Heart Of A Cowboy: Creed's Honor / Unforgiven. B.J. Daniels
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they reached the Pathfinder, Valentino was standing with his nose pressed to the window on the rear hatch, steaming up the glass.
“You have a dog!” Sasha crowed, obviously thrilled by the discovery. “You actually got another dog!”
“Not exactly,” Tricia said, but Sasha didn’t hear her. She was totally focused on Valentino.
Tricia unlocked the doors and lifted the hatch, fielding Valentino with one hand, so he wouldn’t jump out of the vehicle and hurt himself, and hefting up Sasha’s surprisingly heavy bag with the other.
Sasha tried to scramble into the back with Valentino, and Tricia stopped her. It was only then that she realized she didn’t have a booster seat for the child to ride in. Feeling incredibly guilty, she helped Sasha onto the backseat and waited while she buckled up.
“In Washington,” Sasha informed her cheerfully, “I have to use a booster seat. It’s against the law not to.”
It’s against the law here, too, Tricia thought ruefully, rummaging up a smile. “We’ll stop and buy one first thing,” she said.
“What’s the dog’s name?” Sasha asked, straining to pat his head, when Tricia was behind the wheel, belted in, and ready to head out.
“Valentino,” Tricia answered, wondering if she ought to explain that she was just keeping him until she could find him a good home and deciding against the idea in the next instant. Sasha wouldn’t understand.
When the time came, Tricia thought sadly, neither would Valentino.
“Doesn’t he need to get out of the car before we go?” Sasha inquired, ever practical. She got that from her dad; Diana was smart, but impulsive.
“We’ll hit the first rest stop,” Tricia promised.
“What if he can’t wait?” Sasha fretted.
“He’s a good boy,” Tricia said, driving slowly along the aisle leading to the nearest exit. “He’ll wait.”
“Not if he can’t,” Sasha said.
“Sash,” Tricia said gently. “He’ll be okay.”
“He doesn’t look anything like Rusty,” the little girl observed, after a short silence, while Tricia was stopped at the pay window, handing over her ticket and the price of parking.
The remark gave Tricia a bittersweet feeling, a combination of affection for the child and grief for Rusty. “No,” she said softly, as they pulled away. “He’s not Rusty.”
“That’s okay,” Sasha said earnestly, evidently addressing Valentino. “Rusty was a really nice dog, but you’re nice, too.”
Tricia smiled, though her eyes stung a little.
They stopped at the first shopping center they passed and took Valentino on a little tour of the grassy dividers in the parking lot before settling him in the Pathfinder again and dashing into a chain store, hand in hand, to buy a proper booster seat.
Though Tricia was at a loss, Sasha knew the layout of the store from visiting the branch nearest her home in Seattle, and she went straight to the section with car seats. Once the purchase was made and they were back at the car again, they wrestled the bulky seat out of its box, laughing the whole time, and it was Sasha who showed Tricia how the various straps and buckles worked.
She had a booster seat just like it, she said.
A store employee, rounding up red plastic shopping carts, took charge of the empty box, and they were good to go.
“Now we’re legal,” Sasha said. “Valentino and I would be stranded if you got arrested.”
Tricia drove out of the lot and onto the highway. “The most important thing is that you’re safer now,” she told her goddaughter. “But even if something did happen, you wouldn’t be left to manage on your own.”
“But who’s going to use this seat when I’m in Paris?” Sasha asked. “It cost a lot of money.”
There it was again—her practical side. How many kids troubled their heads about such things?
“Not to worry,” Tricia answered, wanting to reassure the child. “It’ll come in handy now, and when you visit again.”
Sasha sighed. “But it might be a long time before that happens,” she said. “I might be too big to even need a booster seat next time I come to Colorado. I might even be a teenager by then.” From her tone, she didn’t find the idea of being a teen completely unappealing.
“It’ll be a while,” Tricia said, though she knew Sasha 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