Dreams Rekindled Read online

  “No, ma’am, I did not. I apologize for my rudeness. I assure you it was unintentional.”

  Her expression softened. “I suppose there’s no harm done.”

  “Might I make amends by giving you the drawing when it’s complete?”

  She seemed taken aback by the suggestion. “Why would I need a picture when I own the house?”

  Because, if I play this right, you won’t own it much longer. “I thought you might enjoy looking at it on days when you can’t go outside.”

  She nodded. “You’re right. That would be nice. I’ll accept your offer.”

  “Would you mind if I made a second one? I’d like a memento of this charming town when I leave.”

  Mrs. Lockhart fixed her gaze on him, as if assessing his motives, then nodded. “You may do that, but on one condition.”

  “What would that be?”

  “Escort me back to my home and join me for a cup of tea. I’d like to get to know you better, young man.”

  “It would be my pleasure.” The plan was progressing even better than he’d hoped.

  Brandon smiled as he settled onto the bench in front of Polly’s Place to wait for Dorothy. She’d told him that she could talk an hour after the restaurant closed and had suggested they meet here. Though he would have preferred the Chronicle’s office, he understood her wanting a public place.

  Single ladies needed to be careful with their reputations. It was possible someone had noticed and commented on the time she’d spent at the Chronicle on Monday. Small towns, as Brandon knew all too well, thrived on gossip, but no one could look askance at an unmarried man and woman talking here.

  His smile turned into a grin as he thought about the pages Dorothy had given him. She’d called them notes, but they were not notes. Instead, they were remarkably well-written complete stories. Brandon had chuckled at some and burst out laughing when he reached the end of Mrs. Clark’s reminiscence.

  Even now, almost a full day later, he was still marveling over them. Something about them seemed familiar, but though he’d racked his brain, he couldn’t say what. But, thanks to Dorothy’s help, the first issue would be a good one. Brandon could feel that in his bones. Dorothy’s style was different from his and would provide a nice contrast to the stories he’d written. If he interspersed them, there was little worry readers would be bored.

  “Is everything okay?” he asked when Dorothy joined him. “You seemed a bit harried today.”

  The light flush that colored her cheeks only served to highlight her eyes. Why hadn’t he noticed that they were almost the same shade as the caramel icing on the spice cake she’d served him yesterday?

  “We had a problem in the kitchen—nothing too serious, but it was annoying.”

  “I’m glad.” When Dorothy’s eyes widened, Brandon realized she might have misconstrued his meaning. “I’m not glad you had a problem,” he said, trying to undo the damage, “but I am glad that it wasn’t caused by the work you’ve been doing for the Chronicle.”

  “That’s not a problem. I enjoyed collecting the stories.”

  And that led Brandon to the reason he was here. He wanted to tell her that she’d far exceeded his expectations and, by doing so, not only had she made his life easier, but she was making the Chronicle a better paper.

  “You did a marvelous job. I wish you’d seen me when I read what you gave me. I think my jaw dropped in surprise.”

  Dorothy appeared uncomfortable, as if she were unaccustomed to praise. Surely, she knew how well she wrote.

  “There are good surprises and bad ones. This was a very good one.” Brandon wanted her to have no doubt about what she’d accomplished. “I expected notes like the ones I take when I’m interviewing someone, but you gave me completed stories.”

  The flush returned to Dorothy’s cheeks, only this time he suspected it was from embarrassment rather than exertion. “I figured you’d edit them, but I thought I might be able to save you some time if I drafted them.”

  Her words confirmed his suspicions and increased Brandon’s determination to ensure that she knew just how talented she was. “You’re being too modest. They weren’t rough drafts. They were every bit as good as the ones I’ve written. Maybe better.”

  Her flush deepened, and he saw disbelief reflected in her eyes, confirming Brandon’s suspicion that no one had complimented her on her writing.

  “I doubt that.”

  “Wait and see what the readers say. I think you’ll be surprised.”

  CHAPTER

  Seven

  She had set a trap. Dorothy almost laughed at the thought that she was becoming a detective. Maybe she should apply to Pinkerton’s, she mused as she sat quietly on the fifth step from the bottom. She’d heard they’d hired a few women. But, while the thought was momentarily intriguing, she knew it wasn’t the right direction for her. The only sleuthing she wanted to do was right here in Mesquite Springs.

  She had to catch the meat bandit. That was why she’d put a roasted chicken leg on the counter. She’d even left the back door ajar to make it easier for him to smell it. Now she was sitting on the staircase, waiting to see him when he grabbed the chicken.

  If Ma had known what she was planning, she would have told Dorothy to have the rifle at her side. Intruders were intruders, she would have said, and they needed to be stopped. Instead, Dorothy was armed with an old umbrella. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but she knew she’d never shoot a hungry man. Tripping him and giving him a tongue lashing seemed like a better approach. Wyatt might laugh, and Fletcher would probably chide her for not calling him, but Dorothy was convinced that her planned punishment would be enough to make the thief think twice before stealing more of her meat.

  She didn’t have to wait long. Though she couldn’t see it from here, she heard the door open, followed by a clicking on the floor. How strange. Did he have cleats on his boots? Less than a second later, Dorothy’s jaw dropped at the sight of her intruder. The thief was not a man but the mangiest, most pathetic dog she’d ever seen.

  Tears welled in her eyes as she stared at the meat thief. He was so thin that the outlines of the poor creature’s ribs were visible through his skin. His fur was matted, missing in spots, and so filthy that she could not determine the color, and the expression in those brown eyes melted her heart. In that instant, Dorothy knew she’d give him every bit of food she had.

  “Hello, Bandit.” She spoke softly, not wanting to frighten the mutt, as she descended the stairs. Though she’d thought he might try to escape, the allure of the food was too great. He cowered next to the counter, his tail between his legs, his eyes beseeching her.

  “It’s all right. You can have the chicken.” Dorothy plucked it from the plate and placed it on the floor in front of the dog, then stepped away, wanting to assure the poor creature that she would not harm him. “It’s all right,” she repeated and took another step backward.

  That was all the invitation the dog needed. He devoured the meat, then looked up at her, begging for more.

  “Not yet. You need a bath as much as food.” The stench of mud, neglect, and things she didn’t want to consider was overwhelming. If she was going to keep this dog—and in her heart she knew she was—he had to be clean.

  As if he understood and wasn’t happy about the prospect, the dog headed for the door, and as he did, Dorothy chuckled. “I guess I can’t call you Bandit, can I, girl? We’ll find a better name, but first you’re going to have a bath.”

  As she poured water into her largest kettle and started warming it, she continued to watch the dog. He—no, she—was medium-sized, reaching only to Dorothy’s knees, and those large brown eyes whose pleading expression had won her heart seemed filled with wisdom.

  A moment later, Dorothy discovered just how wise this homeless mutt was. When Dorothy approached the pantry, planning to look for towels and something she could use as a makeshift leash, in a movement so smooth Dorothy knew she had practiced it, the dog rose on her hind legs and pushed the door’s lever down with her front paws. The mystery was solved. This clever animal had taught herself to open doors, probably driven by the desperation of extreme hunger.

  “Smart girl.” The dog was smart. The question was whether Dorothy was as well. Perhaps she should let the animal escape, but she knew that if she did, she would worry about its fate.

  When the dog eyed the back door, Dorothy shook her head. “You need to stay here if you want more food.” She tied a length of clothesline that Evelyn had left in the pantry around the dog’s neck.

  To Dorothy’s surprise, the dog made no further attempt to flee but followed her docilely into the alley and submitted to her bath. While she didn’t appear pleased by the process, something—perhaps fatigue, perhaps hunger, perhaps the realization that Dorothy would help rather than hurt her—kept her from trying to escape. She whimpered occasionally when Dorothy’s scrubbing touched a sensitive spot but otherwise remained stoically silent.

  “You need a name,” Dorothy told the dog as she dried the now-clean fur with an old towel. With the mud gone, she saw that the animal was even thinner than she’d first realized, reminding her of Phil Blakeslee. Dorothy almost laughed as the thought popped into her head. The itinerant artist was unlikely to appreciate being compared to a mongrel.

  The dog’s fur was finer and longer than Dorothy had expected, and she suspected it would look almost fluffy when fully dry, making those floppy ears appear far larger than they actually were. Though still wet, the dog’s coat had a reddish tint to it, reminding her of the spice the intruder had spilled the first day.

  Nutmeg. The name was perfect. “That’s it. I’ll call you Nutmeg.” Dorothy patted Nutmeg’s head as she asked, “What do you think of that?”

  The short bark sounded m
ore like a warning than a response, causing Dorothy to turn toward the entrance to the alley.

  “What is that?” Laura stopped a few feet away, her eyes wide with justifiable surprise.

  Dorothy rose, keeping her hand on Nutmeg’s head. “This is our meat thief. Her name is Nutmeg.”

  Laura continued to stare, then fisted her hands on her hips in obvious disapproval. “What on earth are you doing? You can’t keep a dog.”

  “I’m not keeping her.” Even as she said the words, Dorothy knew they weren’t true. From the moment she’d seen Nutmeg, she’d known that she couldn’t let her go, and when she’d felt the walnut-sized bumps in her belly, the determination to keep her only strengthened.

  Dorothy had always scoffed when Laura spoke about love at first sight. Love was for others, not her. After seeing what love could do, she had resolved never to open herself to that kind of pain. Yet here she was, filled with an emotion that could only be love. It had been love at first sight, a totally irrational reaction. How ironic that her love was for a dog, a dog that, unless she was mistaken, was going to have puppies.

  Laura shook her head. “You can deny it all you want, but I know you. You’re going to keep that mutt. I see the way you look at her.” The expression in Laura’s eyes softened ever so little as she darted another glance at Nutmeg, but she kept her hands on her hips. “Be sensible, Dorothy. Where will you keep her? She can’t stay in the kitchen, and there’s no space in the pantry.” Laura paused for a moment, her gaze moving to the shed next to their outhouse. “I suppose she could use that.”

  But Dorothy had no intention of leaving Nutmeg alone in an unheated shed. “I have plenty of room upstairs. She can have her puppies there.”

  “Puppies?” Laura’s shock was evident in the way her voice rose. “What have you gotten yourself into? I thought you were the sensible one of us.”

  Dorothy couldn’t help chuckling. “Apparently not where Nutmeg’s concerned.”

  As he searched for the right word, Brandon glanced out the front window, his story forgotten when he saw who was walking down the street. The woman was Dorothy—he’d know her anywhere—but what was that with her? A dog? He rose and strode outside.

  “I didn’t know you had a pet.” The dog with what appeared to be an old belt tied around her neck as a combination collar and leash was one of the homeliest animals Brandon had ever seen. While her coat was clean, the missing patches of fur gave her a look that could have been rakish but was actually pathetic. Still, the way she watched Dorothy, as if she’d give her life to defend the woman at her side, made Brandon suspect there was more to this story than he’d thought.

  “I didn’t until this morning.”

  When he joined her and they began to walk slowly down the street, Dorothy recounted a tale of pilfered food and how she’d caught the thief. It was both amusing and amazing. What a resourceful woman she was!

  “So, you adopted her.”

  Dorothy shrugged and gave her new pet a fond glance. “I’m not sure who adopted whom. All I know is that I couldn’t leave Nutmeg to fend for herself.”

  “Of course, you couldn’t. You have a kind heart.” Brandon shivered. He’d been so caught up in the story that he hadn’t realized he’d neglected to put on his coat until a gust of wind chilled him.

  “I could never bear the thought of people or animals being abused,” Dorothy explained, “but ever since I read Uncle Tom’s Cabin, I felt as if I ought to do my part against injustice.”

  The chill that swept through him owed nothing to the wind. Brandon couldn’t argue with Dorothy—he’d felt the same way when he’d been introduced to Harriet Beecher Stowe’s story, because it encapsulated everything he felt about the evils of slavery—but he couldn’t forget what had happened when he’d written about Mrs. Stowe’s book.

  “I didn’t realize many people in Texas had read Uncle Tom,” he said as mildly as he could. “It’s practically been banned.” That had been one of the reasons he’d taken the stand he had, a stand that had had tragic consequences.

  Dorothy had no way of knowing how painful even the slightest mention of the book was for Brandon. His reaction wasn’t rational—he knew that—but he could not control it. With what seemed like an inordinately large effort, he forced himself to listen as she continued her explanation.

  “Wyatt heard men talking about it when he took our horses to the big sale. He wanted to see what all the fuss was about, so he ordered a copy. I read it before he did.”

  When Nutmeg whimpered, Dorothy stopped to reassure her pet. Then she turned to Brandon, those caramel-colored eyes filling with concern when he shivered again. “You’re cold. Let’s go back.”

  It was the sensible thing to do. He was cold, and he did not want to discuss the book that had created so much controversy, but Brandon found himself unwilling to be sensible. “I don’t want you to cut your walk short on my account.”

  “And I don’t want the town’s newspaperman catching a cold on my account. Let’s turn around.” They’d reached the corner of Spring and Mesquite. “You can get your coat, and then we’ll walk the other direction. I haven’t been to the spring in a while.”

  “All right.” Perhaps the change of direction would also change the direction of their conversation.

  “Have you read Uncle Tom’s Cabin?” So much for his hope that Dorothy would have forgotten they were discussing it.

  “Yes.” He wouldn’t lie, but neither would he encourage her.

  “Did you find it life-changing? I certainly did.”

  He had indeed found it life-changing, but that was something he wasn’t ready to share with her or anyone. Still, he couldn’t resist learning how the book had affected Dorothy. “In what way?”

  As if she sensed her mistress’s heightened emotions, Nutmeg rubbed against her leg. Dorothy stroked the dog’s head before she answered. “It made me want to be a writer so that I could influence people the way Mrs. Stowe did. Not everyone agrees with her, but her story has caused people to think about slavery in a new way.”

  “Some people.” Others would never change their opinions. It was definitely time to change the subject. “It seems to me you’re well on your way to accomplishing your goal. The stories you wrote for the Chronicle were excellent.”

  “I’m no Harriet Beecher Stowe.” Once again, he heard the self-deprecating note in her voice, a reminder that Dorothy did not recognize her talent.

  “No, you’re not,” he agreed. “You’re Dorothy Clark, and that’s equally important.”

  Through her writing Dorothy was helping him establish a new life, giving him hope that he might be able to rekindle some of his dreams.

  “Thanks to you, the first issue of the Chronicle will be one no one will forget. The Christmas stories were your idea, and you’ve done half the work.” Brandon paused for a second as a thought assailed him. “I ought to be paying you.”

  Though she’d been walking briskly, Dorothy stopped and turned toward him. “I didn’t expect to be paid. I’m simply glad that I could help you get started here.” Those brown eyes he found so intriguing were serious as she said, “Mesquite Springs needs a paper. I’d almost go as far as to say that every town needs one.”

  Nutmeg woofed as if adding her approval, and Dorothy responded by ruffling one of the dog’s ears before she continued. “Since you brought George with you, I’m assuming there’s no longer a paper in Xavier. That makes me wonder why you left.”

  Because he had no future there. Because he’d lost everyone and everything that mattered. Because the guilt was too overwhelming to be borne. Brandon wouldn’t tell her that, but he owed Dorothy at least a partial explanation.

  “After my father died, there was no reason for me to stay in Xavier. I needed a change, and the Hill Country seemed like a good place.”

  Dorothy’s expression radiated more than sympathy. In her eyes, Brandon saw understanding. “It’s never easy losing a loved one. My father died over ten years ago, and I still miss him.” When Nutmeg, ever sensitive to her mistress’s moods, licked her hand, Dorothy smiled at the dog. “I wish I’d had Nutmeg then.”

  Brandon wished he could smile, but the memory of that night was so vivid that his knees threatened to buckle.