz­zled, she held them both out to him. Aro­und the ring fin­ger of her left hand, he be­gan to twist a pi­ece of tin­sel that had fal­len from the tree.

  "It's not much, I know," he sa­id, "but as so­on as we can get in­to Bo­ze­man, we'll find so­met­hing that's a lit­tle mo­re per­ma­nent. But for now, it will ha­ve to do."

  "I al­ways tho­ught it wo­uld be so ro­man­tic to get en­ga­ged on Chris­t­mas Eve," she told him. "But are you su­re…? Ca­le, ple­ase don't rush in­to an­y­t­hing you're not su­re of…"

  "Well, af­ter ha­ving twel­ve ye­ars to think abo­ut it, I'd say I'm abo­ut as su­re as I co­uld be. And you, Qu­inn…?"

  "I've al­ways be­en su­re, Ca­le. I've ne­ver lo­ved an­yo­ne but you."

  "Well, then, I gu­ess that set­tles it. May­be we sho­uld try ha­ving that lit­tle talk with yo­ur pa­rents aga­in."

  He to­ok her in his arms and swa­yed to the slow swe­et Chris­t­mas mu­sic on the ste­reo. She had ne­ver tri­ed dan­cing to "I'll Be Ho­me for Chris­t­mas" be­fo­re, but it se­emed to fit.

  La­ter, as she hel­ped cle­an up the pla­tes and glas­ses, she stop­ped in front of the win­dow that over­lo­oked the hills.

  The mo­on was big and bright, len­ding a lus­ter to the all-whi­te lan­d­s­ca­pe that se­emed to stretch en­d­les­sly in­to the night. How per­fect it all was. How won­der­ful. She had ne­ver known just how much lo­ve her he­art was ca­pab­le of hol­ding un­til to­night. Her fa­mily, Ca­le, the boys, all had…

  She blin­ked, then le­aned clo­ser to the win­dow, and a slow smi­le cros­sed her lips. The­re, by the fen­ce, a sha­dowy fi­gu­re sto­od, as if ga­zing at the ranch ho­use.

  Qu­inn to­uc­hed the fros­ted pa­ne with the fin­gers of her right hand.

  "Thank you, Gran­d­mot­her," she whis­pe­red.

  "What are you thin­king?" Ca­le's fa­ce was ref­lec­ted in the glass, his arms wrap­ping aro­und her from be­hind, dra­wing her clo­se in­to a se­cu­re and lo­ving cir­c­le. "Are you thin­king abo­ut all the Chris­t­ma­ses we mis­sed spen­ding to­get­her?"

  "Oh, no," she told him, tur­ning in his arms and pul­ling his fa­ce clo­se eno­ugh to kiss, "I'm thin­king of all the Chris­t­ma­ses yet to co­me."

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  6/14/2008