If Only in My Dreams Read online

  "You can ha­ve my ro­om. I'll sle­ep out he­re."

  "If it's all the sa­me to you, I'd rat­her sle­ep out he­re. I don't want to put you out of yo­ur bed," she sa­id, kno­wing the­re was no way she wo­uld be ab­le to sle­ep in a bed whe­re he had la­in. No, thank you. Sle­eping in Pa­pa Be­ar's bed might ha­ve wor­ked for Gol­di­locks, but Qu­inn Hol­lis­ter wo­uld stick to the so­fa.

  "I re­al­ly don't mind…"

  "I'd re­al­ly rat­her," she sa­id firmly.

  "I'll get so­me blan­kets." He nod­ded as if he un­der­s­to­od and went off down the hall, re­tur­ning a few mi­nu­tes la­ter with a pi­le of blan­kets and a pil­low, which he drop­ped on the so­fa.

  "I tho­ught may­be you might be mo­re com­for­tab­le sle­eping in the­se." He han­ded her a dark gray ther­mal shirt and a pa­ir of light gray swe­at­pants. "Val left a few nig­h­t­gowns, but I do­ubt they'd be warm eno­ugh."

  "The­se are fi­ne. Thank you. Whe­re can I chan­ge?"

  "The bat­h­ro­om is the first do­or on the left." He po­in­ted to­ward the hal­lway.

  She he­si­ta­ted be­fo­re as­king, "Is the­re a sho­wer?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you mind if I use it?" She felt swe­aty from the exer­ti­on of her walk.

  "Not at all. I’ll get you so­me to­wels."

  Qu­inn nod­ded her thanks and fol­lo­wed him the short walk to the bat­h­ro­om. He re­mo­ved se­ve­ral fluffy to­wels from a small clo­set and han­ded them to her. "So­ap's in the­re." He po­in­ted thro­ugh the open do­or as he re­ac­hed be­hind her to turn on the tight.

  Ca­le tri­ed to con­cen­t­ra­te on pre­pa­ring a bed for Qu­inn on the so­fa, pi­ling the blan­kets and fluf­fing the pil­low, and not on the fact that she was, at this mo­ment, in his sho­wer. That the wa­ter he co­uld he­ar run­ning on the ot­her si­de of the wall was sli­ding down her back, ac­ross her sho­ul­ders…

  He had ad­ded yet anot­her log on the fi­re, and po­ked ener­ge­ti­cal­ly at the em­bers, when he he­ard the bat­h­ro­om do­or open, he­ard her soft fo­ot­s­teps be­hind him as she ca­me in­to the ro­om. Tur­ning to her, his words stuck in his thro­at. He wat­c­hed her as she pla­ced her fol­ded clot­hes in­to her bag, his sto­mach tig­h­te­ning, and he tri­ed in va­in to lo­ok away. Even with her long ha­ir damp from the sho­wer and wrap­ped in a to­wel, Qu­inn was, if pos­sib­le, even mo­re lo­vely than she had be­en as a girl. She had fil­led out just a lit­tle, ro­un­ding he­re and len­g­t­he­ning the­re, un­til she was, as he co­uld pla­inly see, ne­arer to per­fec­ti­on than any wo­man had a right to be. He co­uld not help but no­ti­ce, too, that she fil­led out his old gray ther­mal shirt in ways it was ne­ver in­ten­ded to be fil­led.

  Fe­eling his eyes on her, Qu­inn prac­ti­cal­ly le­aped un­der the blan­kets and drew them up to her chin.

  "An­y­t­hing el­se I can get you?" he as­ked.

  "J­ust yo­ur pro­mi­se that I won't be bo­und and gag­ged when I wa­ke up in the mor­ning." She tri­ed to ma­ke light of it.

  "You've got it." Ca­le did his best to smi­le.

  "Well then," she sa­id, rub­bing the. wet strands of ha­ir with the to­wel, "I gu­ess I'll see you in the mor­ning. And thank you."

  "For what?"

  "For ta­king me in."

  "Right." He bac­ked away from the so­fa as if it we­re on fi­re. "Go­od night, Qu­inn."

  "Go­od night, Ca­le."

  Swe­et dre­ams, she wan­ted to call af­ter him, but did not. In­s­te­ad, she lay in si­len­ce and lis­te­ned to his fo­ot­s­teps ec­ho on the wo­oden flo­or. He­aring his bed­ro­om do­or clo­se, Qu­inn sat up and to­ok a de­ep bre­ath, then got up qu­i­etly, cre­eping ac­ross the rag car­pet to the fi­re, whe­re she bent for­ward to let her ha­ir dry the best it co­uld. When she had fi­nis­hed, she dra­ped the to­wel along the sto­ne man­tel, and tip­to­ed back to the so­fa, gra­te­ful to be alo­ne for the first ti­me in ho­urs. Alo­ne to con­tem­p­la­te what the fa­tes had de­li­ve­red to her. Had an­yo­ne told her that she wo­uld spend the days be­fo­re Chris­t­mas in a re­mo­te ca­bin with Ca­le McKen­zie she'd ha­ve la­ug­hed in the­ir fa­ce.

  And yet he­re she sat, we­aring his clot­hes and bun­d­led in blan­kets a me­re fif­te­en or twenty fe­et from whe­re he slept, right down that hal­lway. And with him out of sight, it was easi­er for her to dwell on him, on how well he had fil­led out over the ye­ars. His fa­ce had chan­ged so lit­tle, may­be a lit­tle less an­gu­lar, but his eyes still had that glow and his smi­le still car­ri­ed that sa­me old warmth, that sa­me swe­et pro­mi­se ____________________

  That pro­mi­se he had ne­ver kept, she re­min­ded her­self. Tor­tu­red by the me­mory, she wis­hed she had the ner­ve to ask why, but then aga­in, su­rely he'd think her a fo­ol to ha­ve har­bo­red that all the­se ye­ars. Bet­ter, per­haps, to pre­tend that the epi­so­de ne­ver hap­pe­ned, than to open tho­se old wo­unds.

  Old wo­unds that ne­ver re­al­ly he­aled, but that's mi­ne to de­al with. He do­esn't ne­ed to know that…

  Qu­inn sig­hed de­eply and lay back down, pul­ling the co­vers aro­und her to ma­ke a nest of sorts, kno­wing that the­re wo­uld be lit­tle sle­ep for her whi­le the. man who had fil­led her dre­ams for so many ye­ars was re­al­ly he­re, un­der the sa­me ro­of. In the flesh. Just se­e­ing Ca­le had to­uc­hed her in pla­ces she hadn't even known we­re still ali­ve and well.

  She sig­hed aga­in and tur­ned over to sta­re at the fi­re, wat­c­hing its dan­cing ton­gu­es lick the si­des of the brick fi­re­box and the sha­dows mo­ve slowly, si­nu­o­usly ac­ross the ro­om, li­ke lo­vers dan­cing in the dark.

  Arrrghhh.

  Wrong ima­ge.

  She tur­ned her back to the fi­re and pun­c­hed the pil­low, then be­gan to co­unt bac­k­ward from one tho­usand. An­y­t­hing to ke­ep her mind off the be­a­uti­ful man with the ha­zel eyes who slept just a short stroll down a dar­ke­ned hal­lway.

  Ca­le tur­ned over for what must ha­ve be­en the fo­ur-hun­d­redth ti­me. Sle­ep, which was, for him, al­ways hard to co­me by, was, on this night, a to­tal im­pos­si­bi­lity. Not with her cur­led up on his so­fa, just thir­ty-two steps away. He'd co­un­ted af­ter he'd tur­ned his back and wal­ked to his ro­om.

  The re­ality of it stun­ned him and al­most ma­de him giddy. Qu­inn was the­re. His gol­den girl was the­re, un­der his ro­of. How dif­fe­rent things co­uld ha­ve be­en- sho­uld ha­ve be­en-if things had go­ne the way they had be­en in­ten­ded. They wo­uld be cud­dled to­get­her un­der this down qu­ilt right now, sha­ring the­ir warmth and sha­ring the night, in­s­te­ad of be­ing se­pa­ra­ted by thir­ty-two steps.

  Why, he had wan­ted to ask her. Why, his he­art had wan­ted to know. But su­rely, af­ter all this ti­me, it sho­uld not mat­ter. And wo­uld it not hurt mo­re to find that he had had his he­art bru­ised by the whim of a scho­ol­girl? Why em­bar­rass him­self now by de­man­ding from the wo­man an ex­p­la­na­ti­on for the ac­ti­ons of the girl she had on­ce be­en?

  He tur­ned res­t­les­sly on­ce aga­in and clo­sed his eyes, but all he co­uld see was that fa­ce, eyes gre­en li­ke new grass, mo­uth ri­pe as mo­un­ta­in ber­ri­es…

  Ca­le gro­aned and tur­ned over aga­in, kno­wing that this was a night that was not li­kely to pass qu­ickly.

  Qu­inn had sen­sed him be­fo­re she saw or he­ard him. Ope­ning one eye in­to a me­re slit, she wat­c­hed as he bent down to lift a log and le­aned over to pla­ce it on the di­mi­nis­hed pi­le of smol­de­ring wo­od. He ad­ded a se­cond log, then a third. He brus­hed his hands on his dark swe­at­pants, then softly cros­sed the rag rug to stra­ig­h­ten her blan­kets. Pa­using just slightly, he re­ac­hed down and to­uc­hed the si­de of her fa­ce, to­uc­hed
her lips with his fin­ger­tips in a ges­tu­re of lon­ging that to­ok her bre­ath away. Dra­wing his hand back ab­ruptly, he tur­ned and pad­ded back down the hall.

  Ra­ising one hand to her fa­ce, Qu­inn tra­ced the path his fin­gers had ma­de on her skin, and with the ot­her, she wi­ped the te­ars from her che­ek.

  Chapter Eight

  Sen­sing that a new day had ac­tu­al­ly ma­na­ged to dawn so­me­how thro­ugh the in­ten­sity of the storm's fury, Qu­inn stret­c­hed her arms over her he­ad and lo­oked aro­und. It hadn't be­en a dre­am af­ter all. She was re­al­ly he­re. And that me­ant that Ca­le was he­re, too. What a stran­ge twist, she tho­ught as she slid the blan­kets off and went to the win­dow. As sus­pec­ted, the storm still ra­ged out­si­de. Funny, tho­ugh, that it se­emed to con­fi­ne it­self to the mo­un­ta­in. Her mot­her had sa­id they had had but an inch or so of snow, not even eno­ugh to ke­ep Tre­vor from pic­king up her sis­ters at the air­port.

  Grab­bing her clot­hes out of the bag, she tip­to­ed to the bat­h­ro­om and was­hed her fa­ce and dres­sed in the sa­me brown wo­ol twe­ed pants and he­avy oat­me­al-co­lo­red swe­ater she'd worn the day be­fo­re. Stan­ding in the hal­lway, she lis­te­ned for so­unds from eit­her of the two bed­ro­oms. He­aring no­ne, she went in­to the kit­c­hen and po­ked in the cup­bo­ards.

  Val had most cer­ta­inly stoc­ked up. The­re we­re se­ve­ral bags of flo­ur and su­gar, lots of her­bal te­as, and se­ve­ral pac­ka­ges of pud­ding mix, cans of so­up and jars of spag­het­ti sa­uce, and bo­xes of pas­ta. In the ref­ri­ge­ra­tor she fo­und milk, se­ve­ral bo­xes of but­ter and eggs, so­me ap­ples, oran­ges, and ra­isins. The fre­ezer held pac­ka­ges of fro­zen fo­od, and she po­ked thro­ugh them. Re­mem­be­ring the boys' com­p­la­int abo­ut Ca­le's spag­het­ti, she lif­ted out a bag of mi­xed ve­ge­tab­les and a pac­ka­ge of rock-hard be­ef. Gu­es­sing that Ca­le might wel­co­me a lit­tle help as much as the boys wo­uld wel­co­me the va­ri­ety, per­haps she wo­uld sug­gest a sim­p­le stew for that night.

  In a bas­ket ne­ar the back do­or, she fo­und small pi­eces of wo­od for the sto­ve, and so­on she had a pot of cof­fee on. By the ti­me the two small to­us­led fa­ces had ap­pe­ared in the do­or­way, she had al­re­ady plan­ned the bre­ak­fast she wo­uld ma­ke. It was the le­ast she co­uld do, she re­aso­ned. Ca­le cle­arly did not enj­oy co­oking, and she did. Be­si­des, she was up and he was not, the boys we­re the­re and hungry.

  "Pan­ca­kes?" she as­ked, and they nod­ded en­t­hu­si­as­ti­cal­ly. "Go get dres­sed, and by the ti­me you get back, the­re sho­uld be a few re­ady for you."

  "Yea!" they sho­uted as they ran from the ro­om and down the hall.

  Wit­hin mi­nu­tes, the­ir fat­her had emer­ged, and fol­lo­wing his no­se to the kit­c­hen, he, too, so­on sto­od in the do­or­way.

  "I ho­pe you don't mind, but I co­me from a long li­ne of ta­ke-char­ge types," she told him. "Be­si­des, I was awa­ke and I just tho­ught…"

  "Thank you. I ap­pre­ci­ate the help. You pro­bably no­ti­ced that I'm not exactly James Be­ard." He smi­led, and her kne­es tur­ned to jel­ly. "What can I do?"

  Just stand the­re and let me lo­ok at you for a whi­le. A few days might be eno­ugh.

  She swat­ted at the tho­ught and han­ded him a cup of cof­fee, sa­ying, "Not­hing. It's all do­ne. Lo­ok what I fo­und in the cup­bo­ard. Cho­kec­her­ry sa­uce. Val must ha­ve bo­ught it at the Lar­k­s­pur Fall Fes­ti­val in Oc­to­ber."

  "I cant re­mem­ber the last ti­me I had this on pan­ca­kes." Ca­le lif­ted the jar to gi­ve his hands so­met­hing to do and pre­ten­ded to re­ad the ho­me­ma­de la­bel. The scent of li­lac was go­ne, he no­ted reg­ret­ful­ly, and had be­en rep­la­ced with the musky smell of his own so­ap. It was just as well, he told him­self. That soft flo­wery scent had bro­ught back too many me­mo­ri­es of too many nights he was bet­ter off not thin­king abo­ut right now. Ti­me eno­ugh to lo­ok back, when the snow stop­ped and she wo­uld le­ave him to go back to the ranch.

  He wat­c­hed her bre­ak eggs in­to the bat­ter. She lo­oked be­a­uti­ful. He wis­hed he co­uld tell her so. In­s­te­ad, he cle­ared his thro­at and sa­id, "Pan­ca­kes are a big step up for us this we­ek. 'You'll ha­ve to gi­ve me les­sons."

  "Be glad to." She tur­ned her back to shi­eld her­self from his eyes. The ur­ge to re­ach out and to­uch him had be­en so strong, so re­al, that it spo­oked her. If the­re had be­en a pla­ce to run to, she might ha­ve fled, but the storm whis­t­led and sang out­si­de the small ca­bin, and so she me­rely squ­ared her sho­ul­ders and stir­red the pan­ca­ke bat­ter.

  "Yea! We're ha­ving pan­ca­kes!" Eric of the cow­lick sang as he ran in­to the ro­om.

  "Yip­pee!" Evan das­hed in, hot on his brot­her's he­els, and slid in his stoc­king fe­et in­to the so­lid wall that was his fat­her. Lo­oking up, he as­ked ear­nestly, "Do­es this me­an we don't ha­ve to eat cold ce­re­al or sloppy eggs to­day?"

  "What are you, a bud­ding fo­od cri­tic? Sit." Ca­le po­in­ted to­ward the lit­tle wo­oden tab­le, and the two boys hop­ped over and se­ated them­sel­ves ex­pec­tantly.

  Ca­le for­ced his hands ste­ady as he held the pla­te upon which Qu­inn la­ye­red pan­ca­kes. For­ced him­self to pre­tend that it had not be­en her leg that had to­uc­hed his un­der the tab­le. For­ced him­self not to grin li­ke a to­tal and com­p­le­te idi­ot when she blin­ded him with a smi­le from ac­ross the ro­om. For­ced his hands to re­ma­in at his si­de rat­her than fol­low the­ir na­tu­ral co­ur­se to her hips when she tur­ned her back to rin­se dis­hes at the sink when bre­ak­fast was over. For­ced his lips not to se­ek the back of her neck…

  "Daddy, we ha­ve not­hing to do." Eric's lit­tle frec­k­led fa­ce frow­ned hard, to em­p­ha­si­ze the ex­tent of grum­pi­ness.

  Ca­le pa­used. He was dam­ned ne­ar out of op­ti­ons.

  "Can't we rent just one mo­vie?" Evan as­ked ear­nestly.

  "No VCR, guys," Ca­le re­min­ded them of the ob­vi­o­us fact that the­ir fo­ur-ye­ar-old bra­ins re­fu­sed to ac­cept, "and no TV."

  "Why didn't Aunt Val buy a TV?" Eric la­men­ted.

  "Mon­ta­na's a dumb pla­ce," Evan told his fat­her. "It's cold and it snows all the ti­me and the­re's not­hing to do. It's dumb."

  "I beg yo­ur par­don"-Quinn sat down on the ed­ge of the wing cha­ir-"but if I co­uld put my two cents in…"

  "Ta­ke yo­ur best shot," Ca­le in­vi­ted.

  "Mon­ta­na is far from be­ing a dumb pla­ce. As a mat­ter of fact, they call it the 'Tre­asu­re Sta­te' be­ca­use of all the gre­at stuff that you can find he­re."

  "Li­ke what?" Eric's eyes nar­ro­wed.

  "Li­ke sap­phi­res and cop­per…"

  "What are sap­phi­res?" Eric as­ked.

  "Pretty blue sto­nes that pe­op­le set in­to jewelry. And of co­ur­se, the­re are gold mi­nes and sil­ver mi­nes…"

  "Re­al gold mi­nes?"

  "Yes. And the­re are lots of gre­at things to see in Mon­ta­na. Get yo­ur dad to ta­ke you to one of the ghost towns one day when the we­at­her cle­ars up."

  "Ghost towns?" Eric lo­oked up at his fat­her, his eyes wi­de­ning. "Re­al ghost towns?"

  "Oh, yes," Ca­le told them. "Se­ve­ral not far from he­re."

  "They're ma­king it up, Eric," Evan told his brot­her.

  "No, we are not. Why, not two mi­les from he­re, at the bot­tom of the ot­her si­de of the mo­un­ta­in, is Set­tler's He­ad."

  "Set­tler's He­ad?" the boys as­ked in uni­son.

  Qu­inn nod­ded. "If you want to he­ar the story, you ha­ve to sit down."

  They sat, and lis­te­ned as Qu­inn and the­ir fat­her tra­ded ta­les of this ghost town or that.

  May­be Mon­ta�
�na wo­uldn't be so bad, they con­c­lu­ded, if the snow ever stop­ped and they co­uld get to see all tho­se ne­at pla­ces with the ne­at na­mes li­ke An­gu­ish and Ce­leb­ra­ti­on, In­di­an To­es and Crow Skull.

  Tal­king abo­ut it kept them en­ter­ta­ined un­til twel­ve-thirty, when they had a lunch of tu­na san­d­wic­hes and can­ned so­up.

  "Now what can we do?" the boys as­ked.

  Qu­inn lo­oked ac­ross the ro­om to Ca­le to see if he lo­oked li­ke he had any sug­ges­ti­ons. The pa­nic set­tling in his eyes told her he was fresh out of ide­as.

  "Hmmm. I ha­ve an idea. Ca­le, do you mind if I po­ke in yo­ur kit­c­hen?"

  "Be my gu­est," he sa­id gra­te­ful­ly.

  She went thro­ugh the cup­bo­ards, ta­king down ever­y­t­hing she tho­ught she might be ab­le to use. Just as the boys be­gan to wres­t­le ac­ross the li­ving ro­om flo­or, Qu­inn ap­pe­ared in the do­or­way and as­ked, "Wo­uld an­yo­ne li­ke to ma­ke Chris­t­mas co­oki­es?"

  Three ma­le McKen­zi­es fro­ze whe­re they sto­od.

  "You me­an, re­al ones?" Eric as­ked.

  "Yes. We ha­ve ever­y­t­hing we ne­ed out he­re. Who wants to help?"

  It was tight qu­ar­ters, the spa­ce in the kit­c­hen be­ing li­mi­ted, but be­fo­re long, the ca­bin was fil­led with the smell of cin­na­mon and va­nil­la and cit­rus. Ca­le scra­ped oran­ges for the rind to go in­to a spe­ci­al oran­ge co­okie that Qu­inn's gran­d­mot­her used to ma­ke. The boys to­ok turns stir­ring bat­ter and cut­ting lit­tle sha­pes out of su­gar co­okie do­ugh with a but­ter kni­fe. By the ti­me the af­ter­no­on had en­ded, they had stacks of co­okie stars and ba­se­bal­ls, fo­ot­bal­ls co­lo­red brown with co­coa and lit­tle half-mo­ons. The boys we­re de­lig­h­ted with the­ir ef­forts.

  And all the whi­le, the snow con­ti­nu­ed to swirl and the wind con­ti­nu­ed to blow.

  "Re­al­ly?" Qu­inn frow­ned, lo­oking out the win­dow whi­le she tal­ked with her sis­ter Sunny, who had ar­ri­ved at the ranch the day be­fo­re. "It's not sno­wing at all down the­re? Sunny, it's to­tal whi­te­o­ut up he­re. You can't see be­yond the win­dow___No"-Quinn lo­we­red her vo­ice-"I am not ma­king it up. And not­hing is hap­pe­ning bet­we­en Ca­le and me… we're sha­ring spa­ce, that's all. Exactly. Shel­ter from the storm. Of co­ur­se not… we're old fri­ends. Yes, that's all, Sunny. Of co­ur­se, I'm su­re," she fa­irly his­sed at her sis­ter, who, des­pi­te Qu­inn's as­su­ran­ce, didn't so­und at all con­vin­ced.