Dream Country by Luanne Rice

Author:Luanne Rice [Rice, Luanne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: General, Fiction
ISBN: 9780553385816
Google: lELhx9bue4AC
Amazon: 055338581X
Barnesnoble: 055338581X
Publisher: Bantam
Published: 2001-01-02T05:00:00+00:00

Driving Dalton’s truck—it had the best traction, in case she got stuck in the snow—Louisa pulled in midway through the weaning operation. She had gotten used to it over the years, the god-awful screaming of the cows—but today it hurt her ears and made her breasts ache. There were James and Paul, leading the cowboys as they separated the herd. And there was Daisy—watching the whole thing from the far end of the main corral.

Louisa shook her head. Daisy knew enough about loss without watching the goddamn cows bellow for their babies. She felt like pulling the girl right off her rung, but if someone wanted to be a martyr, far be it from Louisa to stop them. Folks knew what was best for them, and they followed their own inner compasses. Louisa had never claimed to know what made people tick, but she tried to respect it even when she couldn’t understand.

Once inside the ranch house, she breathed a great sigh of relief. It felt good to be home, instead of cooped up in that awful hospital. Dalton was all medicined up, calling her Rosalind and thinking he’d been shot by sheep men. Then he’d get straight, call her Louisa, ask her when he could go home.

It was enough to drive her crazy. Louisa went to the sideboard, poured herself a glass of neat whiskey. Her father had taught her how to drink a long time ago. Do it like a man, he used to say: nothing sweet, nothing creamy, nothing but straight. She didn’t believe in drinking alone or before sunset—but today was a day to break the rules.

Flopping down on the living room sofa, she looked around the room. Handsome portraits of Tucker ancestors glared down from every wall. Mama Tuckers and Papa Tuckers. Louisa sipped her whiskey, letting her gaze travel to the silver tea service Dalton’s wife had inherited from her dear departed grandmother.

Louisa knew the story. Rosalind had been well-bred. She had come from Boston, from one of those Brahmin families that had sailed over on the Mayflower or the goddamned Santa María. She had gone to finishing school, she knew which fork to use for every occasion, she spoke with a New England accent.

But the kicker—the thing that had made Dalton fall madly in love with her—was that Rosalind had been a crack shot. She had entered a competition back in Boston, moved into the next round and beaten everyone in New York, traveled by rail out to Cheyenne, where she’d shot an apple off the head of a horse, and won first prize in the competition. Won the gold medal and won Dalton’s heart.

“The gold medal,” Louisa said out loud. She heard the venom in her voice, took a nice long sip of whiskey. By the time she’d drifted across the living room, to the case where Rosalind Tucker’s gold medal was displayed, her voice was softer. “First prize,” she said.

Louisa could afford to be kind. Rosalind was dead, and she had been for many years.

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