Dreams Rekindled Read online

  “You wanted to make a difference.” Just as Dorothy did.

  “That was my dream.”

  Dorothy shivered slightly as she descended the final step and saw that the back door was open. Had Laura arrived early and neglected to latch it? Dorothy was certain the door had been firmly closed when she’d gone upstairs to repair her hem, but now a cool breeze blew into the kitchen. If the wind had been stronger, she might have believed it could have blown the door open, particularly if she hadn’t closed it completely, but the breeze wasn’t strong enough to do that. Furthermore, she knew the door had not been ajar when she’d unlocked it for Laura.

  “Laura!” she called. There was no answer.

  Though it was not Laura’s normal routine, Dorothy wondered if her friend had gone into the dining room for something. Ever since Brandon Holloway had arrived in Mesquite Springs, Laura’s mind had been focused on him, not on preparing meals for Polly’s Place.

  The dining room was empty. Dorothy glanced at her watch and shook her head. Of course, Laura wasn’t here. There was still half an hour to go before she normally arrived.

  Returning to the kitchen, Dorothy strode to the counter, determined to put the puzzle of the open door behind her. If they were going to have everything ready when the first customers arrived, she needed to start cubing the meat for today’s stew. She shouldn’t be wondering about open doors and what Brandon thought of the stories she’d given him. He’d said he wouldn’t have time to look at what he thought were her notes until this morning, so the earliest she could expect to hear his reaction was when he came for lunch.

  What on earth? Dorothy stared at the empty spot on the counter. The slab of beef that she’d carefully coated with the mixture of spices Laura had prepared was gone. The heavy paper remained, but there was no sign of the meat other than a faint stain from the juices. Though she hadn’t heard anyone enter, it was clear that someone had come in, taken the meat, then left without closing the door. For the first time, Polly’s Place had been robbed.

  Dorothy clenched her hands in frustration, stopping only when she realized that her anger at the person who’d taken enough meat to serve several dozen people was accomplishing nothing. She and Laura had customers to feed. Since folks were expecting stew, there was only one thing to do.

  Dorothy opened the icebox, pulled out another piece of beef, and began to cut it into cubes. Laura would be disappointed that it wouldn’t have the special spices she’d prepared, but at least she’d be able to make a stew.

  “Oh, what a wonderful morning!” Laura was practically bouncing on her toes as she entered the kitchen twenty-five minutes later.

  “You might not say that when you hear what happened.” Dorothy gave her a brief explanation, concluding, “I don’t know who would have taken the meat. We haven’t had any thefts in Mesquite Springs that I can recall, and I don’t know of anyone hungry enough to steal.”

  Laura appeared as puzzled as Dorothy felt. “Maybe it was someone passing through town.”

  “If so, how would they know to come to the back door?” As she’d chopped the meat with more force than usual, Dorothy had tried but failed to make sense of what had occurred. “I doubt it’ll happen again, but there’s only one way to be sure. We’ll have to keep the door locked unless one of us is here. As soon as we get everything in the oven, I’m going to tell Fletcher what happened.” Fletcher Engel was the town’s sheriff and, according to Wyatt, had been the first to encourage her brother to run for mayor.

  “All right.” As Laura donned her apron and tied the sash, her face took on the dreamy look it had worn so often in the past week. “I wonder what time he’ll come.”

  There was no need to ask who “he” was. Only one man figured in Laura’s thoughts and dreams. “I can’t predict when, but I can tell you he’ll be here. He told Ma he intends to eat here every day we’re open.”

  “That’s good. How is your ma?” Laura stopped measuring flour for the piecrusts and looked up.

  “She seemed happier than usual when I was at the ranch on Sunday, but I know she’s lonely now that both Wyatt and I are gone.” That realization and the fear that loneliness might cause another of Ma’s spells weighed heavily on Dorothy. Both Wyatt and Ma had told her not to worry, but she couldn’t stop being concerned.

  “Wyatt and Evelyn will be home soon,” Laura reminded her.

  “But not on the ranch.” The mayor’s office was across the street from Polly’s Place and boasted larger living quarters than the apartment over the restaurant. When Wyatt had won the election and they’d started discussing marriage, both he and Evelyn had agreed that they needed to live in town so that Evelyn could continue running Polly’s Place and so Wyatt would be closer to his constituents. The mayor’s house had been the obvious choice.

  Laura added salt to the flour and began to stir it. “But you’ll move back to the ranch once they’re here, won’t you?”

  That was the big question. “I’m not sure,” Dorothy admitted. “Even though I worry about my mother, I like being here. The problem is, I don’t know what I’ll do when Evelyn returns.” Dorothy gestured toward the pie plates. While she’d mixed fillings for Evelyn, she’d never made a piecrust. “She doesn’t need two helpers, and you’re much better at this than I am.”

  Laura smiled as if the answer should be apparent. “I won’t work here forever. Maybe not even very long. Once I’m married, I plan to stay home.”

  “And raise your four children.” For as long as Dorothy had known her, Laura had dreamt of a husband and four children, claiming that she’d have two boys followed by two girls. Dorothy wondered whether she’d shared that dream with Brandon, then chided herself. They hardly knew each other. Besides, it shouldn’t matter. It didn’t matter.

  “Exactly.” Laura reached for the lard. “Where’s the nutmeg? I thought you were going to grate some this morning.”

  “It’s right there, in the blue saucer.” Dorothy reached across the counter for it, intending to show Laura the perfectly grated spice. That was one culinary technique she’d mastered. But the saucer was empty, the grains scattered on the counter as if someone had bumped the saucer.

  “I don’t understand.” Dorothy looked at the saucer again, befuddled. “This doesn’t make sense.”

  Brandon inhaled, enjoying the rich smell of fallen leaves. While Mesquite Springs lacked Xavier’s tall pines, it had cedars and live oaks, as well as a few deciduous trees he couldn’t identify. It was better to think about the changing seasons rather than the changes in his life. He’d wakened this morning to find his cheeks moist with the tears he’d shed while he slept, and the pall of sorrow had hung over him ever since. Though he’d intended to read the notes Dorothy had given him, he’d found himself unable to concentrate on anything other than his memories.

  Today was the 18th, exactly two months since Pa had died. The grief continued to stab him when he least expected it, and the guilt had not faded. How could it when he began each morning with a solitary breakfast, so different from the ones he’d shared with his father? And, though the busyness of the day kept memories at bay, regret stabbed him each evening as the emptiness of his new home surrounded him. There was no one to talk to, no one to pray with. He was alone, and it was all his fault. If only he hadn’t published that editorial.

  Needing to clear his thoughts before he ate lunch, Brandon had decided to take the long way around the block. A brisk walk was what he needed. He would concentrate on the Chronicle, not on the mistakes he’d made in Xavier and their tragic consequences.

  He’d spoken to several of the old-timers Dorothy had predicted would prefer to tell their stories to a man. As expected, some of the reminiscences had rambled and made little sense, but they’d had enough substance that Brandon could turn them into coherent anecdotes.

  He’d also approached most of the business owners and had secured their agreement for ads in the inaugural issue. Today, if he had time, he would design his own advertisement, listin
g subscription rates and telling readers that he was available to do personal printing. It had been Pa’s suggestion that he include an ad like that in every issue of the Xavier Record.

  Pa. No matter how he tried to stop them, Brandon’s thoughts returned to him. Oh, how he missed him. He hadn’t realized how much he had counted on his father. Pa had helped with the work of putting out a newspaper, but he’d done more than that. He’d given advice whenever Brandon needed it. Had he taken him for granted? Brandon hoped that wasn’t the case.

  He swallowed deeply, trying to corral his thoughts as he approached the restaurant. He needed to tamp back his sorrow and focus on the future. That’s what Pa would have wanted.

  “We’re not too busy right now,” Dorothy said as she greeted Brandon with the smile that never failed to warm his insides. “Would you like a table to yourself?”

  He would, particularly today when he feared he might inflict his mood on others, but that wouldn’t accomplish his goal. He needed company and ordinary conversation to banish his doldrums. “I’d just as soon meet some new people.”

  He ought to tell her he hadn’t had a chance to look at her notes—that was only common courtesy—but he couldn’t find a way to do that without explaining why he was so sad today.

  “Certainly.”

  Fortunately, Dorothy did not appear to expect him to discuss the Chronicle here. She was treating him as if he were nothing more than a customer, and that was fine with Brandon. More than fine. It was what he needed.

  Dorothy looked around the room, then led him to a table with three men who were still strangers to him.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said as he pulled out the empty chair. “I hope you don’t mind my joining you.”

  “It’s afternoon.” The oldest of the trio fairly spat the words at Brandon.

  “So it is. Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

  A man who looked enough like the grumpy one to be his brother shook his head. “Don’t pay no mind to Pete. He’s in a bad mood today, because Dorothy ain’t got any oatmeal pecan pie.”

  “But I have pilgrim pie,” she said, her voice as sweet as the dessert itself. “Some of our customers prefer it.”

  “How come?” Pete demanded.

  “They think it has more flavor.” She gave him a conspiratorial wink. “I’ll admit that I’m partial to it.”

  Pete was silent for a second, considering what she’d said. “I reckon I could give it a try then.”

  Brandon bit back the laughter that threatened to erupt. In less than a minute, Dorothy had accomplished what the brisk walk had not. She had amused him with the ease with which she’d swayed Pete. “Make sure you save a piece for me,” he told her.

  The conversation was stilted at first, but when Laura arrived with Brandon’s stew and stayed long enough for him to taste it and compliment her on the flavor, all three men gawked at her.

  “I wish I was twenty years younger,” Pete’s brother announced. “I’d be settin’ my cap for her.”

  “It wouldn’t do no good. That gal only has eyes for Brandon here.” Pete wagged his finger at Brandon. “You’re one lucky fella. You know that, don’t you?”

  But he wasn’t lucky. Not lucky at all.

  CHAPTER

  Six

  Dorothy stared at the counter in disbelief. The ham she’d been slicing only a minute ago was gone. Yesterday had been bad, but today was worse. The thief had become bolder, entering the kitchen when she and Laura were only feet away. Even worse, it was too late to prepare another main course.

  Forcing a smile that she was far from feeling onto her face, Dorothy returned to the dining room. Laura would be annoyed by the interruption, but it couldn’t be helped.

  “I need you back in the kitchen,” she said when she reached the table where Laura was flirting with Brandon. She hadn’t—and wouldn’t—tell Laura that Brandon had said he wanted to talk to her when Polly’s Place closed. It had to be about the stories she’d written. Laura knew she was doing that. In fact, her friend had encouraged her, but that didn’t mean Laura would appreciate her speaking to Brandon. She’d become touchy where he was concerned, seeing every woman who so much as smiled at him as a rival. None of that mattered now. What mattered was the missing meat.

  As Dorothy had expected, Laura’s eyes flashed with annoyance, but she nodded. “All right.” Turning her attention back to Brandon, she smiled sweetly. “I hope you enjoy the ham, Brandon. The sauce is a special recipe I learned in Charleston.”

  “I’m certain it will be delicious. Everything you ladies serve is.”

  He was only being polite by including Dorothy in the compliment, but Laura did not see it that way. She glared at Dorothy and refused to leave Brandon’s side until Dorothy headed for the kitchen.

  “What’s so important that you dragged me away from Brandon?” Laura demanded as soon as the kitchen door closed behind them. She stood with her hands on her hips, a scowl on her normally pretty face. “You know how I feel about him.”

  “And you know how I feel about Polly’s Place. You may be the cook, but I’m the one who promised Evelyn I’d keep her customers happy while she was gone.” Dorothy’s words came out more sharply than she’d intended. It wasn’t Laura’s fault they had a problem.

  Laura flinched. “So, what’s wrong? We sell everything we make almost every day.”

  “That’s the problem. Today’s ham is gone.” Dorothy pointed to the empty platter that was now so clean it looked as if the thief had licked it.

  “He came back?” Laura’s annoyance had been transformed into concern.

  “Apparently. It must have happened while you were talking to Brandon and I was taking the meals to table number six. That’s the only time we were both gone. When I came back, the door was open.” Though they kept it latched, they didn’t lock it during the day, because Dorothy had been certain the thief would not risk entering while they were there.

  “Who is he and how did he know the kitchen was empty?”

  That was Dorothy’s question too. “I don’t know. Fletcher didn’t find any clues. He said there were no new people in town, and no one had seen anything suspicious.” She frowned. “Fletcher thought it might have been a prank, but this doesn’t feel like a prank to me. All I know is, this can’t continue.”

  Phil whistled softly as he left Dusty at the livery. He’d gone to Grassey a day early, hoping for a response from Brother Josiah. Unfortunately, there had been none, but other than that, everything was going according to plan. He’d just returned from visiting the third ranch and, while Henry Sattler claimed that his land was everything he and his wife had ever dreamed of owning, Phil was certain he could be persuaded to sell. Offer a man enough money, and he’d do anything. That was human nature.

  Since the Sattlers’ land was not substantially different from either the Bosches’ or the Links’, there was no need to send Mr. K the sketches Phil had made. Instead, he’d start to work on the next part of the project: the location for the hotel.

  Mr. K had liked his suggestion of the Lockhart place. Not only did it have the only triple lot in town, but it was situated next to the park.

  “Some of my guests will be wealthy men and women,” Mr. K had explained when he’d described his needs. “They’ll expect luxury when they come here to learn about the investments I can offer them.” And space was a type of luxury. That made Widow Lockhart’s house ideal. Plus, it met another of Mr. K’s requirements. He’d told Phil to be sure that whatever location he recommended was one where he could envision himself living. “If you like it,” he’d said, “my guests will too.”

  When he reached the corner of River, Phil turned left and walked briskly to Hill, frowning as he passed the Downeys’ home. He shouldn’t have come this way. When he’d first visited Mesquite Springs, that building had been the one flaw in an otherwise almost perfect town. It wasn’t anything he could share with Mr. K, but the Downey home, which everyone else considered beautiful, reminded Phil o
f the place he’d lived for the first ten years of his life.

  It had been a good home for him and Esther. They’d been happy—some might say indulged, but certainly sheltered from life’s unpleasantness—until Father had lost the house and everything else he possessed over a bad hand of cards. When he’d refused to pay, an angry creditor had shot him, turning Phil and Esther from pampered children into homeless orphans.

  Phil clenched his teeth as he patted the oilskin packet that accompanied him everywhere. He wouldn’t think about that. Those horrible years of cold, hunger, and fear were in the past, and he could not undo them. What was important now was the future.

  He turned east on Hill, staying on the south side. If she followed her routine, Mrs. Lockhart would take her afternoon walk in ten minutes. He intended to be in place, sketching her house when she emerged from it.

  The drawing was more than half done when he heard her approach.

  “What are you doing, young man?” she demanded, her diction as precise as he’d expected when he’d learned that she had once been a schoolteacher.

  Phil looked up, feigning surprise at the sight of the petite gray-haired woman. He doubted she topped five feet, and though her dress had the flounces and furbelows that so many older women seemed to favor, it could not disguise that she was almost as thin as he.

  “Oh, ma’am, you startled me. Is that your home?”

  “It most certainly is. I repeat, what are you doing?”

  Phil gave her the sheepish grin he’d perfected. “Why, ma’am, your house is so beautiful that I simply had to capture it on paper.” He turned his sketchbook so that she could see what he’d done.

  “Not bad, young man, but don’t you know that it’s rude to do that without asking permission?”