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If Only in My Dreams Page 4


  Sky shrug­ged non­com­mi­tal­ly.

  "Oh, right, I’ll just bet you didn't no­ti­ce her." Qu­inn la­ug­hed. "Just li­ke you didn't no­ti­ce how well she fil­led out tho­se lit­tle bat­hing su­its when she was six­te­en and she and Li­za used to go swim­ming down at Gol­den La­ke."

  Qu­inn duc­ked the rol­led-up pi­ece of pa­per that Sky threw in the di­rec­ti­on of her he­ad.

  "Well, she's a lo­vely girl, and we're lo­oking for­ward to se­e­ing her over the Chris­t­mas ho­li­days," Cat­he­ri­ne told them. "She and Li­za are plan­ning on get­ting to­get­her. They we­re the best of fri­ends for so long, you'll re­mem­ber."

  "Val is go­ing to be sta­ying at the ca­bin over Chris­t­mas?" Qu­inn as­ked.

  "She sa­id she wo­uld be. Sa­id she enj­oyed be­ing ho­me so much that she was sorry she'd sta­yed away so long," Hap told her.

  "Did she now?" Qu­inn grin­ned me­anin­g­ful­ly at Sky, who was just abo­ut to tell her that Va­le­rie wasn't the only McKen­zie who'd be aro­und over the next few we­eks.

  Qu­inn was still smir­king at her brot­her as she drop­ped Val's card in­to the bas­ket.

  On se­cond tho­ught, Sky tho­ught, rub­bing his chin tho­ug­h­t­ful­ly, may­be we'll just let Lit­tle Miss Smart Mo­uth ma­ke that dis­co­very on her own.

  He just ho­ped that he wasn't aro­und when she did.

  "Daddy, we want car­to­ons." Evan McKen­zie le­aned over his fat­her's sho­ul­der and di­rectly in­to his fa­ce to ma­ke his an­no­un­ce­ment.

  "Ye­ah." Eric nod­ded. "We're bo­red."

  "How can you be bo­red?" Ca­le glan­ced ac­ross the ro­om to the clock on the man­t­le. It was ba­rely ten o'clock in the mor­ning. This had, he gri­ma­ced, all the ma­kings of a very long day.

  "We want te­le­vi­si­on," the twins cho­ru­sed.

  "Guys, guys, for the last ti­me, the­re is no te­le­vi­si­on he­re. You're in the wilds of Mon­ta­na, just li­ke the he­arty pi­one­ers. Lo­ok"-Cale sto­od up and pul­led back the ho­mes­pun cur­ta­in on the li­ving ro­om win­dow and po­in­ted out­si­de-"you stand right he­re and watch, and I'll bet that be­fo­re too long a de­er or an elk will go right by."

  "We saw elk yes­ter­day," Evan re­min­ded him.

  "I'd rat­her see the Grinch," Eric grum­b­led.

  "Or Se­sa­me Stre­et. I miss Bert and Er­nie, don't you?" Evan tum­b­led on top of his brot­her and bro­ught him down with a thud.

  "El­mo. And Os­car." Eric sat on his brot­her's chest. "And Be­avis…"

  "And But­the­ad."

  "How do you guys know abo­ut Be­avis and But­the­ad?" Ca­le as­ked over his sho­ul­der.

  "Cathy let us watch it with her when you we­re in ha­bi­li… that pla­ce. Af­ter you got hurt," Evan told his fat­her.

  "You me­an re­ha­bi­li­ta­ti­on." Ca­le frow­ned and ma­de a men­tal no­te to spe­ak with Mrs. Ma­son, the nanny, abo­ut what her ele­ven-ye­ar-old da­ug­h­ter was wat­c­hing on te­le­vi­si­on the­se days.

  "Ye­ah. That." Eric nod­ded as he strug­gled to slip out of his shirt and es­ca­pe from his brot­her, rol­ling over the back of the so­fa the­ir Aunt Va­le­rie had had de­li­ve­red a month be­fo­re.

  Evan do­ve for his twin, who, be­ing a mas­ter of eva­si­ve ac­ti­on, tur­ned in ti­me to send Evan cras­hing in­to the tab­le and pit­c­hing the lamp on­to the flo­or.

  Ca­le con­si­de­red his ro­ug­h­ho­using of­f­s­p­ring, and fi­gu­red it wo­uld ta­ke them anot­her twenty mi­nu­tes mo­re to pretty much des­t­roy all the work it had ta­ken his sis­ter se­ve­ral months to ac­com­p­lish. The­re wo­uld be hell to pay when Val ar­ri­ved. Oh, he co­uld ex­p­la­in a bro­ken lamp-ma­ke that two bro­ken lamps, he tho­ught as he flin­c­hed at the so­und co­ming from the­ir bed­ro­om-but as pro­ud as she had be­en of the fact that she had tran­s­for­med the old ca­bin in­to a cozy ret­re­at, she was not li­kely to ha­ve mo­re than two lamps' worth of for­gi­ve­ness to spa­re.

  A crash from the small di­ning area ra­ised the an­te to two lamps and one va­se.

  "Boys, get yo­ur ge­ar, we're ta­king a walk." He ca­ught the lit­tle hel­li­ons as they tri­ed to flee back down the hal­lway that led to two small bed­ro­oms.

  "We to­ok a walk yes­ter­day," Evan pro­tes­ted lo­udly.

  "Well, we're ta­king anot­her one to­day." Ca­le dum­ped the squ­ir­ming bo­di­es on­to the so­fa. "Get yo­ur bo­ots and yo­ur jac­kets and yo­ur glo­ves. Let's mo­ve it."

  "We don't want to go for a walk. We want to watch car­to­ons." Eric fol­ded his arms ac­ross his chest and did his best to scowl.

  "Ye­ah." Evan mi­mic­ked his twin brot­her's stan­ce and his fa­ci­al ex­p­res­si­on.

  "To­ugh. We're wal­king. Get re­ady." Ca­le, not to be out-scow­led, po­in­ted firmly to the pi­le of bo­ots in­si­de the back do­or.

  Still grum­b­ling, the boys re­luc­tantly did as they we­re told.

  "May­be we'll see a bald eag­le," Ca­le sa­id to en­co­ura­ge them.

  "I'd rat­her see a be­ar," Eric sul­ked.

  "Ye­ah. Or a wolf." His brot­her mo­ped along be­hind him.

  "Trust me, fel­las," the­ir fat­her told them as he held the back do­or open, "you don't want to see a be­ar or a wolf from the wrong si­de of the win­dow."

  "We're not sca­red," Eric sa­id bra­vely.

  "Well, you sho­uld be." Ca­le do­sed the do­or be­hind them. "He­re, Evan, you can carry the bi­no­cu­lars and Eric can help me sha­ke the snow off the ro­pe."

  "Why do you ne­ed to tie ro­pe to the ho­use?" Erie as­ked as he fol­lo­wed his fat­her's le­ad and pul­led the length of ro­pe lo­ose from the snow that had drif­ted to co­ver it

  "You tie the ro­pe from the ho­use to the shed whe­re the wo­od is stac­ked," Ca­le ex­p­la­ined, "so that if the­re's a re­al­ly bad storm, you can go out and get fi­re­wo­od and not get lost in the snow."

  "How co­uld you get lost? The ho­use is right the­re." Eric po­in­ted.

  "So­me­ti­mes the wind blows the snow aro­und so much you can't see yo­ur hand in front of yo­ur fa­ce," Ca­le ex­p­la­ined, "so you wo­uld hold on to the ro­pe and use it to le­ad you back to the ho­use. Co­me on, guys, let's go re­al qu­i­etly and we'll see what just lan­ded in that big pi­ne tree…"

  Do­le­ful­ly rol­ling the­ir eyes at each ot­her, the sul­len lit­tle boys trud­ged re­luc­tantly thro­ugh the snow be­hind the­ir fat­her.

  Chapter Four

  "Are you su­re you don't mind that I go out for a whi­le?" Qu­inn wrap­ped the scarf aro­und her neck and se­ar­c­hed the poc­kets of her par­ka for her thick fur-li­ned glo­ves. "I ha­ven't be­en up to Eli­za­beth's ca­bin in months."

  "Of co­ur­se I don't mind," Cat­he­ri­ne as­su­red her da­ug­h­ter, "just don't get stuck up the­re. We ha­ven't had ne­ar as much snow this ye­ar as we did last, and the la­test re­port sa­id that the storm may not ar­ri­ve un­til to­mor­row, but you ne­ver know."

  "I ha­ve fo­ur-whe­el dri­ve. I wont get stuck." Qu­inn sto­le a co­okie from the co­oling rack. "And if the snow is too de­ep, I'll just turn aro­und and co­me back."

  "Well, you won't want to stay up the­re for too long an­y­way. The­re's no he­at in the ca­bin, and it hasn't even be­en ope­ned in months. You'll mo­re than li­kely ha­ve to cle­ar a path to the front do­or."

  "Right I'll ta­ke a sho­vel."

  "He­re, ta­ke this, too, just in ca­se you get cold." Her mot­her han­ded her a ther­mos of hot cof­fee with one hand and a lar­ge wre­ath of fresh gre­ens with the ot­her.

  "Thanks, Mom. And may­be I'll ta­ke a few of the­se, too, in ca­se I ne­ed a snack." Qu­inn wrap­ped a few mo­re co­oki­es in a nap­kin, pit­c­hed an ap­ple in­to her nylon sho­ul­der bag, wh
ich was al­re­ady bul­ging-cle­aning cloths, can­d­les, her cel­lu­lar pho­ne, pru­ning clip­pers-and he­aded out the back. "I won't be long. I just want to ma­ke su­re that Eli­za­beth gets her wre­ath this ye­ar."

  The cold mo­un­ta­in air was jar­ring on­ce out­si­de the ho­use, and Qu­inn hur­ri­ed ac­ross the den­sely pac­ked snow to­ward her ve­hic­le, which she had par­ked out by the barn. She ope­ned the dri­ver's do­or, tos­sed her bag on­to the front se­at, and la­id the wre­ath on the bac­k­se­at. Re­tur­ning to the ho­use, she to­ok a bro­om from the pantry and a snow sho­vel from the open back porch and slid them both on­to the flo­or in the back of the car be­fo­re clim­bing in. She tur­ned on the ig­ni­ti­on, gi­ving the en­gi­ne a mi­nu­te to warm up be­fo­re ma­king a wi­de cir­c­le and he­ading to­ward the ro­ad, dri­ving ten­ta­ti­vely, tes­ting the depth of the snow. Fin­ding her trac­ti­on, she he­aded on up in­to the hills, to the old sto­ne ca­bin that was bu­ilt by her gre­at-gre­at-gran­d­pa­rents over a cen­tury ear­li­er, whe­re every ye­ar, Qu­inn or one of her sib­lings had go­ne to hang a wre­ath on the do­or to com­me­mo­ra­te not only the da­te on which the­ir gre­at-gre­at-gran­d­mot­her had be­en born, but the da­te she had wed, as well.

  They all cal­led it Eli­za­beth's ca­bin, al­t­ho­ugh in truth it had be­en both Eli­za­beth and Step­hen Dun­ham who had, to­get­her, ha­uled en­d­less sto­nes from the beds of mo­un­ta­in stre­ams to bu­ild the­ir sturdy one-ro­om shel­ter whe­re they had be­gun the­ir mar­ri­ed li­fe. As Step­hen pros­pe­red as a trap­per, the ca­bin had be­en ex­pan­ded to ac­com­mo­da­te the­ir gro­wing fa­mily. Ye­ars la­ter, when Step­hen's fat­her had di­ed back East in Phi­la­del­p­hia, he had with the gre­atest re­luc­tan­ce ma­de the de­ci­si­on to re­turn to ta­ke his pla­ce in the fa­mily ship­bu­il­ding bu­si­ness. Eli­za­beth had known that her hus­band's blue-blo­oded fa­mily was not li­kely to wel­co­me her, a full-blo­oded Che­ro­kee, with open arms, but she had pro­mi­sed to ke­ep an open mind for Step­hen's sa­ke and for the sa­ke of the­ir chil­d­ren. And so she had ac­com­pa­ni­ed him on the tra­in ac­ross the co­untry, the chil­d­ren all dres­sed in new "city" clot­hes, the boys tug­ging at the­ir stiff col­lars, the girls con­fu­sed by the num­ber of un­der­gar­ments they we­re for­ced to we­ar. The Dun­hams had to­le­ra­ted Eli­za­beth's pre­sen­ce whi­le Step­hen li­ved, but af­ter his de­mi­se fol­lo­wing a tra­gic car­ri­age ac­ci­dent on Bro­ad Stre­et, Eli­za­beth had pac­ked her be­lon­gings, and left her chil­d­ren with the­ir gran­d­mot­her to be edu­ca­ted as the­ir fat­her had wis­hed. Ta­king the stash of gold co­ins Step­hen had set asi­de for her, in­ten­ding that she wo­uld ne­ver ha­ve to ask her in-laws for mo­ney, Eli­za­beth re­tur­ned alo­ne to the hills she had lo­ved, to the ca­bin whe­re she and Step­hen and the chil­d­ren had be­en so happy, and it had be­en the­re that she re­ma­ined un­til she di­ed at the ri­pe old age of ni­nety-two.

  Be­hind the ca­bin a small sto­ne ro­se from the grass to de­sig­na­te Eli­za­beth's fi­nal res­ting pla­ce, a smal­ler sto­ne ne­arby mar­king the gra­ve of a da­ug­h­ter, Mary, who had not sur­vi­ved an out­b­re­ak of me­as­les. Sto­ri­es pas­sed down thro­ugh the fa­mily told of Eli­za­beth's ol­dest da­ug­h­ter's, Se­le­na's, fight to bring Step­hen's body back to the hills to bury him be­si­de his be­lo­ved wi­fe, but her ef­forts had be­en bloc­ked by her brot­her Ro­bert. Ha­ving ta­ken his pla­ce as a Phi­la­del­p­hia Dun­ham, Ro­bert had re­fu­sed to per­mit the mo­ving of the­ir fat­her's body from the ce­me­tery in the city Step­hen had ne­ver re­al­ly known, and su­rely had ne­ver lo­ved as he had lo­ved the Mon­ta­na wil­der­ness. Eli­za­beth's he­art wo­uld ha­ve bro­ken, se­e­ing her chil­d­ren di­vi­ded, her son Avery si­ding with Se­le­na, and Sa­rah and John si­ding with Ro­bert. To this day, the des­cen­dants of one fac­ti­on had no com­mu­ni­ca­ti­on with tho­se of the ot­her.

  It was sa­id, too, that Eli­za­beth had ne­ver left the hills, that she wa­ited still for Step­hen's re­turn. Se­ve­ral of Eli­za­beth's des­cen­dants had, at one ti­me or anot­her, cla­imed to ha­ve se­en her, usu­al­ly at a ti­me of dan­ger. Her da­ug­h­ter Se­le­na was sa­id to ha­ve se­en her in­nu­me­rab­le ti­mes, as had Qu­inn's mot­her and aunt, Cat­he­ri­ne and her sis­ter, Char­lot­te. In Qu­inn's ge­ne­ra­ti­on, both Li­za and Ce­Ce had cla­imed to ha­ve se­en her on­ce when they we­re swim­ming and a mo­un­ta­in li­on had stal­ked them on the way ho­me. Su­san­nah swo­re she had se­en her on­ce when a mom­ma be­ar had de­ci­ded that Su­san­nah was pic­king huc­k­le­ber­ri­es all too clo­sely to the den whe­re­in her cubs slept. Each ti­me, it se­emed, Eli­za­beth had ap­pe­ared to le­ad her des­cen­dants to sa­fety. Qu­inn alo­ne of Cat­he­ri­ne's girls had yet to see the old wo­man, who had al­ways be­en des­c­ri­bed in the sa­me man­ner: dark ha­ir, gently stre­aked with gray, han­ging over one sho­ul­der in a fat bra­id that re­ac­hed past her hips, a gre­en wo­olen blan­ket wrap­ped aro­und her aga­inst the chill of the mo­un­ta­in air.

  A ran­dom snow­f­la­ke fell he­re and the­re as Qu­inn he­aded far­t­her up the hill. Over the tops of the tre­es to her left, a tra­il of smo­ke twi­ned to­ward the sky. She stop­ped mo­men­ta­rily, then re­cal­led that the McKen­zie ca­bin sat back in the wo­ods a lit­tle off the ro­ad, back be­hind the pi­nes. Val must al­re­ady be the­re, she tho­ught as she he­aded on her way.

  "I lo­ve this pla­ce," Qu­inn an­no­un­ced alo­ud to the si­len­ce in­si­de her car. "I lo­ve the way the ro­ad winds aro­und thro­ugh the tre­es, and I lo­ve the way the tre­es lo­ok up he­re when they are co­ve­red with snow, li­ke puffy, soft scul­p­tu­res, whi­te and qu­i­et and still. And I lo­ve the way the air smells, sharp and in­ten­se and dren­c­hed with pi­ne."

  She slo­wed, then stop­ped the car in front of the old one-ro­om struc­tu­re, the ori­gi­nal sec­ti­on of the ca­bin that had be­en all to sur­vi­ve a fi­re twenty ye­ars ear­li­er.

  "And most of all," she proc­la­imed as she hop­ped out, "I lo­ve this pla­ce."

  Des­pi­te the fact that she had spent so­me of the most pa­in­ful mo­ments of her li­fe in this very spot-had spent se­ve­ral ho­urs pa­cing the sto­ne path le­ading to the do­or, wa­iting for a man who ne­ver ca­me-Qu­inn's lo­ve for the ca­bin had ne­ver di­mi­nis­hed.

  With the sho­vel she dug a nar­row path thro­ugh the snow to the thick wo­oden do­or mar­king the front of the old sto­ne struc­tu­re that had we­at­he­red mo­re than a hun­d­red win­ters. Thro­ugh her he­avy glo­ves her fin­gers so­ught the na­il upon which she wo­uld hang the wre­ath. She re­tur­ned to the car and slid the sho­vel in the bac­k­se­at with one hand, and with the ot­her, grab­bed the wre­ath and the bro­om. Slin­ging her bag over her sho­ul­der, she re­tur­ned to the ca­bin and pla­ced the cir­c­le of gre­ens on the do­or. With fin­gers al­re­ady cold thro­ugh her glo­ves, she se­ar­c­hed her bag for the key ring she had re­mo­ved from the cup­bo­ard in the ranch ho­use, and fin­ding the key mar­ked "E," she slid open the lock that hung from the old wo­oden do­or han­d­le.

  As if a sim­p­le lock wo­uld ke­ep an­yo­ne out who wan­ted in, she tho­ught, as she pus­hed the thick do­or open in­to the small ro­om, then clo­sed it be­hind her. Drop­ping the bag to the flo­or, she le­aned down to ret­ri­eve the can­d­les and mat­c­hes she had pac­ked to lend a lit­tle ex­t­ra light to that which the small win­dows af­for­ded. One by one she lit the can­d­les, pla­cing them aro­und the ro­om to brig­h­ten and che­er the dark spa­ce.

  "Happy bir­t­h­day, Gran­d­mot­her."

  Rum­ma­ging in her bag aga­in, she fo­und the clip­pers she had pac­ked, then pul­led her ho­od up and went out­si­de to clip
a few sprigs of holly from the tall bush that shel­te­red one si­de of the ca­bin.

  Tho­ugh the air was bit­terly cold, Qu­inn wel­co­med its shar­p­ness even as it stung her no­se and thro­at just to bre­at­he it in, re­min­ding her of all tho­se many win­ters Eli­za­beth had spent he­re alo­ne. Qu­inn tho­ught per­haps she un­der­s­to­od why Eli­za­beth had bro­ught her bro­ken he­art he­re, why she had sta­yed with not­hing but the wind to ke­ep her com­pany. Had Qu­inn her­self not so­ught the si­len­ce of the hills, and co­me to this pla­ce to nur­se her own bro­ken he­art?

  Pi­ling up the clip­ped bran­c­hes, Qu­inn went back in­si­de and drop­ped them on­to the flo­or, then pul­led a cloth from her bag and, sin­ging Chris­t­mas ca­rols, pro­ce­eded to dust the fur­ni­tu­re and the win­dow led­ges. Star­ting as chil­d­ren, each of the Hol­lis­ter girls had ta­ken the­ir turn at this small task, cle­aning Eli­za­beth's ca­bin, se­ve­ral ti­mes each ye­ar. Al­t­ho­ugh all grown wo­men now, they still con­ti­nu­ed with the tra­di­ti­on. It didn't ta­ke long, the­re be­ing lit­tle fur­ni­tu­re left to dust. Qu­inn cle­aned a few de­ad be­es from the win­dow led­ges, then dus­ted a few spi­ders from the man­t­le be­fo­re pla­cing the holly bran­c­hes the­re, won­de­ring if per­haps Eli­za­beth might ha­ve, on­ce upon a ti­me, do­ne the sa­me thing. Swe­eping cob­webs from the cor­ners and dust from the flo­or and re­mo­ving the de­ad le­aves from the unu­sed fi­rep­la­ce pretty much com­p­le­ted the job.

  "And now, we can vi­sit," Qu­inn an­no­un­ced. Ope­ning the ther­mos, she po­ured her­self a cup of cof­fee. The co­oki­es tem­p­ted her, but her hands we­re grimy from cle­aning, so she de­ci­ded to fo­re­go the snack un­til she ar­ri­ved back at the ranch. "Are you he­re, Eli­za­beth?" she as­ked softly.