Dreams Rekindled Read online

  No meddling minister, either. Though Phil hadn’t included that in his notes, he’d talked to enough of Mesquite Springs’s residents to know that the preacher was not one to condemn folks without good reason. “He’s quiet, no Bible thumping,” a rancher had told him. Phil had grinned. That was exactly the kind of minister Mr. K needed, one who wouldn’t interfere.

  Mr. K had studied the map Phil had made and jabbed his finger at the river. “Here’s where I want you to start. You know what has to be done. Take that sketchbook of yours and get back to Mesquite Springs. If everything goes right, you’ll be a rich man, Philemon Blakeslee. I have big plans for you and that town.”

  Even the memory of the man’s use of his hated first name didn’t make him cringe. Money—lots of money—made up for many things.

  “C’mon, Dusty.” Phil nudged his horse’s flanks. “We’ve got work to do.”

  As she left the dining room, Dorothy pressed a hand to her chest, trying to slow her heartbeat. It was ridiculous the way it had accelerated while she was speaking with Brandon Holloway. Laura would say her reaction was a sign that he was the man Dorothy was destined to marry, but Dorothy knew better. Her heart wasn’t pounding because Brandon was good-looking, though he was. The combination of blond hair and blue eyes was striking, and that square chin had caught her eye the moment he entered the restaurant. It spoke of determination, and that was something Dorothy admired.

  But it wasn’t the fact that Brandon Holloway was the most attractive man she’d met in ages that had excited her. No. Definitely not. His appearance had nothing to do with her racing pulse, nor did the fact that his voice was a tenor, as smooth as the caramel frosting she’d finally managed to perfect.

  What intrigued Dorothy, what set her senses reeling, was the man’s profession. He was a writer. As if that weren’t enough, he ran a newspaper, which meant he had the power to shape people’s opinions and to change their lives. Laura had claimed Dorothy was lucky, but Brandon Holloway was the lucky one. He was living the life she wanted.

  “You seem flustered.” Laura’s eyes narrowed as she turned from the meals she was plating and looked at Dorothy. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, no, not at all.” She would never, ever tell Laura what had happened. They shared many things, but this silly reaction to the blond newspaperman was not something Dorothy would ever confess. Surely now that she was back in the kitchen, her heartbeat would return to normal.

  “I need three more slices of pie for table four and a large serving of the stew. That’s for a new customer, Mr. Holloway.” Thank goodness her voice did not betray her agitation. Though Dorothy’s heart had accelerated again when she’d pronounced his name, Laura didn’t seem to notice. That was good. In another minute or two, she’d be able to forget her ridiculous response to the newcomer.

  As she busied herself arranging everything on a tray, Dorothy made a decision. The best route to recovery was to avoid the cause of her distress. “Would you mind taking these out there? I think I’d better sit down for a while.”

  The furrows that appeared between Laura’s eyes testified to her concern at Dorothy’s deviation from their routine. Though Laura did the majority of the cooking and never failed to ask if there were something else she could do, this was the first time Dorothy had asked her to serve. “What’s wrong? Can I get you something? A glass of water?”

  Dorothy shook her head. “I just need to sit.” Maybe then she would be able to convince her heart that Brandon Holloway was simply another man and that there was no reason for it to race.

  CHAPTER

  Two

  He’s the one.”

  Dorothy stared at Laura as she burst into the kitchen. Though she’d known her all her life, she’d never before seen Laura looking like this, with her face so flushed, her eyes sparkling more than a rare Texas snow.

  “Who?” It was almost a rhetorical question, since Dorothy was certain of the answer, yet she knew Laura was waiting for her to ask it.

  “Mr. Holloway.” Laura confirmed Dorothy’s supposition. “He’s the one I’m going to marry.”

  There was no reason to feel as if a horse had kicked her. She wasn’t the one looking for a husband; Laura was. And she shouldn’t have been surprised by Laura’s reaction. After all, Brandon Holloway would catch any woman’s eye. Still, Dorothy couldn’t deny the way her stomach roiled over her friend’s declaration.

  “How do you know?” Perhaps if she kept Laura talking, she’d regain her equilibrium.

  Laura laid the empty tray on the table and smiled, obviously remembering what had happened in the dining room. “When I heard his voice, my heart started pounding, and then when he looked at me, I knew he was the one. No man’s ever looked at me that way.”

  “What way?” As painful as the conversation was, Dorothy couldn’t stop herself from asking for more information.

  “As if I were the woman he’s been searching for all his life.” A contented sigh accompanied Laura’s words.

  Dorothy drew a deep breath and willed her stomach to behave normally. Even if she were inclined to flights of fancy, she would not have described the way Brandon had regarded her like that. She’d seen interest in his gaze, but nothing as dramatic as what Laura claimed.

  It was probably only Laura’s imagination. She had always tended to exaggerate, but even if it were true, it didn’t matter. Of course, it didn’t.

  “You’re two hours too late. I rented my last room this morning.” The woman who was almost as tall and almost as thin as Phil shook her head and started to close the door.

  This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. He needed a room, and Mrs. Bayles ran the town’s only boardinghouse. For the first time, he wondered if he’d been mistaken about Mesquite Springs. Nonsense, he told himself. This was only a momentary setback. Furthermore, there might be a way to salvage it.

  “Are you sure you don’t have a place for me? The stars in this part of Texas are beautiful, but a man gets tired of sleeping under them.” Phil gave the boardinghouse’s owner a look that stopped short of pleading but left no doubt that he wanted to stay in her establishment.

  As he’d hoped, Mrs. Bayles began to soften. “I hate to think of a nice gentleman like you gettin’ cold, ’specially now that winter’s a-comin’. Fact is, I have an empty room. I don’t normally rent it out, on account of it bein’ so small and up in the attic. It ain’t got more than a bed and a chair. No fancy bureaus or curtains like the others. But it’s quiet, bein’ as it’s the only room up there.”

  With each sentence, the room became more attractive. While Phil wanted a respectable address for his stay in Mesquite Springs, he’d prefer to have no one close by. The fewer people who knew what he was doing, the better.

  “I wouldn’t mind that,” he told his prospective landlady.

  “You sure? A fine man like you must be used to better than that.”

  If she only knew where he’d lived! “I assure you that I’ll be grateful for a roof over my head.”

  Though she appeared dubious, the woman nodded. “There’s one more thing. The main staircase don’t go there. You gotta use the back stairs.” She led him along the hall and opened the door to the kitchen. “There they are.”

  The location would be perfect. Absolutely perfect, but Phil wouldn’t admit that to her, not when they had yet to discuss the rent. “I’m sure it will be fine, Mrs. Bayles. I’ll be closer to whatever delicious food you’re cooking.” He took a deep sniff. “That’s making my mouth water.”

  Though she gave a little shrug, as if dismissing the compliment, Phil noticed the flush on her cheeks. “It ain’t nothin’ but chicken soup.”

  “My favorite.”

  “Well, then, Mr. . . .” She stopped, waiting for his response.

  “Blakeslee, but I’d be honored if you’d call me Phil.”

  “All right, Phil. The room is yours. I won’t charge you but half my normal rate, bein’ as it’s so small and all.”

  The d
ay had just improved. “Thank you, Mrs. Bayles. The truth is, I was a bit worried about how I was going to afford to stay in such a fine establishment. It’s not easy to make a living selling sketches.”

  Her eyes widened with admiration. “You’re an artist! I ain’t never had an artist staying here before.” Her smile broadened. “Wait until Ida Downey hears this. A newspaperman and an artist all in one day.”

  The glow that had surrounded Phil faded. “A newspaperman?”

  “Yes, indeed. A nice man. I reckon he’s a few years younger than you. He’s the one what took my last room. Said he’s looking for . . .”

  Though she continued to speak, Phil paid no attention to his landlady’s stories as he considered the implications of her revelation. There wasn’t supposed to be a newspaper here. Mr. K would not be happy, particularly if this man was like that son of Satan, Robert Monroe.

  If he didn’t hurry, he’d be late for supper, and that would not please his landlady. When he’d rented the room this morning, Mrs. Bayles had told Brandon supper was served promptly at six, emphasizing “promptly.” He had two minutes to get cleaned up enough that he would not offend the other boarders. With only seconds to spare, he entered the dining room.

  “There you are, Mr. Holloway.” His landlady greeted him with a smile. “Even iffen you’re only here for a couple days, you’ll wanna meet the others, seein’ as how you’re gonna be livin’ in town.”

  She introduced him to four men whom he guessed to be around Pa’s age. Three had lost their wives and hadn’t wanted to live alone; the fourth had not married. “Never found a gal that suited me,” he claimed. Though that might be true, the sorrow Brandon saw reflected in his eyes told him the man regretted his single state. Would he look the same way when he was the man’s age? Brandon hoped not.

  His musing was cut short by the introduction of the final boarder. “And this here is Mr. Phil Blakeslee. He’s an artist.” Mrs. Bayles seemed as proud as if she had Michelangelo himself under her roof. “I put you two young fellas together.” She pointed to two chairs at the far end of the table. “I figger you got a lot to talk about.”

  Brandon gave his dinner companion an appraising look. Phil Blakeslee was perhaps an inch shorter than his own five foot eleven, with brown hair and vivid green eyes. While the eyes would catch most people’s attention, Blakeslee’s stature was the focus of Brandon’s gaze. The man was extremely thin, making Brandon believe he had been deprived of nourishment as a child.

  “I heard you’re planning to start a newspaper here.” Blakeslee’s diction was good, telling Brandon he’d had the benefit of more education than many, with a faint accent that hinted he was from the East.

  Neither of those surprised Brandon. What did surprise him was the hostility he saw in Blakeslee’s eyes. It vanished so quickly that Brandon might have imagined it, but he knew he had not.

  “I am.”

  “What are you going to write about?” It wasn’t his imagination. Though the question seemed innocent, Blakeslee’s tone was almost accusatory.

  “The usual: local, state, and national news.”

  “Ain’t a lot of things happening in Mesquite Springs,” one of the older men announced. “Too bad you missed the election and the horse sale earlier this year. Them were the most excitement we ever saw.”

  Brandon made a mental note to learn what had happened. “Most towns have more things to report than you might think.” That had been the case in Xavier. “I’ll also offer personal printing—cards, stationery, posters for businesses.”

  “And you’ll make your opinions known.” Once again there was a tinge of hostility in Blakeslee’s voice.

  “My plan is to report the news and let my readers form their own opinions.” That was the best way—the only way—to keep what had occurred in Xavier from happening here.

  Dorothy’s eyes widened in surprise at the sight of the woman entering Polly’s Place. “Is something wrong?”

  “That’s no way to greet your mother.” Though Ma’s voice held the same note it always did when she was chiding her, Dorothy thought she saw a hint of sorrow in her mother’s eyes that hadn’t been there on Sunday.

  “Sorry, Ma.” And Dorothy was. The last thing she wanted was to cause her mother any more pain. She knew that her move into town, which left Ma alone at the ranch, had been difficult for her. Fortunately, though this was typically their busiest time, today they were experiencing a lull and had an open table. That meant Dorothy could spend a few minutes with Ma. She wouldn’t probe—Ma would see through any questions—but if she let her mother talk long enough, she hoped she’d be able to determine why Ma had come into town.

  “I didn’t expect to see you today,” Dorothy said as she led her mother to the table.

  “You know Caleb does everything on the ranch.” Ma set her reticule on the floor before sliding onto the chair. When Dorothy was seated where she could watch the door, Ma spoke. “I thought I’d treat myself to someone else’s cooking and see what new things Ida has in the store.”

  It all sounded plausible. Ma was far from the world’s best cook, and Ida Downey was her closest friend. Still, Dorothy couldn’t dismiss the feeling that something was amiss.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” She scrutinized her mother’s face, looking for signs of an impending spell, but found nothing other than the faint shadows in her eyes.

  “Of course.” The acerbic tone was vintage Ma. “Besides, mothers are the ones who’re supposed to worry, not daughters.”

  Perhaps that was true in the normal course of events, but their lives had not been normal, and as a result, Dorothy had spent ten years worrying about her mother. She wouldn’t mention that. Instead, she forced herself to relax as she said, “We have chicken and dumplings and pot roast today. Which would you prefer?”

  “The chicken.” Ma glanced in the direction of the kitchen door as she said, “I want to see if Laura’s dumplings are as light as Ida claims. I can’t believe anyone can surpass Evelyn’s.”

  “Spoken like a proud mother by marriage.”

  “I won’t deny that I’m partial to Evelyn’s cooking, but what do you think? You’ve eaten them both.”

  Though Ma might not like her answer, Dorothy wouldn’t lie. “When she’s not preoccupied, Laura’s are as good as Evelyn’s. I can’t vouch for them today, though.”

  As she’d expected, Ma perked up. “Is something bothering Laura? She doesn’t want to move back East, does she? Leonard and Ida would have a conniption if she did.”

  “It’s not that. Laura’s convinced she’s met the man she’s going to marry.”

  The way Ma tipped her head to one side reminded Dorothy of a bird listening for the sound of worms beneath the grass. “That sounds like Laura. I remember when she chased after Caleb, and when he wasn’t interested, she turned her attention to your brother. Who’s her latest heartthrob?”

  “His name’s Brandon Holloway, and he’s here to start a newspaper.” Dorothy hoped Ma didn’t notice the slight trembling in her voice. It was the paper—only the paper—that made her excited.

  Laura had declared that Brandon Holloway’s arrival was the best thing that had ever happened in Mesquite Springs, and Dorothy agreed. He’d opened new and tantalizing possibilities for her. If everything went the way she hoped it would, he would be an answer to prayer.

  As the front doorbell tinkled and a man entered the restaurant, Dorothy’s heartbeat accelerated. “There he is.”

  Polly’s Place smelled even better than it had yesterday. Unless his nose was mistaken, they were serving pot roast and something with chicken in it today. Brandon’s mouth watered at the prospect of either one. Even better was the knowledge that he would not be sharing a table with Phil Blakeslee. Though the man had appeared friendly at breakfast this morning, encouraging everyone to call him by his first name, Brandon had been unable to shake the conviction that Phil Blakeslee did not trust him, and that bothered him. Why would a complete stranger tak
e an immediate dislike to him?

  Brandon’s gloomy thoughts began to dissipate when he saw Dorothy sitting at a table with a woman whose resemblance left no doubt she was her mother.

  “Welcome back,” she said when she reached his side. “A table for one?”

  At the same time that he nodded, the woman called out, “Bring him over here, Dorothy. I’d like the company.” Her voice was a bit higher than Dorothy’s, its light accent telling him that she was one of the many Hill Country residents who’d emmigrated from Germany.

  The request seemed to have embarrassed Dorothy, making her smile appear forced. “Would you like to sit with my mother? You don’t have to, of course.”

  “It’s fine with me. Eating alone is no fun.” And he’d noticed that the other tables were full, giving him no opportunity to meet more of Mesquite Springs’s residents.

  When they reached the table, Dorothy performed the introductions.

  “Do you and Dorothy live here in town?” Brandon asked her mother when he’d placed his order for chicken and dumplings.

  Mrs. Clark shook her head. “No.” She shrugged and continued, “Well, Dorothy does. She stays in the apartment upstairs, but I live on our ranch about fifteen minutes east of here.”

  She’d said “I” not “we,” leading Brandon to suspect that she was a widow and probably lonely now that her daughter was no longer living with her. No wonder she’d sought his company.

  “Do you raise cattle?” The more he could learn about Mesquite Springs and its residents, the easier his job would be.

  “Horses, but I’d rather talk about you.” Mrs. Clark gave him a surprisingly coy smile, almost as if she were flirting. “A widow woman’s life isn’t very interesting, but a newspaper—that definitely qualifies as interesting. Have you found an office?”