Cowboy Country: The Creed Legacy / Blame It on the Cowboy. Delores Fossen

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       CHAPTER FOUR

      THE DREAM WAS disturbingly vivid.

      Carolyn was in a supermarket, surrounded by dozens, if not hundreds, of eager suitors. There were men of every size and shape, color and type, a regular convention for fans of the Village People.

      They nudged at her cart with theirs.

      Some of them carried signs with her modified name printed on them in ransom-note letters, and one wore a sandwich board that read Marry Me, Carol! and Have Free Dentistry for Life!

      “Carol,” all the others chanted, in creepy unison, “Carol, Carol, Carol!”

      Carolyn’s feet seemed to be glued to the floor, but she looked wildly around for an escape route anyway. The freezer aisle was completely blocked, in both directions. She was trapped. Cornered.

      Heart-pounding panic set in, washing over her in sweeping, electrified waves. A man with an elaborate wedding cake teetering in his shopping cart pushed his way past the others, to the forefront.

      Carolyn recognized Gifford Welsh. He smiled his big movie-star smile, and his piano-key teeth sparkled cartoonishly, like something out of an animated mouthwash commercial.

      “You’re already married!” she said, turning her head when Gifford tried to stuff a handful of cake into her mouth. Then, pressing back against the cold door of the ice-cream freezer, she shouted, “I don’t want to marry any of you! You’re not—you’re not—

      “Brody.” She started awake at the name. Could still feel its singular weight on her lips.

      Winston, curled up at her feet, made a halfhearted hissing sound. There was no telling whether the noise was a comment about Brody or annoyance because she’d awakened him from a sound sleep.

      Carolyn’s heart thumped against the back of her rib cage, and her breathing was fast and shallow. She lay there, in her dark bedroom, looking up at the ceiling and fighting tears.

      Don’t be a crybaby, she heard one of her long string of foster mothers say. Nobody likes a crybaby.

      Carolyn had subscribed to that belief ever since, and she blinked until the sting in her eyes abated a little.

      Going back to sleep was out of the question, lest the dream go into rewind, so she got out of bed and padded into the kitchen, barefoot. She was wearing flannel pajamas she’d sewn herself, covered in a puppy-dog pattern, and the fabric was damp against her chest and between her shoulder blades. Perspiration.

      The nightmare had been a doozy, then. Normally, dreams didn’t cause her to sweat.

      But, then, this hadn’t been a normal dream, now, had it?

      You’re not Brody. The words still reverberated through her mind.

      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 СКАЧАТЬ