If Only in My Dreams

by Mariah Stewart

  Abruptly he tur­ned, and she was alo­ne in the ro­om.

  A wa­ve of di­sap­po­in­t­ment rol­led over her. She had ho­ped for so­me ti­me alo­ne with him, had lo­oked for­ward to dis­cus­sing the day, and all they had sha­red. Ever­y­t­hing they had do­ne had se­emed so na­tu­ral. Tal­king it over at the end of the day felt li­ke the na­tu­ral thing to do.

  And I gu­ess, in a nor­mal happy fa­mily, that wo­uld be the na­tu­ral thing to do, she told her­self as she chan­ged in­to the ther­mal shirt and swe­at­pants she had slept in the night be­fo­re. If, in fact, you are a nor­mal happy fa­mily. Which we are not. The boys are Ca­le's and anot­her wo­man's, and I'm just a… what had Evan cal­led her? An in­t­ru­der.

  With an un­hap­py sigh, she tur­ned off the light and sta­red in­to the dar­k­ness, and per­mit­ted her­self to fa­ce with a sin­king he­art the un­de­ni­ab­le fact that, af­ter all the­se ye­ars, she was still in lo­ve with Ca­leb McKen­zie.

  The tem­pe­ra­tu­re in the ca­bin ha­ving drop­ped anot­her few deg­re­es, Ca­le tho­ught it might be a go­od idea to throw a few mo­re logs on the fi­re. And he might as well ta­ke anot­her qu­ilt in for Qu­inn, just in ca­se she ne­eded it

  Qu­i­etly, he fol­lo­wed the thir­ty-two steps to the so­fa, then pla­ced the qu­ilt over the sle­eping wo­man. He ad­ded so­me logs to the fi­re, which had all but go­ne out, then fan­ned the fla­mes for a few mi­nu­tes. Tur­ning back to the so­fa, he fo­ught off the ur­ge to awa­ken her, to tell her that he was still ho­pe­les­sly in lo­ve with her.

  The­re had be­en a ti­me when he had be­en cer­ta­in that he co­uld ne­ver for­gi­ve her for ha­ving hurt him so very de­eply. It had only ta­ken her smi­le to pro­ve him wrong.

  Won­de­ring if it co­uld ever be pos­sib­le to ma­ke it right aga­in, if the­re was such a thing as a se­cond chan­ce, Ca­le wal­ked to the win­dow and sta­red out in­to the win­ter night.

  The bliz­zard se­emed to ha­ve stop­ped, al­t­ho­ugh the wind still whip­ped the snow aro­und in a pow­dery swirl. The night was still dra­ped in hazy whi­te, and the fa­in­test tra­ce of mo­on­light dus­ted the hills. He was just abo­ut to turn away, when a sha­dow out be­yond the tre­es ca­ught his eye. He le­aned clo­ser to the glass. What co­uld be out on a night li­ke this

  The fi­gu­re mo­ved easily thro­ugh the snow, as if out for a stroll on a sum­mer night. Frow­ning, he went to the do­or and ope­ned it, not be­li­eving his eyes.

  The­re, the­re ne­ar the han­ging rock. He co­uld see her so cle­arly now. But how…?

  "Are you lost?" He cal­led to her ac­ross the night. "Can you ma­ke it to the ca­bin by yo­ur­self?"

  The fi­gu­re ap­pe­ared to mo­ve slightly away, to­ward the tre­es.

  "No, no, don't go in­to the wo­ods. Wa­it right the­re, I'll co­me for you." But even as he spo­ke, the fi­gu­re se­emed to di­sap­pe­ar in­to thin air. Con­fu­sed, he sto­od in the open do­or­way, lo­oking out in­to a whirl of whi­te.

  "Ca­le?" Qu­inn cal­led to him from the so­fa. "What's wrong?"

  "Not­hing," he told her, clo­sing out the night as he clo­sed the do­or be­hind him. "I gu­ess it was not­hing."

  "Who we­re you tal­king to?" She sat up sle­epily.

  "I'm not cer­ta­in that I was spe­aking to an­yo­ne." He he­si­ta­ted, won­de­ring what he had, in fact, se­en. "I tho­ught I saw… I don't know, a fi­gu­re… but of co­ur­se, I didn't. I co­uldn't ha­ve. No one co­uld sur­vi­ve out on a night li­ke this ____________________ "

  "Was it a wo­man?" she as­ked. "A wo­man wrap­ped in a blan­ket?"

  "How do you know…?"

  "Be­ca­use I saw her. She led me he­re, to yo­ur ca­bin."

  He sta­red at her. "A wo­man in a blan­ket led you thro­ugh a bliz­zard to this ca­bin and you didn't find that re­mar­kab­le eno­ugh to men­ti­on?"

  "Not re­al­ly." She smi­led in the dar­k­ness and ad­ded, "It was Eli­za­beth."

  "Eli­za­beth?" He frow­ned. "You me­an yo­ur gre­at-gre­at wha­te­ver?"

  "Yes."

  "Are you tel­ling me that a ghost led you he­re?"

  "We don't re­al­ly think of her as a ghost. But yes. I do be­li­eve it was her spi­rit."

  "Re­mind me to thank her," he sa­id in the sa­fety of the dar­k­ness.

  "I al­re­ady ha­ve," she told him.

  From ac­ross the ro­om, he co­uld see the way her ha­ir tur­ned to cop­per fla­mes in the fi­re's glow, and the way the light pla­yed with sha­dows ac­ross her fa­ce, and he knew in that mo­ment, wit­ho­ut do­ubt, that they we­re ine­vi­tab­le.

  "Qu­inn."

  He drop­ped to the flo­or next to the so­fa, and to­ok her fa­ce in his hands. The­ir eyes met, me­asu­ring each ot­her for a very long ti­me. He le­aned for­ward and kis­sed her, ten­ta­ti­vely at first, to gi­ve her the op­ti­on of pul­ling away, just on the out­si­de chan­ce he had mi­sun­der­s­to­od the mes­sa­ge he tho­ught he re­ad in her eyes. Qu­inn pul­led him clo­ser, de­epe­ning the kiss as she had in a tho­usand dre­ams, whi­le his fin­gers tra­ced the si­des of her fa­ce and down the fi­ne­bo­ned jaw­li­ne to her thro­at and back to her mo­uth, just as he had lon­ged to do thro­ugh all tho­se sle­ep­less nights. Sin­king back in­to the cus­hi­ons, she to­ok him with her, un­til he half-co­ve­red her body with his, and his hands be­gan to ex­p­lo­re the body that ar­c­hed be­ne­ath him and drew him li­ke a mag­net.

  "Qu­inn," he whis­pe­red, ha­ting to stop, but ne­eding to know, "Qu­inn, why didn't you co­me that day?"

  "What?" Her eyes snap­ped open. He co­uldn't pos­sibly ha­ve sa­id what she tho­ught he sa­id.

  "If you had chan­ged yo­ur mind, why didn't you just tell me?"

  "What are you tal­king abo­ut?" She pus­hed at his chest.

  "Don't tell me that you've for­got­ten, Qu­inn. Even af­ter all the­se ye­ars, I don't think I co­uld ta­ke that." He sat up and ran a res­t­less hand thro­ugh his ha­ir.

  "Ca­le…"

  "Did yo­ur pa­rents find out that we we­re plan­ning to elo­pe? Or did you get cold fe­et? I ne­ed to know, Qu­inn. Why did you le­ave me wa­iting he­re?"

  Qu­inn pus­hed him away and shot up from the so­fa on a bolt of re­mem­be­red pa­in. "What are you tal­king abo­ut? I wa­ited. I wa­ited all day. I wat­c­hed and wa­ited and pa­ced…"

  She be­gan to do just that, re­li­ving tho­se ago­ni­zing ho­urs.

  "Qu­inn, I was he­re all day. I sto­od right the­re, on that porch…" He sto­od and po­in­ted to the front of the ho­use.

  "He­re?" Her fa­ce twis­ted in­to a frown. "Why wo­uld you ha­ve wa­ited he­re?"

  "Be­ca­use that's what we had ag­re­ed upon. July 27, at three o'clock. At the ca­bin."

  "At Eli­za­beth's ca­bin."

  "Eli­za­beth's ca­bin?" He frow­ned. "Why wo­uld you ha­ve go­ne all the way up the­re?"

  "Be­ca­use ca­bin me­ans Eli­za­beth's…"

  "No, Qu­inn. When I sa­id, Me­et me at the ca­bin, I me­ant this ca­bin…" Ca­le's mo­uth went dry. "You we­re the­re? At Eli­za­beth's? You ac­tu­al­ly we­re the­re…?"

  "All day. Un­til dark." She blin­ked, not be­li­eving. "You we­re he­re…?"

  "Till the last pos­sib­le mo­ment. Un­til I had just eno­ugh ti­me left to catch my pla­ne."

  "Oh, Ca­le. Oh, Ca­le." The enor­mity of it over­w­hel­med her and to­ok her bre­ath away. "All the­se ye­ars, I tho­ught… I tho­ught…" She bac­ked up to­ward the fi­rep­la­ce, cho­king on words she co­uld not spe­ak.

  "… that I didn't lo­ve you? That I'd chan­ged my mind abo­ut you?" He spo­ke as if the very words sin­ged his ton­gue.

  She nod­ded. "Yes."

  "That's exactly what I tho­ught," Ca­le whis­pe­red.


  Te­ars as cle­ar as glass and big as pe­arls wel­led in her eyes and rol­led down her che­eks.

  "Qu­inn, I ne­ver stop­ped lo­ving you. Ne­ver. Not for a day" He gat­he­red her in­to his arms, and her sobs bro­ke his he­art. "I tho­ught that may­be you had got­ten cold fe­et abo­ut le­aving with me… that you we­re af­ra­id to ta­ke that chan­ce."

  "Ne­ver, Ca­le. I was ne­ver af­ra­id to lo­ve you."

  "Even now?"

  "Es­pe­ci­al­ly now."

  He lif­ted her off her fe­et, and with one hand, grab­bed a com­for­ter from the so­fa and spre­ad it on the flo­or in front of the fi­rep­la­ce. Gently res­ting her on the blan­ket, he lay down be­si­de her and wor­d­les­sly be­gan to kiss the te­ars from her fa­ce. So­on the­re we­re no te­ars left to be kis­sed away, and his lips be­gan a des­cent the length of her thro­at to the pla­ce whe­re her col­lar­bo­ne met the but­tons of the old ther­mal shirt, which one by one, she ope­ned to lay ba­re the skin be­ne­ath, in­vi­ting him to fe­ast on her flesh the way she had dre­amed he might ha­ve do­ne. Mo­aning thro­ugh slightly par­ted lips, she of­fe­red mo­re, and then mo­re of her­self to the he­at of his mo­uth, crying out softly as his hands and se­eking lips fo­und tho­se pla­ces that had so ac­hed for his to­uch for so very long.

  Re­ality be­ing ever so much mo­re won­der­ful than fan­tasy, she pul­led the shirt over her he­ad, and re­mo­ved his own, ne­eding des­pe­ra­tely to fe­el his skin aga­inst hers. She felt her bo­nes be­gin to melt away, the re­sul­tant li­qu­id, thick and hot and bright, se­eming to spre­ad thro­ugh her li­ke la­va. Wor­d­les­sly they mo­ved to­get­her, ca­ught up in the rhythms of an an­ci­ent dan­ce, un­til he fil­led her as com­p­le­tely as she ne­eded him to, and the swe­et po­wer of the­ir dre­ams en­gul­fed them both and drag­ged them down in­to the ma­gi­cal he­art of the night.

  Chapter Ten

  For the first ti­me in ye­ars, Ca­le slept li­ke a baby. Wa­king to find Qu­inn cur­led up next to him had bro­ught him to te­ars, pro­ving that the won­ders of the night had not be­en a dre­am af­ter all. He kis­sed her sho­ul­ders to awa­ken her just as the sun ro­se thro­ugh the tre­es to spre­ad the first early arms of light in­to the ca­bin, and she rol­led in­to his open arms, ur­ging him to lo­ve her in­to the new day. He had ne­eded no en­co­ura­ge­ment.

  "Ca­le." She spo­ke in­to his chest, whe­re her he­ad had fal­len, her neck be­ing too lan­gu­id, re­fu­sing to hold up its we­ight.

  "What, swe­et­he­art?" he whis­pe­red in­to the clo­ud of auburn curls that res­ted just be­low his chin.

  "I think we sho­uld get up." She tri­ed to stir, as if to be the one to ma­ke the first mo­ve, but fo­und she co­uld not. Her bo­nes, it wo­uld ap­pe­ar, had be­en sto­len whi­le she slept, ma­king it dif­fi­cult for her to ri­se.

  "Why?"

  "Be­ca­use yo­ur sons will be up so­on," she sa­id. "We sho­uld not be lying he­re, wrap­ped in lit­tle mo­re than each ot­her."

  "Ummm," Ca­le rep­li­ed.

  "I ta­ke it that me­ans you ag­ree."

  For­cing her body in­to ac­ti­on, she sat up and se­ar­c­hed for her shirt and swe­at­pants amidst the rum­p­led blan­kets, which at so­me po­int had ma­de the­ir way from the so­fa on­to the flo­or. Fin­ding her shirt, she pul­led it over her he­ad, then re­ali­zing he was wat­c­hing her, as­ked, "What?"

  "I can't be­li­eve you're he­re with me. Af­ter all the­se ye­ars of lo­ving you, of mis­sing you, I can't be­li­eve you're re­al­ly he­re."

  "Twel­ve ye­ars too la­te…" she sa­id wryly.

  "Bet­ter la­te than ne­ver," he told her. "It's a mi­rac­le."

  "A Chris­t­mas mi­rac­le." She smi­led.

  "Not many pe­op­le get the se­cond chan­ce that we've be­en gi­ven, Qu­inn," he sa­id softly.

  "Do you re­al­ly think it co­uld be the sa­me?" Her fin­ger­tips pla­yed with the dark ha­irs on his chest.

  "No," he told her. "Bet­ter. It will be much bet­ter."

  "What do we do now?" she as­ked.

  "What we sho­uld ha­ve do­ne be­fo­re"-he drew her down to kiss her mo­uth-"only this ti­me, we don't ne­ed yo­ur pa­rents' per­mis­si­on."

  "'You want to elo­pe?"

  "Ac­tu­al­ly, I think may­be we co­uld plan on so­met­hing a lit­tle mo­re ela­bo­ra­te than the sit­ting ro­om of the lo­cal jus­ti­ce of the pe­ace." He ran his hands slowly up and down her arms. "May­be so­met­hing with all the Hol­lis­ters in at­ten­dan­ce."

  Qu­inn let that sink in for a mo­ment be­fo­re as­king, "You still want to marry me?"

  "I ne­ver stop­ped wan­ting to marry you. Not for a day. I ne­ver lo­ved an­yo­ne but you, Qu­inn. I don't want to lo­se you aga­in."

  She smi­led and crad­led his he­ad aga­inst her chest "I ne­ver lo­ved an­yo­ne but you, eit­her. I tho­ught I wo­uld die when-"

  A crash from the back of the ca­bin jol­ted them both.

  "Gu­ess we'd bet­ter get mo­ving," she sig­hed.

  "Want to toss a co­in to see who ma­kes bre­ak­fast to­day?" he as­ked as he pul­led on his swe­at­pants and sto­od up.

  "Ah, wo­uld that be a cho­ice bet­we­en my per­fect pan­ca­kes and yo­ur 'gloppy' eggs?"

  "She's not back se­ven­ty-two ho­urs and al­re­ady she's ma­king'fun of my co­oking."

  "Shall we ask yo­ur sons which they wo­uld pre­fer?" Qu­inn bat­ted her eye­las­hes in­no­cently.

  "You do bre­ak­fast. I'll"-he pa­used as a se­cond crash fol­lo­wed the fir­st-"j­ust see what the boys are do­ing."

  "Qu­inn, why'd you sle­ep on the flo­or?" Evan sto­od by the kit­c­hen do­or and po­in­ted to the tan­g­le of for­got­ten blan­kets in front of the fi­rep­la­ce.

  Wit­ho­ut tur­ning aro­und, Qu­inn rep­li­ed from in front of the sto­ve, "It was war­mer by the fi­re."

  "Go­od sa­ve," Ca­le mur­mu­red, re­ac­hing aro­und her to grab a sli­ce of but­te­red to­ast off the pla­te.

  "What do­es that me­an?" Eric plop­ped him­self in­to one of the wo­oden cha­irs. " 'Go­od sa­ve'?"

  "It me­ans eat yo­ur bre­ak­fast." Ca­le but­te­red the pan­ca­kes on first one, then the ot­her of his sons' pla­tes.

  "It lo­oks li­ke it's cle­ared up a lot." Qu­inn lo­oked out the win­dow and squ­in­ted, the sun pla­ying off the snow ne­arly blin­ding her. "But the re­port on the ra­dio war­ned of anot­her storm."

  "Gee, too bad," Ca­le de­ad­pan­ned. "I gu­ess you'll be stuck he­re for a whi­le."

  "I sho­uld call ho­me." She lo­oked at the clock. It was ten o'clock in the mor­ning. "It's Chris­t­mas Eve, Ca­le. I ha­ve to be ho­me for Chris­t­mas."

  "I un­der­s­tand," he sa­id wit­ho­ut lo­oking at her.

  Qu­inn star­ted to spe­ak, then ap­pa­rently tho­ught bet­ter of it. She di­sap­pe­ared in­to the li­ving ro­om, and he co­uld he­ar her vo­ice, tho­ugh he co­uld not ma­ke out what she was sa­ying. The tho­ught of her le­aving ma­de his hands sha­ke and his he­ad po­und, so fe­ar­ful was he of lo­sing her aga­in. The ho­le he had car­ri­ed aro­und in­si­de him for the past twel­ve ye­ars, the one that had only so re­cently be­gun to mend, be­gan to open aga­in. Stitch by pa­in­ful stitch.

  "My brot­her Tre­vor is go­ing to dri­ve up on the trac­tor," she told him hap­pily as she sat at the tab­le and sip­ped at her cof­fee.

  "Is he go­ing to ta­ke you away?" Evan as­ked.

  "He's go­ing to plow a ro­ad so that I can dri­ve down the mo­un­ta­in to our ranch."

  "You're go­ing to le­ave?" Eric's bot­tom lip be­gan to qu­iver unex­pec­tedly.

  "Well, ac­tu­al­ly, I tho­ught I'd ta­ke you all with me." She lo­oked in­to Ca­le's eyes. Un­der the tab­le, her fo­ot, soft in its wo­ol sock, fol­lo­w
ed the length of his leg to his knee and back aga­in. "Sin­ce the­re is anot­her big storm co­ming. And sin­ce my mot­her is all pre­pa­red for the ho­li­day." She tur­ned to the boys and ad­ded, "And sin­ce yo­ur Aunt Val is al­re­ady the­re with per­haps so­met­hing spe­ci­al for her two fa­vo­ri­te boys."

  "Wo­uld San­ta be ab­le to find us the­re?" Eric as­ked, wor­ri­ed that a last-mi­nu­te chan­ge of ad­dress might con­fu­se the jol­ly old elf.

  "Ab­so­lu­tely." She grin­ned at Ca­le. Her mot­her had told her that Val ar­ri­ved the night be­fo­re with all the pre­sents for the boys that Ca­le had bo­ught and ma­iled for Val to bring with her. "What do you say, Ca­le? A won­der­ful Chris­t­mas is wa­iting, just a mi­le down the mo­un­ta­in."

  "May­be for so­me. But me, I had my Chris­t­mas," he told her softly. "And it was won­der­ful. Every bit as won­der­ful as I dre­amed it wo­uld be."

  "Co­me ho­me with me, Ca­le." She re­ac­hed ac­ross the tab­le to rub his fa­ce gently with the back of her hand. "Let me ha­ve it all this ye­ar. Let me sha­re it all with you and the boys."

  Two lit­tle pa­irs of eyes met ac­ross the tab­le. What was go­ing on? Dad was ac­ting li­ke one of tho­se guys on the so­ap ope­ras that the nanny used to watch, and Qu­inn was lo­oking all melty.

  Yuck.

  On the ot­her hand, she had ma­de co­oki­es and a tree and was go­ing to put the­ir na­mes in a bo­ok. That stuff sho­uld co­unt for so­met­hing.

  As much as Ca­le wis­hed to ke­ep her to him­self for a few mo­re days, he co­uld not deny the light in Qu­inn's eyes as she des­c­ri­bed the sce­ne that wo­uld gre­et them at the High Me­adow Ranch. She wan­ted, at long last, to sha­re him with her fa­mily, to sha­re the ho­li­day with all of tho­se she lo­ved. She de­ser­ved to ha­ve it all. And it wo­uld be won­der­ful to see her fa­mily aga­in, to bask in the glow of that lar­ge and happy gro­up, to see her pa­rents and to in­t­ro­du­ce his sons to the man they knew only as a le­gend. To see Sky aga­in, and to spend the ho­li­day with Va­le­rie for the first ti­me in ye­ars.