If Only in My Dreams Read online

  "Mom, I lo­ve Ca­le ____________________ "

  "I'm su­re that you think you do, swe­et­he­art. But yo­ur fat­her and I re­al­ly be­li­eve that you're simply far too yo­ung to ma­ke a de­ci­si­on li­ke this. Qu­inn, you've ba­rely be­en out of Mon­ta­na. You ne­ed to see mo­re of the wor­ld-go pla­ces and do things."

  "The only pla­ce I want to go is to Bo­ze­man with Ca­le. The only thing I want to do is marry him."

  "Qu­inn, lis­ten to me." Cat­he­ri­ne had sat on the ed­ge of her da­ug­h­ter's bed. "Gi­ve yo­ur­self a lit­tle mo­re ti­me. At le­ast wa­it two ye­ars…"

  Two ye­ars! They might just ha­ve well as as­ked her to wa­it two li­fe­ti­mes.

  And so Ca­le had con­tac­ted the co­ach for the Bal­ti­mo­re te­am who had be­en pur­su­ing him and the de­al was struck. He wo­uld le­ave Mon­ta­na, but he'd be ta­king Qu­inn with him. They'd get mar­ri­ed as so­on as they hit Mar­y­land. Hap and Cat­he­ri­ne wo­uld co­me aro­und, Qu­inn had pro­mi­sed. She wo­uld en­roll in a col­le­ge ne­arby whi­le Ca­le tri­ed to ma­ke his mark in pro­fes­si­onal ba­se­ball. Li­fe wo­uld su­rely be won­der­ful.

  Qu­inn had ne­ver stop­ped won­de­ring if, in fact, li­fe wo­uld ha­ve be­en as blis­sful as tho­se dre­ams, if he hadn't sto­od her up.

  She had wa­ited at the ca­bin that day un­til af­ter dark, un­til she co­uld no lon­ger deny the fact that he had de­ci­ded not to ta­ke her with him af­ter all. She had go­ne ho­me and for­ced her­self to in­qu­ire ca­su­al­ly if Ca­le had cal­led. He had not.

  Qu­inn had slowly clim­bed the sta­irs to her bed in the se­cond-flo­or loft and, as qu­i­etly as she co­uld, cri­ed un­til the­re we­re no mo­re te­ars left to be shed. The next day she had rid­den out in­to the hills and, in a ges­tu­re her se­ven­te­en-ye­ar-old he­art had tho­ught su­itably dra­ma­tic, threw his high scho­ol ring off the si­de of Bol­d­fa­ce Rock, and had vo­wed ne­ver to spe­ak his na­me aga­in un­less she had to. Too em­bar­ras­sed to tell her fa­mily that she had be­en sto­od up, she had pre­ten­ded that she and Ca­le had bro­ken up fol­lo­wing an ar­gu­ment, and she had re­fu­sed to do mo­re than mut­ter a va­gue reply or shrug non­com­mit­tal­ly when as­ked abo­ut him. Even­tu­al­ly, the qu­es­ti­ons stop­ped, and as far as her fa­mily was con­cer­ned, the en­ti­re epi­so­de was past his­tory. Which was exactly what Qu­inn wan­ted them to think

  Of co­ur­se, over the ye­ars it had be­en im­pos­sib­le to avo­id kno­wing that he'd ma­de his mark on the sport he lo­ved. Qu­inn had stop­ped wat­c­hing the ga­me al­to­get­her and ne­ver re­ad the sports pa­ges. She didn't want to know whe­re he was pla­ying or how he was do­ing, but, of co­ur­se, the lo­cal pa­per fol­lo­wed his every mo­ve, com­p­le­te with pho­tog­raphs, from every ga­me-win­ning play to his mar­ri­age to a for­mer be­a­uty qu­e­en from so­me So­ut­hern sta­te a few ye­ars ear­li­er.

  "Lo­oks li­ke Ca­le fi­nal­ly set­tled down," her mot­her had told her ten­ta­ti­vely on the te­lep­ho­ne. "Sa­tur­day's pa­per had a pic­tu­re of him and his bri­de right on the front pa­ge."

  "How ni­ce for Ca­le," Qu­inn had rep­li­ed flatly, then in­qu­ired af­ter the he­alth of one of Sky's ma­res that had be­en sick the we­ek be­fo­re. La­ter she had hung up the pho­ne and lic­ked her wo­unds in pri­va­te, as she had al­ways do­ne.

  From ti­me to ti­me, Qu­inn ca­ught a glim­p­se of him as he was be­ing in­ter­vi­ewed on te­le­vi­si­on, and for that one mo­ment, ti­me wo­uld stand still, and he wo­uld still be her Ca­le, but only for a mo­ment, only un­til she col­lec­ted her wits and chan­ged the chan­nel. Oh, if hard-pres­sed, she'd ha­ve grud­gingly ad­mit­ted that she was pro­ud of him, pro­ud for him, that he'd ma­na­ged to over­co­me an un­cer­ta­in start in li­fe and had fol­lo­wed his dre­am. On the ot­her hand, she'd ne­ver be­en ab­le to for­gi­ve him for let­ting her gi­ve her he­art so com­p­le­tely, only to bre­ak it.

  And she'd ne­ver on­ce, in the twel­ve ye­ars that had pas­sed, awa­ke­ned in that bed in her old ro­om wit­ho­ut thin­king of him and the nights she had spent crying for him. And so­me­how, all the­se ye­ars la­ter, the me­mo­ri­es still had the po­wer to hurt.

  I gu­ess he just didn't know how to tell me that he'd chan­ged his mind abo­ut me, she tho­ught as she threw her legs over the si­de of the bed and re­ac­hed for her ro­be.

  It wo­uld be re­al­ly ni­ce if, just this on­ce, I co­uld get thro­ugh a ho­li­day se­ason wit­ho­ut ha­ving to he­ar abo­ut him.

  She sig­hed, kno­wing that was un­li­kely. Ca­le McKen­zie was the only bo­na fi­de, ho­me-grown ce­leb­rity to co­me out of Lar­k­s­pur, Mon­ta­na. So­oner or la­ter, over the next two we­eks, so­me­one-mo­re ac­cu­ra­tely, lots of so­me­ones, fa­mily and fri­ends ali­ke-wo­uld be cer­ta­in to bring up his na­me.

  It's okay, she re­as­su­red her­self as she rum­ma­ged thro­ugh her su­it­ca­se for her je­ans and a cle­an swe­at­s­hirt, I can han­d­le it. I al­ways ha­ve.

  As if to con­vin­ce her­self, she for­ced her­self to whis­t­le a merry Chris­t­mas tu­ne as she he­aded off down the hall to­ward her mor­ning sho­wer.

  Chapter Three

  "… And Sandy Os­bor­ne's be­en di­vor­ced now for the third ti­me," Cat­he­ri­ne was sa­ying as she wat­c­hed Qu­inn roll out su­gar co­okie do­ugh on the mar­b­le co­un­ter­top she'd had in­s­tal­led for just that very pur­po­se. "She fi­nal­ly threw in the to­wel on mar­ri­age, I gu­ess, 'ca­use she mo­ved back in­to her folks' ho­me in town."

  "Po­or Sandy," Qu­inn mu­sed. "She ne­ver re­al­ly did know what she wan­ted, did she?"

  "Only on a tem­po­rary ba­sis, it wo­uld se­em," Cat­he­ri­ne mut­te­red. "The­re now, Qu­inn, flat­ten out that cor­ner the­re, so all the do­ugh's the sa­me thic­k­ness."

  Qu­inn did as she was told, sec­retly smi­ling. In her se­arch for per­fec­ti­on in all things, Cat­he­ri­ne wo­uld con­ti­nue to in­s­t­ruct un­til her kids got it right.

  "Stars?" Qu­inn as­ked, hol­ding up the old tin co­okie cut­ter, and her mot­her nod­ded ab­sently. Qu­inn pro­ce­eded to press the co­okie cut­ter in­to the do­ugh, and Cat­he­ri­ne lif­ted the lit­tle stars and pla­ced them on the wa­iting ba­king she­ets.

  "I can­not wa­it un­til Su­san­nah gets he­re with that dar­ling lit­tle Lilly of hers," Cat­he­ri­ne sig­hed, then grum­b­led. 'To think I'd end up with only one gran­d­c­hild, af­ter all the­se ye­ars."

  "Mom, you ha­ven't 'ended up,'" Qu­inn re­min­ded her. "No­ne of us are even mar­ri­ed yet."

  "Don't think I don't re­ali­ze that." Cat­he­ri­ne held up her hand. "Go­od­ness, six chil­d­ren and no sons- or da­ug­h­ters-in-law."

  "Sunny was mar­ri­ed for a whi­le."

  "Ple­ase, him I'd rat­her for­get." Cat­he­ri­ne sho­ok her he­ad. "I just don't un­der­s­tand why no­ne of you has fo­und so­me­one to fall madly in lo­ve with so I co­uld go to my gra­ve kno­wing at le­ast one of my chil­d­ren wo­uld li­ve hap­pily ever af­ter."

  "Mom, yo­ur gra­ve isn't re­ady for you, and we all will li­ve hap­pily ever af­ter. Even­tu­al­ly."

  "Well, I wish you'd get on with it" Cat­he­ri­ne ope­ned the oven and slid the she­et of whi­te-do­ugh stars in­si­de. "A ho­use sho­uld be fil­led with chil­d­ren on Chris­t­mas."

  "The ho­use will be fil­led with kids, Mom, sin­ce well all be ho­me," Qu­inn re­min­ded her, "and we're all just lit­tle kids at he­art."

  Cat­he­ri­ne ra­ised her eyes abo­ve the oven do­or and gla­red at her mid­dle child. "You've all long pas­sed that cu­te, cuddly sta­ge whe­re you be­li­eved in San­ta and co­uldn't wa­it to get up on Chris­t­mas mor­ning to see what toys he bro­ught you. I miss that ex­ci­te­ment
, Qu­inn. It's be­en all too many ye­ars sin­ce lit­tle hands ha­ve tap­ped my che­ek to wa­ke me at dawn." She brig­h­te­ned, ad­ding, "At le­ast I ha­ve Lilly to spo­il, tho­ugh every ye­ar I lo­ok at you and yo­ur brot­hers and yo­ur sis­ters and won­der if I've ra­ised a bunch of crabby old ma­ids and grumpy old bac­he­lors."

  Qu­inn la­ug­hed and kis­sed her mot­her's che­ek. "You worry too much, Mom. We're just all ta­king our ti­me to find the right per­son, that's all. Now, how long will tho­se co­oki­es ta­ke?" She pe­ered at the re­ci­pe bo­ok. 'Twel­ve mi­nu­tes. Just eno­ugh ti­me to go up to the at­tic and bring down a few bo­xes of Chris­t­mas de­co­ra­ti­ons."

  "Well, it might be a go­od idea to do that now. Yo­ur dad is af­ra­id that the storm they've be­en pre­dic­ting for to­mor­row might hit early, so he wan­ted to go out af­ter lunch to cut down the tree."

  "Ce­Ce will be di­sap­po­in­ted if we go wit­ho­ut her."

  "She'll be mo­re di­sap­po­in­ted if we end up with no tree at all be­ca­use we wa­ited too long to go."

  "True." Qu­inn tur­ned on the light to the at­tic and ope­ned the do­or, set­ting lo­ose a cold who­osh of fri­gid, musty air. She clim­bed the steps and set abo­ut the task of se­lec­ting the bo­xes that wo­uld be stac­ked and car­ri­ed to the first flo­or to trim the fa­mily tree. One of the ad­van­ta­ges of be­ing the first one ho­me, she mu­sed, is that you got to cho­ose what de­co­ra­ti­ons wo­uld go on the tree. She pe­eked thro­ugh this box and that, pi­ling up the ones that held her per­so­nal fa­vo­ri­tes. Af­ter se­ve­ral trips up and down the steps, she had se­ve­ral pi­les of bo­xes as­sem­b­led in the gre­at ro­om. She be­gan to lift lids, and to re­mi­nis­ce.

  The ti­mer from the kit­c­hen sig­na­led that this pre­sent batch of Chris­t­mas co­oki­es had fi­nis­hed ba­king. She he­ard the oven do­or open, then clo­se, smel­led the pu­re va­nil­la aro­ma. Her mot­her wo­uld fi­nish up the bat­c­hes of su­gar co­oki­es, then start on the oat­me­al ra­isin co­oki­es, the oran­ge drops, the shor­t­b­re­ad. Ever­yo­ne's fa­vo­ri­tes wo­uld be ma­de, from her fat­her's cho­co­la­te chip to tho­se of Lilly, the yo­un­gest mem­ber of the fa­mily, who had a pre­fe­ren­ce for the but­ter­s­cotch brow­ni­es she had sam­p­led the last ti­me she had vi­si­ted. Sky wo­uld want gin­ger­s­naps, Li­za wo­uld want le­mon squ­ares, Su­san­nah cho­co­la­te thum­b­p­rints, and Tre­vor and Ce­Ce, the twins and ol­dest of the Hol­lis­ter bro­od, wo­uld be sco­uring the co­okie tins un­til they fo­und the big, soft mo­las­ses co­oki­es they both lo­ved. Her mot­her wo­uld con­ti­nue ba­king for days, and from now un­til Chris­t­mas, the old ranch ho­use wo­uld smell li­ke a fi­ne ba­kes­hop.

  "Hey, Sis," Schuy­ler cal­led from the do­or­way, "if you're plan­ning on go­ing with us to find the tree, you'd bet­ter start to get re­ady now."

  "Can't you wa­it anot­her ho­ur or so, Sky? Mom and I we­re go­ing to ma­ke the do­ugh for the gin­ger­b­re­ad ho­uses next."

  "Dad and I are thin­king we sho­uld go be­fo­re lunch." Schuy­ler po­in­ted out the win­dow and frow­ned. "It's get­ting whi­te back to­ward the mo­un­ta­ins. Dad thinks the storm might co­me early, and he'd just as so­on ta­ke ca­re of the tree now."

  "I think I'll pass, then. Mom wan­ted to ha­ve a lit­tle vil­la­ge of gin­ger­b­re­ad ho­uses all ba­ked so that when Sunny gets ho­me, Lilly can ha­ve fun de­co­ra­ting them." Qu­inn lif­ted the lid off a box. "Lo­ok he­re, Sky. All the old co­lo­red-glass Chris­t­mas balls."

  "You me­an all the ones that didn't get bro­ken the ye­ar the cat jum­ped on­to the Chris­t­mas tree," her brot­her cal­led from the kit­c­hen, whe­re he wo­uld be snit­c­hing a few gol­den su­gar co­oki­es off the co­oling racks. "Go­od idea Li­za had, to tie a rib­bon aro­und the cat's neck and ta­ke her for a walk."

  The yo­ung oran­ge tabby had ta­ken off ac­ross the ro­om, jum­ped on­to the back of the so­fa, from which it had be­en a me­re hop on­to the back of the Chris­t­mas tree, which had smas­hed for­ward on­to the har­d­wo­od flo­or with all the might of a fal­ling tim­ber. Li­za had be­en six or se­ven at the ti­me, and had ne­ver li­ved it down. Kno­wing how up­set Cat­he­ri­ne had be­en to ha­ve lost so many of her mot­her's fra­gi­le glass balls, the chil­d­ren had spent the next se­ve­ral days ma­king things to hang on the tree to ta­ke the pla­ce of tho­se that had shat­te­red. Pa­per cha­ins and pop­corn balls, di­amond sha­pes ma­de of alu­mi­num fo­il and to­ot­h­picks, clot­hes­pin dolls and stars ma­de of drin­king straws, all had be­en hung on the tree to sur­p­ri­se the­ir mot­her. Qu­inn wo­uld ne­ver for­get the lo­ok on her mot­her's fa­ce when they led her in­to the gre­at ro­om and tur­ned the lights on the tree. Li­za had be­en vin­di­ca­ted, and the in­teg­rity of the fa­mily tree as a sort of fa­mily jo­ur­nal had re­ma­ined in­tact.

  From the pink tis­sue li­ning of the box that lay open on her lap, Qu­inn un­co­ve­red a stack of whi­te pa­per he­arts. She lif­ted it and let the pa­per cha­in un­fold, re­mem­be­ring the ye­ar she had be­en ten and a bad ca­se of chic­ken pox had kept her con­fi­ned to her bed. Cat­he­ri­ne had do­ne do­ub­le duty that ye­ar, su­per­vi­sing the tree de­co­ra­ting dow­n­s­ta­irs and trying to ke­ep Qu­inn en­ter­ta­ined in her sic­k­ro­om at the sa­me ti­me. To ma­ke Qu­inn fe­el a part of the fa­mily ef­fort, Cat­he­ri­ne had bro­ught her stacks of pa­per and a pa­ir of scis­sors. With ca­re­ful fol­ding and a few qu­ick snips, Cat­he­ri­ne had shown her how to tran­s­form the pa­per in­to a cha­in of he­arts. Qu­inn had spent all of Chris­t­mas Eve ma­king cha­in af­ter cha­in, and Cat­he­ri­ne had pa­ti­ently ta­ped them to­get­her in­to one long cha­in be­fo­re han­ging them on the tree. Over the ye­ars this one or that sec­ti­on of Qu­inn's he­art-cha­in had be­en rip­ped or torn or mis­ta­kenly tos­sed out, but he­re, in the cor­ner of the box, cus­hi­oned by pink tis­sue, the last of the pa­per cha­in res­ted.

  I co­uld pro­bably still do this in my sle­ep, Qu­inn tho­ught, as she fol­ded the cha­in back in­to it­self aga­in, I ma­de so many of them that night. Hol­ding the he­arts in her hand bro­ught that night back to her so vi­vidly, and for the bri­efest se­cond, Qu­inn felt that if she clo­sed her eyes, she co­uld still he­ar her mot­her's gen­t­le vo­ice, fe­el the co­oling to­uch of tho­se so­ot­hing fin­gers, tas­te the cold tar­t­ness of the oran­ge ju­ice Cat­he­ri­ne had bro­ught her.

  The ti­mer buz­zed ru­dely from the kit­c­hen and Cat­he­ri­ne tur­ned it off. It was ti­me to start anot­her batch of co­oki­es if they we­re to be do­ne by the end of the we­ek. Qu­inn lo­ved ha­ving this lit­tle bit of the mor­ning to spend alo­ne with her mot­her, just as she lo­ved sor­ting thro­ugh the old bo­xes that con­ta­ined the frag­ments of Chris­t­ma­ses past, as she lo­ved the lit­tle pi­eces of her­self and her fa­mily that she fo­und wit­hin them.

  Wasn't that what co­ming ho­me for Chris­t­mas was all abo­ut, the me­mo­ri­es, the lo­ve?

  "Qu­inn." Sky tap­ped her on the sho­ul­der.

  "What?" She lo­oked up at him.

  "I sa­id, Mom's cal­ling you.v

  "Oh, I gu­ess she's re­ady to ma­ke the gin­ger­b­re­ad."

  "You're su­re you don't want to jo­in us, Qu­inn?" Her fat­her as­ked.

  "I'm su­re, Dad." She smi­led back at the big man who fil­led the do­or­way. He was still tall and bro­ad-sho­ul­de­red, tho­ugh not qu­ite so tall as Sky, nor as mus­cu­lar as Tre­vor, both of whom had pla­yed high scho­ol fo­ot­ball be­fo­re go­ing on to play at the Uni­ver­sity of Mon­ta­na at Mis­so­ula. Tho­ugh well in­to his six­ti­es, the­ir fat­her still had all of his ha­ir, much of which was still ches­t­nut brown, li­ke that of both his sons. His eyes still twin­k­led and his la­ug­h­ter
still fil­led this ho­use and his fa­ce still sof­te­ned when he lo­oked at his be­lo­ved Cat­he­ri­ne.

  It had only be­en re­cently that Hap had star­ted ta­king the first steps to­ward re­ti­ring, tal­king abo­ut tur­ning the ranch over to his sons, to gi­ve him mo­re ti­me to spend with his wi­fe. They spo­ke of ta­king a cru­ise co­me Feb­ru­ary, may­be even fly to Flo­ri­da, then bo­ok a ship to the is­lands over the­re on the op­po­si­te si­de of the co­untry. The­ir chil­d­ren not only en­co­ura­ged them but had, as a Chris­t­mas sur­p­ri­se, chip­ped in for that very trip for the­ir pa­rents. Tre­vor had dri­ven in­to town just that mor­ning to see if the tic­kets had be­en de­li­ve­red to the post of­fi­ce box.

  Qu­inn had set the box of or­na­ments on the flo­or and sto­od up, pre­pa­ring to drop the cha­in of he­arts in­to a bas­ket on the tab­le next to her, when she re­ali­zed the bas­ket was fil­led with Chris­t­mas cards.

  "I can ne­ver get over how many pe­op­le find the ti­me to ma­il Chris­t­mas cards each ye­ar," she sa­id to her fat­her.

  "It's not so­met­hing you find ti­me to do," her mot­her cor­rec­ted her from the ne­arby kit­c­hen, "it's so­met­hing you ma­ke ti­me to do. And we re­ce­ived so­me lo­vely cards this ye­ar."

  Qu­inn lif­ted the stack of cards and sor­ted thro­ugh them, re­ading the na­mes of the sen­ders. Mostly re­la­ti­ves and old fri­ends of the fa­mily, she no­ted.

  "Who is 'Va­le­rie?" she as­ked, hol­ding up the en­vi­ron­men­tal­ly cor­rect card de­pic­ting the en­dan­ge­red tim­ber wolf on the front.

  "Va­le­rie McKen­zie." Hap grin­ned. "She was he­re over Than­k­s­gi­ving. Spent most of the fall up at old Jed's ca­bin, cle­aning it up. Had a bunch of wor­k­men up the­re every day. Had all sorts of new stuff de­li­ve­red. New ref­ri­ge­ra­tor, so­me new fur­ni­tu­re. First ti­me in ye­ars the­re's be­en a McKen­zie back up he­re. You pro­bably he­ard that she ma­de it re­al big as a mo­del in New York. Yep"-he nod­ded-"s­he's grown in­to one be­a­uti­ful yo­ung wo­man, wo­uldn't you say, son?"