Dream a Little Dream (Chicago Stars, #4)(178)

He turned his attention back to the road, and nearly a mile slipped by before he spoke again. “You’re really serious, aren’t you? This is a problem for you.”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Then we’ll both think about it and come up with a solution while you’re having that period of yours.” His hand settled on her thigh and he caressed her with his thumb. “Are you okay? After yesterday?”

He sounded so concerned, she smiled. “I’m terrific, Bonner. Top of the world.”

“Good.” He squeezed her knee.

“And yourself?”

His chuckle had a dry sound, as if it hadn’t been used in a long time. “Couldn’t be better.”

“Glad to hear it.” She glanced out the side window. “You just passed Heartache Mountain.”

“I know.”

“I thought you were taking me home.”

“We’ll get there.” He slipped off his sunglasses.

They drove into Salvation, and, just as they were entering the downtown area, he pulled into Dealy’s Garage. As he parked the truck in front, she spotted the Escort sitting off to the side.

“Oh, Gabe . . .” She threw open the door, rushed over to the car, and promptly burst into tears.

“Nothing like a new set of tires to stir a lady’s heart,” he said dryly as he came up behind her. He curled his hand around her waist and stroked her.

“It’s w-wonderful. But I don’t—I don’t have enough m-money to pay you back.”

“Did I ask you to pay me back?” He sounded faintly indignant. “Cal’s insurance will cover it.”

“Not all of it. Even rich people have deductibles. Dwayne had deductibles on all four of our cars.”

Ignoring her, he grasped her upper arm and steered her toward the truck. “We’ll come back and get it. We have something to do first.”

As he pulled away from the garage, her feelings jumbled inside her as if they were being tossed around by a giant blender. He was gruff and kind, clueless about some things, wise about others, and she wanted him so badly her teeth ached.

He drove to the center of town and pulled into a parking space that sat directly in front of the Petticoat Junction Cafe.

“Come on. We’re going to get ourselves some ice cream.”

She caught his arm before he could open the door of the truck. The ice-cream window was enjoying a lively pre-dinnertime business, and she understood exactly what he intended to do. First the tires, and then this. It was too much. Her throat felt tight. “Thanks, Gabe, but I have to fight my own battles.”

He wasn’t impressed by her show of independence. His jaw set, and he glared at her. “Get your butt out of this truck right now. You’re having ice cream if I have to hold your mouth open and shove it down your throat.”


So much for his sensitivity. She didn’t have much choice, so she pushed open the door. “This is my problem, and I can handle it myself.”

His door banged behind him. “Like you’re doing such a terrific job.”

“I want a raise.” She stomped toward the sidewalk. “If you can afford to throw money around on tires and ice cream, you can pay me something better than slave wages.”

“Smile for the nice people.”

She felt the stares of the adults around them: mothers with small children, a pair of highway workers in dirty T-shirts, a businesswoman with a cell phone pressed to her ear. Only a group of boys on skateboards seemed disinterested in the fact that the wicked Widow Snopes was treading on Salvation’s holy turf.

Gabe approached the teenage girl standing behind the window. “Is the boss around?”

She chomped once on her gum and nodded.

“Go get him, will you?”

As they waited, Rachel noticed a clear plastic canister sitting by the window with a sign on it that said Emily’s Fund and held a picture of a curly-haired toddler with a smiling scamp’s face. The sign beneath asked for help paying the child’s medical expenses as she fought leukemia. She thought of the woman with the parrot earrings.

You’re our last hope, Mrs. Snopes. Emily needs a miracle.

For a moment, she had a hard time drawing in enough air to breathe. She concentrated on opening her purse, drawing out a precious five-dollar bill, and slipping it into the slot.

Don Brady’s face appeared in the window. “Hey, Gabe, how’s it—” He broke off as he spotted Rachel.

Gabe pretended not to notice that anything was wrong. “I was telling Rachel here that you make the best hot-fudge sundaes in town. How ’bout whippin’ us up a couple of them. Large.”

Don hesitated, and Rachel could see him trying to find a way out. He didn’t want to serve her, but he wasn’t prepared to defy one of the town’s favorite sons.

“Uh . . . Sure, Gabe.”

Minutes later, they walked away from the window with two large hot-fudge sundaes neither of them wanted to eat. As they headed back to Gabe’s truck, they didn’t think to look across the street. If they had, they might have have seen a small, wiry man smoking in the shadows and watching them.



Russ Scudder ground out his cigarette. Bonner must be f*cking her, he decided. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have replaced those tires so fast. That explained why Bonner had hired her. So he could f*ck her.