She took a mug from the cupboard, this one a souvenir of Cheyenne, Wyoming, filled it with water, added an herbal tea bag and stuck the works into the microwave to heat.
A dog, she thought peevishly, would have gotten up when she did, to keep her company, lend silent reassurance. Winston, by contrast, did not put in an appearance, sympathetic or otherwise.
That was a cat for you.
Not that Winston was her cat—he was a frequent boarder and no more. Just passing through.
Somebody else’s cat.
Somebody else’s house.
Everything in her life, it seemed, belonged to somebody else.
Including Brody Creed. Whenever Joleen Williams blew into town, she and Brody were joined at the hip. It was probably only a matter of time before Joleen roped him in for good.
He was building a house, wasn’t he? A big house, obviously not meant for man to live in alone.
The bell on the microwave dinged, and Carolyn carefully removed the cup. Took a sip.
The tea had the usual placebo effect, and she calmed down a little.
In need of something to occupy her mind, but scared to log on to the computer again, lest more men should pop up, in search of her alter ego, Carol, she flipped on the light at the top of the inside stairway and made her way down the steps.
The shop looked magical in the moonlight. Like some enchanted workshop, where elves ran up ruffly cotton-print aprons on miniature sewing machines and made more goats’ milk soap whenever the supply was low.
Carolyn gave a little snicker at the thought.
She made the aprons, and they bought the soap from a woman who ran a small goat farm a few miles out of town. A few elves would certainly come in handy, though, even if it wasn’t Christmas.
She loved the shop; it grounded her, like sewing and riding horseback usually did, and she loved the twinkling quiet surrounding her.
A shaft of silvery light struck the batik of the Native weaver, high on the wall, illuminating the image as though to convey some message.
There was no message, Carolyn thought. Not in the picture, at least.
The dream, now? That had clearly been a manifesto from her subconscious mind.
As usual, she wanted what she couldn’t have.
Right or wrong, for better or worse, she wanted Brody Creed.
She gave a loud sigh of frustration, set her mug of tea down on the glass top of the handmade-jewelry display and shoved all ten fingers into her hair, pulling just a little.
Why couldn’t she just let go? It had been over seven years, after all, since that awful morning when she’d awakened in a guest-room bed at Kim and Davis’s place to find Brody gone.
At the time, she’d figured he was merely out in the kitchen making coffee, or even whipping up some breakfast. He was a fair cook, and he seemed to enjoy it.
She’d gotten out of bed, pulled on a robe and headed for the kitchen, in search of the man she loved.
Instead, she’d found the note.
Have to go, Brody had written. Something came up.
That was it.
Have to go, something came up.
The tears that had threatened before, after the dream, sprang up again. Carolyn hugged herself, chilled, and gazed at her own woebegone face, reflected in the big mirror behind the counter.
“Nobody likes a crybaby,” she told her image.
And then she cried anyway.
* * *
“WHERE’D YOU GET the dog?” Conner asked the next morning, with affable interest, as Brody carefully lifted the bathed, brushed and still-skinny critter down from the passenger side of his truck, onto the grassy stretch of ground between the main ranch house and the barn.
“His name’s Barney,” Brody replied. He’d hung that handle on the stray after taking him by the vet’s office that morning for a checkup. And he’d been so glad over the dog’s clean bill of health that he’d named him after the doctor. “He showed up at my door last night, in pretty sorry condition, so I took him in.”
Conner grinned and crouched to look the dog in the eyes, much as Brody had done the night before, when Barney turned up on his doorstep.
“Well, hello there, Barney,” Conner said, putting out his hand.
To Brody’s mingled amazement and irritation, the dog laid a paw in Conner’s outstretched palm.
Man and dog shook hands.
“I’ll be damned,” Brody muttered, impressed, then worried. Maybe whoever had taught Barney to shake hands was out combing the countryside for him, right now. Maybe somebody loved him, wanted him back.
Conner, meanwhile, stood up straight again. “I guess Doc must have checked for a microchip and all that,” he said.
“First thing he did,” Brody replied. “No chip, no identification of any kind.”
“You gonna keep him?” Conner ventured, as Valentino trotted out of the back door, joined the group and sniffed Barney from head to tail.
“Yeah,” Brody said. “I’ll keep him. Unless his original owner tracks him down, anyway. Doc’s assistant took his picture, and she’ll upload it onto several lost-pet websites, just in case...”
“But?” Conner prompted.
“But my gut says he’s in need of a home.”
“Mine, too,” Conner agreed. He had been frowning until then, but suddenly, the grin was back. “It’ll be good for you,” he preached. “The responsibility of looking after the poor critter, I mean.”
The words, though he knew they were well-meant, raised Brody’s hackles a little just the same. Was he going to be the Irresponsible One for the rest of his life, while Conner got to play the Good Brother?
Before he could figure out a way to answer, Davis came barreling down the hill in his truck from his and Kim’s place. Kim rode beside him, her smile visible even through the dusty grunge covering the windshield.
“Kim’s pinch-hitting for Tricia today at the shop,” Conner said.
Brody felt a pang of alarm, remembering how tuckered out his sister-in-law had seemed the day before. “Tricia isn’t having trouble, is she?”
“No,” Conner replied, raising a hand to greet the new arrivals. “She just enjoyed yesterday so much that she wanted today to be just like it.”
Brody chuckled, partly amused and partly relieved.
An instant later, though, the worry was back. Women were fragile creatures, it seemed to him. Lisa, for instance, couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred and ten pounds sopping wet; she hadn’t stood a chance against two tons of speeding steel, not driving that little car of hers.
He’d always had access to his inheritance and his share of the ranch profits, even when he was staying as far away from Lonesome Bend as he could. Why hadn’t he gotten her a sturdier rig to drive?
“Brody,” Conner said suspiciously. “Where’s your head right now?”
“You know where,” Brody replied, as Davis parked the truck and he and Kim got out of the vehicle and started toward them. Kim was wearing a lightweight sweater with big pockets, where her impossibly small dogs, Smidgeon and Little Bit, were riding.
Barney whimpered and moved behind Brody, leaning against the backs of his legs. He could feel the animal trembling.
Seeing