Dream a Little Dream (4 page)

“Then why do they keep him around?”

“Because he's a champion. And he only gets crazy at certain times. Clint says Bob has made a mint off that bull. Believe me, him escaping from his pasture was more of a mistake than just the fact that he could have killed you. People pay really good money for Sylvester's offspring. Clint said the first and best investment Bob made was Sylvester. The bull financed his new ranch and enabled him to buy the other bulls that he owns.”

“Are you serious?”

“Oh yeah. Clint said buying that particular bull was an act of genius on Bob's part. He's just a little high-strung.”

“
Mean
is more like it,” Molly grumbled as she said goodbye, poked her pencil behind her ear, slung her backpack to her shoulder and headed toward her car—or what was left of her car.

It was a hard walk. She had to force every step.
Because of that bull she'd had nightmares. The last place she wanted to go was to see the destroyed car that could very well have been the end for her. Sure, while it was going on she'd been able to disconnect herself from the danger. She'd actually taken pictures of Bob as he raced to save her life! How crazy was that?
Who
did something like that?

The man must think her an absolute loony tune. But at the moment, she was thinking the same thing about him. Here she was trying to help him find a wife and he had this bull problem. And it wasn't anything to pooh-pooh away. Didn't he understand, great investment or not, if that crazy bull killed someone, he was going to have a hard time finding a wife from behind bars?

Rounding the corner of Prudy's Garage, she came face-to-face with her mangled car, and her knees almost buckled at the sight of it. Her mouth went dry and her palms grew damp—it was as if she were back in that moment. She could feel the car shaking as Sylvester slammed into it. She could see the solid wall of pure bull muscle bunching and rippling. Feel the car tilt and start to roll. She winced. The toast she'd forced down for breakfast suddenly threatened to revolt and, covering her mouth with her trembling hand, she whirled away. On shaking legs, she stumbled back to the street, praying for the Lord to help her keep her breakfast down.

 

If the diner had been a fiasco, the feed store was a circus. Applegate Thornton and Stanley Orr were hunkered over their endless game of checkers, a mixture
of the
Odd Couple, Grumpy Old Men
and
Mayberry
. The two old-timers, who normally played checkers down at Sam's Diner every morning at daylight had recently moved their game to the feed store. It had been a surprise to everyone. Applegate, Stanley and Sam went way back with one another and now to have this rift between them was just plain confusing. Something had happened two weeks ago and no one had been able to figure it out. Or get any of them to talk about it. To Pete's sorrow, they still weren't on speaking terms with their old buddy Sam, a fact they made everyone aware of on a regular basis because, though hard to believe they could get any grumpier, they were like grumpy old men on spinach.

However, they were still in touch with their newspaper. Something Bob found out the instant he stepped through the door to purchase feed.

“Bob,” Applegate shouted. As usual, his hearing aid was off. “Says here you're out to get married. Who's the woman?”

“Come on, Bob,” Stanley added when Bob didn't respond. “It's all right there in the paper. Next thang ya know one of them gossip magazines is gonna have Bob's picture plastered across it. Like a hunk of the month or somp-thin.”

Bob spun toward the two men. “Applegate, my picture isn't going to be in any kind of magazine. This'll be old news tomorrow.” If he could only be so lucky.

“I don't know about that, son,” Stanley said, scratching his bushy eyebrow, his wrinkled face drooping with a doubtful expression. “My cousin's son's barber's grandson's friend had himself a little
sit-chi-ation
in
volving a dead body in his backyard and before you could blink, it was on the cover of the
Inquirer.
Right smack on the front. You remember that, App?”

“Huh?” Applegate shouted. “I thought that was yer sister'n-law's, brother's, ex-stepmother'n-laws father?”

“Hey, guys,” Bob held out his hands to halt the mind-spinning deluge, holding on to his temper as best he could. This was getting more ridiculous by the second. “I won't be on the cover of any magazine. Thankfully I don't have the same connections your friend had.”

Stanley shot him a glare of disbelief. “He wasn't my friend! The twerp ended up going to prison. Turned out he killed the feller. Them magazines, they get it right ever once in a while—though I ain't of the mind that Elvis is alive. That one I'll have to see for myself.”

“You say Elvis is alive?” Applegate asked, having totally misunderstood what was being said. “Why, that's about the all-fired most foolish—”

Pete showed up with Bob's order on the dolly, and he didn't slow down as he wheeled it outside. Bob wasted no time following.

“I'm telling you, Bob, if those two don't get over this feud they have going on with Sam,
I'm
going to go mad! If it's not one thing it's another. I've about had all the—well, you don't need to hear about my problems. I read the paper, too, and it looks like you have enough on your plate.”

Bob started stacking the heavy bags onto his truck. “I feel for you, Pete. At least I can load this up and hop in my truck and go home. If you don't see me for a month or so you know where to find me.”

Pete, a large man, dusted his hands on the front of his well filled-shirt. “You really fixin' to hole up at your place for that long?”

“
I wish.
If I could I would. Believe me, there's plenty to keep me busy, the place was pretty run-down when I bought it. So I imagine I'll be back and forth.” He paused and glanced at Pete. “Truth is, I'm about ready to commit a murder myself. This is just not right, Pete. You should have seen the fellas down at Sam's. As long as I'm around, I'll never live this down. I mean, how could she have said all that, that flowery stuff? The woman is trying to make a name for herself writing about all us cowboys and she's clueless about how the boys take stuff like that and run with it.”

“Oh son, I feel your pain,” Pete laughed, slapped him on the shoulder then headed back inside to his own problems. Bob slammed his tailgate shut and paused to take a calming breath. That's when he saw her. She was coming around the edge of Prudy's Garage, greener than the snake she was.

Without another thought, he struck out down the middle of Main Street, his spurs clinking with every step.

It was time for a showdown.

T
he familiar sound of clinking spurs drew Molly's attention away from almost upchucking in the middle of Mule Hollow's Main Street. The sight of mild-mannered Bob storming toward her sent a shiver down her spine.

The blaze in his eyes meant only one thing.

He'd read the article.

Retraction
. There was nothing mild mannered about the man storming toward her.

She swallowed hard, sucking in a calming breath. It was time to face the music.

Bob halted three feet in front of her, legs spread shoulder-width apart and planted his hands on his narrow hips. If he'd been wearing a Western duster, she could envision him sliding the coat back behind the gun holster, his fingertips wiggling just above the pearly-white pistol, itching to draw and shoot.

Get a grip, Molly.

“H-hello, Bob.” She lifted her chin, trying not to look as queasy as she felt.

He lifted his chin in acknowledgment, or challenge, his eyes boring into hers. The man did have the nicest square chin and the most stunning eyes…angry eyes at the moment, but gorgeous. And why was she thinking about them, when he was obviously thinking about wringing her neck? “I, well I was just looking at my car. It's a mess.” She laughed nervously as he raised an eyebrow. “Okay, okay.” She raked a trembling hand through her ponytail. “I see you've read the article. I'm sorry. I should have asked. I should have made certain that something like that, I mean, an entire article about you should have had your okay on it.”

He nodded. That's all. Just a curt nod and nothing. Except that his eyes kind of glinted in the morning sunlight like a ping. An “and you call yourself a reporter” kind of ping.

“But,” she rattled on, “you said it and, and well, my editor had asked me to do an article that focused solely on you.” He lifted his eyebrow and guilt washed over her but she stumbled on. “It's what a poll of the female readers said they wanted. I started not to do it. Really, but then I overheard you talking to Clint. I mean, really, there I was sitting in Sam's minding my own business and you just happened to be sitting in the booth right behind me, talking about wanting a wife.” She was rambling. There was nothing pretty about rambling, but how else to tell the tale? She just hoped he'd understand. She smiled nervously.

He
wasn't
smiling, so her smile melted like a deflat
ing balloon into a pathetic shriveled pucker. “And well, I think you get the rest of the idea. It was just too coincidental to pass up. How was I to know you were about to tell me not to talk about you at all in my articles? I'm sorry. It was already on the presses,” she finished weakly.

Even though she knew she looked as if she'd just eaten a lemon, still he said nothing, just looked at her.
Looked at her,
and she felt even worse than she'd felt….

“All right, already, would you say
something!
”

“Something.”

Oh! Molly felt her eyes go squinty of their own accord. So
now
he wanted to be cute! Ooh…she felt like the low of the low and he wanted to be cute! Fumes were wafting from her ears, she could feel them. She hoped he could see them.

“Look Molly, I think you've learned your lesson.”

Learned my lesson!
And she had tried to apologize to the man! She crossed her arms and glared at the rude cowboy.

“I know I've learned mine,” he continued smoothly.

Her mouth fell open and a huff escaped before she could snatch it back.

He lifted an eyebrow. “I learned, if you're anywhere in the room I'll keep my mouth shut. It really wasn't your fault. I mean, look at you. You have a pencil stuck behind your ear and a camera strapped around your neck. And I bet inside that backpack there's a couple of notepads crammed full of ideas you've gotten between now and the time you woke up this morning. Hey, you may even have your laptop in there. I mean you wouldn't want to go off without your precious tools.”

Molly glowered more. He thought he knew her so well.

“I'm right, aren't I?” he said, tipping his Stetson back a bit with his thumb. “No.”

He smiled and her heart did a weird little sputter. His smile bloomed, showing his dimples, and his midnight-blue eyes flared. “I
am
right, aren't I? How many story ideas have you had since you woke up? Let's see, you told me once that you woke up at five every morning because you were the most creative at that hour, and now it's nine. So you've had a few hours of free time…how about five ideas?”

Molly swung away from him. Here she'd thought he was a nice cowboy. He was just a smart aleck. It was a good thing she didn't have a stick, or she would have whacked him with it! Without a backward glance, she strode down the street toward her apartment. Ooh! If she had a car she'd have made an explosive exit and driven away, leaving the maddening man in her dust. Choking.

“So how close am I?” he asked beside her ear, his warm breath feathering along her neck.

She jumped and swatted at him with alternating hands. How dare he follow her that close. She could feel him smiling. Gloating.

He stepped up beside her. She glanced mutinously at him, increasing her pace. A lot of good it did her—his legs were longer than hers. She paused—where had she been going? Oh yes, her apartment. Focusing, she started walking again. Faster. She could feel her thick ponytail swinging back and forth with every step she took.

“Come on, Molly, let me see the notepads. You've
been up writing away as fast as your little fingers can fly. Who're you picking on this week?”

Molly slammed to a halt and twisted to face him. Her ponytail slapped her in the face. “Okay!” She pushed strands of hair off her nose so he could see that she was glaring at him. “Okay! You've had your fun. You've made your point. Now go. Go away. Disappear. Shoo.”

He was standing, tall and lean. His powerful shoulders were squared and his handsome head tilted just enough to show off his triumphant grin and those dangerous dimples. Those mind-boggling dimples that made him look like country star Joe Nichols's long-lost twin especially when mixed with his twinkling eyes. It made Molly want to…well, she wanted to—

He reached and took the pencil from behind her ear. “Don't write another word about me.” Sliding her pencil behind his perfect ear, he spun on his heel and walked away. Strolled away down Main Street with a clink and a swagger.

And her pencil.

Molly's hands were fisted tightly—the man was not the person she'd thought he was. Nope. There wasn't a nice bone in his strong, lean body.

 

Bob rubbed his new pup's tummy, watching as the little fella grinned up at him with no worries in the world. He was a cute little border collie that Bob had been waiting to pick up from its owner for the past six weeks. After having his little run-in with Molly he'd swung by for John Boy.

Patting the pup's rump, Bob sent him scampering to
play with a clump of long grass as he went back to work. Tugging his gloves back on, he glared up at the blaring sun and wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his forearm. He'd been working like a maniac to strengthen the ancient barn that had seemed on its last legs when he bought the place. Bob wanted to make it hang in a while longer. So he was repairing it, using it to clear out his frustrations.

J.P. had offered to help him; Bob had declined. He'd needed the physical exertion. Needed time to think about what had happened that morning.

He'd been pretty hard on Molly.

He'd told himself she deserved his sarcasm, but he wasn't sure he hadn't gone too far. There was a fine line between anger and downright meanness. The truth was, he'd acted like a spoiled bully.

Because of it, here he was thinking of skipping church. The thought made him feel worse. But he wasn't ready to face Molly or the Lord.
Like you can hide from Him.

Of course he wasn't fooling himself. He could feel the Lord watching him, feel that gentle whisper on the wind. Nope, there was no getting away from Him.

But Molly.

Well, that was a different story. When a guy sang in the choir like he did, there was no way to escape people. The congregation stared up at the choir members as if they were an alien species or something. Not
everyone,
but half of them. Applegate Thornton's dour face came to mind, making him cringe.

But aside from that, he knew Molly would try her best to ignore him, and he would try his best to ignore
her. But their efforts would be in vain, because in the long run sometime during the service they would lock eyes and he would feel compelled to apologize.

And frankly, he wasn't ready.

He'd let her off easy before. Not this time.

Hoisting a one-by-six in place, he pulled his hammer from his tool belt, a nail from between his lips and in two steady swings drilled the nail into the board. He'd been right! Despite feeling bad about the bull attack he'd had completely legitimate reasons to be angry at Molly.

She'd been out of line. “You're doggone right she'd been out of line. Way out,” he said to the wind.

Still. There was the part of him that had come out a little harder than he'd planned. He wasn't completely comfortable about that.

And then there was that other thing—the part of him that kept thinking about how sweet she looked standing there all decked out in her reporter paraphernalia. Despite every reason he had to be turned off by that part of her, he always seemed to conjure up pictures of her looking cute and sassy with the chewed-up, pink-tipped pencil sticking out from behind her ear. But that wasn't what was bothering him right now, either. Something had been wrong with her when he'd first glimpsed her coming around the corner of Prudy's Garage. She'd looked sick.

She'd looked shaken. She'd looked green.

And he'd not cared in the least.

Now that bothered him. He'd wanted to make her feel as bad as he could so he'd worked on her guilt and ground it in. He had ignored the fact that the woman had
been through a very harrowing experience. A bull the size of Sylvester was a terrifying sight from afar. Up close and personal, out-of-his-head angry like he'd been, Sylvester could tear through a person and never stop. As a rodeo bullfighter, Bob had seen plenty of bull riders mangled by the animals—he'd been there a time or two himself. In those situations the bulls were only doing their jobs. Bull riders wanted a good ride. A mean ride. The better the bucking, the higher the score.

What had Molly been thinking? She could have lost her life all for a picture of his house. He knew facing a mountain of solid bull muscle just by crossing a cattle guard wouldn't have been a priority on her list of things to do for the day. Surely she'd seen the big brute? Who could miss two thousand pounds of bull out in broad daylight? Or maybe Sylvester had been standing over the hill where she couldn't see him.

He wondered if she was having nightmares. Though she'd seemed fine on the ride into town after he'd rescued her, he wondered. Sometimes adrenaline got a person through a close call. Lowering his hammer, he let his gaze wonder out across his pastureland.

A Christian man, no,
any
kind of man worth his salt, Christian or not, would step up and see if she was okay.

Especially the man who knew he had a bull with problems.

 

Before church on Sunday morning Molly was sitting in her apartment lost in thought.

After her maddening encounter with Bob the brute on Saturday, she'd met with his insurance adjuster
alone. He had given her an assessment of the damage to her poor darling car. Her little Bug had taken a beating from that
bull-headed
bull on the hood and both side panels. The adjuster had assured her the news was good, that Sylvester's damage was actually minimal. Some new doors, a little bodywork, a new paint job and her car would be as good as new.

Easy for him to say. New paint jobs were never as good as the factory. Everybody knew that, but it served her right for trespassing. What had she been thinking?

About a story.

Everything in her life was about a story. It was true, but she liked it that way. Still, it seemed a sad fact that she'd stood in the middle of the street taking pictures of her car as it was being towed away that day. But the photos were for “just in case.” Just in case she got over her fright and an idea for a story should arise from this incident. That was the way she was wired. Many would argue that her wires were really messed up.

Who was she kidding? She felt no real desire to look for an article angle. Looking at the car had brought all the trauma of the experience back to her. She sucked in a long breath and forced the thoughts away. She refused to think any more about the bull attack. She couldn't. She had just a few days left to get her column in for the week, not to mention the magazine articles that loomed in a consecutive wave of deadlines. She'd scrapped the follow-up on Bob and now she had nothing.

Nothing.

For a girl with endless ideas, the fact that she had no
desire to write was unbelievable. She always wrote, had always created several ideas at once.

Specifically, she'd been writing columns about Mule Hollow for almost a year. Now suddenly for the first time in her life she was drawing blanks.

She hadn't had an idea since the attack on Friday—the day Bob told her to stop writing about him.

For the past two mornings, as she'd done most mornings since her arrival in Mule Hollow, she'd risen at five o'clock, dressed quickly, strapped on her backpack and jogged to the edge of town. She'd taken the well-worn path she'd created across the open field where town gatherings were held, past the grove of mesquite trees and finally stopping at her special spot—a flat rock on the top of a knoll overlooking a sweeping valley. There she'd sit. She loved watching the sunrise, bringing with it inspirations—the sparks that ignited her creative mind.