by Carol Grace
One morning when her aunt had had once again expressed her sympathy and incredulity at the Postal Service’s failure to do the obvious and hire her niece, then left to do her grocery shopping, Laura took a call for a reservation for the Fourth of July weekend. As she flipped through her aunt’s reservation’s book, she noted there was only one room free, the one she and Dylan occupied. Taking a deep breath, she quoted the room rate and confirmed the reservation though it meant she and Dylan would have to move out for the weekend. She couldn’t deprive her aunt of the chance to fill her B and B. Besides, they’d taken advantage of her hospitality long enough.
It was time to get serious about finding a place to stay, a place of their own. Now that she knew she wasn’t going to get Willa Mae’s place for sure. This was a wake-up call. The trouble was, Laura had asked around, she’d posted a notice on the bulletin board at the feed-and-fuel store but she’d heard nothing. It was such a small town, if there was a vacancy, she would have heard about it. She had to find a place for herself and Dylan now. But where and how?
What she’d told Brandon about the town being preoccupied with the celebration was true, but it wasn’t the reason she hadn’t found housing. The reason was there wasn’t any. There were no apartments in town, only an occasional room for rent, and she was afraid that’s where they’d end up, renting a room like some transient. It was too depressing to even contemplate. But right now it didn’t look as if she had much of a choice.
In the mean time she was in charge of the historical society’s entry in the Fourth of July parade. She called a meeting one evening at the old Victorian house that housed the historical society to try on costumes from the wardrobe in the attic.
“You look like Martha Washington,” Aunt Emily declared when Laura came down the stairs from the attic and posed in a pink satin dress trimmed in white lace at the bodice and cuffs. “Just beautiful.”
“Thank you, Aunt, but is it authentic? This dress was a donation and we have no idea of its origin. It may well be revolutionary, and Silverado was founded in 1852, not 1776.”
“It could be revolutionary,” David Ray cut in. “But it could also be authentic dance hall girl, the kind the gold diggers came to town to see.” He held up an old archival photo of a girl in a long dress with a low-cut neckline and a nipped-in waist, like the dress she was wearing.
“The important thing is we girls get to look sexy one day of the year,” Willa Mae said with a sly wink. “That’s the whole idea.”
“Not too sexy,” her aunt cautioned, “or they’ll take us for employees of the brothel.”
“Let them take us,” Willa Mae declared, dramatically waving a feather boa. “Do what you want, but I plan to make a splash and look as sexy as possible. And so should you, Laura. We get a lot of onlookers, a lot of tourists at our parade who don’t know Martha Washington from a dance hall girl. I say you should wear it and let the nitpickers be damned.”
Amanda, the town librarian, shook her head. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you since you retired, Willa Mae. You used to be an upright pillar of the community. Now you’re acting like you’re in Reno already. That’s not the way we dress in Silverado. But, then, I guess Silverado isn’t good enough for you anymore. The lights just aren’t bright enough.”
“You got that right, Amanda. Life doesn’t end at sixty-five, you know. I’ve decided to have a little fun in my sunset years. Which is why I’m leaving this burg behind me and hitting the trail. You wouldn’t believe the nightlife in Reno. And when I get tired of Reno—there’s Las Vegas. Talk about bright lights. The place never shuts down.”
“The grass is always greener on the other side for some folks,” Amanda muttered.
“Grass is for cows,” Willa Mae said. “I’m not looking for grass. I’m looking for excitement.”
Before tensions rose any further and erupted into a catfight, David grabbed a three-cornered hat from the trunk in the middle of the room and slapped it on his shaggy mane. “What do you think of this?”
“You look like Napoleon at the battle of Waterloo.” Willa Mae giggled.
“Napoleon had nothing to do with Silverado history.” Amanda sniffed. “We’re a town of gold miners and merchants and ranchers.”
“Don’t be such a stickler for details,” Willa Mae said. “Wear it, David. It brings out the conqueror in you.”
“Don’t you mean emperor?” Amanda asked.
David grinned and winked at Aunt Emily and she smiled demurely at him. Laura followed this exchange with interest. Emily was positively glowing in her own antebellum gown. She wondered idly if her aunt was at all interested in the handsome, silver-haired newspaper editor. He was certainly an attractive man in her age bracket, who’d been editing their little newspaper for as long as she could remember. If her aunt was looking for someone, she could do a lot worse.
Laura always wondered if he really enjoyed writing about high school sports and the Elks Club’s fund-raisers. She knew he was a fugitive from a big-city paper who’d tired of the fast pace and bad news. In Silverado, he’d found a place where he could accentuate the positive news. But as far as she knew, he’d never found a wife.
Laura took off her Martha Washington/dance-hall girl dress in the slope-roofed attic and hung it on the rack until the Fourth, then changed into her shorts and T-shirt. She had to get back and put Dylan to bed. But just as she reached the door of the once-grand mansion, she paused when she heard Brandon’s name mentioned.
“I think he’s quite an addition to the community,” someone said. It sounded like Willa Mae.
“What’s the story on him?”
“A hermit. A recluse.”
“Rich, good-looking. Too good to be true.”
“Do you know how much he paid for the ranch?”
“A lot. He’s inflating real estate values, that’s what it is. Why did she sell anyway?”
“Oh, come on, you know why.”
Quietly Laura closed the door behind her and walked out onto the street. She shouldn’t be surprised that people started gossiping about her before she’d even left the building. She’d lived around here all her life. These people had known her all her life. Known her and cared about her and talked about her. There was nothing she could do to stop them from doing any of those things. Nothing she could do to stop the ache in her heart that such talk generated. She was just glad Brandon hadn’t been there. He wouldn’t have liked what he heard.
Instead of allowing herself to wallow in self-pity, she turned her thoughts back to Brandon as she walked back to her aunt’s house. She wished he’d make more of an effort to get the know the locals. Not that it would stop the gossip he was generating. He was too handsome, too mysterious, too rich to simply ignore. But he’d have a chance to stop the rumors of his turning the ranch into a theme park or his hiding out from the law. On the other hand, he’d probably rather have people say things like that than know the truth. That he’d come to Silverado to mourn the loss of the family he loved. That he didn’t want company and he didn’t want new friends. And that included her.
Chapter Eight
The Fourth of July started out like any other summer day in that corner of Nevada. Hot and dry and dusty. But there was more than dust in the air. There was a palpable sense of excitement that hung over Silverado. As the sun rose over the majestic mountains in the east, the locals knew it wasn’t just another day. In Silverado, the Fourth was more than the Fourth of July. More than a national holiday. It was also the anniversary of the arrival of the first settlers during the gold rush. Not just Laura, but many others in town could trace their family history over one hundred years back to that time.
In the town square a committee of three old codgers in overalls and wide-brimmed hats who’d been in charge of the barbecue forever was assembling the makeshift grills fashioned of fifty-five-gallon steel drums cut in half lengthwise with grates welded of rebar. Sheriff Patzert along with his three deputies were blocking the streets for the parade route
, and some of the merchants like Danny at the feed-and-fuel were sweeping and hosing down their sidewalks. Naturally they’d close down at ten for the parade, but they’d reopen afterward.
Dylan jumped out of bed at dawn and packed his duffel bag to take to his friend’s where he was spending the weekend. Very fortunately and even more conveniently, since this was the weekend he and Laura couldn’t stay at the B and B. For once Dylan was talking about something other than the tree house or his daddy. Instead he was talking about his gold-digger costume, which consisted of coveralls and a bandanna around his neck and real cowboy boots. He was not only talking about it, he was wearing it, though the parade was hours away.
He clumped down the stairs to breakfast and fixed his own cereal. He sat in the breakfast nook and looked up at Laura who was helping her aunt prepare breakfast trays with fresh fruit, biscuits and homemade jam for the guests, to be delivered to their rooms.
“Is Brandon coming to the parade?” he asked.
“I don’t think so,” she said. “He’s probably got something else to do. Like his work.”
“On a holiday?” her aunt injected.
“For some people it’s just another day,” Laura said lightly, hoping they’d both drop the subject.
“Maybe he’ll just come for the fireworks,” Dylan said.
“Yes, maybe.” She understood why Brandon didn’t want to come. She didn’t approve of it, but she understood. But no one else would unless they knew his whole story. And that wasn’t going to happen.
Dylan took off, Laura and her aunt put a sprig of lavender on each tray and Laura delivered them to the guests. Then she picked up her small overnight bag she was taking to Willa Mae’s, who’d offered her foldout bed in the living room when she heard Laura was stuck for a place to stay this weekend.
“This place should have rightly been yours,” Willa Mae had said. “Everyone knows it. Everyone says it.”
“Everyone but the district office,” Laura said sadly.
“Honestly,” her aunt said, taking note of the overnight bag, “I feel like a heel turning you out in the cold like this.”
Laura kissed her cheek. “For one thing, it’s hardly cold out there, and for another, we’ve intruded on you long enough.”
“Nonsense. Say you’ll be back for breakfast. Otherwise you’ll starve. That Willa Mae never could boil water to save her soul. I can’t stand to see you lose a single pound,” Emily said giving Laura a critical glance. “And after the weekend, that room is yours, period. For as long as you want it. See how much good it’s done Dylan to be here. Why, he’s a different boy from the one who arrived a few weeks ago. Of course, part of that is due to Mr….well, to the tree house project, don’t you think?”
“I do think so,” Laura said. “I’m just worried about what will happen when it’s finished. They can’t keep building shelves and painting boards forever. One of these days it will be finished and Brandon will ask where it goes. I’ve got to have a place to put it. And when I do put it somewhere, somewhere that isn’t the ranch, Dylan’s going to—I don’t know what he’s going to do.”
She could only imagine the shock. All this time they’d been rebuilding, she had refrained from bringing up the subject of the change in location of the tree house. She didn’t think Brandon had mentioned it, either.
“In any case,” Laura said, “I’d love to come for breakfast. But I’m going on a campaign to find housing starting next week,” she said resolutely. It was good to have a safe haven and someone who cared about her and Dylan. But she had to find a permanent home for the two of them. Enough was enough.
“You’re starting your new job next week,” her aunt protested. “Give yourself a little time.”
A little time. If that was all she needed…. She needed a lot of time and a lot of money and a lot of luck. So far, she had none of those. She made a mental list of what she did have. Wheels. Maybe it was an old truck with worn-out brakes and an iffy water pump, but it ran. A job. Not the job she wanted, but a job, nonetheless. A son. A sweet, adorable little boy whose happiness and well-being was strictly in her hands.
BRANDON HAD TOLD himself he wouldn’t go. Going to the Silverado Fourth of July celebration would just make him feel worse, if that was possible. He’d stay home and pretend it was just another day and not the anniversary of the accident. But by evening he could no longer pretend. He’d drive in and watch the fireworks from a safe distance and come right back. It would distract him for an hour or so. He would avoid seeing anyone he knew, in particular Laura or Dylan.
But he couldn’t avoid Willa Mae, the outgoing postmistress. She spotted him across the lawn in the park at dusk before the fireworks began and hurried over to his side.
“Good to see you again.” Wearing a jaunty straw hat with a red, white and blue ribbon and carrying an overnight bag, she smiled at him so eagerly that he was afraid she was going to insist on giving him that apricot cordial this time. But she didn’t. “Have you seen Laura?” she asked.
He shook his head. He hadn’t seen her and he had no intention of seeing her. “I just got here,” he explained.
“Well, she’s here somewhere. If you see her, would you give her a message for me? Tell her something’s come up and I have to renege on my invitation to spend the night. You see, her aunt’s booked up this weekend and Laura didn’t have any place to stay, so of course I volunteered my foldaway in the living room, but my sister just popped into town unexpectedly—not the one who lives in Reno. This is my sister from California. Anyway, I’ve got to go. Here’s Laura’s bag.”
She shoved it into his hand and skittered away into the darkness in her white running shoes before he could protest. He tried to tell her that he wasn’t staying. That he’d just dropped by to see the fireworks, that he had no intention of running into Laura, but Willa Mae was gone. He could have pursued her and given her back the overnight bag, but he had no idea where she’d gone. So he didn’t try. What good would it do?
He just stood there staring off into the gathering dusk, feeling a strange sense of destiny overtake him. He wondered if it mattered what he’d planned. Since he’d arrived in Silverado his life seemed to have taken a strange turn that he couldn’t alter.
It was getting dark fast. There were voices all around him. One stood out. A child’s voice.
“Brandon.” It was Dylan. He came out of nowhere like a whirling dervish and flung himself at Brandon, wrapping his arms around his legs. “Thought you weren’t coming. Save me, save me.” For a moment Brandon was shocked and surprised. Was he in trouble? He must be. The boy had never shown any physical affection for him. Brandon reached down and put his hand on Dylan’s head. His hair was like corn silk.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
What was wrong was that Dylan was being chased by two small boys, and all three were laughing their heads off.
“Ha, ha, you can’t get me. Brandon won’t let you.” Dylan twisted around so he was behind Brandon, peering at his cohorts from between Brandon’s legs. Using Brandon for a pole, they ran around him, chasing each other until they finally collapsed exhausted on the grass, chortling uproariously.
Brandon watched them, a smile playing on his lips, amazed at how little it took to send them off into hysterics. For once he didn’t think of his own son, didn’t wonder what it would be like if he were now eight years old, hiding behind his legs and tumbling on the ground. He only marvelled at the resilience of youth, of the joy and exuberance of children.
He felt absurdly flattered that Dylan would seek him out, him, a stranger in this big gathering in this small town, where presumably there were many old friends he could have approached. Which made him realize that he and Dylan were no longer strangers. Through the past weeks of working together on their project, they’d forged a bond. Just the thing he’d never wanted—a bond with a boy who was not his, never would be his. He couldn’t afford to take any more losses.
He didn’t want to form any attachments, not wi
th women and certainly not with children. But somehow it had happened. At that moment, looking down at the boy wriggling on the grass, he had to admit he wasn’t sorry it had happened. Besides being full of the same energy and determination that characterized Laura, Dylan was good company in his refreshing eight-year-old way. No pretensions, no hidden meanings behind his words, just forthright candor and honesty that amused and amazed Brandon.
“Where’s your mom?” Brandon asked when the laughter and shrieks had finally subsided and the boys lay on the warm grass like little mummies.
Dylan jumped to his feet and waved his arm toward the bandstand. “Somewhere. I dunno. I’m spending the night with Jeremy.” He pointed to one of the boys on the ground. “Cuz my aunt’s full up this weekend.”
“Yes, I heard.” Brandon looked around. He had to find her. Had to give her the message and her bag.
“Are you okay, Dylan?” he asked the boy.
“’Course. Jeremy’s mom is saving us a place for the fireworks.” He paused and looked up at Brandon. “But my mom doesn’t got anyone to sit with,” he said with a pointed look at Brandon.
Brandon nodded. He didn’t ask why his mom couldn’t sit with him and his friend. It didn’t matter because he decided there and then he wasn’t going to stay for the fireworks. Stretched out on a blanket next to Laura under the stars with dazzling lights bursting overhead illuminating her face? Oh, no, not a chance. He wasn’t made of stone.
The best thing for Laura was to find an eligible local man to marry. The best thing for him was to follow his original plan and isolate himself from women and children and the town itself. But despite this plan, he’d been sucked into their lives. He’d eaten dinner with her aunt, he’d been offered an apricot cordial by the postmistress, confided in by the newspaper editor, given advice by the garage mechanic and his son, and he thought about them, wondered about them, and yes, he even cared about them in some strange way he could never have anticipated.