If Only in My Dreams Read online

  From ac­ross the rug­ged dis­tan­ce of the hills he co­uld see the am­ber lights from the Hol­lis­ter ranch, tiny bright can­d­les in the night, down in the val­ley be­low. For a split se­cond he had con­si­de­red stop­ping the­re when he had dri­ven past two days ear­li­er. Hap and Cat­he­ri­ne Hol­lis­ter wo­uld ha­ve wel­co­med him, he felt cer­ta­in. As the lo­cal Lit­tle Le­ague co­ach, it had be­en Hap who ta­ught Ca­le how to hit and how to throw, how to fi­eld. Ca­le and Sky Hol­lis­ter had be­en best fri­ends back then, had pla­yed on the sa­me ba­se­ball te­am, and had spent en­d­less ho­urs prac­ti­cing on the ma­kes­hift pla­ying fi­el­d­k­be­hind the Hol­lis­ters' barn.

  They co­uld ha­ve pla­yed on the fi­eld down in Lar­k­s­pur-as a town boy, it had be­en a long, dusty bi­ke ri­de out to the ranch in the mer­ci­less he­at of tho­se Mon­ta­na sum­mers-but Sky's ho­me had all the warmth that Ca­le's had lac­ked. With a truck dri­ver fat­her who spent his in­f­re­qu­ent so­ber ti­mes on the ro­ad, and a mot­her who had wal­ked out on all of them ye­ars ago, Ca­le and his yo­un­ger sis­ter, Va­le­rie, had spent mo­re ti­me in the ho­mes of the­ir fri­ends gro­wing up than they had in the­ir own. Mrs. Hol­lis­ter had al­ways wel­co­med Ca­le to the­ir tab­le, and Co­ach Hol­lis­ter, who had se­en the ex­t­ra­or­di­nary at­h­le­tic abi­lity la­tent in the boy, had spent en­d­less ho­urs co­ac­hing him, te­ac­hing him. By the ti­me Ca­le was in high scho­ol, he knew that, bar­ring inj­ury, a ca­re­er pla­ying pro­fes­si­onal ba­se­ball awa­ited him. He won­de­red whe­re he wo­uld ha­ve be­en had it not be­en for Co­ach Hol­lis­ter's tu­to­ring. Pro­bably not, he rec­ko­ned, pla­ying in the ma­j­ors.

  As a yo­uth, he'd spent many a sum­mer night the­re at the Hol­lis­ter ranch. So­me­ti­mes the boys all slept in the barn, or in one of the old bun­k­ho­uses. As he grew ol­der, Ca­le re­cal­led, sle­eping in the bun­k­ho­use had held a lot less ap­pe­al than sle­eping in the ranch ho­use, whe­re he co­uld, if luck was with him, run in­to Sky's sis­ter. All of the Hol­lis­ter girls had be­en knoc­ko­uts, from Ce­Ce, the ol­dest, right down to Li­za, the baby. But as a yo­ung boy gro­wing up, the­re had only be­en one girl who had ca­ught his eye and fu­eled his ado­les­cent fan­ta­si­es.

  Ca­le co­uld not re­call a ti­me in his li­fe when he had not be­en in lo­ve with Qu­inn Hol­lis­ter. In his eyes, she had be­en the most be­a­uti­ful girl in the world. Tall and exo­tic, with long dark auburn ha­ir and eyes the sa­me pa­le, lu­mi­no­us gre­en as the pi­ece of sea glass an aunt had sent him from Flo­ri­da one ye­ar, Qu­inn had be­en his first lo­ve, his only lo­ve. Even now, so many ye­ars la­ter, Ca­le co­uld clo­se his eyes and see her ri­ding that big pa­lo­mi­no ma­re of hers ac­ross the hills, her bright ha­ir glo­wing li­ke a ha­lo and flo­wing li­ke a ri­ver be­hind her. Be­a­uti­ful. Be­a­uti­ful as the pas­tel glow of the sun he now wat­c­hed sli­de that last notch be­hind her fa­mily ho­me.

  And the won­der of it had be­en that Qu­inn had lo­ved him, too.

  If he had wor­ked hard to ac­hi­eve ho­nors sta­tus in scho­ol, it had be­en to pro­ve to Qu­inn that he was worthy of her. If he had spent ho­ur af­ter en­d­less ho­ur prac­ti­cing hit­ting and cat­c­hing to per­fect his skills, it was as much to se­cu­re his fu­tu­re with her as it was to ful­fill his dre­ams of be­ing a star out­fi­el­der in the ma­j­ors. He had even for­go­ne his last two ye­ars of col­le­ge to ac­cept an of­fer from the Bal­ti­mo­re Har­bor­mas­ters pro­fes­si­onal ba­se­ball te­am so that he co­uld sup­port her in style.

  Ca­le had be­en con­vin­ced that he was the luc­ki­est guy in the world back then, when, on his twen­ti­eth bir­t­h­day, he had sig­ned his first ma­j­or le­ague con­t­ract and pro­po­sed mar­ri­age to the then se­ven­te­en-ye­ar-old Qu­inn and she had thrown her arms aro­und his neck to ac­cept. Co­ach and Mrs. Hol­lis­ter, ho­we­ver, had ta­ken a dim vi­ew of the­ir da­ug­h­ter skip­ping col­le­ge and jum­ping in­to mat­ri­mony. Des­pi­te Qu­inn's pro­mi­se to her pa­rents that she wo­uld at­tend and com­p­le­te scho­ol in Mar­y­land whe­re Ca­le wo­uld be­gin his ma­j­or le­ague ca­re­er, the el­der Hol­lis­ters we­re ada­mant. As much as they ca­red abo­ut Ca­le, the­re wo­uld be no wed­ding un­til the bri­de had gra­du­ated from col­le­ge.

  Qu­inn had ar­gu­ed and cri­ed, but had be­en unab­le to con­vin­ce her pa­rents to per­mit her to marry at so yo­ung an age. And so, Qu­inn had told Ca­le, they wo­uld ha­ve to ta­ke mat­ters in­to the­ir own hands. Chart the­ir own co­ur­se. Fol­low the­ir own star.

  On the day she tur­ned eig­h­te­en, they wo­uld elo­pe.

  It ne­ver fa­iled to ama­ze Ca­le that, so many ye­ars la­ter, the pa­in had ba­rely di­mi­nis­hed. His he­art still hurt, his he­ad still po­un­ded, every ti­me he tho­ught back to that day, when he'd wa­ited for her right he­re, in the very spot whe­re he now sto­od on the porch of the old ca­bin whe­re they had ag­re­ed to me­et. And wa­ited. And wa­ited un­til the sun had be­gun its soft des­cent in­to the pas­tel hills and he knew the­re was no lon­ger any re­ason to wa­it. Had he re­al­ly be­li­eved that a girl li­ke Qu­inn wo­uld gi­ve up ever­y­t­hing that she had for the son of a hard-drin­king truck dri­ver from the wrong si­de of town? Ca­le had ta­ken the pla­ne tic­ket from his poc­ket-the one he had bo­ught for his bri­de-and rip­ped it in­to a hun­d­red pi­eces be­fo­re clim­bing in­to the cab of his old black pic­kup and slam­ming the do­or. The truck had scre­amed down the gra­vel ro­ad and past the Hol­lis­ter ranch as he had fo­ught the te­ars of loss, of hu­mi­li­ati­on, and he­aded for the Gal­la­tin Fi­eld abo­ut eight mi­les west of Bo­ze­man. If he dro­ve fast eno­ugh, he'd still ma­ke his flight to Den­ver, and from the­re, he'd fly to Bal­ti­mo­re. Alo­ne.

  Ca­le had go­ne on to fa­me and glory in the ma­j­ors, but he ne­ver went back to the Mon­ta­na hills or the ca­bin whe­re he'd left his dre­ams of hap­pily ever af­ter with the only wo­man he'd ever re­al­ly lo­ved. Un­til now.

  Ca­le rub­bed his sho­ul­der, as if to rub away the inj­ury that pla­gu­ed him, the inj­ury that had, on a hot August night in Cle­ve­land, en­ded his ca­re­er. He had wat­c­hed the film of the mi­da­ir col­li­si­on of the two men in the out­fi­eld al­most dis­pas­si­ona­tely, as if it had be­en hap­pe­ning to so­me­one el­se. Over and over he had pla­yed it, ho­ping aga­inst ho­pe that the two bo­di­es wo­uld not crash in­to each ot­her, wo­uld not fall, one badly an­g­led, to the earth. But each ti­me it en­ded the sa­me way. Each ti­me he wat­c­hed, he co­uld fe­el the gro­und be­ne­ath his sho­ul­der, co­uld he­ar the crunch as bo­ne ga­ve way to turf. Two sur­ge­ri­es la­ter, he had be­gun to re­ga­in his strength, but not his mo­bi­lity. He wo­uld ne­ver play ball aga­in, and that was that.

  So he­re Ca­le sto­od, on the porch of an old mo­un­ta­in ca­bin, lo­oking off in­to the dark night, won­de­ring if it had be­en such a go­od idea to co­me he­re af­ter all. Over the past ye­ar, his sis­ter had hi­red a crew of con­t­rac­tors to re­bu­ild the struc­tu­re that had be­en for so long lit­tle mo­re than an aban­do­ned shell. The re­no­va­ti­ons ha­ving be­en com­p­le­ted in the fall, Val had spent two months he­re alo­ne, es­ca­ping from the big city li­fe she had ne­ver re­al­ly adj­us­ted to, se­eking a ha­ven from the de­mands of her mo­de­ling ca­re­er that so­me­ti­mes thre­ate­ned to over­co­me her.

  Altho­ugh Ca­le and Va­le­rie had grown up in town, they had spent many a sum­mer day in the hills, and had be­en as pro­ud of the­ir con­nec­ti­on to the old, di­la­pi­da­ted ca­bin as they had be­en of the le­gends that had grown up over the ye­ars sur­ro­un­ding its ori­gi­nal in­ha­bi­tant, Jed McKen­zie. Su­rely the chan­ges Val had ma­de to the ca­bin wo­uld ha­ve mys
ti­fi­ed and amu­sed the­ir bac­he­lor gre­at-gre­at-un­c­le, an early con­ser­va­ti­onist, who had spent most of his adult li­fe he­re alo­ne, and had di­ed he­re alo­ne ye­ars ago. Va­le­rie had dis­co­ve­red that not­hing re­al­ly res­to­red her the way a trip back to the hills co­uld do, and this ye­ar she ma­na­ged to con­vin­ce Ca­le that so­me ti­me up in the hills, wo­uld be as go­od for his so­ul as it had be­en for hers. She had stoc­ked the fre­ezer and the pantry be­fo­re le­aving right af­ter Than­k­s­gi­ving, and had plan­ned to me­et her brot­her and his sons he­re for Chris­t­mas.

  "It'll be gre­at, Ca­le, you'll see," Va­le­rie had pro­mi­sed.

  "J­ust you, me, and yo­ur boys. You'll wish you'd co­me back so­oner…"

  Ca­le do­ub­ted that, es­pe­ci­al­ly sin­ce he was be­gin­ning to won­der if Val's pla­ne wo­uld ma­ke it to the air­port in Le­wis­town be­fo­re the storm that thre­ate­ned to blow down from the mo­un­ta­ins wo­uld ar­ri­ve and clo­se not only the air­port but the ro­ads as well. And he co­uld do wit­ho­ut the me­mo­ri­es be­ing in this ca­bin bro­ught back. Ban­ging his fe­et on the step to sha­ke off the snow, he went back in­si­de.

  The warmth from the fi­re gre­eted him li­ke an old fri­end, and he sat on the cha­ir ne­ar the do­or to pull off his bo­ots. In thick wo­olen socks he cros­sed the old pi­ne flo­or­bo­ards as qu­i­etly as he co­uld, lest he wa­ken the twin sle­eping de­vils who we­re his sons. Eric and Evan slept, one at each end of the so­fa, each a fo­ur-ye­ar-old lump un­der the big black and tan hand-knit­ted af­g­han that the­ir next-do­or ne­ig­h­bor, Mrs. Lin­d­ley, had ma­de for Ca­le when he had left for col­le­ge in Bo­ze­man. Ca­le sto­ked the fi­re, then ad­ded anot­her log, won­de­ring if he sho­uld wa­ke the boys for din­ner. Cle­arly, they had be­en to­tal­ly tuc­ke­red out from the­ir hi­ke in the de­ep snow that af­ter­no­on. Ca­le had be­en tem­p­ted to nap for a whi­le him­self, but his nights had be­en so res­t­less la­tely that he fe­ared an af­ter­no­on sno­oze wo­uld just be an in­vi­ta­ti­on to one mo­re long, sle­ep­less night.

  He went in­to the small kit­c­hen and bo­iled so­me wa­ter for cof­fee, ho­ping that, this ti­me, he'd get it right. Spo­iled by all the con­ve­ni­en­ces that mo­ney co­uld buy, he'd for­got­ten how to perk cof­fee on the top of the old sto­ve, al­t­ho­ugh this mor­ning's ef­forts had be­en a big im­p­ro­ve­ment over yes­ter­day's. Funny, Val had mo­der­ni­zed so much of the ca­bin, but had yet to rep­la­ce the old sto­ve. The­re was, she had told him, so­met­hing abo­ut the way fo­od tas­ted when she co­oked on it that she wasn't re­ady to gi­ve up just yet. It ma­de her fe­el li­ke she hadn't qu­ite lost that pi­one­er spi­rit. Just one of Val's lit­tle qu­irks, he fi­gu­red. We all ha­ve them. He po­ured a lit­tle milk in­to his cup and tas­ted the hot, dark brown li­qu­id. Bet­ter. He'd get it just right be­fo­re too much lon­ger.

  Qu­i­etly pla­cing the cup on the bat­te­red map­le tab­le, Ca­le pul­led the old wing cha­ir-his gre­at-un­c­le Jed's fa­vo­ri­te-clo­ser to the fi­re and ope­ned the bo­ok he had star­ted the night be­fo­re. You co­uld he­ar a pin drop in he­re, he tho­ught. The­re was no qu­i­et as de­ep as that which you find in the hills. It both com­for­ted him and ma­de him jumpy. He'd be­en away too long to fe­el at ho­me, but was dis­co­ve­ring that he still had eno­ugh sen­se of the hills that the si­len­ce was a fa­mi­li­ar one. He sig­hed and le­aned back, and star­ted to re­ad the new le­gal thril­ler ever­yo­ne was tal­king abo­ut.

  The top log thum­ped dully aga­inst the back of the fi­re­box, and he qu­i­etly ro­se to rep­la­ce it. Eric stir­red softly, his lit­tle fo­ot in its lit­tle whi­te sock pus­hed out from un­der the blan­ket. They we­re so cu­te when they we­re sle­eping, Cak mu­sed. And such lit­tle de­mons when they we­re awa­ke. He won­de­red ru­eful­ly if per­haps the sec­ret to ra­ising two such chil­d­ren might not be lots and lots of exer­ci­se, much li­ke the hi­ke they'd ta­ken that af­ter­no­on. Wit­ho­ut wan­ting to, Ca­le's mind tra­iled back to last Chris­t­mas, to the big fancy ho­use his wi­fe, Jo Beth, had tal­ked him in­to bu­ying out­si­de of Bal­ti­mo­re. As big as it was, as ex­pen­si­ve as it had be­en, it had ne­ver be­en eno­ugh for her.

  Jo Beth Wil­kins had pur­su­ed Ca­le McKen­zie from the night she first met him till the night he fi­nal­ly mar­ri­ed her. Even then, in the midst of the ce­re­mony, he had had the sin­king fe­eling that he was go­ing to reg­ret it. But Jo Beth had be­en in­sis­tent and he had be­en ti­red of dod­ging the ma­ri­tal bul­let, ti­red of dis­cus­sing it. Ti­red of be­ing as­ked abo­ut it. In a we­ak mo­ment he had ag­re­ed to marry her, and it se­emed from that mo­ment on the­re'd be­en no tur­ning back. She had be­en to­tal­ly an­no­yed to ha­ve fo­und her­self preg­nant, but on­ce she fo­und out she was ha­ving twins, she had co­me to ac­cept the fact that if she had two at on­ce, her job wo­uld be do­ne and she'd ne­ver ha­ve to do that aga­in. As so­on as the boys we­re born, she hi­red a nanny, jo­ined a spa, and set abo­ut the bu­si­ness of be­ing a pro­fes­si­onal ba­se­ball wi­fe aga­in. She had be­en go­od at that, he'd gi­ve Jo Beth that much.

  On the day it had be­en con­fir­med that his pla­ying days we­re be­hind him, she'd pac­ked and go­ne back to Ten­nes­see-with a qu­ick stop at a Ne­va­da di­vor­ce­ato­ri­um-le­aving Ca­le with the boys, the nanny, and the ho­use, which he promptly sold, sen­ding her a check for exactly half. She'd sent him a copy of the di­vor­ce dec­ree in his bir­t­h­day card, and he hadn't he­ard from her sin­ce.

  Wa­king in her old ro­om-the ro­om she had sha­red with Ce­Ce as a girl-ne­ver fa­iled to bring Qu­inn fa­ce-to-fa­ce with the past. At dawn she had yaw­ned and stret­c­hed and tur­ned over, ho­pe­ful for a few ex­t­ra ho­urs of sle­ep on this first day of her Chris­t­mas va­ca­ti­on. But every ti­me she clo­sed her eyes, anot­her me­mory wo­uld call it­self forth. In this ro­om she had writ­ten po­etry and lo­ve let­ters and long wordy pa­ges-al­ter­na­ting bet­we­en bliss and des­pa­ir-in a di­ary. When she was twel­ve, she had ar­gu­ed with Ce­Ce and di­vi­ded the ro­om in half with an ima­gi­nary li­ne ne­it­her of them had da­red to cross for we­eks. La­ter that sa­me ye­ar she and Sunny sat on the ed­ge of this very bed and wat­c­hed as Ce­Ce tran­s­for­med her­self from ranch hand to prin­cess as she dres­sed for the sop­ho­mo­re dan­ce at the high scho­ol down in the val­ley. Two ye­ars la­ter, Qu­inn her­self had be­en dres­sed in a flo­wing dress of pa­lest la­ven­der and had put her ha­ir up and had felt very much the sop­his­ti­ca­te on the arm of Ca­leb McKen­zie.

  That had be­en the­ir first re­al da­te, af­ter months of ca­su­al "hi" ex­c­han­ged in the hal­lways at scho­ol or at the ball fi­eld whe­re Qu­inn had tra­iled be­hind her fat­her and brot­her, os­ten­sibly to watch Sky play, tho­ugh Qu­inn co­uldn't ha­ve sa­id what po­si­ti­on Sky pla­yed. She'd ne­ver ta­ken her eyes off Ca­le. When he'd shyly as­ked her to be his da­te for the big dan­ce at scho­ol that spring, she'd tho­ught the he­avens had ope­ned up and drop­ped the most pre­ci­o­us of gifts in­to her wa­iting arms.

  The dan­ce had be­en ever­y­t­hing a first big dan­ce sho­uld be. Qu­inn and Ca­le had dan­ced and tal­ked and dan­ced and tal­ked, and fi­nal­ly-fi­nal­ly!-had kis­sed in the bac­k­se­at of the car Billy De Witt had bor­ro­wed from his big brot­her for the oc­ca­si­on. La­ter Ca­le had ad­mit­ted that the only re­ason he hadn't wan­ted to do­ub­le-da­te with Sky-who was, af­ter all, his best fri­end-was be­ca­use he'd be­en af­ra­id that Sky wo­uld ha­ve dec­ked him if he'd ca­ught him kis­sing his lit­tle sis­ter the way Ca­le had be­en plan­ning to.

  They had be­en in­se­pa­rab­le af­ter that, Qu­inn re­cal­led. Qu­inn and Ca­le. For his re­ma­ining two ye­ars of high
scho­ol, and his first two ye­ars of col­le­ge, she and Ca­le had be­en des­pe­ra­tely in lo­ve and the very best of fri­ends. They had known each ot­her's sec­rets, each ot­her's dre­ams. Ca­le had be­en her first and best and big­gest lo­ve. It had ne­ver oc­cur­red to Qu­inn that they wo­uldn't al­ways be to­get­her. They had plan­ned such a won­der­ful li­fe, and she co­uldn't wa­it to be­gin it.

  Tho­ugh Ca­le had be­en ho­un­ded by pro­fes­si­onal te­ams from the ti­me he'd be­en a juni­or in high scho­ol, he'd ac­cep­ted a scho­lar­s­hip at Mon­ta­na Sta­te down in Bo­ze­man be­ca­use it was clo­se to ho­me, and to Qu­inn. By his sop­ho­mo­re ye­ar, he'd known he co­uldn't wa­it much lon­ger to marry her. As yo­ung as she and Ca­le we­re, Qu­inn had be­en con­fi­dent that her pa­rents wo­uld sup­port them in the­ir wed­ding plans-af­ter all, her mot­her hadn't be­en much ol­der than Qu­inn when she'd mar­ri­ed.

  No one had be­en mo­re sur­p­ri­sed than Qu­inn when her pa­rents we­re ap­pal­led by the­ir se­ven­te­en-ye­ar-old da­ug­h­ter's an­no­un­ce­ment that she and Ca­le wo­uld be get­ting mar­ri­ed the we­ek fol­lo­wing her high scho­ol gra­du­ati­on. But she had it all wor­ked out, she had told them te­ar­ful­ly when they flatly re­fu­sed to gi­ve the­ir bles­sing to her plans. She and Ca­le wo­uld both go to Mon­ta­na Sta­te, and when he gra­du­ated in two ye­ars, she wo­uld simply tran­s­fer to a col­le­ge in wha­te­ver city he'd be pla­ying pro­fes­si­onal ba­se­ball.

  "Qu­inn, for he­aven's sa­ke, you're only se­ven­te­en," Cat­he­ri­ne had sig­hed. '