the bay windows, with their lace curtains, the lovely hand-pegged floors, the fine cabinetry, the antique breakfront full of translucent china, every piece an heirloom.
“On Natty’s behalf,” Tricia smiled, “thank you. The house was one of the first to be built, when the town was just getting settled.” Tricia pulled on her jacket, which she’d left draped over the back of her chair earlier, when she and Carolyn had first arrived with their rummage-sale supper, and took Valentino’s leash from the pocket.
The dog’s ears perked up at the sight of it, and he came to Tricia, waiting patiently while she fastened the hook to the loop on his collar.
“I wonder what it would be like,” Carolyn mused, “to have such deep roots in a community.” She spoke in a light tone, but there was some other quality in her voice, something forlorn that made Tricia think of the way Valentino had watched Winston follow Natty out of the room—as if he’d lost his last friend in the world.
What could she say to that? Tricia liked Carolyn tremendously, but even after working with her at the community center all day and then sharing a meal, they were still essentially strangers.
Tricia was quite shy, though she’d made a real effort to overcome the tendency, especially since she’d returned to Lonesome Bend to sell off her dad’s properties and make sure Natty really would be okay on her own, as she claimed. Carolyn, on the other hand, didn’t seem shy at all, but merely—well—private. She was a person with secrets, Tricia was sure, though not necessarily dark ones.
Valentino was anxious to get outside, so Tricia opened the back door, instead of heading for the front, and Carolyn followed. Both women were silent as they walked around the side of the hulking old house, Tricia juggling the leash, Carolyn with her hands thrust into the pockets of her blue nylon jacket.
Carolyn’s car was parked out front, in a pool of light from a streetlamp, and her keys made a jingling sound as she took them from her pocket. “Thanks for inviting me over tonight,” she told Tricia, who was gently restraining Valentino. He wanted to head off down the sidewalk, make the most of his final walk of the day.
“I enjoyed having you here,” Tricia said truthfully. “So did Sasha and Natty.”
Carolyn flashed her warm, wide smile. “I was too tired to stay and eat with the other volunteers after the sale closed for the day, but the prospect of dining alone wasn’t doing much for me, either.”
Valentino began to tug harder at the leash. He needed a little training, Tricia thought. Maybe, when she found a permanent home for him, he could learn to heel instead of crisscrossing in front of her, nearly making her trip.
Tricia chuckled ruefully and shook her head, and Carolyn gave a little laugh, too. “I’ll see you at the community center tomorrow?” Carolyn asked, stepping off the sidewalk and going around to open the driver’s-side door of her car.
“Yes,” Tricia said, as Valentino yanked her into motion. “See you there.”
“And you’ll be going on the trail ride, too?” Carolyn persisted. “The one at the Creeds’?”
Looking back over a shoulder, Tricia nodded. Carolyn had seemed uncomfortable around Brody Creed earlier, but evidently she was over that now. Possibly, she didn’t expect to see him on the ranch the next day.
“I’m afraid I can’t get out of that,” Tricia responded. “Sasha’s counting on some time in the saddle.”
Carolyn’s face, like her hair, was lit with moonlight. She had, Tricia noticed, the bone structure of a model; she was one of those women who, like Natty, remained beautiful as they aged.
“It’ll be fun,” Carolyn insisted. “You’ll see.”
With that, she got into her car, shut the door and started the engine. The headlights were bright enough to make Tricia blink as the rig drew up alongside her and Valentino. Carolyn gave the horn a little toot and drove away.
It’ll be fun. You’ll see.
Tricia still wasn’t entirely convinced of that. Horses were foreign creatures to her, huge and disturbingly unpredictable, and not only did they shed, they’d been known to bite. Plus, it was a very long fall from their backs to the hard ground and what if she—or worse, Sasha—was not only thrown, but stepped on? Or what if something spooked the horses, and they ran away? She’d seen it happen a hundred times in the vintage Western movies her dad had loved.
Conner Creed’s face rose in her mind in that moment and, somehow, Tricia knew—just knew—that he wouldn’t let anything happen to Sasha, or to her, or to anyone else who might be joining them on the trail ride the next day. She knew less than nothing about horses, it was true, but Conner was an expert. For that matter, so was Sasha, though, of course, she wasn’t as experienced as he was, being only a child.
It didn’t take long to traverse Lonesome Bend from one end to the other, even on foot, and Tricia and Valentino got all the way to the old drive-in theater before Tricia decided they’d walked far enough. Farther on, the road curved dark along the edge of the river, and there was only the glow of the moon to light the way.
While Valentino was occupied in the high grass alongside the collapsing fence, Tricia looked up at the big, ghostly remnant of the outdoor movie screen. It was faced with corrugated metal, the white paint chipping and peeling, and time had bent one rusted corner inward, like a page marked in a book.
The projection house/concession stand was dark, naturally, and the rows of steel poles supporting the individual speakers tilted this way and that, resembling pickets in a broken fence. Or tombstones in a forgotten graveyard.
A shiver went up Tricia’s back, then tripped back down. A graveyard? That, she decided, was an unfair analogy—the Bluebird Drive-in Movie-o-rama had been a happening place in its heyday. The sad old screen had been lit up with light and color and pure Hollywood glamour five nights a week in summer. Her dad must have told her a dozen stories about how thrilling it was to sprawl on the roof or the hood of somebody’s car, or in the bed of a truck, the sky a dark canopy overhead, liberally dappled with stars, while John Wayne headed up a cattle drive, or the Empire struck back, or Rock Hudson and Doris Day fell in love, or James Dean rebelled without a cause—
A lump formed in Tricia’s throat. Her own memories of the drive-in were scented with buttery popcorn from the big machine on the concession counter; she recalled the scratchy sounds of music and dialogue crackling from the cumbersome speakers, designed to hook onto the car windows, and the delicious frustration of waiting for darkness to fall, so the movie could be shown to advantage.
Still, business had already dropped off dramatically by the time Tricia began tagging along to the theater with her dad on those sultry, star-spattered summer nights, and the films were the sort that go straight to DVD or cable now, without ever hitting the big screen in the first place.
“It’s the end of an era,” she remembered Joe McCall saying sadly, one late-August night, when the credits were rolling on the last offering of what would turn out to be the Bluebird’s final season, though Tricia hadn’t known that then. She’d been twelve at the time, not even a teenager, and scheduled to board a flight from Denver to Seattle first thing the next morning.
“The end of an era,” Tricia repeated softly.
Now Valentino was on the move again, making for the bright lights of town, and he pulled her right along with him.
Tricia’s
