The Hopechest Bride

And he would have, except he’d been chasing another gold buckle, following the rodeo circuit from town to town in Oklahoma and Texas and even New Mexico. Everywhere but Keyhole, Wyoming. Chasing the points, chasing the dream, chasing the buckle of a champion. A grown man acting like a kid, while a kid was wearing the uniform of a sheriff and laying down his life in the line of duty.

Who was the younger Atkins? By age, Toby had been. But by deed, Josh knew himself to be the child, the little boy who’d yet to grow up, take his share of responsibility—that share he’d gratefully dropped after almost single-handedly raising Toby.

It had been his turn, or so he’d told himself. He’d been a man when he was supposed to be a boy, and he’d spent the last ten years trying to capture some of the blessed freedom from responsibility most children experienced in their growing-up years.

At least that was his excuse, the one he told himself when he looked at yet another gold buckle, at the prize money he’d spend at least half of as fast as he’d earned it on the back of a bucking bronco.

A few more years, a few more seasons, and he’d settle down, buy himself a small spread with the savings he did have, raise horses and cattle and break broncos to saddle for those who would ride, but not take a chance on breaking their necks to tame a mount.

He would have bought that spread, too, and Toby would have left his sheriff’s job in Keyhole and come with him. Josh had planned it all, vaguely, but now that plan seemed as solid as the rock walls of the Grand Canyon, as if he’d only been months away from leaving the circuit. Months away from removing Toby from Keyhole.

Josh took off his Stetson and raked his gloved fingers through his hair. That was how it would have been, if Emily Colton hadn’t come into Toby’s life. It was.

Josh had to believe that. He had no other choice. Otherwise, the guilt was all his….

Four

Martha Wilkes sat near the French doors with her hands folded in her lap, looking out onto the patio and Meredith’s fountain.

The gardens were fairly bare now, but so well-landscaped that they were still attractive to the eye as the California version of winter approached from the Pacific. It was so peaceful here, so beautiful, and yet the Hacienda de Alegria had been the scene of a ten-year-long nightmare.

Martha had just completed another session with Meredith, although neither of them called them sessions. They just talked. Talked about the house and how Meredith was putting it back to the way it had been before Patsy’s rather overblown decorating ideas had changed the casual comfort of the house into something stiff, and formal, and cold.

Meredith’s bedroom furniture, which had been stored in one of the outbuildings, was now back in the repainted master suite, as was Joe, who had not slept there for many years. Meredith might not know it, but she was performing a sort of exorcism, banishing her twin sister’s presence from this most private sanctuary of her marriage.

“Does it bother you, Meredith, that there was a time when Joe did share that room with Patsy?” Martha had asked over cups of green tea.

“He didn’t know,” Meredith had replied quietly, then looked Martha square in the eye. “But I’d be lying to you if I didn’t think that possibly he should have known. Lovemaking…well, it’s such an intimate thing, such a unique thing, so special to the two people involved. His wants, my needs, the way we used to laugh and talk long into the night afterward…how could he not have noticed the differences?”

“Is it possible that, at first, he blamed the accident? You supposedly had suffered an injury to your head, remember,” Martha remembered suggesting. “And after that, after Teddy? He had his own room from that time on, didn’t he? He would have divorced you—Patsy—if it hadn’t been for the many years of love that had built your marriage wide and high and deep enough to convince Joe to hang on through the bad times.”

“The bad times,” Meredith had said, sighing. “Yes, that’s one way of thinking about it all. The worse in our for better or worse.”

“Yes, Meredith. Just as you hung on through the bad times you now remember, when Joe was so depressed after your son’s death, and again when Joe learned he was sterile. You stuck with him, and in his turn he was, by God, going to stick with you. He loves you, Meredith. He has always loved you. He tolerated that woman in his bedroom, but he never loved her. He loved the memory of you.”

Martha closed her eyes, recalling the thoughtful look on Meredith’s face when she’d finished speaking. She’d gotten through to Meredith, that had been obvious. But, then, Meredith wanted help, wanted Martha’s counsel, was eager to put answers to lingering questions, and then get on with her life. Meredith was anxious to grab at her new happiness with both hands, after a decade spent believing she’d been a murderer, a woman with the most sordid past imaginable. A woman with no family, no love, no real hope.

And if Martha could help Meredith find hope again, feel free to embrace love again, then she would do everything in her power to make it all happen. Because Meredith was more than her patient, she was also her friend.

Martha didn’t envy Meredith. That would be ridiculous, considering the hell that woman’s life had been, and looking at the struggles that still awaited her these next months, until the patterns of a lifetime overtook and erased the bad years. But she did wish, when she was being Martha, illogical woman, rather than Dr. Wilkes, professional therapist, that she could wake up one morning and find her family, her children, her love of life, her hopes for the future.

How had she gone from optimistic girl to this automaton who went through her days, her years, with only her career to show for the trip? No family, few friends. How had she come to be nearly fifty years old, and then wonder where her life had gone? Too late for children. Probably too late for a husband—not that she had ever thought of marrying, even as a young girl. She’d had her career, had longed for her career.

But children? She hadn’t realized how empty her arms and heart would feel, at fifty, because of a decision she’d made at twenty.

“Excuse me?”

Martha blinked away her thoughts and turned in her chair, to see yet another slightly familiar face standing behind her. She’d met so many Coltons, biological and adopted and just plain assimilated into this huge, loving family. But she thought she could put a name to this particular face. “Rebecca? Rebecca McGrath? Do I have that right?”

Rebecca smiled as she approached, sat down in the chair placed at a right angle to Martha’s. Martha admired the understated grace with which the tall, slim young woman moved, even as her belly swelled with pregnancy. “Yes, Dr. Wilkes, you do. Could I possibly bother you for a few minutes? Professionally.”

“Professionally?” Martha carefully slid her psychologist shield up and over her own tender heart, prepared to be friendly, but not make herself vulnerable—or betray any confidences if Rebecca had come to ask questions about Meredith. “Does this have to do with Meredith? I think I recall that you are one of Meredith and Joe’s foster children. You work as a teacher for the learning disabled at the Hopechest Ranch now. Am I right?”

“You have a good memory, Dr. Wilkes,” Rebecca said, nodding her head. “Especially when I think you must have been introduced to at least thirty of us that first night. And, no, this isn’t about Mom, although I do want to tell you how much we all appreciate the way you’ve helped her over the years. Things could have turned out very differently if Mom hadn’t had you to guide her through.”

“Your mother is a very strong woman, Rebecca. I don’t think there’s much that could knock her down for long. Now, how can I help you—if I can help you.”

Rebecca pushed her long, brown braid back over her shoulder and leveled her intelligent blue-gray eyes at Martha. “This would be strictly pro bono, Dr. Wilkes, as most everyone who helps at Hopechest does so without payment. I thought I should make that clear up front.”

“I do pro bono work, Rebecca. And I’d be happy to help. Is it one of the children?”

Nodding, Rebecca said, “Yes, it is. Tatania. She’s seven, and a real sweetheart. Her father is unknown, and her mother died about three months ago, not that the home life was all that great, according to reports from the social worker who’d been assigned to Tatania nearly from birth.”

“Drugs? Prostitution?”

“Neglect,” Rebecca clarified. “Pure and simple neglect. It happens. Anyway, there was a house fire, which is how her mother died. Tatania was burned, but not too badly, and she came to us two weeks ago. I’m involved because one of the counselors at Hopechest worried that Tatania might be dyslexic, but she’s not. She’s just too shy and scared to participate in anything—her lessons, interacting with the other children, playtime. Nothing. I think I’ve heard her say ten words at one go, tops.”

“Trauma from the fire? From the loss of her mother? You know, even neglectful mothers are loved by their children. Sometimes more fiercely than you’d imagine. They become little parents themselves, taking care of mommy.”

“Anything’s possible, I suppose.” Rebecca shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know what’s going on, Doctor. That’s why I’m here. We do have a list of child psychologists, but they’re overworked as it is. Plus, Tatania is African American, and I thought…well, that is, I wondered if…”

“If seeing another black face might help?” Martha finished for her, smiling. “Don’t be embarrassed, Rebecca. You’re right. Tatania might feel more comfortable talking to me. When can I see her?”

Rebecca spread her hands palms up, smiled. “Is anything wrong with right now?”

Martha’s professional smile turned into a very real grin. “Not a thing, Rebecca, not a thing. Just let me get my coat.”

Emily backed away from the entrance to the living room, feeling like an eavesdropper, and at the same time feeling as if she’d just gotten a call from the governor, giving her a last-minute reprieve.

Dr. Wilkes was going to Hopechest Ranch, and that meant that Emily didn’t have to talk to her this afternoon, as she’d promised Sophie. It was the one stroke of good luck she’d had in months, years.

Oh, she’d talk to the woman, eventually. After all, she had promised Sophie she would. But if she could put off that talk for another day, another few days…a week? Yes, that would be good, too.

Emily backed up another few paces, then turned around, smacking straight into Joe Colton. “Um, hi, Dad. Fancy meeting you here.”

“Emily,” Joe said, looking at her intently. “You wouldn’t be hiding from Dr. Wilkes, would you?”

“Who? Me?” Emily bent her head, tugged at the sides of her hair with both hands, so that it fell forward over her face. “No. Of course not. I—I was just heading for the kitchen to tell Inez how much Sophie liked the peanut butter cookies Inez had me take over to her.”

“Uh-huh,” Joe said, putting his large hand around Emily’s elbow and heading toward his study. “Come on, Em, we’re going to talk.”

Emily bit her bottom lip so that she didn’t have a momentary throwback to her childhood and whine, “Must we?” and allowed her father to lead her to a leather chair before he went around the desk and sat in his large chair.

This wasn’t good. Nice talks took place in the living room, or if in the study, they would both comfortably sit on the large burgundy leather couch. But Joe Colton sitting behind his desk meant they weren’t going to talk. They were going to discuss.

Joe was the sort of man who would never raise a hand to any of his children, to anyone. But the man could discuss a person straight into wanting to dig a hole and then pull it in after her. He just had a way of making you feel so sorry for anything you did wrong, so embarrassed, so upset that you’d disappointed him, that you’d do anything to never have to disappoint him again.

“How are you, Emily?” Joe said once they were both settled, his gaze loving and yet even more penetrating than Dr. Wilkes’s professional gaze by at least one hundredfold. “Truly.”