would be grown-up long before anybody else—Diana and Paul included—was the least bit ready for that to happen.
Mercifully, Sasha moved between subjects like a firefly flitting from branch to bough, and her concern over the expense of the booster seat was apparently forgotten. “Are we going to do fun stuff while I’m staying with you?” she asked.
Tricia reached up and adjusted the rearview mirror just far enough, and just long enough, to catch a glimpse of Sasha’s face. Valentino, living up to his name, rested his muzzle against the little girl’s cheek.
“Yes,” she said. “We are going to do fun stuff.”
“Like what?”
“Well, we could go out for pizza. And rent some DVDs at the supermarket—”
Tricia couldn’t help thinking how ordinary those activities must sound to an urban child, and she stumbled a little. “And there’s a barbecue at River’s Bend tomorrow afternoon. We’re invited.”
The mysterious Sunday reservation had been made under the name “Stone Creek Cattle Company,” and Tricia had regarded the invitation as a formality, never intending to attend as a guest. Now that she had a child to entertain, it sounded like a good idea after all—the sort of Western shindig one might expect to see in Lonesome Bend, Colorado.
“Will it be like a party?” Sasha piped up, clearly intrigued. “With music and sack races and games of horseshoes and stuff?”
“I don’t know,” Tricia confessed, mildly deflated. Good heavens, she was really batting a thousand here.
“You’re invited, but you don’t know what kind of party it’s going to be?”
Sasha, Tricia thought wryly, would probably grow up to be a lawyer.
“The people are from out of town,” she said. “I had the impression that it’s a pretty big gathering.”
“They’re strangers?”
“I guess so, but—”
“A barbecue might be fun. They have them in people’s backyards sometimes, in Seattle, but I’ll bet cookouts are pretty unusual in France.”
Tricia smiled. “Probably,” she agreed. “But the French are very good cooks.”
“My friend Jessie,” Sasha remarked, “says the French don’t like Americans.”
“Jessie?” Tricia countered, stalling so she could think for a few moments.
“Jessie’s mom homeschools her and her brother, the same way my mom does me,” Sasha said. “She’s ten, just like me—Jessie, I mean—but she doesn’t have to sit in a booster seat anymore because she’s taller than I am. A lot taller.” She paused, drew a breath. “What if I don’t grow any bigger? What if I’m as old as you and Mom and I still have to ride in a stupid booster seat, like a baby, because I’m short? Jessie says it could happen.”
“Jessie sounds—precocious,” Tricia said. “You aren’t through growing, kiddo—take it from me. Your dad is six-two, and your mom is five-seven. What are the genetic chances that you’ll be short?”
“Grandma is short,” Sasha reasoned.
“I’ve met your grandmother,” Tricia responded. “And you don’t take after her at all.”
“But she is short,” Sasha insisted.
“I guess,” Tricia allowed, picturing Paul’s sweet mother, who was indeed vertically challenged. “Care to make a wager?”
“What kind of wager?” Sasha asked, sounding eager.
“I’ll bet that when you come home from France, you’ll be at least five-five.”
“What if I win? I mean, suppose I’m still four-six-and-a-half?”
“I’ll buy you a whole season, on DVD, of whatever shows your mom will let you watch.”
“Mom hates TV,” Sasha said. “But I get to watch an hour a day when we live in Paris, if I have all my homework done, because that will help me learn the language.”
Tricia barely kept from rolling her eyes. Sometimes Diana, who had been adventurous in the extreme before Sasha came along, overdid the whole responsible-parenting thing. “Okay,” she said. “What would work for you?”
“The Twilight series,” Sasha answered, with a marked lack of hesitation. “All the books in it.”
“Deal,” Tricia said, hoping she wouldn’t have to pay up before Sasha was old enough to read about teenage vampires in love.
“What do you get if I lose?” Sasha wanted to know.
Tricia considered carefully before she replied. “Well, you could draw me a picture.”
“I’d be willing to do that anyway,” Sasha said, sweet thing that she was. “Your prize has to be something better than that.”
“Let’s think about it,” Tricia suggested.
“Pizza for supper tonight?” Sasha asked.
“Pizza for supper tonight,” Tricia confirmed.
“Yes!” Sasha shouted, punching the air with one small fist. “Mom never lets me eat real pizza, but Dad and I sneak it sometimes.”
Valentino, caught up in the excitement of the moment, barked in happy agreement.
* * *
THE STONE CREEK Cattle Company, Tricia discovered the next day, when she and Sasha arrived at the campground to attend the barbecue, was owned by none other than Steven Creed.
There were Creeds everywhere—Davis and Kim, whom Tricia liked very much, were in attendance, each of them carrying a duplicate baby, dressed up warm. Conner was there, too, looking better than good, hazy in the heat mirage rising from the big central bonfire.
“Hello, Tricia,” Steven said, when she stopped in her tracks. Suddenly, all her youthful shyness was back; she might actually have fled the scene if Sasha hadn’t been with her, all primed for a Wild West experience she could brag about when she started school in Paris.
“Steven,” she said, with a polite nod. “How are you?”
“Fantastic,” Steven replied. “Married, with children.” His blue gaze shifted to Sasha, who was staring at him in apparent fascination, probably thinking, as a lot of people did, that he looked like Brad Pitt. “Is this lovely young lady your daughter?”
Sasha gave a peal of laughter at that, as if it was totally inconceivable that her honorary aunt could be somebody’s mother.
“No,” she answered. “Aunt Tricia is my mom’s best friend. I’m visiting for two whole weeks because we’re moving to Paris in a couple of months—”
“Nice to see you again, Steven,”
