The Rancher's Dream by Kathleen O'Brien

Author:Kathleen O'Brien
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2015-11-08T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TEN

SHE HAD THE dream that night.

She had hoped she wouldn’t, even though she knew she was in the danger zone, given that her birthday was only a few days away.

She’d hoped she had finally moved beyond getting kicked in the gut by any of the painful anniversaries. She’d already lived through one birthday without Clover, and she’d lived through the anniversary of Clover’s death, just two months prior.

It had been hard, but it helped that no one knew. So no one offered condolences or wanted to talk about the tragedy. On some level, Crimson had been able to pretend it wasn’t happening.

On the dream level, though, it had been hell. All night long, she’d searched the cold water, calling Clover’s name, in that weird way dreams had of making the impossible possible.

Last year, her birthday hadn’t really registered all that much. The birthday had come only two months after Clover’s death, and Crimson had still been in shock. She hadn’t even remembered the day until weeks later.

Paradoxically, this year was much harder. This year she wasn’t numb, either for the anniversary of Clover’s death or for this lonely birthday. Her mind had been filled with thoughts of Clover for weeks now.

And then, as she’d listened to Grant’s story of loss and horror, his pain had seeped into her like ink into cotton, until she’d almost been able to see his little girl, lying in her bed, crying, while the doctors dithered and misdiagnosed and missed their chance to save her.

How unendurable that must have been! At three, Jeannie would have been talking in full sentences, and she would have been able to articulate her fear and misery. She might even have cried out for her daddy to make the hurt go away.

But he couldn’t.

The minute he told her about Jeannie, Crimson had understood why he couldn’t tend to Molly when she screamed. Crimson was no psychologist, and she had no idea if there was a term for that kind of emotional paralysis, but she knew, as clearly as she knew the sun rose in the east, that Grant Campbell couldn’t bear to hear Molly cry because he’d heard too much crying already.

He couldn’t comfort Molly, because he hadn’t been able to comfort his own baby girl.

So, though it was full light by the time Crimson fell asleep, she woke gasping for breath and clawing at the sheets, as if they were the dank weeds under the river. She sat up, her heart in her throat, and tried to calm her breathing before she woke Molly up, too.

All in vain. Apparently, babies could sense distress even when it was silent. As Crimson sat in bed, fighting to steady her heartbeat, Molly began to fidget, whimper and finally wail.

“Morning, sunshine,” Crimson said, putting her feet to the cool wooden floor and managing a smile. “We meet again!”

She dressed them both quickly. By the time she got downstairs, it was only nine-thirty, and the house seemed quiet. She glanced out

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