When Snow Falls

by Brenda Novak

  Her mother’s eyelids slid closed. Fading out was her way of avoiding a confrontation. Cheyenne had tried to talk to her about this again and again, especially after Anita got sick. Tonight it felt as futile as ever. She was defeated before she even started. But time was getting short. She couldn’t continue to let Anita put her off or she might never learn the answers.

  The problem was, she couldn’t force Anita to talk. Particularly since her memories of the blonde woman and the canopy bed and the pretty dolls could be merely the wishful imaginings of a girl desperate to escape a harsher reality. Maybe she’d made up the place where she had nice clothes and plenty of food, where she felt loved and safe and happy. It was possible. Anita had accused her of that before. And Presley didn’t remember anyone like the woman she described.

  “Mom! You’re still awake. You can answer me.”

  “I have answered you!” Her eyes flew open. “I’ve told you time and time again, you were born in Wyoming. Where do you think I got your name?”

  She might have gotten the name from Wyoming. But Cheyenne wasn’t born there. She’d written to every county in the state. Each clerk had responded with a letter stating that no female Caucasian child of her age, with the name Cheyenne Christensen, was on the rolls. “It wasn’t Wyoming. I’ve checked.”

  Anita didn’t have her false teeth in today. Unless she was eating, she hardly ever wore them anymore. The dentist who’d created them had done a decent job—he donated one afternoon a week to pro bono work for the poor—but she’d had them a long time and hadn’t taken any better care of them than her real teeth. Because of her sunken mouth and the ravages of cancer, she looked seventy-five instead of fifty-five. “Someone else knows more than your own mother does?”

  “Wyoming shows no record of me having been born there.”

  “Then the records are screwed up. That happens sometimes.”

  “Or you were too drunk to realize where you were when you went into labor.” That had happened, too—monumental events occurring when her mother wasn’t in a position to remember them.

  “I’ve never pretended to be a saint.” She shrugged. “If you’d rather blame it on me, go ahead. I’m too sick to stand up for myself.”

  Cheyenne curved her fingernails into her palms. “Don’t start playing the martyr. I just want the truth. Please.”

  “I’d tell you if I could, but I can’t, so you might as well accept it. I don’t know what else to say, except that we don’t always get what we want.”

  Cheyenne came to her feet. “I deserve a few basic facts about my own life. Wanting to know where I was born is not being selfish.”

  “It isn’t? What about your sister?”

  “What about her?” They were nearly shouting, but Cheyenne couldn’t bring herself to care.

  “All you can talk about is some blonde woman and a fancy house where you had a fancy bedroom and all kinds of toys. She isn’t part of that picture. Neither am I. It’s like you’ve imagined a place where we don’t exist. How do you think that makes us feel? I know you don’t care about me, but what about her?”

  Her mother had hit her where she was most vulnerable, disarming her, as intended. That was how Anita always won these arguments—by making Cheyenne feel as if she was being egotistical, or delusional, or callous toward her sister.

  Maybe Anita was right. Maybe she was all those things and worse. She’d spent the past two nights having sex with Dylan Amos, hadn’t she? She knew he wasn’t the type of man she wanted, that she could never settle for someone who reminded her so much of everything she’d rather forget. Yet she was eager to go back to him, to let him convince her that her happiness wasn’t as immaterial as it sometimes felt.

  “Never mind,” she said, and stalked out of the room. She shouldn’t leave her mother alone in the house. But she couldn’t force herself to stay. Dylan had given her a taste of freedom, a way to cope with the hurt and anger. She couldn’t wait to see him again.

  Promising her usual responsible self that she wouldn’t be gone long, she grabbed her coat and hurried out the door.

  Fortunately, he lived just down the street.

  * * *

  After Cheyenne called his cell phone, Dylan met her at his front door. He did so quietly, without speaking, because his brothers were at home asleep. It was the middle of the week. She felt bad about waking him. He got up early and worked hard and, thanks to her, he hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep in three days. But when she whispered that she could go back home if he was too tired to see her, he simply hooked his arm around her neck and guided her into his bedroom. It wasn’t until they’d made desperate, frantic love that he asked her if something was wrong.

  “No, nothing.” She was lying on her back, still trying to catch her breath, and so was he. The last thing she wanted to think about was what he’d just helped her forget.

  He drew a deep breath; she heard him exhale. “There’s something different about you tonight.”

  “I was upset. That’s all.”

  “I could tell. About what?”

  The physical outlet he’d made possible had siphoned off the worst of it. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

  “Is it your mother?”

  She laid her head on his chest so she could listen to his heart. It was still beating faster than normal. She’d been more aggressive tonight, demanded more intensity and stamina than before, which he’d wordlessly provided. “Do we have to talk about it?”

  His fingers slipped through her hair. “Not if you don’t want to.”

  “I just…just let me feel you, okay?” She kissed his chest. “That’s all.”

  “I’m right here.”

  Solid. Warm. Responsive. She couldn’t complain about how Dylan made love. She couldn’t imagine anyone doing it better. He touched her with just the right amount of confidence and familiarity, was especially sensitive to the give-and-take that made it mutually rewarding and was willing to bestow pleasure even in nonsexual ways. Tenderness seemed to come more naturally to him than she’d ever dreamed it would. Besides all that, she liked the smell of him, the sound of his voice, the fact that he could make her feel so darn content.

  “Where did you park?” he asked.

  “In front.”

  “Why didn’t you pull behind the barn?”

  “Because I can’t stay. Presley’s at work.”

  “I should’ve come to your house.”

  “No, I needed to get out.”

  “But…can you do that? I mean…with your mom the way she is?”

  “It should be okay if I’m not gone too long.”

  He let her lie on him for several more minutes. Then, when she got up, he did, too. She assumed he was going to use the bathroom, but he dug something out of the pocket of his jeans and held it out to her.

  It was too dark to see clearly. They hadn’t turned on any lights. “What’s this?” she whispered.

  “A key.” He put it in her hand. “That way you can come over whenever you want.”

  She shook her head and gave it back. “No, sorry. I can’t accept that.”

  He stood there, watching her. He seemed completely unconcerned with his own nudity, but then, he didn’t have any reason to be self-conscious. She’d just left Dylan’s bed and already she wanted to touch him again, to climb back under the covers and go to sleep with him instead of returning to the reality of her own life.

  “Why not?” he asked.

  She’d offended him. She could hear the hurt pride in his voice. “I’m not the type to—to keep doing this,” she explained.

  “Doing what?”

  “Running off in the middle of the night to have sex with—” she tried to come up an ending to that statement that wouldn’t be unkind “—with some guy I’ve never even gone out with.”

  “We could fix that,” he said. “I could take you to dinner.”

  She thought of all the people who might see them together, and how quickly the news would spread. This wa
s Dylan. Everyone would assume she was sleeping with him—and they’d be right.

  She wasn’t ready to deal with the backlash that would cause, not when there was already so much going on in her life. Every person she knew—except maybe Presley, who’d finally feel vindicated—would tell her she was a fool to get involved with a man like this. He’d cheat on her, break her heart, offer none of the safety and security she’d been searching for her whole life.

  Her friends, when they returned, would think she’d lost her mind.

  “It’s hard for me to find time for…for dating with my mother so sick.”

  He said nothing. No doubt he’d read her response for the excuse it was. So she added a weak, “But…I’ll call you if I get the chance.”

  No response. She’d been getting dressed as they spoke. He just watched her pull on her sweater and shoes and didn’t try to stop her when she hurried past him without so much as a goodbye kiss.

  * * *

  He was done with her, Dylan decided. It was stupid to let Cheyenne keep coming over. He couldn’t believe he’d actually been willing to give her a key to his house!

  He’d always been too impetuous. But his heart was a difficult thing to subdue. And besides that, he wasn’t sure how much of her behavior to ascribe to the hell she was enduring. He kept thinking she just needed more time to sort out her thoughts and feelings, to get to know him and realize he could give her everything Joe could.

  Even if she never came to regard him that highly, she’d have to recognize the spark between them, wouldn’t she? He’d never experienced this sort of chemistry with anyone else. When they made love, it was like…

  He didn’t even know how to describe it.

  She sensed the same thing he did. He could feel her shake when she touched him, hear her sigh and gasp. Mechanical sex wasn’t like that. He’d had enough experience to tell the difference, but she hadn’t. Maybe she thought making love was like this with any partner. He’d told her that other guys could give her the same thrill—but only because he wanted her to choose him for more reason than that.

  “Dylan, what are you doing in the flower section?”

  Blinking, he shifted his attention from the roses he’d been contemplating to Mack, who’d gone to pick up some hamburger. He’d said he’d get the buns and a few deli items and that they’d meet up at the register, but then he’d noticed the small flower section.

  He’d never paused here before. He wasn’t sure why he’d done it now. Maybe he wanted to buy Cheyenne flowers but he wouldn’t be foolish enough to do it. She didn’t want that kind of thing from him; she wanted it from Joe.

  “Nothing.” Embarrassed by the impulse, he turned away.

  His little brother was looking at him like he’d gone crazy. “Where’re the buns?”

  Dylan rubbed his face. “I’m on my way.”

  “You’re not yourself these days,” Mack complained. “What’s going on with you?”

  “What do you mean?” he asked as they headed to the deli section together.

  Mack sent him a worried glance. “You’re preoccupied, quiet.”

  He supposed that was true. He’d finally found someone he really wanted in his life. And he was sure that—just like the mother he’d prayed to keep, and the father he’d tried so hard to reclaim from alcohol—he was destined to lose her, too.

  * * *

  Cheyenne didn’t let herself go to Dylan’s that night or the night after. She worked all day at the B and B Wednesday and Thursday, watched her mother and tried to keep herself occupied with videos and computer games. She was afraid he’d call her and knew she’d go see him if he did, but the phone never rang. Maybe that was why, on Friday, after Riley and Jacob left, she broke down and called him from the office.

  Her heart seemed lodged in her throat by the time he answered. Her emotions were such a mixture of embarrassment and chagrin over her wanton behavior, disappointment that she didn’t seem to be the person she’d always thought she was, and desire to return to his bed that she couldn’t seem to get her bearings anymore. She felt pulled apart, restless. Most of all, she wanted to come out of this tailspin knowing they were friends, that he didn’t hate her. Regardless of his reputation, she liked Dylan; there was no denying that.

  He picked up but didn’t give her a chance to speak. “Damn, do I need to educate you in everything?”

  “Excuse me?” she replied, taken aback.

  “It’s only eight o’clock. Booty calls are supposed to happen later. Otherwise, word might get out that you’ve lowered your standards enough to sleep with me.”

  Cringing, she opened her mouth to respond, but he’d already hung up. She should’ve called him before. She needed to explain that she was trying to get back to the Cheyenne Christensen she recognized, that her behavior had very little to do with him. He had to be wondering what the heck he’d done wrong. After spending three nights in a row together—that last night she’d nearly torn off his clothes—she’d rejected the key he’d offered her and then he’d heard nothing.

  He could’ve called her.

  She tried to justify her behavior that way, but…considering she’d pushed him away, he really couldn’t be the one to call, and she knew it.

  “Shit,” she breathed, and tapped herself on the forehead with her phone. What was going on with her? Had she ever been more lost or confused?

  Not since before coming to Whiskey Creek…

  She told herself not to call him back. But she knew she wouldn’t be able to relax until she’d made at least one more attempt to soothe any feelings she might’ve hurt—so she tried again.

  “What?” he said.

  He’d answered at the last second, right before the call could transfer to voice mail. “I’m sorry, Dylan. I’m really sorry,” she said, and hung up so he couldn’t beat her to it. Maybe if she didn’t act as if she expected his forgiveness, or anything else, he wouldn’t think so badly of her and they’d both be able to move on.

  After checking to make sure that Presley would stay with Anita for another hour, she left her car at the B and B and walked a block south to Just Like Mom’s for a bite to eat. She wasn’t hungry. The anger she’d heard in Dylan’s voice seemed to be ricocheting through her head. She felt sick inside. But she ordered a bowl of chicken noodle soup and some coffee. She didn’t care that it was too late for caffeine. She wouldn’t be able to sleep, anyway. Ironically, it’d been even harder to wind down on the nights she’d made herself stay away from Dylan than on the nights she’d seen him. It required that much effort to fight the impulse to return.

  She’d become instantly addicted—that was the only way to describe it. She was acting like Presley, always searching for her next hit.

  But when he’d handed her that key, as if he assumed what they were doing would continue, it had scared her to death. She couldn’t get involved with anyone like him on a regular basis. As soon as Anita died, Cheyenne was moving out of the river bottoms, away from the Amoses and the memories of her past. She’d rent a cute little house in town, maybe even one with a white picket fence, and forget it all—her dreams of the blonde woman, the nightmare of being raised by Anita and the fantasy of Dylan.

  So fate seemed almost too cruel when Dylan and his brothers filed into the restaurant. Especially when he did a double take on seeing her by herself in the corner booth.

  16

  After that initial moment of shock, Dylan ignored her. It made Cheyenne feel even worse, but she wasn’t sure how else she expected him to behave. She was the one who’d let him know that their relationship wasn’t something she wanted to take public. So he was treating her the way he’d treated her before—as if they were basically strangers.

  That didn’t make it any easier to sit and wait for her food when he was right across the restaurant, however. She told herself not to look over, but every few seconds her eyes naturally gravitated toward him.

  With that scar on his face, his crooked nose, which had probably been br
oken in a fight, and the wary air he carried like a battle shield, she knew most people would consider him the least attractive of the Amos boys. They were all tall, strong and dark-haired, with rugged features and expressive mouths, if not perfectly straight teeth. But they were also reckless, undisciplined and unpredictable. As far as she was concerned, that made them emotionally undependable, too.

  Tonight Dylan had on a pair of holey jeans and a distressed leather jacket, which he took off because the restaurant was so warm. At that point, Cheyenne couldn’t help admiring the way his Amos Auto Body T-shirt stretched across his chest. It reminded her how well the rest of him was put together. Maybe other people wouldn’t find him as attractive as his brothers, but she found him more so. There was something about the way he smiled, the way there seemed to be all kinds of things going on in his head, far more than ever passed his lips....

  It could even be his attitude that attracted her. He acted as if the whole world could go to hell, that he’d do exactly as he damn well pleased. Sometimes she felt like ignoring public opinion, too. But she’d always been too scared of ending up friendless—and possibly worse off than she was now.

  The waitress brought her a basket of crackers and said she’d be right back with the soup. But Cheyenne was hardly listening. Just looking at Dylan made her throat go dry, because she knew what that mouth, those hands, felt like. And she wanted more.

  Taking a sip of water, she tried to change her focus to the Christmas music on the sound system, but Elvis’s “Blue Christmas” came on and that certainly didn’t improve her mood. She was feeling lonely enough already. So she played a video game on her phone. And when that couldn’t distract her, she got up and went to the restroom, where she stayed as long as she could, trying not to make it obvious that she’d abandoned her table just to escape being in the same room with Dylan.

  When she returned, he glanced up at her. Their eyes locked, and she felt such a terrible hunger, she knew she couldn’t stay. Dropping a twenty on the table, she left the soup and coffee the waitress had delivered in her absence and walked out, not even bothering to wait for her change.