Not anymore.
What was the point?
Dreams were for children like Jake, who hadn't had a chance yet, or for those like Mrs. Campion, who had had a fulfilling life and were now embellishing it with the things they hadn't managed to squeeze in. They weren't for Dori, whose life was mapped out for her.
She'd had her dream. She'd lost it.
Now she had Jake.
It wasn't such a bad trade-off, she reminded herself. And she had a grocery store. Or she would when her father retired.
"I will," he promised, "when I'm ready."
There was no rushing John Malone into anything. Not retirement. Not stocking new products. Not changing store hours.
Her father believed in stability, continuity, tradition. He was the third generation of Malones to run this store. It had only begun staying open on Sundays when he was in the hospital a couple of years ago after his heart attack. Anything new that Malones carried had been introduced then by Milly who had run things. All the old staples remained. Malones essentially carried the same stock it had carried ninety odd years before.
"Tradition," Dori's father said.
"Tedium," Dori mumbled under her breath.
But it wouldn't have mattered even if she had said it aloud. Her father wouldn't have listened. John Malone heard only what he wanted to hear.
She remembered all too well the incident of the brussels sprouts. Cash, she thought wryly, had chosen his vegetable well.
It had been a simple statement on her brother's part. Deke had been barely twenty-one, chafing under the burden of the store he didn't want to run, eager to pick up his camera and follow his girlfriend to France for the summer. He'd been annoyed that "family expectations" required otherwise, and being told by his father to sort out moldy brussels sprouts was the last straw.
It was nothing; it was everything. In the conflict that ensued, all Deke's frustrations had come boiling up, all John Malone's stern edicts had come pouring out, and by the time it was over Deke had stripped off his stock apron, flung it at his father and walked out.
He had never come back.
Dori had been tempted to follow him.
In those days she had hated the store almost as much as her brother had. And, even more than she'd disliked the store, she'd idolized Deke. And she knew that life without him at home to provide a counterpoint to her father's relentless workaholism would be grim indeed.
And then she'd met Chris. He was the embodiment of Dori's fantasies—a talented cowboy with a beautiful voice and itchy feet, definitely not the sort to appeal to parents. Everyone knew Chris was a here-today, gone-tomorrow kind of guy.
And when he left Livingston, she'd gone with him. Stayed with him. Pretended that everything was perfect. Until she found out she was pregnant and Chris told her to go home.
She'd been terrified to go home. She'd threatened to go off somewhere on her own.
"You aren't that dumb," Chris had said, proving he knew her far better than she knew him. "You won't do anything to hurt that baby."
And she hadn't. Of course she hadn't. She'd loved the child who nestled under her heart even then. She'd slept every night with her arms crossed protectively across her belly.
So she'd swallowed her pride. She'd buried her dreams. She'd gone home.
To her parents. To the store.
To this. A bin full of brussels sprouts.
A future full of them.
And what's wrong with that? she asked herself now, tossing a moldy one aside. The world needed vegetables. Of course it did.
"Chris had a son?"
Riley shrugged, refusing to react to Jeff Cannon's astonished words, hard stare and the sound of his lawyer's feet hitting the floor.
"Yes. And that makes half the ranch his," he said firmly. "I'm buying his share. I just need you to draft the letter, make it legal."
Jeff gave Riley one of his you're-demented-and-I'm-beginning-to-be-sorry-I'm-your-lawyer looks. "The kid's claim isn't legal. It won't hold up in court."
"I'm not cheating Chris's son out of his inheritance." A man had loyalties, responsibilities—even to a nephew he hadn't known he had. "Chris was sendin' money for him."
"Regularly? Was it part of a court order?"
"I don't think so. I didn't ask, but from her letters, it seemed pretty informal…"
"Well, then—"
"Still, he was doin' it. It's why he wouldn't let me plow his share back into the place."
"So you put your money in year after year instead," Jeff said sarcastically, "while Chris took his share in profits. And now his kid gets half."
"That's right." He wasn't going to argue about it. His nephew's existence had shocked him, too. He'd even been angry at first, feeling cheated out of the ranch that should have been his.
But now, in a funny way, he was glad. It was good that the kid was there. Now he'd have somebody to leave the place to when he was gone. An heir. A dark-haired, wide-eyed miniature version of Chris. A boy with hopes and dreams and eagerness to spare. A boy like he might have had once if only—
He cleared his throat. His fingers tightened into fists against the tops of his thighs. "It's okay. Don't worry about it, Jeff."
"It's not like you've got stacks of hundred-dollar bills lyin' around. What'd you offer?"
Riley told him.
Jeff's brows lifted, his eyes widened. "Maybe you do have hundred-dollar bills lyin' around."
"I figured I could get a loan. I've got decent credit. And I thought if the offer was sweet enough, she'd take it without hagglin'."
"She might reckon she can drive the price up and get a whole lot more," Jeff pointed out.
"No."
"What do you mean, no? You know this woman?"
"Not really." But in an odd way, he felt he did. He'd read Dori's letters to Chris. She'd been appreciative, kind and surprisingly matter-of-fact. And her attitude seemed to require that Chris become a responsible father on some level at least. Apparently her attitude had worked—at least he'd sent her money.
Not that she'd asked for it. Never once had she requested a dime. Not that she couldn't use it. Their little house, clean and neat though it was, was testimony to a life of straitened finances and a determination to "make do."
He was sure the money from the ranch would allow her to move her son to a bigger, nicer place.
"You don't figure you could just take them on as partners?" Jeff suggested. "Like you and Chris?"
"No."
"Why not?"
But before Riley could even begin to explain, there was a light knock on the office door behind him. It opened.
"Ah, Jeff—" The voice was female, soft and melodious, and excruciatingly familiar. "I was in town getting my hair cut and—oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were busy,"
"Greta should have told you, Trish," Jeff said gruffly. "Riley and I were just finishing some business."
Trish. Tricia. Tricia Gamble once. Riley's own true love. Once.
Now—and for the past twelve years—she was Jeff Cannon's wife.
"Greta must have gone to lunch," Riley heard her say in that soft, musical tone he remembered so well. "There's no one out here." She stepped into the room. "Oh, Riley." She sounded surprised. "How are you?"
He could smell her perfume. Roses. Tricia had always worn roses.
Now she smiled at him. A gentle smile. A sympathetic smile. "How are you? Is this to do with Chris? It must be so hard. I just keep thinking about poor Chris…"
She patted his shoulder.
Riley stiffened. She'd hugged him at the funeral. She'd squeezed his hand. He'd smelled the roses then, too, clearer. Closer. Her hair had brushed his face. The fleeting warmth of her body had pressed against his. He turned away from the memory.
"I'm fine," he said tightly.
Jeff cleared his throat. "Maybe you could wait out in the reception area until we're finished," he suggested to his wife.
Tricia flashed him a smile. "Of course. I just came to see if you want
ed to have lunch with me?"
"Just give me a few more minutes and we can finish up and let Riley go on his way and—"
"Maybe Riley would like to join us."
"No, thanks." Riley was on his feet before he got the words out of his mouth. He stepped around her, giving her wide berth, moving toward the door. "I reckon we're finished anyway, Jeff. I just wanted to let you know where things stood and ask you to do that letter for me."
Jeff rose to his feet, too. "Trish can wait and—"
"No. She's right." Riley glanced at his watch. "It is near lunchtime. An' I got plenty of work to do."
"I'll have Greta do the letter after lunch," Jeff said. "I'll send it out to you this afternoon. You can sign it and put it in the mail—if you're sure."
"I'm sure." Riley didn't look at Tricia at all. "I'll give you a call when they've agreed to the offer." He did turn toward her then, touched his hat, and gave her his best, well-brought-up-cowboy nod. "Nice to see you again, ma'am."
Tricia's eyes widened at his use of ma'am. Then she blinded him with a smile. "Always nice to see you, Riley," she said softly. Then she touched the back of his hand for just an instant, rubbed her thumb across it.
He jerked back and yanked his hat down hard. "'Bye now."
He was out the door, down the steps and across the street in an instant. He didn't slow down until he reached his truck. There he stopped, with one hand on the door handle and the other—the one she had touched—rubbing the side of his jeans.
When in the hell was he going to stop reacting to her?
She was Tricia Cannon. His lawyer's wife. For a dozen years, for God's sake, she'd been Jeff's wife!
But one smile from her could still make him quiver, the faintest whiff of her perfume could make his insides knot. And a touch—a simple compassionate gesture, hardly a lover's embrace—could make him jerk away, thinking things he had no business thinking.
Damn.
* * *
Three
« ^ »
Of course Jake couldn't keep a secret forever.
By the time Dori closed up the store for the day and went to pick him up at Milly's the cat was out of the bag.
"A ranch?" Milly squealed the minute Dori opened the door. "You own a ranch?"
"Half a ranch," Dori qualified, because there was absolutely no way she was going to be able to deny it. "It belonged to Chris—and his brother."
"Jake told me." Milly's tone lost its excitement and her smile faded as she put her arm around her sister. "I'm sorry, Dor'. About Chris. About … everything. I wish things could have been different for you."
"But then Chris wouldn't have been the person he was." Dori was philosophical now. "He did his best."
"It's wonderful that he left his share of the ranch to Jake. I can't believe you're selling it, though," Milly said. "Why are you?"
Dori stared. Milly? Asking why she was doing something sensible? "We don't know anything about ranching."
"So? You always wanted to learn. You wanted to marry a cowboy, remember?"
"Once upon a time, I wanted," Dori said sharply. "When I was a child, I wanted." And that was a very long time ago.
"Chris was a cowboy."
"Chris was a singer. And I was a fool where Chris was concerned." She looked around for Jake. "Where's Jake? We need to get going."
"He went to Taggart's with Cash." Milly looked just the faintest bit guilty. "They were going riding."
"Oh, for heaven's sake!"
"Jake's always wanted to be a cowboy. Just like you wanted to marry one."
"Just drop it, will you, Milly?" Dori said sharply. But she couldn't seem to drop it herself. "Other little boys want to be firemen and jet pilots and astronauts. But we don't send them out to practice. And they don't end up doing what they think they want to do as children."
"Sometimes they do," Milly replied stubbornly. "Deke did."
"Damn Deke," Dori blurted, shocking her sister. "I didn't mean that." Dori raked a hand through her hair and took a deep breath. "Fine. They went riding. When will they be back?"
"Before bedtime. I'm sure." Milly said, then flushed bright red.
Dori couldn't suppress a smile at her sister's embarrassment. "Right. Cash won't want to miss that," she said dryly.
"I didn't mean—"
"I know," Dori said almost gently, aware of Milly's sensibilities. "But it's about time. You and Cash belong together. Truly, Mil'. I think the two of you will be very happy."
Milly hesitated a moment, then nodded. "I do, too," she said simply. "Now."
Dori knew what she meant. For years Milly's love for Cash had seemed as likely to be successful as Dori's initial crush on Chris. A "here-today, gone-tomorrow" rodeo bronc rider, Cash Callahan had not been given to long-term commitment.
After four years of waiting for him, Milly had finally given up. She'd met and eventually become engaged to someone else.
Her determination to go through with marrying Mike had caused Cash to wake up to what he was going to lose. Unfortunately he waited too long to declare his feelings. It didn't endear him to Milly when he humiliated her by crashing her wedding last winter.
"I love you, and you love me," he'd told her in front of two hundred people.
Whether she loved him or not, Milly hadn't wanted anything to do with him for months.
But last night, at their friends, Shane and Poppy's, wedding, she'd finally recognized that her feelings were never going to change—and that Cash, indeed, was going to stick around.
Now Milly said, "I was scared to trust him after that. And I was angry, too. But I love Cash. I know that now. And—" she sounded slightly amazed "—I actually believe he loves me, too."
"He does," Dori said firmly. She might have doubted it herself once. But she had watched Cash grow up over these past few months. He'd dug in, stayed around, found work and pursued Milly every waking moment. He'd made a commitment, and he'd stuck to it. "You'll be fine," she assured her sister.
"I hope so." Milly gave a little shiver. "This is out of my comfort zone, you know. You always were a better risk-taker than I was."
"Only when Dad goaded me."
"I think you could do it without Dad." She cocked her head and looked at her sister. "I really think you might give this ranch of Jake's some more thought."
No.
Dori told herself that over and over. She'd been telling herself that all last night. She'd told herself that all day.
She told Jake no again, too, when he finally came home saddle sore and eager for more.
No.
But it didn't stop him talking. "It was great, Mom," he said when he wriggled down under the covers that night. "Fantastic. An' Cash says I'm pretty good. He thinks I'll make a hand."
No.
Dori sat on the bed, swung her legs up to sit beside him and reached for the book they'd been reading. It was a Louis L'Amour she'd read herself as a child. It, and many others like it, had fueled her fantasies. Now she wished she was reading him a different story, but she couldn't see how to stop this one and start another without finishing.
"Not this one. Not tonight," Jake said when she opened it.
Dori looked at him, surprised, relieved.
And then Jake said. "I want one of our stories. A Stardust cowboy story."
"Jake…"
"Or," he said, his eyes lit with mischief, "I could tell you one. A real one." He flashed her a gap-toothed grin that Dori steeled herself to resist.
"I don't think—" she began, but the flicker of hurt on his face stopped her. He was just a little boy. What right had she to deny his dreams? Life would do it for him soon enough.
"One story," she said. "And I'll tell it. Once upon a time there was a little boy…"
She told him the story. She gave the Stardust cowboy his due. In fiction, it was his right. But, it isn't real, she wanted to warn Jake.
Real life—grown-up life—Dori knew all too well, was brussels sprouts.
"That
boy has got blisters on his heels from those damn boots," John Malone said, his brows drawing down as he watched Jake race across the grocery store's small parking lot toward the cowboy who sat waiting in the battered red truck.
"Cash is taking him riding," Dori pointed out mildly.
"He could put them on when he gets there. He's been wearing them all week long."
Dori knew that. Despite her determined refusal to let him think he was going to be a cowboy and move to a ranch, Jake had not given up. He'd put on his cowboy boots the morning after Riley Stratton had appeared on their doorstep. He hadn't taken them off except to sleep. He'd bought a brand-new summer straw cowboy hat just like Cash's with the money in his bucking bronco savings bank. And he hadn't been taking that off, either.
"Damn foolishness," her father muttered. He turned back to the carton of macaroni and cheese boxes he was stamping with price stickers, still grumbling under his breath.
"He's only seven, Dad. It's all right for seven-year-olds to enjoy life."
"You're not helping," he said to her, "encouraging this damn fool ranch notion."
"I am not encouraging any 'damn fool ranch notion'! I'm doing the best I can," Dori muttered under her breath. She grabbed containers of oatmeal that she was shelving out of the carton and changed the subject. "I think we ought to order a few other breakfast cereals. There are new ones on the market, you know."
He ignored her. "His toes'll get pinched in those boots." He punctuated the statement with a stamp on a macaroni box. "And he'll go bald if he wears that hat all the time."
Dori took a deep breath. "What do you think about ordering another granola blend or two?"
Her father glared at her. "I think it's damn fool nonsense! What the hell's wrong with oatmeal? People have eaten it for generations."
"Centuries," Dori muttered. "Nothing's wrong with oatmeal, Dad. It's fine. It's just that some people like a little variety sometimes."
"I don't."
No joke. "We're not all like you."
"More's the pity," John Malone replied gruffly. And Dori knew he wasn't being even slightly ironic when he said it.
"He has the truth," Deke used to say. "And other people have opinions."
THE STARDUST COWBOY Page 4
