If Only in My Dreams

by Mariah Stewart

  "I know!" Eric hop­ped up and down on one fo­ot. "You co­uld gi­ve her a brot­her!"

  "A twin brot­her," Evan ad­ded.

  "Hmmm." Qu­inn con­tem­p­la­ted the pos­si­bi­lity. "And if I ga­ve her a brot­her, what wo­uld I call him?"

  "You co­uld call him…" Eric bit his bot­tom lip, pon­de­ring the very im­por­tant task of na­ming Miss Jane's only brot­her.

  "J­ed! For Jedi­di­ah!" Evan sho­uted gle­eful­ly. "Li­ke Jedi­di­ah McKen­zi­eJ"

  "Per­fect!" Qu­inn ex­c­la­imed. "Jedi­di­ah Mo­use­wing. Now, what do you sup­po­se he lo­oks li­ke? Des­c­ri­be him for me, so that I can draw him. Help me to put him on pa­per…"

  For the next fif­te­en mi­nu­tes, Qu­inn bent over the sketch pad, a small boy at each el­bow, to­tal­ly ob­li­vi­o­us to the man who sto­od in the do­or­way, her for­got­ten cup of tea in one hand, his he­art on his sle­eve. Af­ter all the nights he'd dre­amed of her, all the ti­mes he'd un­con­s­ci­o­usly so­ught her fa­ce in every crowd in every air­port he'd wal­ked thro­ugh, in every sta­di­um he'd ever pla­yed in, the­re she was, calmly sit­ting the­re sket­c­hing away, lo­oking for all the world as if she be­lon­ged the­re with his sons. As if this was her pla­ce, her ca­bin, her fa­mily.

  This is the way it sho­uld ha­ve be­en all along, he told him­self. The way it wo­uld ha­ve be­en, if only she had be­en he­re that day…

  "Is that my tea?" she as­ked, her eyes bright with the ex­ci­te­ment of cre­ating a new cha­rac­ter as she sket­c­hed to the boys' spe­ci­fi­ca­ti­ons.

  "Ahhh… it might be a lit­tle co­ol," he told her, re­ali­zing that he'd be­en stan­ding the­re sta­ring for much lon­ger than he'd in­ten­ded.

  "That's okay." She smi­led at him, and he tho­ught for a mo­ment that the ca­bin se­emed to tilt at an odd an­g­le. "Wo­uld you li­ke to me­et Jed Mo­use­wing?"

  "Su­re." He cle­ared his thro­at as he cros­sed the small dis­tan­ce bet­we­en the kit­c­hen and the ot­to­man and pe­ered over her sho­ul­der, much as his sons had do­ne.

  "See, Dad, he's a pi­one­er, just li­ke Jed McKen­zie was," Eric told him.

  "He sort of lo­oks a lit­tle li­ke Davy Croc­kett," Ca­le no­ted, trying to ig­no­re that scent of li­lac aga­in. "If Croc­kett had had a ta­il, two big front te­eth, and big ro­und ears."

  "It's the buc­k­s­kin," Qu­inn ex­p­la­ined, ten­sing at his ne­ar­ness. "The boys ga­ve me an ex­cel­lent idea for my next bo­ok. If it works, I'll gi­ve them cre­dit."

  "What do­es that me­an?" Eric as­ked.

  "It me­ans that in­si­de the bo­ok, it will say so­met­hing li­ke, 'Thanks to Evan and Eric McKen­zie, for all the­ir help in brin­ging Jed to li­fe.' So­met­hing li­ke that"

  "You me­an our na­mes wo­uld be in the bo­ok?" Evan as­ked, wi­de-eyed.

  "Yep."

  "Wow."

  "Of co­ur­se, you'll ha­ve to help me think up things that mi­ce-boys might li­ke to do."

  "We can do that. We're go­od at thin­king up things to do."

  "I think Qu­inn me­ans things that do not in­vol­ve ro­ugh-ho­using or bre­aking things. Or wat­c­hing TV," Ca­le of­fe­red.

  "Do­es Miss Jane ha­ve a TV?" Evan as­ked.

  "No, she do­es not," Qu­inn rep­li­ed. "We'll just ha­ve to think of ot­her things mo­use chil­d­ren wo­uld li­ke to do."

  "Well, why don't you two think abo­ut old Jed he­re whi­le you wash up for din­ner," Ca­le sug­ges­ted.

  "Okay." They nod­ded, and, mi­ra­cu­lo­usly, flew from the ro­om wit­ho­ut ar­gu­ment.

  Alo­ne with her, Ca­le he­si­ta­ted, fe­eling aw­k­ward. Un­til she smi­led up at him and his kne­es be­gan to un­ra­vel. He sat on the so­fa be­fo­re they co­uld bet­ray him.

  "So, that's Jed, eh?" he sa­id, to ha­ve so­met­hing to say.

  "J­ed Mo­use­wing." She smi­led, her he­art po­un­ding, and she blus­hed, cer­ta­in that he co­uld he­ar it ban­ging aga­inst her chest.

  "Whe­re did the Mo­use­wing co­me from?" He lic­ked dry lips with an equ­al­ly dry ton­gue.

  "Ac­tu­al­ly, her ori­gi­nal na­me had be­en Mo­us­ding, as in small mo­use. But the da­ug­h­ter of a fri­end of mi­ne, who had tro­ub­le with her's, pro­no­un­ced it Mo­use­wing. I tho­ught it was cu­te, so I kept the na­me." She shrug­ged, fe­eling trap­ped all of a sud­den. Whi­le the boys had be­en the­re with her, it had be­en easi­er to ig­no­re the fact that he was he­re, and she was he­re, and af­ter all this ti­me, they we­re to­get­her. Just as she had dre­amed they wo­uld be so­me­day. It was a dre­am she had ne­ver had much fa­ith in. Un­til to­day.

  "I gu­ess you've do­ne well for yo­ur­self, then," he sa­id.

  "I'm do­ing what I li­ke to do." She shrug­ged and tri­ed to so­und non­c­ha­lant.

  "So was I," he told her, the slig­h­test hint of sha­dow dar­ke­ning his fa­ce.

  "I was sorry to he­ar abo­ut yo­ur ac­ci­dent," she sa­id softly. "I know how much it must ha­ve me­ant to you, to ha­ve be­en ab­le to play…"

  He star­ted to shrug it off as per­haps not so big a de­al, as he had do­ne so many ti­mes over the past six months, then stop­ped, sud­denly fe­eling no ne­ed to pre­tend.

  "It hurt li­ke hell to gi­ve it up," Ca­le sa­id qu­i­etly, his words ba­rely abo­ve a whis­per.

  "I'm sorry, Ca­le." In­s­tin­c­ti­vely, she had pla­ced a hand upon his, and the sof­t­ness of it, the ten­der­ness of the ges­tu­re, shot thro­ugh him li­ke a bolt.

  "Well, so am I." He sto­od ab­ruptly and her hand fell away. The pla­ce whe­re her fin­gers had to­uc­hed his wrist se­emed mar­ked as if by fi­re. He cle­ared his thro­at aga­in-a ner­vo­us ges­tu­re that he hadn't fo­und the ne­ed to use for ye­ars-and bac­ked away from her in the di­rec­ti­on of the kit­c­hen. "Din­ner will be re­ady in abo­ut two mi­nu­tes. I ho­pe you don't mind ha­ving yo­ur spag­het­ti sa­uce co­me out of a jar."

  "Not at all," she as­su­red him.

  Ca­le fled back in­to the sa­fety of the small kit­c­hen, whe­re he wo­uld not ha­ve to lo­ok in­to her eyes.

  "How ‘bo­ut if I set the tab­le?" Qu­inn was just a few steps be­hind him.

  Ca­le re­sis­ted the ur­ge to sigh openly. Now­he­re to run. Now­he­re to hi­de…

  "Su­re." He for­ced a smi­le and po­in­ted to the cup­bo­ard be­hind him. "Pla­tes and glas­ses in the­re."

  He tri­ed to pre­tend that her pre­sen­ce wasn't dis­con­cer­ting, that he wasn't wat­c­hing her, but it was im­pos­sib­le not to in so con­fi­ned an area. The­ir backs col­li­ded mildly as she re­ac­hed for pla­tes from the shel­ves abo­ve her he­ad. She brus­hed aga­inst him when she sor­ted thro­ugh the flat­wa­re dra­wer for kni­ves, forks, and spo­ons. His awa­re­ness of her was clo­sing in on him at a pa­ce that was ra­pidly ac­ce­le­ra­ting.

  He tur­ned and brus­hed asi­de the cur­ta­in at the kit­c­hen win­dow. If an­y­t­hing, the storm had in­ten­si­fi­ed. The­re was no chan­ce she wo­uld be le­aving be­fo­re the mor­ning.

  How wo­uld he last a who­le night with her he­re, un­der the sa­me ro­of with him?

  She lo­oked up and smi­led aga­in, and he felt his in­si­des be­gin to twist and twitch.

  This co­uld very well be the lon­gest night of his li­fe.

  Chapter Seven

  "Wo­uld you li­ke so­me mu­sic?" Ca­le sto­od in the mid­dle of the li­ving ro­om, his hands on his hips, won­de­ring just what to do next. Qu­inn was emer­ging from the kit­c­hen, whe­re she had of­fe­red to cle­an up from din­ner whi­le Ca­le put his sons to bed.

  "Su­re." She nod­ded.

  "What's yo­ur ple­asu­re?"

  "What are my cho­ices?"

  "Wha­te­ver we can get on this old ra­dio." He slowly t
ur­ned the di­al, dis­t­rac­ted by her ne­ar­ness. "Not much of a va­ri­ety to­night, I'm af­ra­id."

  "That's fi­ne, right the­re. Chris­t­mas mu­sic wo­uld be ni­ce."

  Ca­le adj­us­ted the di­al to eli­mi­na­te the sta­tic, ta­king his ti­me whi­le he tri­ed to fi­gu­re out what to do with her.

  In his dre­ams, he had known exactly what to do. Now that she was re­al­ly he­re, he had chan­ged in­to a bum­b­ling ado­les­cent in the spa­ce of a few ho­urs.

  "I was lis­te­ning to this on ta­pe whi­le I was dri­ving up the mo­un­ta­in to­day," she told him as "I'll Be Ho­me for Chris­t­mas" be­gan to play.

  "I've al­ways li­ked it," Ca­le sa­id aw­k­wardly.

  "Me, too." She nod­ded.

  "Ah, why don't you sit down"-Cale fol­ded up the blan­kets on the so­fa to gi­ve her ro­om-"and I’ll…" He lo­oked aro­und wildly for so­met­hing to oc­cupy him­self with. "I'll… put mo­re wo­od on the fi­re."

  Qu­inn sat on the so­fa, pul­ling her fe­et up un­der her and easing back in­to the cus­hi­ons. Ca­le lif­ted a few logs from the stack and pla­ced them on the fi­re, using the bel­lows to bu­ild up the fla­mes. Qu­inn ex­ha­led, a long si­lent stre­am of air. Her fa­ce was be­gin­ning to hurt from ha­ving for­ced a ca­ref­ree smi­le for the past se­ve­ral ho­urs. Her chest and sto­mach hurt from ha­ving be­en so clo­se to him af­ter so long. She wat­c­hed him, his back to her, and tho­ugh she tri­ed to will her eyes away from him, she co­uld not It had be­en too long a dro­ught, and now that she co­uld, she drank in every bit of him. The way his dark ha­ir cur­led over the back of his col­lar. The way his hands gras­ped the logs as if they we­re twigs, the way the bot­tom of his je­ans ro­un­ded when he le­aned back on his ha­un­c­hes to stack the logs…

  She ro­se ab­ruptly and went to the win­dow to lo­ok out. May­be a mi­rac­le had oc­cur­red whi­le they we­re eating din­ner and the snow had stop­ped.

  Fat chan­ce.

  "I'm af­ra­id it's only got­ten wor­se, Qu­inn," he sa­id from be­hind her.

  "I gu­ess I sho­uld call ho­me." She tur­ned slightly and fo­und him clo­ser than she had an­ti­ci­pa­ted.

  "That's pro­bably a go­od idea," he ag­re­ed, tel­ling him­self to back away so that the scent from her ha­ir wo­uld not be ab­le to re­ach his nos­t­rils, but his legs se­emed unab­le to obey the com­mand to mo­ve.

  "I left a mes­sa­ge on the an­s­we­ring mac­hi­ne ear­li­er, but I think my mot­her will worry un­til she ac­tu­al­ly spe­aks to me," she sa­id. The ur­ge to re­ach her hand up and to­uch his fa­ce was so po­wer­ful that she had to for­ce her hands be­hind her back.

  She was the first to mo­ve, the first to step away. Aver­ting her eyes, she step­ped aro­und him and re­ac­hed for her bag. Re­fu­sing to lo­ok at him aga­in whi­le she se­ar­c­hed for the pho­ne, she tur­ned her back whi­le she di­aled the num­ber and spo­ke softly and pa­ced ner­vo­usly whi­le she ex­p­la­ined the si­tu­ati­on to her mot­her.

  "My mot­her sa­id to tell you hel­lo and to thank you for gi­ving me shel­ter from the storm," Qu­inn sa­id as she drop­ped the cell pho­ne back in­to the bag.

  Ca­le nod­ded. "It's my ple­asu­re."

  If you only knew, Qu­inn…

  "So," Qu­inn sa­id, for­cing her­self to so­und perky. "What bo­ok are you re­ading?" She wal­ked to the cha­ir and lif­ted the har­d­back he had left the­re the night be­fo­re and in­s­pec­ted the co­ver. It was a thril­ler, writ­ten by a fa­vo­ri­te aut­hor of Qu­inn's. "Oh. I he­ard this was gre­at."

  "It's pretty go­od," he told her, lo­oking for so­met­hing to do with him­self. "But I li­ked his last one bet­ter."

  "I lo­ved that bo­ok," she ag­re­ed. "Had you fi­gu­red out that Janel­le was the mur­de­rer be­fo­re the last sce­ne?"

  "No." He sho­ok his he­ad. "I tho­ught it was Des­mond."

  "So did I." Qu­inn la­ug­hed. "He su­re had me fo­oled."

  "Me, too." Ca­le nod­ded.

  That com­mon gro­und ha­ving be­en ex­ha­us­ted, si­len­ce be­gan to sur­ro­und them.

  "I'm sorry abo­ut the boys. I me­an, tying you up and stuf­fing the sock in yo­ur mo­uth," he sa­id aw­k­wardly, at a loss for words now that she was re­al­ly he­re.

  "I'm su­re they tho­ught they had bag­ged a fe­lon, that they had do­ne so­met­hing re­al­ly go­od." She co­uldn't help but smi­le. "They cer­ta­inly se­emed pro­ud of them­sel­ves."

  "You may be gi­ving them too much cre­dit," he sa­id with a wry smi­le.

  "They're just lit­tle boys, Ca­le."

  "Qu­inn, my sons are spo­iled, un­dis­cip­li­ned lit­tle ho­oli­gans," he told her bluntly. "And whi­le I find it all too easy to bla­me the­ir mot­her, I can't deny that I've had as much of a hand in the­ir tur­ning out to be hel­li­ons as she did."

  Qu­inn le­aned back, wat­c­hing his fa­ce.

  "I spent very lit­tle ti­me at ho­me, Qu­inn. I pla­yed ball du­ring the se­ason, then spent the off-se­ason re­ha­bi­li­ta­ting wha­te­ver inj­uri­es I had ac­cu­mu­la­ted over the pre­vi­o­us few months. Then it wo­uld be ti­me for spring tra­ining, then the se­ason wo­uld start all over aga­in. I spent no mo­re ti­me with them than the­ir mot­her did. I hardly knew them at all, so it re­al­ly isn't fa­ir for me to pla­ce all the bla­me on her."

  "And you're trying to ma­ke up for it now."

  "I'm all they ha­ve, Qu­inn." He ran ner­vo­us fin­gers thro­ugh his dark brown ha­ir. "She left them months ago and has ne­ver lo­oked back. She has not as­ked to see them, hasn't even cal­led."

  "That's so dif­fi­cult to un­der­s­tand, why a wo­man wo­uld le­ave her chil­d­ren___"

  "It's pro­bably a lot easi­er when you ne­ver wan­ted them in the first pla­ce," he sa­id, his eyes tur­ning grim. "And when you don't ca­re much for the­ir fat­her, I gu­ess it's even easi­er."

  How co­uld any wo­man not lo­ve you, the tho­ught rang in her he­ad, so lo­udly she star­t­led, cer­ta­in he must ha­ve he­ard.

  "I'm so sorry," she sa­id softly, won­de­ring what the con­fes­si­on might ha­ve cost him.

  "Mar­rying Jo Beth was a mis­ta­ke. It just se­emed li­ke a go­od idea at the ti­me. The boys we­re the only go­od thing that ca­me out of the re­la­ti­on­s­hip."

  "They must miss her."

  "Ac­tu­al­ly, I dont think they do," he sa­id, ad­ding, wit­ho­ut apo­logy, "any mo­re than I do."

  "That's very sad for them."

  "I can't ar­gue that, but that's how it is." He tri­ed to le­an back in his cha­ir, tri­ed to act re­al ca­su­al, tel­ling him­self that she was just any old fri­end from high scho­ol that he hap­pe­ned to run in­to. His po­un­ding he­art and fraz­zled ner­ves told him ot­her­wi­se. "But I am de­ter­mi­ned to ma­ke up for all the ti­me I didn't spend with them. If that's pos­sib­le. So­me­ti­mes it's a lit­tle dif­fi­cult to ke­ep them busy. Mo­re than a lit­tle, ac­tu­al­ly. They've had ye­ars of elec­t­ro­nic baby-sit­ters. I'm trying to we­an them from the te­le­vi­si­on, as you've pro­bably no­ti­ced."

  "I gu­ess ta­king them to the wilds of Mon­ta­na must ha­ve so­un­ded li­ke a go­od idea."

  "It did when Val sug­ges­ted it. Now I'm not so su­re. It gets har­der every day to find so­met­hing new for them to do. But what abo­ut you, Qu­inn? Any spo­use or chil­d­ren wa­iting for you back at the High Me­adow?"

  "No," she sa­id, not bot­he­ring to ela­bo­ra­te. Why bot­her tel­ling him that she had ne­ver fal­len in lo­ve with an­yo­ne el­se? Oh, the­re'd be­en a few clo­se calls, but not­hing that had set her he­art and blo­od on fi­re the way he had, but why go in­to that?

  "You wri­te chil­d­ren's bo­oks and li­ve… whe­re?"

  "Right now I'm ren­ting an apar­t­ment in Mis
­so­ula. I'm sub­s­ti­tu­ting at the uni­ver­sity this se­mes­ter thro­ugh the end of Janu­ary."

  "And then…?"

  "I'm not su­re." She shrug­ged. "I might stay in Mis­so­ula, I might co­me back to the ranch. I might go so­mep­la­ce el­se. I ha­ven't de­ci­ded yet." This isn't re­al­ly so dif­fi­cult af­ter all, Qu­inn told her­self. If I just lo­ok at that spot on the wall be­hind him, right the­re abo­ve his he­ad, in­s­te­ad of at his fa­ce, I'll be fi­ne.

  "I gu­ess that's an ad­van­ta­ge of do­ing the type of work you do. You can li­ve just abo­ut an­y­w­he­re."

  "An­y­w­he­re the­re's pos­tal ser­vi­ce and elec­t­ri­city for my PC." She nod­ded. "How 'bo­ut you? What are yo­ur plans?"

  "You me­an be­yond ac­cep­ting the fact that my ball-pla­ying days are over?" His eyes dar­ke­ned and the cre­vi­ces ne­ar the cor­ners of his mo­uth se­emed to de­epen.

  "It must be very dif­fi­cult for you to ha­ve to start over."

  He sto­od up and pa­ced just a lit­tle, li­ke so­me­one who had be­en con­fi­ned to a very small spa­ce for far too long. "Ever­yo­ne says, you can co­ach. You can get a job with ra­dio, or TV. You can be a bro­ad­cas­ter."

  ''It's not just abo­ut a job." She sta­ted what to her was ob­vi­o­us.

  "No. It's not just abo­ut a job. Ba­se­ball is so much a part of what I am, that I don't know who I am wit­ho­ut it." He pa­used, then ad­ded, his vo­ice ba­rely abo­ve a whis­per, "May­be I'm af­ra­id to find out who I am now. May­be I’ll find out that I'm re­al­ly no one at all."

  His so­lemn can­dor stun­ned her and to­ok her bre­ath away.

  Be­fo­re she co­uld reply, he tur­ned his back and sa­id, "I gu­ess it's a go­od ti­me to turn in. You must be ti­red from wal­king thro­ugh the storm."

  She co­uld only nod, sud­denly gra­te­ful to know that wit­hin a few mo­re mi­nu­tes, she wo­uld be alo­ne, away from his ha­un­ted eyes and the sor­row that se­emed to over­ta­ke him, away from her sud­den ur­ge to put her arms aro­und him and com­fort him, to re­as­su­re him.