If Only in My Dreams Read online

  The air in­si­de the un­he­ated ca­bin was cold eno­ugh that Qu­inn's bre­ath puf­fed from her fa­ce in tiny whi­te clo­uds. She sat on one of the bac­k­less ben­c­hes ne­ar the front win­dow and sip­ped at her cof­fee, fe­eling the past-fa­mi­li­al as well as per­so­nal-nip­ping at her he­els. It had be­en in that very do­or­way she had sto­od wat­c­hing for Ca­le's be­at-up old black pic­kup truck that day, this exact bench on which she had sat and sob­bed, her he­art bre­aking at the truth she had had to fa­ce. Not on­ce sin­ce that day had she en­te­red this ro­om wit­ho­ut ima­gi­ning that she co­uld sen­se the ves­ti­ges of her own he­ar­tac­he, as if the walls had ab­sor­bed her sor­row and held it tbe­re, along with Eli­za­beth's.

  "I sup­po­se mo­re than one of us has wept our sha­re of te­ars he­re," she sa­id alo­ud, as if to in­c­lu­de the spi­rit of her gran­d­mot­her in her re­ve­rie.

  She dra­ined the last bit of co­ol li­qu­id from the cup and re­tur­ned it to the top of the ther­mos, whe­re it ser­ved as a lid. Pul­ling her jac­ket aro­und her aga­inst the chill that se­emed to se­ep thro­ugh the thick walls, she gat­he­red her things and snuf­fed out the can­d­les.

  "Go­od- bye, Gran­d­mot­her, and merry Chris­t­mas to you. I’ll be back in the spring. I ho­pe yo­ur bir­t­h­day is a happy one, and that whe­re­ver you are, Gran­d­fat­her Step­hen is with you to sha­re yo­ur an­ni­ver­sary."

  Qu­inn ope­ned the do­or, and step­ped in­to a swirl of whi­te wind that all but lif­ted her from her fe­et. Whi­le she had cle­aned Eli­za­beth's ca­bin, the storm had hit with a fe­ro­city she had not se­en in ye­ars. She put her he­ad down aga­inst the dri­ving wind, her fe­et se­eking the path she had ma­de, gra­te­ful that she had sho­ve­led so nar­row a tra­il, be­ca­use only by fol­lo­wing the path she had ma­de was she ab­le to find the car, so den­se was the snow­fall.

  How co­uld I ha­ve be­en so ob­li­vi­ous, she chas­ti­sed her­self. How co­uld I ha­ve be­en so fo­olish to al­low myself to lo­se track of ti­me li­ke that?

  She clim­bed in­to the cab and hud­dled aga­inst the se­at, trying to de­ci­de what to do. Per­haps if she wa­ited a few mi­nu­tes, the storm wo­uld sub­si­de as qu­ickly as it had struck. For a long fif­te­en mi­nu­tes, Qu­inn sat sta­ring out thro­ugh the win­d­s­hi­eld, but the storm only se­emed to in­ten­sify. So­me he­at wo­uld be wel­co­me right abo­ut now, she tho­ught, as she tur­ned the en­gi­ne on and shi­ve­red he­ar­tily as the fri­gid air fil­led the cab. Kno­wing it wo­uld be so­me mi­nu­tes be­fo­re the ve­hic­le wan­ned up, she de­ci­ded to call ho­me and let her fa­mily know whe­re she was. Cold fin­gers pun­c­hed the num­ber on the cel­lu­lar pho­ne that she had dug out of her bag.

  "Tre­vor? Hi," she sa­id, trying to so­und as non­c­ha­lant as pos­sib­le.

  "Qu­inn? Whe­re are you? You so­und so far away."

  "I'm sit­ting out­si­de of Eli­za­beth's ca­bin. The storm ca­me up so qu­ickly. I ne­ver even he­ard the wind pick up."

  "Re­al­ly? The­re's a storm up the­re? Hasn't hit the val­ley yet," he told her. "Are you all right?"

  "Right now, I am. I tho­ught I'd gi­ve it a few mi­nu­tes to see if things set­tled down be­fo­re I he­aded for ho­me. Is it sno­wing the­re at all?"

  "Not a fla­ke. I gu­ess it'll mo­ve down the mo­un­ta­in so­on. Which me­ans I sho­uld pro­bably le­ave now if I'm go­ing to ma­ke it to the air­port to pick up Sunny and Lilly and who­ever el­se is flying in to­day." He pa­used tho­ug­h­t­ful­ly. "'You're su­re you're okay, Qu­inn?"

  "Well"- she he­si­ta­ted-"t­he snow­fall is pretty den­se right abo­ut now."

  "On a sca­le from one to ten…" Tre­vor as­ked, his stan­dard ba­ro­me­ter.

  "Thir­te­en," she rep­li­ed grimly.

  "That bad, eh? May­be Sky sho­uld ta­ke the truck and co­me up for you…"

  "No. No sen­se in both of us be­ing stuck up he­re. Lo­ok, tell Mom and Dad I'll ke­ep in to­uch. I do ha­ve so­me gas left, so I can ke­ep the he­ater run­ning, and I ha­ve so­me hot cof­fee, so I can stay warm."

  For a whi­le, an­y­way. She bit her lip. What to do when the gas tank is empty and the cof­fee is go­ne?

  "Well, then, as so­on as the snow lets up even a bit, he­ad back on down slowly. Just ke­ep the pi­nes on eit­her si­de of you and try to ma­ke it down to the han­ging rock. If you can get that far, you can pro­bably ma­ke it to the old McKen­zie ca­bin. Val's be­en fi­xing it up…"

  "So I he­ard," she sa­id wryly, thin­king back to Sky's re­ac­ti­on to the me­re men­ti­on of Va­le­rie's na­me the night be­fo­re.

  "Ye­ah, well, if you can get to the ca­bin, you sho­uld be fi­ne. Get a go­od fi­re go­ing and wa­it out the storm."

  "I think Val must al­re­ady be the­re. I saw smo­ke from the ca­bin when I dro­ve past. I just ho­pe the­re's eno­ugh wo­od to get us thro­ugh the storm."

  "The­re's plenty." Even thro­ugh the pho­ne li­ne, she co­uld see Tre­vor's lop­si­ded grin. "Se­ems li­ke Sky spent most of the past six months chop­ping wo­od and stac­king it next to Val's back do­or."

  "I see. Well, then, the ca­bin sho­uld be ni­ce and warm, and I can sit out the storm sa­fely with Va­le­rie."

  As­su­ming I can get the­re.

  "Qu­inn?" Tre­vor as­ked as she was abo­ut to say go­od-bye.

  "What?"

  "Call back when you get the­re so we know that you ma­de it."

  "I will. Tell Mom not to worry," she as­su­red him. "I'll be fi­ne."

  Or I will be, on­ce the snow lig­h­tens up.

  It was al­most twenty mi­nu­tes mo­re be­fo­re the storm ap­pe­ared to ease. She ope­ned the car do­or ten­ta­ti­vely, then slam­med it in the fa­ce of the vi­ci­o­us wind. Anot­her fif­te­en mi­nu­tes pas­sed be­fo­re she tri­ed aga­in. This ti­me the wind had di­ed down a lit­tle, and so she grab­bed the ice scra­per from un­der the front se­at and set abo­ut cle­aning off her win­dows. In so bri­ef a ti­me, a blan­ket of snow had wrap­ped aro­und the car, and it to­ok her se­ve­ral mi­nu­tes to cle­an the win­dows suf­fi­ci­ently to al­low her to see. With the def­ros­ter on full ste­am, she shif­ted in­to first ge­ar and he­aded to­ward the vo­id bet­we­en the to­we­ring sha­dows of the pi­nes that mar­ked eit­her si­de of the ma­kes­hift ro­ad. Inch by ca­re­ful inch she crept along thro­ugh a snow­fall as thick as clot­ted cre­am, stra­ining her eyes to dis­tin­gu­ish sha­pe from sha­dow, ke­eping her spe­ed slow but ste­ady as she ma­de her way down the mo­un­ta­in. It se­emed that an eter­nity had pas­sed be­fo­re she co­uld dis­tin­gu­ish the han­ging rock the­re in the dis­tan­ce. If she co­uld ma­ke it just a lit­tle far­t­her, she wo­uld find shel­ter in the old McKen­zie ca­bin.

  The car con­ti­nu­ed its te­di­o­us crawl un­til she was clo­se eno­ugh to the rock to to­uch it. She pres­sed a lit­tle har­der on the gas pe­dal un­til she had pas­sed the lan­d­mark, then eased her fo­ot on­to the bra­ke. The car rol­led to a soft stop, and she slid the ge­ar­s­hift in­to ne­ut­ral. Rol­ling down the win­dow, she lo­oked out on­to an icy world that had sud­denly tur­ned to­tal­ly whi­te. The ca­bin co­uld be but twenty fe­et from her fa­ce and she co­uld miss it in this bliz­zard. She sig­hed glumly and tur­ned off the en­gi­ne, ho­ping to pre­ser­ve what lit­tle gas she had left, and had star­ted to roll the win­dow back up when mo­ve­ment just slightly to the left ca­ught her eye.

  Qu­inn squ­in­ted, trying to get a bet­ter lo­ok thro­ugh the chur­ning whi­te, thin­king per­haps she had not se­en an­y­t­hing af­ter all. But the­re, the­re aga­in, just off the front of the car to the left…

  She le­aned half out the win­dow, cer­ta­in that she was hal­lu­ci­na­ting. Who in the­ir right mind wo­uld be out in this storm?

&
nbsp; A tall, slen­der wo­man sto­od stra­ight aga­inst the wind, and ap­pe­ared to sta­re di­rectly at the car. Qu­inn co­uld not see her fa­ce cle­arly, but she co­uld see the dark slash of bra­ided ha­ir that hung to the wo­man's wa­ist A dark blan­ket wrap­ped aro­und the fi­gu­re, which, even as Qu­inn wat­c­hed, pul­led the blan­ket up aro­und her he­ad li­ke a ho­od. Qu­inn knew in­s­tin­c­ti­vely who the wo­man was, and why she was the­re.

  Eli­za­beth. Co­me to le­ad me thro­ugh the storm.

  Wit­ho­ut a se­cond's he­si­ta­ti­on, Qu­inn cut the en­gi­ne, pul­led the ho­od up on her down jac­ket, grab­bed her bag, and step­ped out in­to a swirl of whi­te. All she co­uld see with any cer­ta­inty was the wo­man, who ap­pe­ared to be wa­iting pa­ti­ently for her to catch up, but with each te­di­o­us step that Qu­inn to­ok thro­ugh the de­ep snow, the wo­man se­emed to ta­ke three. No mat­ter how qu­ickly Qu­inn tri­ed to walk, her gu­ide ma­na­ged to stay ahe­ad of her. With the wind whip­ping aro­und, stin­ging her fa­ce with ke­en icy ne­ed­les, Qu­inn tri­ed to ke­ep up, but so­on fo­und her­self ne­ar ex­ha­us­ti­on and to­tal­ly di­so­ri­en­ted, qu­es­ti­oning her sa­nity as she sto­od in the midst of a world so whi­te that not­hing ap­pe­ared to exist be­yond the tip of her no­se, which right now was in se­ri­o­us dan­ger of fros­t­bi­te. And sud­denly, in the blink of an eye, Eli­za­beth was go­ne.

  Stun­ned to find her­self to­tal­ly alo­ne, Qu­inn's eyes se­ar­c­hed fran­ti­cal­ly for the fi­gu­re she had un­qu­es­ti­oningly fol­lo­wed, but the­re was ne­it­her form nor sha­dow to be fo­und in the en­d­less whi­te lan­d­s­ca­pe that sur­ro­un­ded her. The fi­gu­re that had gu­ided her had va­nis­hed wit­ho­ut a tra­ce.

  "Eli­za­beth!" She scre­amed, but not even an ec­ho re­tur­ned. Mo­re frig­h­te­ned than she had ever be­en in her li­fe, she des­pe­ra­tely scan­ned the whi­te for the sha­pe of the wo­man in the blan­ket.

  What in the na­me of he­aven had co­me over her, that she had got­ten out of the car in a blin­ding bliz­zard to fol­low a… a what? A spi­rit? Who in the­ir right mind wo­uld le­ave cer­ta­in shel­ter, gu­ided only by so­met­hing or so­me­one who may not even exist, to ven­tu­re in­to a world whe­re not­hing was cer­ta­in but snow and wind?

  Lo­oking over her sho­ul­der, Qu­inn so­ught her car, but knew, even as she squ­in­ted in­to the wind, that she wo­uld not find it. She was too tur­ned aro­und to know from which di­rec­ti­on she had co­me, and in the storm, the whi­te car had to­tal­ly di­sap­pe­ared.

  She had, she re­ali­zed, two sim­p­le cho­ices. She co­uld re­ma­in whe­re she was, whe­re she wo­uld most cer­ta­inly fre­eze to de­ath on the spot, or she co­uld se­arch for shel­ter. Cur­sing her stu­pi­dity for gi­ving cre­den­ce to what was, af­ter all, me­rely fa­mily le­gend, she lif­ted her right fo­ot over the high snow, and fell fa­ce for­ward on­to the wo­oden steps of Jed McKen­zie's ca­bin.

  "Thank you, Gran­d­mot­her," she half la­ug­hed, half sob­bed thro­ugh a mo­ut­h­ful of snow as she pul­led her­self up. Her legs he­avy with fa­ti­gue, she clim­bed the ot­her three steps and cros­sed the porch to the front do­or. She tap­ped lightly, then lo­oked thro­ugh the win­dows. The­re did not ap­pe­ar to be an­yo­ne the­re. Tur­ning the do­or han­d­le, she pus­hed slightly, and was sur­p­ri­sed to find it swing open qu­i­etly.

  "Hel­lo?" she cal­led in­to the un­lit ro­om that ope­ned up be­fo­re her. "Val?"

  When no one an­s­we­red, Qu­inn clo­sed the do­or aga­inst the storm and step­ped in­si­de. A big de­ep fi­rep­la­ce of na­ti­ve sto­ne ran along one wall, and it was the­re that she auto­ma­ti­cal­ly he­aded. Glo­wing em­bers in the fi­re­box ga­ve tes­ti­mony that so­me­one had be­en the­re re­cently eno­ugh to ha­ve had a fi­re go­ing.

  Val must ha­ve he­aded in­to town not kno­wing abo­ut the storm, Qu­inn tho­ught. I'm su­re she won't mind if I wa­it he­re till it pas­ses.

  Shi­ve­ring and cold cle­ar thro­ugh to the bo­ne, Qu­inn stac­ked se­ve­ral logs and fan­ned the em­bers un­til the warm glow be­gan to grow and the fla­mes ca­me ali­ve to warm her. As her hands be­gan to thaw, she re­mo­ved the glo­ves and held her hands up clo­se to the fi­re. The warmth felt so go­od. She had tho­ught she wo­uld ne­ver be warm aga­in.

  She rum­ma­ged in her bag for her pho­ne, and pun­c­hed in the num­bers with fin­gers that we­re still stiff and stin­ging with cold. When the an­s­we­ring mac­hi­ne pic­ked up, she left the mes­sa­ge she knew her fa­mily wo­uld ne­ed to he­ar, that she was sa­fe and warm and out of the storm.

  Sit­ting on a low sto­ol, Qu­inn re­mo­ved her bo­ots and wet socks. Her jac­ket ca­me next, and she hung it on a ho­ok she fo­und in­si­de the front do­or. She stac­ked anot­her few logs, on the fi­re, then wrap­ped her­self in the two af­g­hans that she fo­und, one on each end of the so­fa. Ha­ving fo­ught her way thro­ugh a pi­er­cing wind, she was as ex­ha­us­ted as any sol­di­er fresh from bat­tle. Shi­ve­ring with the lin­ge­ring cold, she snug­gled down in­to the cus­hi­ons and clo­sed her eyes. That she was tres­pas­sing in­to a qu­i­et ca­bin in the wo­ods ma­de her fe­el a lit­tle li­ke Gol­di­locks, and her last con­s­ci­o­us tho­ught was of lo­oking for so­met­hing to drink, so­met­hing not too hot, not too cold. And she wo­uld, as so­on as she slept off the cold.

  Chapter Five

  Qu­inn's de­ep sle­ep and va­gue dre­ams we­re in­ter­rup­ted by a fo­re­ign tug­ging so­mew­he­re in the area of her fe­et She tri­ed first to kick it away, then to turn over, but so­me­how, she co­uld not, and her groggy mind strug­gled to mo­ve aga­inst so­met­hing that se­emed to hold her. A pa­nic crept over her, and thro­ugh the den­se fog of sle­ep, she he­ard vo­ices, de­ep and gra­vel­ly whis­pers in the ne­ar-dar­ke­ned ro­om. For­cing her eyes to open, she saw two small fi­gu­res-dwarfs or de­mons, very pos­sibly both-wat­c­hing her, the­ir arms fol­ded ac­ross the­ir chests in a ges­tu­re of gle­eful sa­tis­fac­ti­on. She tri­ed to sit up, but co­uld not.

  She had to be dre­aming.

  Attem­p­ting to spe­ak, Qu­inn fo­und that so­met­hing thick and soft fil­led her mo­uth, which was now de­sert dry. She star­ted to gag, her thro­at con­s­t­ric­ting aga­inst the pre­sen­ce of the ali­en thing that stuck to the si­des and the ro­of of her mo­uth. She be­gan to cho­ke, and the two dwar­f­li­ke cre­atu­res jum­ped back in sur­p­ri­se.

  "What are you two do­ing?" a ma­le vo­ice as­ked from so­mew­he­re in the dark.

  A tall fi­gu­re step­ped out of the sha­dows and le­aned over the back of the so­fa to pe­er down at her.

  "Lo­ok what we ca­ught!" one of the gra­vel-vo­iced de­mon-dwarfs an­s­we­red with ob­vi­o­us pri­de.

  Ca­le's bre­ath ca­ught in his thro­at, and for a long mi­nu­te, he tho­ught he must be dre­aming. His he­art po­un­ding in his chest, he le­aned clo­ser, not trus­ting his eyes. Even in the dim light, he knew her.

  Mi­rac­le of mi­rac­les. It was her. He­re. In his ca­bin.

  Qu­inn.

  Twel­ve and a half ye­ars la­te.

  "Well, then," he sa­id, for­cing a non­c­ha­lan­ce he did not fe­el. "Lo­ok who stop­ped by to say 'hey.'"

  She gla­red up at him, her auburn ha­ir spre­ad aro­und her he­ad li­ke a soft fog.

  Yep. Tho­se we­re her eyes, all right. Big and gre­en and thro­wing off sparks when she was angry. Just li­ke now.

  "Mmphfmprhm." She se­emed to be spe­aking di­rectly to him. Thro­ugh her te­eth.

  Frow­ning, Ca­le le­aned for­ward to ta­ke a clo­ser lo­ok. So­met­hing whi­te prot­ru­ded from her mo­uth.

  "What in the…?" He tug­ged at the whi­te thing un­til her mo­uth re­le­ased it, then held up the small whi­te sock and as­ked
with stu­di­ed pa­ti­en­ce and prac­ti­ced com­po­su­re, "Who­se is this?"

  Eric po­in­ted at Evan. Evan po­in­ted at Eric.

  "His," they both sa­id.

  "How did it get in­to her mo­uth?" Ca­le as­ked sternly.

  "He did it," they both rep­li­ed.

  "Well, I gu­ess it co­uld ha­ve be­en wor­se." Ca­le held the sock up to exa­mi­ne it. "At le­ast it's cle­an."

  "That ma­kes me fe­el so much bet­ter," Qu­inn told him dryly. "The­re aren't fi­ve mo­re of them, are the­re?" She eyed the two boys wa­rily, cer­ta­in that they, too, we­re part of this ri­di­cu­lo­us dre­am. And it was, of co­ur­se, a dre­am, wasn't it?

  How co­uld it be ot­her­wi­se?

  "What?" Ca­le as­ked. He so­un­ded re­al eno­ugh. Lo­oked re­al eno­ugh…

  "We­ren't the­re se­ven dwarfs?" she he­ard her­self ask.

  Ca­le's la­ug­h­ter was unex­pec­ted.

  Go­od gri­ef. It wasn't a dre­am. It was him. She'd know that la­ugh an­y­w­he­re.

  Mor­ti­fi­ed, Qu­inn stra­ig­h­te­ned her­self up and, go­ing for dig­nity-as much as one co­uld mus­ter when the man who'd dum­ped you twel­ve ye­ars ago had just re­mo­ved a tinty sock from yo­ur mo­uth-cle­ared her thro­at and le­ve­led her chin.

  "Well then, if you wo­uld just un­tie me and get me a glass of wa­ter so that I can rin­se the cot­ton out of my mo­uth, I think I'd li­ke to mo­sey on back to the ranch abo­ut now." Qu­inn so­ught to so­und as non­c­ha­lant as pos­sib­le, se­ar­c­hing for just the right no­te, trying to ig­no­re the fact that her he­art was at­tem­p­ting to po­und its way out of her chest in he­avy, er­ra­tic thumps.

  Pul­ling back the af­g­han to re­ve­al ro­pe lo­oped tightly aro­und her wrists and an­k­les, Ca­le scow­led, then tur­ned to his sons. "Wo­uld one of you li­ke to ex­p­la­in this? And it had bet­ter be go­od, fel­las. This one had bet­ter be re­al go­od."