Montana Dreaming

It seemed logical to make sure the baby looked like a Manuela or a Maria before dubbing her with a name that would stick for the rest of her life. And now that Juliet had seen the baby and fallen in love with her, neither seemed to fit.

But around two o’clock in the morning, she’d gotten another idea. Something that felt more appropriate and more fitting.

The door swung open, as Mark entered the room. He carried a newspaper and a disposable cup she assumed was coffee.

“Looks like Sweet Pea is giving you a chance to eat breakfast in peace,” he said.

Juliet smiled and glanced at the precious little one lying in the bassinette. “So far so good, but I think she’s starting to wake up now.”

He made his way to the baby’s bedside and studied her while she squirmed. “What are you going to call her?”

Juliet didn’t respond until his gaze caught hers. “I’d like to name her after you, Mark. What do you think of Marissa?”

His eyes widened, and his lips parted. “You’re going to name her after me?”

He seemed genuinely touched, and she was glad. “I’m not sure how I would have managed without you this past week.”

Before he could respond further, a blond candy striper popped her head in the door. “Are you finished with breakfast?”

“Yes,” Juliet said, taking one last sip of milk.

The bright-eyed teen crossed the room with a spring in her step and picked up Juliet’s tray. “Did you hear the news?”

Mark, who’d managed to doff the sentiment from his expression the minute the candy striper entered the room, slipped into reporter mode. “What news?”

“A couple of guys hunting for gold near Turner Grade found several large nuggets. They showed the E.R. staff, and everyone said they were the biggest ones yet.” The teenager smiled, revealing a set of rainbow-colored braces. “My grandpa left us a piece of property that used to be a gold mine in the olden days. And my dad is going to get a second mortgage on our house so he can buy the equipment and hire a crew to start working it again.”

Juliet glanced at Mark, knowing what he was thinking—that the poor candy striper’s father was wasting his time, as well as risking the family’s financial security.

Mark didn’t comment, didn’t deflate the young woman’s hope, which was good. And Juliet, who always tried to keep a positive outlook, was glad he’d held his tongue. But she had to admit even she found the man’s enthusiasm a bit scary. After all, Mark had been right about something. Most of the gold hunters would end up empty-handed.

“What were the prospectors doing in the E.R.?” Mark asked.

“Apparently, they’d been celebrating their find at The Hitching Post last night. On the way to the parking lot, one of them tripped and cut his hand on a bottle of beer he’d been holding. So he came in for stitches.”

“Crazy fools.” Mark glanced at Juliet, with a see-what-I-mean look in his eye, which silently pointed out the downside of the gold rush.

It was amazing. Juliet and Mark had actually communicated in a look, a glance. Just like married couples seemed to do.

For a moment, she wondered what had happened between them in the past week. What had changed? Had they forged some kind of a bond? And if so, what direction would their friendship take?

But rather than get carried away, she shrugged off her question, deciding to take one day at a time.

“The E.R. gets a lot of gold-rush related injuries,” Mark said.

“They sure do.” The candy striper grinned. “Just this morning, someone came in with a gunshot wound.”

“That’s a lot more serious than a cut or broken bone,” Mark said. “Was it another prospector?”

“Uh-huh. My friend is a nurse’s aide, and she told me it was a property dispute or something like that.” The teenager lifted Juliet’s tray. “Well, I’d better get back to work.” Then she left the room and went on her way.

Juliet glanced at Mark, saw his furrowed brow.

Was he contemplating the value of the candy striper’s gossip? Or the importance of the land dispute?

“It looks like your story is taking off without you,” Juliet said. “Marissa and I are doing okay. Why don’t you take some time to yourself?”

“Maybe I will.” He glanced at the baby, watched her squirm and fuss. “Mind if I pick her up? I think she’s hungry.”

Juliet could just as easily take care of the baby herself, but she had a feeling Mark liked being helpful. “Please do.”

He held the child against his chest for a bit longer than necessary, which Juliet thought was sweet. That fish-out-of-water expression hadn’t completely disappeared, but he’d grown more confident.

“Have a nice breakfast, Sweet Pea.” He ran a knuckle along the baby’s cheek, then handed her to Juliet. “I’ll be back later this afternoon.”

“That’s fine. Dr. Hart was just here. She wants to keep us at least another night, just to make sure Marissa is nursing well and doesn’t develop any problems related to her premature birth.”

“Ma-ris-sa,” he said, enunciating each sound. His eyes lit up, as he smiled. “I’m not sure if I told you, but I like that. It’s a pretty name for a pretty little girl.”

Then he grabbed his coffee, rolled up the newspaper and headed for the door. Off to work. Just like a typical new father.

Stop that, Juliet told herself. Soy la tonta del barrio, the biggest fool in town.

Mark had been a good friend—that’s all. And she couldn’t let those kinds of silly thoughts take root.

Lord knew she didn’t need to set herself up for any more disappointments in her life.

The newspaper office was located along South Main, just a few blocks from Town Square. It wasn’t a big building, but then again, the Thunder Canyon Nugget was only a weekly.

Mark had come by twice before, not long after he’d arrived in town. But the publisher and editor, Roy Canfield, had an Out To Lunch sign on the door. And the sign had remained there all afternoon.

But today Mark was in luck—no sign and the door of the white-stucco building was unlocked.

He entered the small front office and caught the heady scent of newsprint and ink.

A heavyset, salt-and-pepper-haired man in a tweed sports jacket sat at a desk near a door leading to the back. His leather desk chair squeaked as he turned from his work. “Can I help you?”

“My name’s Mark Anderson. I’m with Golden Eagle News Service. Are you Mr. Canfield?”

“Yes, siree.” The sixty-something man stood and reached out a hand in greeting. “But call me Roy.”

They shook hands, and Mark cut to the chase. “I read your latest editorial. In fact, I was a bit surprised that it was so well-written and thought-provoking.”

“Because you agree with me? Or because the Nugget is just a weekly?” Roy crossed his arms above an ample belly, but his smile indicated he hadn’t found the comment offensive.

Mark returned his smile. “Actually, I disagreed with you. And I plan to write a letter in rebuttal.”

“Good!” Roy stood as tall as his five-and-a-half foot frame would allow, putting quite a strain on his red suspenders. “I’m always up for a heated debate.”

Mark smiled. “I must admit the issue I read was better than I expected.”

“I bought the Nugget two years ago, after I retired from a big-city press. And I’ve tried to make it a quality newspaper while maintaining the small-town appeal.”

“You’ve done a good job. I expected to see something about a two-headed cow or a fifty-pound rutabaga.”

“That’s what I’ve tried to get away from ever since I bought this rag.” Roy’s blue eyes glistened. “It’s not always easy to find real news in a small town. Do you know what the last editor ran on the front page the day before I took the helm?”

Mark shook his head. “Hard telling.”

Roy chuckled, his belly shaking with mirth. “Elmer Godwin, who was suffering from a godawful case of gout, got drunk and, in his frustration over the pain, tried to cut off his big toe and damn near bled to death.”

A wry smile tugged at Mark’s lips. “Sorry I missed that issue.”

“Bet Golden Eagle would have paid you plenty for a newsflash like that.” Roy indicated a chair in front of his desk. “Why don’t you take a seat? It isn’t often we get a hotshot reporter from the city in town.”

There was something about Roy Canfield that Mark liked, that he could relate to, although he sure as hell didn’t know what it was. The fact that they were both journalists, he supposed.

“I’ve been sent to write a big spread on the gold rush,” Mark told the older man. “But I doubt there’s anything worthy of a story.”

“You gotta believe, son.” Canfield’s blue eyes sparkled.

“Come on, Roy.” Mark took the seat across from the heavyset older man. “The fortune hunters are spitting into the wind.”

“What about those two brothers who found themselves a couple of good-size nuggets yesterday?”

“You mean the two guys who celebrated at The Hitching Post and ended up at the E.R. getting stitches in one of their hands?” Mark clucked his tongue. “Sure, there might be a few nuggets out there. But the real story lies in the broken dreams of those foolish enough to sell their homes and buy prospecting gear, especially when they don’t know squat about mining gold.”

“You know who Caleb Douglas is?” Canfield asked.

“Yeah. He’s a wealthy businessman and cattle baron who’s developing that new ski resort.”

Canfield nodded. “And right now, the man is more interested in finding the deed to the Queen of Hearts mine.”

“I’d heard he was still having trouble locating the deed. Are you saying he’s caught gold fever?”

“For years, that boarded up mine was considered worthless, except as a piece of real estate. And more recently, as you probably know, Caleb has been focused on that fancy new ski resort and the groundbreaking ceremony next month. But that’s not the case anymore.” Canfield leaned back in his chair, leather creaking and wood squeaking as he rocked. “When a couple of squatters began to hunt for gold on Caleb’s property, he was concerned about liability, more than anything else. After all, enough of those foolish gold hunters have already ended up at the Thunder Canyon E.R. So he posted No Trespassing signs.”

“Makes sense. Besides, any gold on the property belongs to him.”

“But now, Caleb realizes that just because the Queen of Hearts played out years ago doesn’t mean there’s not a new vein.”

“Okay,” Mark said. “Let’s say there is still gold in the Queen of Hearts. How’s that going to help all those prospectors combing the hills?”

“It won’t. But that’s not where your story is, son.”

“What do you mean?”

“Yesterday, a squatter challenged Caleb, spouting rumors about mine ownership and questioning who actually had the legal right to run off anyone from the property.” Roy leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “If you’ve kept your ears open, you know there are a lot of rumors about how old Amos Douglas won the Queen of Hearts in a poker game a century or more ago. And there’s a lesser known story that some prospector won it back.”

“I went to high school in Thunder Canyon, even though I haven’t been back in twenty years. So I’m familiar with the rumors. You think there’s anything to them?”

Roy shrugged, reached for a pencil and twiddled it through his fingers. “Who knows? Caleb hadn’t been able to find the deed before, thinking it just wasn’t handy. But since then, he began to hunt diligently, and so far, he’s come up empty-handed.”

“How about a title search down at the courthouse?”

“He’s having trouble with that, too. Especially with Harvey Watson out of town on vacation.”

Watson, Mark realized, was the clerk who was trying to computerize the old ledgers.

The semiretired journalist chuckled. “You look bumfuzzled. If I were still at the Tribune, I’d probably scoop you on this one. But I’m not.”

“What are you thinking?” Mark asked, finding himself interested in the old man’s take on the situation.

“If Caleb can’t find the deed, it makes me think at least one of those old rumors must be true. That Amos sold off the property, thinking it was worthless. Or that he lost it in a card game. Or that it was stolen out from under his nose.” The editor grinned like a cat in an aviary. “And that’s where your story is, son.”

Mark pondered what the older man had said. And he found his interest stimulated. Maybe Canfield was right. Maybe Caleb Douglas didn’t own the property. And if there was a new vein, someone else stood to profit. Someone who might not realize it.

“Well,” Roy said, getting to his feet. “I hate to rush you. But I’ve got to run home and eat lunch. My wife has been on my case. She hates every minute I spend down here, although I think she’s more resentful of the money I invested. But what the hell would I do with my time if I retired completely?”

Mark sure didn’t know what to tell him.

“The smell of ink is in my blood. I love my work. And I can’t see myself on one of those Caribbean cruises she’s been pestering me to take, even if I could find the time. I finally got her to take one with her sister, Mildred.”

Canfield didn’t need to explain. Mark understood how the newspaper got in a man’s blood. And how a woman could get upset about the time a man spent away from home.

Hell, Mark had a divorce decree to prove it.

His marriage to Susan, of course, had been years ago. And it hadn’t lasted very long. Just long enough for him to learn how unhappy his travels had made a woman whose only goal in life was to create a home and be a mother—until she got fed up and threw it all away.

But that was all right. Mark loved his job, and having a family would have only tied him down.

As he followed Roy to the door, his thoughts drifted to Juliet and the baby, although he wasn’t sure why. Because they’d spent so much time together, he supposed. Because he probably ought to check on them and make sure things were still okay.

“By the way,” Roy said, as he flipped over the Out To Lunch sign and locked the door. “Are you the reporter who’s been looking after the pregnant waitress at The Hitching Post?”

“Yeah. News travels fast.”

“Hey, Thunder Canyon news is my business, even if it isn’t Pulitzer material.” Roy grinned. “So, did that pretty young woman have her baby?”

“Yeah,” Mark said, a warm glow building in his chest. “Juliet had a tiny little girl. Four pounds, eleven ounces.”

The older man blew out a whistle. “That’s small. Mother and baby doing well?”

“Yeah. They’re doing great.”

“What’d Juliet name the child?” the editor asked. “I might write up a little blurb for the paper.”

“Marissa.”

“Pretty name.”

“Thanks,” Mark said, wondering why he’d felt as though he’d been given a compliment.

Juliet and Marissa stayed in the hospital for two nights and most of the next day. After promising to make an appointment for the baby to see a pediatrician for a weight check in three days, they were released around dinnertime, and Mark took them home.

Then, while mother and baby settled in, Mark went downstairs and purchased dinner at The Hitching Post, even though he was a bit sick of their meals.

He returned to the apartment and let himself in.

“It’s me,” he said, setting the bags of food on the table.

“I’m in here,” Juliet called from the bedroom.

He entered and found her placing the baby in a secondhand cradle and covering her with a green crocheted blanket. He wondered if she’d brought the cradle from San Diego, but didn’t ask. He was too caught up in the scene before him.

Juliet wore a white cotton nightgown, the thin material and the lamplight allowing him a glimpse of her silhouette. The way her breasts seemed fuller, the nipples pronounced. Her belly hadn’t gone back to its normal size, yet she looked beautiful standing over the baby’s bed, her hair glossy and hanging free.

He scoffed at himself for staring. And for finding her still attractive. “I…uh…got pot roast this evening. And strawberry shortcake for dessert.”

“Thanks. That sounds delicious.” She cast him a smile, one that lit her face and made him realize how pretty she was without makeup and any special effects.

He raked a hand through his hair and leaned against the doorjamb. “Mrs. Tasker sent up a bottle of sparkling apple cider in celebration.”

“That was nice of her.”

“She’d also like to come up and see the baby, but I told her tonight wasn’t a good time.” Actually, he didn’t like the idea of having people breathe over the baby. Not yet. She was too tiny, too vulnerable. What if Marissa caught a germ and got sick?

“I’m a bit tired,” Juliet admitted. “Tomorrow would be better.”

Mark hoped she didn’t think he was moving in, or something. He had every intention of taking his shaving kit back to the inn and staying where he belonged. “If you don’t mind, I’ll join you for dinner. Then I’ll head back to the inn.”

“All right.” Her smile faltered, waned. Was she disappointed that he’d be leaving? Afraid she couldn’t handle the baby alone yet?

“Unless you’d rather I stayed one more night,” he added.

“No, that’s all right. I think we’ll be fine.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, then glanced at Marissa’s sleeping form. “Give me a minute, and I’ll be right there.”

He nodded, then returned to the dining area. Moments later, she joined him. But she’d slipped on her blue robe and a pair of scruffy white slippers.

Was she getting shy all of a sudden? Or just chilled?

“Should I turn up the heat?” he asked.

“No, I’m not cold.”

Okay. So she wasn’t wearing the robe to ward off a chill. But Mark let it drop.

They ate dinner in silence, an awkwardness settling over them. Mark didn’t have a clue what had caused it. Not exactly. The fact that they’d been playing house maybe. That they’d been a couple for nearly a week. And now playtime was over.

He opened the bottle of sparkling cider and poured them both a glass. Lifting his, he said, “To Marissa.”

Juliet clinked her glass against his, then took a sip. He watched the movement of her swallow, admired the shape of her neck, as he had before. Swanlike. Pretty.

She stood and moved toward the bookshelf that held her family photos, then picked one up, communing with her family the only way she could. She lifted another silver frame, then swiped a hand under her eyes. Her shoulders trembled.

Oh, hell. She was crying.

His mind told him to stay seated. To let her grieve alone. To mind his own business. To find a reason to leave. But for some inexplicable reason, he stood and made his way to her side.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She turned, eyes red and watery. A tear slid down her face. “I’m so sorry they couldn’t see Marissa. That they can’t be a part of her life.”

Mark wrapped her in his arms and drew her close, breathing in the citrusy scent of her shampoo. Offering her his strength. Hoping his embrace was enough.

Her tears continued to fall, so he continued to hold her.

“I’m really sorry,” she whispered into his cotton dress shirt, making it warm and moist. “I haven’t done this in a long time.”

“It’s the baby. And hormones,” he said, although he had no idea if that were true. It sounded reasonable, he supposed.

His mother used to say that to Kelly, when she locked herself in her room for days at a time. Mark had always figured his sister was depressed because the SOB she’d married had left her barefoot and pregnant. But his parents had been too busy to seek help for her, counseling. Something.

“You’re probably right,” Juliet said, causing him to wonder what it was that he’d said. “It’s normal to have some depression after birth. Some people call it the baby blues.”

She sniffled, as if the crying jag were all over.

Whew. This childbirth stuff was so new. So out of his league.

As he loosened his embrace and let her go, she glanced at the bookshelf, ran her hand along a watermark on the wood. “Manny made that stain. He…”

She sniffled again, then batted away a new tear. And then another.

The next thing Mark knew, he was holding her again. And she was trembling in his arms. “Come on, honey. Let’s take a walk into the other room.”

Of course, the only other room was the bedroom, where Marissa slept. This apartment was so damn small there was no escape from the memories of the past. But maybe the baby would offer her a promise of the future.

When they reached the bed, he used his thumbs to wipe the tears from her eyes. “Why don’t you lie down? You ought to rest while the baby is sleeping.”

“Will you lie down with me? Just for a minute or two?”

He nodded, willing to do anything to make her feel better. To see that pretty Pollyanna smile again.

“Sure.” He joined her on the bed, fully clothed, his loafers still on his feet.

He tried his best to comfort her, as they lay there for the longest time, not talking. Not needing to.

When she finally fell asleep, he continued to hold her.

And he didn’t have the foggiest idea why.

Chapter Eight

Juliet slept better than she had in years.

She’d missed human contact, the warmth of a touch, the comfort of an embrace, the steady beat of a heart. So she nestled in a sweet dimension, somewhere between dreamland and reality, relishing a peaceful slumber.

Until Marissa fussed and began to root into the sheets of her cradle.

Juliet opened her eyes, ready to reach for her daughter and feed her. But she couldn’t move.

Mark had one arm under her neck and the other around her waist, holding her close.

They’d left a lamp on in the other room, which allowed her to see, and she sought the lighted dial of the clock on the dresser.

Almost midnight.

They’d lain like that for nearly three hours, like lovers. Like husband and wife. New parents.

For just a moment, she let herself go, let herself pretend that Mark loved her, that she loved him in return. And that her daughter had a devoted family in which she could grow up.

But love was a game of pretend Juliet didn’t dare play.

“Mark,” she whispered softly.

He grunted, then drew her closer. His chin nestled in her hair, the faint mountain-fresh scent of his cologne riding gently in the night air.

“Mark,” she said again, this time louder. “I need to feed the baby.”

“Huh?”

Marissa let out a cry, and the poor guy nearly jumped through the ceiling.

The mattress wobbled as he braced himself on an elbow and scanned the room. “God, I’m so sorry. I fell asleep. I must have been more tired than I realized.”

Juliet smiled, as she climbed from bed and retrieved her hungry daughter. “That’s okay.”

He glanced at the clock and blew out a sigh. “I guess it’s too late to go back to the inn. But I…uh…can go out to the sofa.”

She smiled at his sheepish expression, at his thoughtfulness. “Don’t bother. Go on back to sleep.”

“Are you sure?” He sat on the mattress and glanced at the single loafer he wore, probably wondering where he’d kicked off the other one.

“I’m not sure what’s happened between us,” she said, as she shushed Marissa. “But it’s pretty safe to say we’ve become close friends in the past week or so.”

He raked a hand through his sleep-tousled hair. “I guess you’re right.”

“So if you don’t mind if I nurse her, I don’t mind if you’re in the same room. After all, you’ve seen me at my worst.”

He kicked off his remaining shoe, which thumped onto the floor, then laid back down, on top of the comforter, and rested his head on the pillow.

As Marissa cried, anxious to eat, Juliet unbuttoned the front of her gown, releasing a breast and offering it to her child. Within moments, the baby latched on. Juliet’s milk was just starting to come in—at least she suspected it was. Her breasts were fuller, and Marissa seemed to be swallowing more than she had before.