LITMIR.BIZ

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her. And when the time had come to let her go, he’d railed about it, but he’d given her the wherewithal to make her dreams come true and the knowledge that home would be waiting for her if she failed.

      That Megan had succeeded beyond her wildest expectations and his was still baffling to him. Not a conversation passed without him asking when she was going to “give up that damn fool nonsense” and come back where she belonged. She’d put off another visit for just that reason, because the pressure to come home—both overt and subtle—would be relentless. Seeing the hurt and disappointment in his eyes when she refused took some of the joy out of her accomplishments. Better, she’d concluded, to stay away.

      Tex thought she should be satisfied that she’d proved what she could do in a competitive world. He simply couldn’t understand that every single TV show, every single issue of the magazine was a new and exciting challenge. His attitude was proof that his early support had been an indulgence, not a genuine exhibition of faith in her abilities. He still dreamed of turning her into a rancher.

      That lack of understanding and his refusal to set foot in New York grated on her and made every conversation with her grandfather a minefield. Their last one had ended with an explosion that had shaken her. She’d been avoiding his calls for the past week, letting Todd and her answering machine deal with Tex because she simply couldn’t, not without adding to the mountain of guilt already weighing her down.

      She was tapping her pencil against her desk, still lost in thought, when Christie Gates burst into her office carrying an I Love Lucy lunchbox and a Howdy Doody puppet. Christie was Todd’s assistant and an aspiring writer who spent every lunch hour searching for some story angle she could sell to Megan. Most of the ideas had been outlandish and way off the mark, but this one had potential. Megan could feel it.

      “Are these not the greatest?” Christie said enthusiastically, setting the two pieces of memorabilia on Megan’s desk with surprising reverence for someone who hadn’t even been born when either classic show was originally on the air.

      Megan examined them closely. “Definitely originals,” she concluded.

      “Would I bring back anything else?” Christie demanded indignantly. “I know a reproduction when I see one.”

      “What do you propose we do with them?”

      “I was thinking of a feature on using decorative accents like this to rediscover the child within. Talk about a whimsical touch. I mean, how could you not smile every time you walk into a room with Howdy Doody or Lucy staring you in the face? I’ve even heard that people are collecting those really old sand pails to remind them of when they were kids at the beach.”

      She paused and watched Megan closely. “So, what do you think?” she finally prodded.

      Megan considered the idea thoughtfully, deliberately taking her time, then grinned at Christie’s bouncing impatience. “I think it’s terrific. Congratulations! You have your first story assignment.”

      “Oh, wow! You mean it?”

      “I mean it. At a fee above and beyond your salary, of course. Have Todd draw up the contract and make sure accounting reimburses you for whatever you have to buy for the photo shoot.”

      “Like a real freelance deal?” Christie asked.

      “Yes, ma’am.”

      Christie rushed around the desk, embraced her, then backed away self-consciously. “Sorry, Miss O’Rourke.”

      Megan grinned. “No apology necessary. And I think from now on you should call me Megan.”

      The girl’s eyes brightened. “Really? Oh, wow.”

      Megan might have been amused by the unabashed excitement if it weren’t for the fact that not very long ago she had reacted in exactly the same way to every triumph—minor and major. Still did, if the truth be known, but she tried to confine it to the privacy of her office.

      “One last thing,” Megan added, “you might ask around, see if any decorators know of a home doing anything like this. Todd can give you a list of people to call.”

      Christie bounded toward the door to share her news, but Megan stopped her. “Hey, Christie, when the story’s done and all the photos have been shot, I’d like you to bring Howdy Doody back to me, okay?”

      “You want the puppet?”

      “Sure. I need to remember being a kid, the same as everybody else,” she said. The pitiful truth was, though, she couldn’t really remember ever being a kid at all.

      Slowly the outer offices fell silent. Megan worked on her column for the next issue of the magazine, not coming up for air until darkness had fallen outside and the sky was lit with the twinkling lights of endless rows of skyscrapers. It was her favorite time of day in New York, when the streets were emptying of traffic, the impatient blare of horns was dying and the view from her office turned into a picture postcard. Daytime might offer a glimpse of Central Park in all its orange-and-red autumnal glory, but this was the view that had been on the one postcard she’d ever gotten after her mother abandoned her.

      Some days Megan wondered if New York’s pull had been professional or personal. Had she subconsciously come here hoping to spot Sarah O’Rourke on a street corner? It was a question she rarely asked herself and had never adequately answered, just as she never examined too closely how a woman whose own background was so dysfunctional was qualified to promote life-style choices for others.

      To her surprise, given the hour, one of the phone lines lit up and she heard Todd answering. She was even more surprised when he stepped through the door rather than buzzing her. The sympathetic expression on his face set her pulse to pounding.

      “What is it?”

      “It’s Mrs. Gomez.”

      No doubt the housekeeper had been persuaded to play intermediary for her grandfather. “I can’t talk to Tex tonight. Please just tell her that for me.”

      Todd stayed right where he was. “You need to take the call, Megan.”

      If she hadn’t already had this gut-deep feeling of dread building inside, his somber tone would have set it off. With reluctance, she reached for the phone.

      “Mrs. Gomez,” she said.

      “Ah, niña,” the woman murmured, her voice suspiciously scratchy, as if she’d recently been crying. “I am so sorry to be calling like this. It is your grandfather.”

      The pounding pulse slowed to a dull thud. “Is Tex okay? Has something happened to him?”

      “There is no easy way to say this. He is gone, niña. Your grandfather passed away a few moments ago.”

      The words echoed, nonsensical, impossible.

      “No,” Megan protested in a whisper.

      “I am so sorry, niña.”

      “No,” Megan said again as tears welled up and spilled down her cheeks. “Not Tex.” He was big and blustery and strong. Indomitable. Immortal.

      “I am so very sorry,” Mrs. Gomez repeated. “It was very fast. There was no time to call you. His heart, the doctor said. There had been signs, but your grandfather ignored them. Like always, he thought he knew best.”

      “I’ll be there on the first flight,” Megan told her, dimly aware that another phone line had lit up, indicating that the ever-efficient Todd was already making the arrangements. He would clear her schedule, see that things ran smoothly in her absence. More than ever, she thought what a godsend he was.

      “I’ll let you know when I’ll arrive,” she promised. “And I’ll arrange for a rental car.”

      “No need to do that. There are cars here you can use. I will tell Señor Jake. He will pick you up.”

      Megan was not so distraught that the name of a man she’d thought long gone from Whispering Wind, Wyoming, slipped past

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