Dream a Little Dream (Chicago Stars, #4)(146)

He couldn’t hide his anger. “I won’t turn my worship service into a lounge act for anyone.”

If she’d responded sarcastically, maybe he could have forgotten about their encounter, but her voice had softened with something like sympathy. “Maybe that’s where you’re going wrong, Reverend Bonner. It’s not your worship service. It belongs to God.”

As she’d walked away, he had been forced to acknowledge the painful truth he didn’t want to face. The grandiose success of the Temple merely highlighted his own shortcomings.

Although his sermons were thoughtful and delivered from the heart, they weren’t dramatic. He’d never stirred his congregation to tears with the passion of his message. He couldn’t heal the sick or make the crippled walk, and the walls of his church hadn’t been bursting from overcrowding, even before G. Dwayne’s arrival in Salvation.

Maybe that was why the dislike he felt for Rachel Snopes was so personal. She had held up a mirror that made him face what he didn’t want to see—his utter lack of suitability to be a minister.

He turned off the highway onto the narrow road that led up Heartache Mountain to Annie’s cottage. It was located less than a mile from the entrance of the drive-in.

Rachel pushed a tangled lock of hair behind her ear. “I’m sorry about your grandmother. Annie Glide was a feisty woman.”

“You knew her?”

“Unfortunately. She had an aversion to Dwayne right from the beginning, and since she couldn’t get past his bodyguards to give him a piece of her mind, she gave it to me instead.”

“Annie was a woman of strong opinions.”

“When did she die?”

“About five months ago. Her heart finally gave out. She had a good life, but we miss her.”

“Has her house been empty since then?”

“Until recently. My secretary, Kristy Brown, has been living there for the past few weeks. The lease expired on her apartment before her new condo was ready, so she’s staying here temporarily.”

Rachel’s forehead creased. “I’m sure she won’t want two strangers moving in with her.”

“It’ll only be for a few nights,” he said pointedly.

Rachel heard the unspoken message, but she ignored it. A few nights. She needed longer than that to find the Kennedy chest.

She thought of the unknown woman who was about to have a stranger and a small child move in with her. And not just any stranger, but the town’s most notorious citizen. Her head ached, and she surreptitiously pressed the fingertips of one hand to her temple.

Ethan swung wide to avoid a rut, and she banged her shoulder against the door. She glanced into the backseat to make certain Edward was all right and saw that he had a death grip on Horse. She remembered the grip Bonner’d had on her when he’d slipped his hand between her legs.

His cruelty had been deliberate and calculated, so why hadn’t she been more frightened? She was no longer certain of anything, not her emotions, not even the unsettling combination of self-loathing and suffering she thought she’d seen in his eyes. She should be enraged by what had happened, but the strongest feeling she could conjure up at the moment was exhaustion.

They rounded the last bend, and the car stopped in front of a tin-roofed cottage with an overgrown garden on one side and a line of trees to the other. The house was obviously old, but it had a fresh coat of white paint, shiny dark-green shutters, and a stone chimney. Two wooden steps led to a porch, where a tattered wind sock flapped from the far corner.

With no warning at all, tears stung Rachel’s eyes. This shabby old place seemed to her to be the very definition of the word home. It represented stability, roots, everything she wanted for her child.

Ethan unloaded their things on the porch, then opened the front door with his key and stood aside so she could enter. She drew in her breath. Late-afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows, turning the old wooden floors to butternut and casting a golden glow on the cozy stone fireplace. The furnishings were simple: brown wicker chairs with chintz cushions, a pine washstand topped by a sponge-painted lamp. An ancient pine-blanket chest served as a coffee table, and someone had filled a galvanized tin watering can with wildflowers and set it on top. It was beautiful.

“Annie collected junk, but my parents and I cleaned most of it out after she died. We kept it furnished so Gabe could move in here if he wanted, but the place had too many memories for him.”

She began to ask what kind of memories, only to have him disappear through a doorway that led into a kitchen off to the left. He reappeared with a set of keys. “Gabe said to give you these.”


As Rachel gazed at the keys, she recognized them for what they were, a sign of Gabe’s guilt. Once again, she remembered the ugly scene between them. It was almost as if Gabe had been attacking himself instead of her. She shuddered inwardly as she wondered what other paths his course toward self-destruction might take.

With Edward trailing behind, she followed Ethan through the kitchen, which held a scarred pine farm table surrounded by four pressed-back oak chairs with cane seats. Simple muslin curtains draped the window, and a cupboard with punched tin doors stood opposite a white enamel Depression-era gas stove. As she inhaled the particular scent of old wood and generations of family meals, she wanted to weep.

Ethan led them out the back door and around the side of the cottage to an old single-car garage. One of the double set of doors dragged in the dirt as he pulled it open. She followed him inside and saw a battered red Ford Escort hatchback of indeterminate vintage.