decision: she would accept Brody’s invitation. It was, after all, a horseback ride, not an elopement, or a wild weekend in Vegas, whooping it up in the buff.
Heck, it wasn’t even a date, really.
Still, the idea made her nerves leap around under her skin like tiny Cirque du Soleil performers determined to outdo themselves.
What she needed, as she’d already concluded, was some sort of emotional insurance, protection against Acts of Brody, and there was only one way to get that—by going out with other guys. As many other guys as she reasonably could.
Not only would they insulate her, create and maintain a safe distance between her and Brody, but she also might actually fall for one of them and forget him entirely.
What began as a defense mechanism could turn out to be the kind of true and lasting love she’d always dreamed of finding.
And wouldn’t that be something?
Yes, she would make a definite and honest effort.
She finally entered a reply to Brody’s note, a lackluster okay and flashed it off to his mailbox.
She checked her new messages then.
It was sort of gratifying to know she was popular on Friendly Faces—five different men wanted to get acquainted with her, three from Denver and its close environs and two from right there in Lonesome Bend.
Forehead creased with the effort to place the pair of locals, Carolyn studied their photos, one after the other, and came up with no clear recollection of either of them.
Both were moderately attractive, in their thirties.
Richard was tall, if his bio could be believed—wasn’t she living proof that people stretched the truth, calling herself Carol?—with dark hair and brown eyes. He was a technical writer, divorced, with no children, and he’d moved to Lonesome Bend only a month before. Since he worked at home, he hadn’t made many friends.
He liked to cook, loved dogs, but was violently allergic to cats.
Carolyn, mindful of Winston, gently dispatched Richard to the recycle bin.
The other candidate was named Ben, and he, like Richard, was a fairly recent transplant to the community. He was a widower, with an appealing smile, a nine-year-old daughter and a job that took him all over the western states, fighting forest fires.
He looked like a nice guy, which didn’t mean for one second that he couldn’t have made the whole story up, invented the daughter, the adventurous career, the dead wife. Stranger things had happened, especially when it came to online dating.
Still, if she was going to have any chance at all against Brody Creed and his many questionable charms, assuming he even meant to turn that effortless dazzle on her anyway, she had to do something, get the proverbial ball rolling, here.
After drawing and releasing a very deep breath, Carolyn responded to Ben’s friendly inquiry with a short, chatty missive of her own. Not wanting to give away too much information—Lonesome Bend was, after all, a small town—she chose her answers carefully.
Ben’s response was immediate. Did the man have nothing better to do than hover over his computer, waiting for his trial membership in Friendly Faces to pay off big?
Hi, Carol, he’d written. Nice to hear from you. So to speak.
Carolyn reminded herself that what she was doing could conceivably be described as hovering, and she certainly had better things to do, so she’d better get off her high horse, and answered, I like your picture.
I like that you didn’t bail out on your daughter after your wife died.
If you even have a daughter.
If there isn’t a current wife, very much alive, innocently cooking your favorite meal or ironing one of your shirts at this very moment, unaware that you’re flirting with other women online.
Carolyn reined in her imagination then, but it wasn’t easy, and she didn’t know how long she could keep it from running wild again.
I like yours, too, Ben responded. I’m new at this computer-dating thing. How about you?
Brand-new, Carolyn confirmed. It’s awkward.
Tell me about it, Ben answered.
Carolyn drew another deep breath, rubbed the palms of her hands together. What brought you to Lonesome Bend?
That seemed innocuous enough.
I wanted to raise Ellie in a small town, and my late wife’s family lives nearby.
That’s nice, Ben. Where did you live before?
Down in L.A. I’m not scared of a wildfire, but the traffic on the 405 is another matter, especially when Ellie’s in the car.
Carolyn smiled. Ben was a conscientious father, and he had a sense of humor. She began to warm up to the conversation a little, though she was still wary of the man. I’m not crazy about crowded freeways myself, she replied.
Ben came back right away with Have you always lived in Lonesome Bend?
Carolyn hesitated. I came here eight years ago, she wrote. Before that, I traveled a lot.
You’re mysterious, Ben replied, adding a winking-face icon.
Hardly, Carolyn typed. I’m not a woman with a past or anything exciting like that.
Unless, of course, my week-long, red-hot affair with Brody Creed makes me a woman with a past.
The thought of Brody, even in that context, gave Carolyn a twinge of guilt, but she shook it off quickly. It wasn’t as if she was cheating on him, for heaven’s sake.
So why did it feel that way?
Ellie just came in, Ben told her, and she’s trying to get my attention, so I’d better find out what’s up. Hope we can chat again soon, Carol.
Me, too, Carolyn wrote in response.
Liar, accused the voice in her head, the one she was always telling to shut up. You’re interested in using this guy to keep Brody at arms’ length, nothing else. And, admit it, Ben’s other main attraction is that he has a young daughter.
“Shut up,” Carolyn told the voice.
Then she logged off, wrote a hasty note for any customer who might happen by and taped it to the front door.
Working upstairs today. Just ring the bell, and I’ll be right down to let you in, she’d printed, in large letters.
Always better off when she was busy, Carolyn felt pretty chipper as she turned the handle on the dead bolt and headed for the staircase.
Winston, who seemed to be in an unusually circumspect mood that day, scampered after her and, when she entered the kitchen, leaped gracefully onto his usual lookout perch, the windowsill.
Carolyn fussed over him a little, scratching behind his ears and nuzzling his silky scruff once, and washed her hands at the sink, prior to fixing them both lunch.
Winston had his beloved half tin of water-packed sardines, eating off a chipped china saucer right there on the windowsill, while Carolyn nibbled her way through a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, breaking all the food rules by foregoing a plate and standing up while she ate.
Actually, she could have argued that there were sensible reasons for her choice.
Number one, her sewing machine was on the table, and she’d be working there in a little while, and a stray drop of jelly might stain a piece of fabric. Furthermore, who really ate sandwiches off a plate?
In any case, the sandwich was soon gone, rendering the whole subject moot. Carolyn washed her hands again, fetched the gypsy skirt from the hook on the other side of her bedroom door and took a few sweet moments just to admire the creation.
It really was gorgeous, she thought, loving