From Here to Home

by Marie Bostwick

  She clicked open the clasp on her evening bag and reached inside, searching for her phone. Hub-Jay clamped his big hand over hers.

  “Howard is fine,” he said, his voice deep and authoritative. “He probably strained a muscle while carrying a box. And who wouldn’t be tired after a day of moving? Except you, of course. You look fresh as a daisy. And twice as lovely.”

  She smiled, enjoying the compliment, and closed the clutch.

  “You’re right. I’m sure he’s fine. He said he was going to bed early. I’d probably just wake him if I call.”

  Hub-Jay offered his arm and Mary Dell took it, allowing him to guide her across the lobby and up the staircase.

  “See how sensible I’ve become? How adept at untying the apron strings? I’ve been practicing.”

  “Very impressive. Are you hungry?” Hub-Jay asked as they approached the doors of the restaurant, where David was waiting to greet them.

  “As a horse! I was thinking of ordering the whole left side of the menu.”

  “No menu tonight. I’ve asked the chef to prepare a few special dishes. And I reserved a private dining room. I hope that’s all right.”

  “Oh, my! Now I really do feel like the queen of the ball.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, that’s what you are.”

  The private dining room Hub-Jay had reserved really wasn’t very private—but it was very elegant. All four walls were constructed from thick, soundproof glass, and two of them were lined, from floor to ceiling, with wine racks filled with expensive vintages. A wrought-iron chandelier with a dozen white pillar candles hung from the ceiling, and three more candles, in beautiful glass hurricane holders, sat on the table, casting a warm glow over the room, glinting on the rims of the crystal stemware and sterling silver cutlery.

  As Hub-Jay helped her into her chair, Mary Dell started to crack a self-deprecating joke about how much she appreciated dim lighting at this stage of her life, but then David left the room, closing the door behind him, and Mary Dell thought better of it. It didn’t seem like the right time for jokes.

  The gleam of the candles, the sheen of the glass walls, the deep silence that engulfed them once the door was shut, the sight of other candles, other tables, other diners a few feet beyond the impervious crystal wall, their lips moving without making a sound, created a strange intimacy, a sense of being in the world but not of it, as if they were travelers in a transparent bubble, floating, untouched, above a troubled sea. It really was a beautiful room. And Mary Dell felt beautiful in it, like she truly was the queen of the ball.

  No. Better than that.

  Aloft in the silent glass bubble, amid the soft glow of the candles and with the faint scent of gardenias hanging in the air, she felt like the Queen of Everything.

  The meal was long, relaxing, and incredibly delicious.

  When she learned that dinner would be eight courses, Mary Dell felt a little anxious—worried about gaining back the five pounds she’d worked so hard to shed before getting in front of the cameras again. But her concerns were put to rest when she realized that each dish truly would be just a taste, a perfect little mouthful of something delectable.

  The appetizer gave her pause, however. She couldn’t imagine why anybody who wasn’t in danger of starvation would voluntarily eat fish eggs. But when she popped that golden, beautifully crisp little pancake, topped with thick cream and a teaspoon of caviar, into her mouth, she understood the attraction. It was salty and briny and absolutely delicious, like tasting the ocean. And when she followed it up with a sip of champagne, she felt very elegant and more than a little spoiled. A feeling that failed to diminish as the evening wore on and the remaining courses were served, each more delectable than the last, and each accompanied by a different wine, but, again, it was just a taste—a few sips with each dish.

  She’d been so busy with traveling, packing, and making arrangements for Howard’s new, more independent life that she hadn’t seen Hub-Jay since her meeting with Jason, so they spent the first three courses just catching up.

  But then, for some reason, Mary Dell started telling Hub-Jay stories about growing up in Too Much. He returned the favor, telling her stories about growing up poor in a small town in Kansas with his mother, an amateur painter, who had done her best to bring beauty and art into their home and imbue her child with a love of both, and about his alcoholic father, who had belittled her efforts and taken out his frustrations on his son. With his mother’s blessing, Hub-Jay broke away as soon as he could, landing in Dallas, because that was as far as he could afford to travel by bus, taking a job as a clerk in a cheap hotel, pinching his pennies, moving up to a better hotel, being promoted to concierge, then manager, all before his thirtieth birthday, at which point he got a loan to buy a run-down building in downtown Abilene and remodeled it into a twelve-room boutique hotel.

  Of course, Mary Dell knew much of Hub-Jay’s history already. But he’d never shared the details and emotions with her so openly before. Both of them had a tendency to put the best face on every situation and to deflect hurt with humor, which wasn’t at all a bad quality—neither of them would have gotten as far as they had without it. But Mary Dell was cognizant of the honor he did her by being so forthcoming, the trust he placed in her by laying his emotions bare.

  She returned the favor in kind.

  And as she talked—about Howard, about Cady, about Rob Lee, about herself, about the past and the future, the hopes and fears and doubts that accompanied and colored each facet of her life—she felt a peace settle upon her, a lightness of spirit, the pure happiness that comes from making a sympathetic connection with another human being.

  It had been so long since a man had shared his heart with her or listened as she shared hers.

  When the server cleared away the final course, a tiny portion of salted caramel crème brûlée served in a white porcelain bowl the size and shape of a sparrow egg, Mary Dell glanced at her watch and realized that nearly four hours had passed. It didn’t seem possible.

  She didn’t feel especially tired, but surely Hub-Jay was, so she touched her napkin daintily to her lips, then laid it on the table.

  “This has been the most wonderful evening, Hub-Jay. The flowers, the food, the conversation . . . I can’t thank you enough.”

  “I wanted to give you a good send-off.”

  “Let’s not think of it as a send-off. I’ll be up here all the time to check on Howard. Whether he wants me to or not.”

  She pushed her chair back from the table. Hub-Jay rose quickly to help her.

  “And you know you’re welcome to come down to the ranch anytime,” she said.

  “I’d like that.”

  “Bet you’d look good sitting on a horse.”

  “I doubt that, but, for you, I’m willing to give it a try.”

  He laid his hand on the pristine glass, ready to open the door. Mary Dell rose on her toes and kissed his cheek.

  “Good night, Hub-Jay. Thank you again.”

  “Don’t you want to know where your room is?”

  “Oh, that’s right!” She laughed. “I’d better go to the front desk and get a key.”

  “I already did.” He smiled and pulled a plastic key card from the pocket of his suit. “Come on. Let me walk you home.”

  The elevator opened on the top floor. There were only six doors on the corridor. Hub-Jay turned to the left and led her to the end of the hall to a door with a polished gold plaque that said, “Alvarado Suite.”

  When Mary Dell stepped across the threshold, her jaw dropped. “Oh, Hub-Jay,” she breathed.

  It was the biggest, most beautiful hotel suite she’d ever seen, with white wood floors polished to a sheen, walls covered in a subtly textured gray linen, and floor-to-ceiling windows flanked by silk pistachio-colored drapes that overlooked the twinkling city lights; it was furnished with cushy sofas, chairs, and a chaise longue upholstered in white leather as soft and supple as a pair of kid gloves.

  “You didn’t
have to . . . Just a regular room would have been . . .”

  Looking and feeling a little dazed, she wandered from the living room into a formal dining room, decorated in the same white, gray, and pistachio color scheme, peeked into a butler’s pantry stocked with lead crystal stemware, then down a wide hallway hung with original oil paintings by renowned artists, and into an exquisite bedroom suite with still more floor-to-ceiling windows, an even more spectacular view of the city, and a real fireplace with an elaborately carved mahogany antique mantel that added a surprising yet harmonious note to the otherwise modern interior.

  In the bedroom, wood floors gave way to thick oriental carpets in white and pistachio with just a touch of pale pink, muffling the sound of Mary Dell’s footsteps.

  As her eyes scanned the room, she noticed that someone had built a fire in the fireplace, placed a silver champagne bucket, two crystal flutes, and a bowl of ripe strawberries on the table near the window, and left a vase filled with pale pink roses on the dresser. The Egyptian cotton duvet and sheets had been turned down on the king-sized bed, and a single pink rose lay on one of the pillows.

  The wine pairings that had accompanied the meal had been very small, so Mary Dell wasn’t drunk, but those accumulated sips had made her very relaxed and slowed her reactions just slightly. It took an extra beat or two for her to collect and interpret all the evidence. When she did, the feelings of warmth and tenderness she’d been experiencing all evening were joined by something else: panic.

  Mary Dell turned to face the door and saw Hub-Jay standing in it without his jacket or his tie. She started to apologize, to explain that she hadn’t meant to give him the wrong impression, but . . .

  He didn’t give her a chance to finish.

  He took three long steps toward her, twined his arms around her body, pulled her close, arched his head and shoulders over her upturned face like a sheltering oak, and placed his lips against hers, silencing her apology and suspending her reason.

  That sense of panic swelled within her, crowding against those other emotions, tensing her fingers and limbs. She lifted her arms and placed her hands against his shoulders, positioned in such a way so she could have pushed him away if she wanted to, but a second passed and then another with his lips on hers, tender but insistent, his hands warm between her shoulder blades and on the small of her back. Panic subsided, then disappeared entirely, leaving longing in its place, and she realized that pushing him away was the last thing she wanted to do.

  She felt her fingertips relax and curve, cupping his shoulders, sliding down to his chest and then around the muscles of his arms to his back, caressing the sharp blades of his shoulders as she parted her lips and melted into his embrace. Hub-Jay spoke her name softly, then kissed her again, holding her even more tightly. He took a step forward and then another, guiding her gently backward, partnering her in a slow dance across the room. She clung to him and followed his lead, willing and thoughtless, until she felt the cool velvet brush of Egyptian cotton on the back of her knees and, beneath that, the yielding firmness of the mattress.

  The touch of fabric on flesh jarred her, wakened her to the knowledge of where this dance was leading. She slid her hands to the front of his shoulders again.

  This time, she did push him away—not far away, but far enough so she could see his face.

  “Hub-Jay, we can’t do this.”

  He looked at her, his breathing labored, as if he’d just run up a flight of stairs, then said, “I want you, Mary Dell. I want you very, very much.”

  “And I want you. But . . .” She licked her lower lip, trying to buy some time and summon her reason. “I can’t. It would be wrong.”

  “Why? What’s wrong about it? I love you.”

  He loved her?

  And yet . . . she couldn’t deny that, after tonight, after those intimate hours apart from the world during which they had opened themselves so fully, one to the other, the feelings she had for him were different and deeper than they’d been before.

  She wanted to tell him that she needed time to think—about a lot of things—and that she hadn’t done this in three decades, had never been with anyone but Donny, that she was afraid of disappointing him, or being disappointed herself, and that indulging the desires that flooded her went against the moral code she’d been raised to believe and had wholeheartedly embraced.

  Instead she just said, “We’re not married.”

  He laughed again, this time with joy, and said, “But I want to marry you! I asked you before you went out to Connecticut. Didn’t you hear me? Or maybe you didn’t think I meant it. It wasn’t a very stylish proposal, I’ll admit. But I can do better.”

  He dropped to one knee and took her hand in his. Mary Dell shook her head.

  “Hub-Jay, stop. Please. I can’t marry you.”

  “Yes, you can. I know this seems sudden, but . . .”

  “Hub-Jay, I’m already married.”

  The smile fled his face, replaced by an expression of confusion and then of disbelief as her meaning became clear to him.

  “Donny? You can’t be serious. You mean . . . even after all these years?”

  She pressed her lips together, feeling suddenly foolish. “I never divorced him. I thought about it a few times, but I guess a part of me hoped he would come back. At least for the first few years.”

  Hub-Jay dropped his head forward with a sigh, the weight of it resting against her stomach. Mary Dell laid her hand on his hair.

  “And then life went on. I was a young mother, with no one to depend on but myself, busy taking care of Howard and my family, the ranch, and the shop. And then, about five minutes later, I was forty, then fifty, then sixty. At some point, I just figured that ship had sailed. I never divorced Donny. There was no reason to.”

  Hub-Jay lifted his head, got to his feet, and looked at her with a determination and desire that made her breath catch in her throat.

  “Make me your reason.” He reached for her.

  “But . . . Donny,” she said weakly.

  “I don’t care.”

  He kissed her again, pressed her close, and back, and down. And she let him. Her only thought was how much she didn’t want to think, because, at that moment, she didn’t care either.

  CHAPTER 17

  Holly couldn’t stop thinking about the horse.

  As they’d driven out to the Finley ranch, Cady had explained about auctions and why this one was unusual. “A lot of times, if people have horses to sell, they’ll send them to the livestock auction. Some folks do buy saddle horses there, but a lot of those horses end up being sold to slaughterhouses.”

  Holly gasped. “You mean they eat them?”

  “There are no horse slaughterhouses in the U.S., even though it is legal. A few years back, a couple of companies tried to open horsemeat-processing plants, but the public outcry was huge and it didn’t happen. But a lot of horses bought at auction here in the states end up being shipped to processing plants in Mexico or Canada—from here, mostly to Mexico.”

  “That’s terrible,” Holly said. “Why would someone do that?”

  “It is terrible, but horses are expensive to feed and stable, and they live a long time. People buy a young horse or pony, but they don’t always consider the fact that they’re signing up for a twenty-five- or thirty-year commitment. Sometimes, even when they do know what they’re getting into, their circumstances change. That’s what happened here. Mrs. Finley is older and her own health is failing. With her husband gone, she doesn’t have the money or stamina to take care of thirteen horses. She’s going to sell the farm and move to a retirement home in Waco. She didn’t want to send the horses to auction, so she’s trying to sell them off locally, to folks she knows will take care of them.”

  Linne’s voice piped up hopefully from the backseat. “Momma, can we get one of Mrs. Finley’s horses? I’d take real good care of it. Promise!”

  “No,” Cady said, her tone uncompromising. “I told you before; we’re just lo
oking, not buying.”

  Linne made a harrumphing noise and slumped in her seat, thumping her head back against it in protest. Holly twisted so she could see her, smiling when she saw the pout on Linne’s lips. She was so darned cute! And Holly remembered just how she felt when she was little, how she’d begged and begged Rachel to get her a horse, how the answer had always been no, and how incredibly unfair she’d thought that was. In all fairness, Los Angeles wasn’t an easy place to own a horse, not unless you were rich, but when she was a little girl, she didn’t see that, or if she did, she didn’t care. She’d wanted a horse—period. Linne was clearly just as horse-crazy as she’d been at that age.

  “Hey, Linne,” Holly said over her shoulder, “I brought you something.”

  “What?”

  The child’s disgruntled expression gave way to bright-eyed curiosity as she watched Holly reach into her bag.

  “It’s a Breyer!” Linne exclaimed.

  “Right,” Holly confirmed, as she handed a plastic model horse over the seat. “And not just any Breyer. This is an Andalusian model, and it’s retired. It was mine when I was little. Now I want you to have it.”

  “Really? Thanks!”

  Cady glanced in the rearview mirror. Her eyes smiled when she saw Linne, grinning from ear to ear, examining the bay-colored coat and luxurious black mane and tail, tossed to one side, and the daintily lifted foreleg, as if the animal had been frozen in the middle of a dressage move.

  Cady shifted her eyes toward Holly and mouthed a silent “thank you.”

  Eyes still glued on her gift, Linne called out, “Miss Holly? Do you want to sit with me at the auction?”

  “Linne, I would love that.”

  The Finleys raised American quarter horses, the most popular breed in North America: hardy, handsome, gentle, and fast, these surefooted horses were the working breed of choice on cattle ranches in the Old West. In the ranch country of Texas, they were still valued for that purpose, as well as for competitive rodeo riding and short-distance racing, but they also made excellent family horses for trail and pleasure riding.