A Home of Her Own. Brenda Novak

that Gabe wouldn’t listen. “Boise is where the money’s at, not here.”

      “Boise is split between the two congressional districts. We’ve got the more conservative part, which we’ll probably lose to Boyle,” Gabe said. “As far as grassroots efforts go, we’re going to have to do what we can here and up in the panhandle.”

      Mike rubbed his chin. He’d shaved when he got up this morning, but he could already feel the whiskers that would create a shadow across his jaw by dinnertime. “What kind of money are we talking?”

      “Half a million, at least. I’m sure Boyle can easily raise that much, what with Political Action Committees and donations from the timber industry.”

      “We can’t raise half a million from private individuals, no matter how successful our grassroots efforts are,” Mike said. “We live in a state that’s nearly half-rural.”

      “I realize that. But there are other avenues.”

      “Like…”

      “The American Federation of Teachers, the American Federation of State, County, and Municipal Employees, the International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers, the Teamsters Union…”

      “You’ve been doing your homework.”

      Gabe gave him a rare smile. “Damn right.”

      Mike considered the request. Maybe getting involved in Garth Holbrook’s campaign would give him and Gabe something in common again, help them both adjust to who and what Gabe was now.

      “Sure,” he said. “Josh is out of town with Rebecca for a few days, an early Christmas present. But I’ll set up an appointment with him, Conner and the other Running Y investors as soon as he gets back.”

      LUCKY LEANED against the wall of her old bedroom and rubbed an itch on her forehead with the back of her hand. She’d been knocking down cobwebs and sweeping out the house all morning and didn’t want to touch her face with her fingers. The physical exertion of cleaning helped her stay warm, so she’d kept at it while waiting for the snow to let up. But it was already noon and the weather didn’t seem likely to change any time soon. If she wasn’t careful she could get stranded out here another night.

      She was determined not to let that happen, but she didn’t have too many options. There wasn’t any cell phone service because of the surrounding mountains. She was fifteen miles from town and didn’t have anything remotely resembling a shovel with which to dig her car out of the snow. And Mike Hill was her only neighbor.

      Mike Hill… God, she couldn’t ask him for help! He’d always resented her, and she’d—

      She’d nothing. Most of the time, she didn’t even exist for him. It was better to pretend he’d never existed for her, either.

      Deciding there wasn’t anything she could do until it stopped snowing, she headed downstairs for her suitcase so she could hang up a few of her nicer clothes. She’d packed carefully, filling her bags to maximum capacity just in case she stayed awhile, but her belongings were no longer neat and tidy. After Mike had left last night, she had trouble getting warm again and she’d rummaged through them, searching for layers.

      Shoving her clothes back inside her biggest suitcase, she sat on the lid to close it, then pulled it over to the stairs and started hoisting it up one step at a time.

      “Come on,” she grumbled as she strained to keep moving. She made the first curve of the stairs and rounded the second, but the corner of her suitcase hit a spindle, nearly jerking it from her grasp, and the latch gave way. With a curse, Lucky watched in frustration as everything spilled down the stairs.

      “That’s it, I give up,” she said, and dropped the suitcase, too. It banged its way along, hitting the wall and the railing several times before finally crashing to the floor.

      Sinking onto a step near the top, she glowered at the wreckage. What was another mess? She was already alone in a house with no utilities, stranded by a terrible storm….

      I should leave Dundee as soon as the storm lifts. That thought had been drifting in and out of her mind all morning. She’d already put this place behind her once, along with its ghosts and memories. Why had she bothered to come back?

      The black journal that had fallen out of her suitcase, along with everything else, served as a quick reminder. Studying what she could see of the fanning yellowed pages, she wondered once again whether reading it had been a mistake.

      Would finding her father really make any difference?

      She had no idea. Her brothers hadn’t grown up with their father, but they knew his name. According to Red, he’d been a handsome young man named Carter Jones, who’d spent two years in Dundee before breaking her heart and following the rodeo circuit. Except for the money he’d occasionally sent when he was working, they’d never heard from him again.

      Her brothers didn’t seem to have a problem with that, but she was different. She’d grown up without knowing so much as a name. Until now. Suddenly, she had three possible candidates. She’d come here with the goal of narrowing it down to one. And why not? What better things did she have to do? She’d been traveling from place to place, volunteering at hospitals and food banks and shelters for six years—ever since she’d graduated from high school. There really wasn’t anywhere left to go, at least anywhere she’d find the peace she’d been seeking in her volunteer work. This small town hated her for being who she was, but it held all the secrets she needed to gain some perspective on her life.

      With a sigh, she retrieved the journal. Maybe returning to Dundee wasn’t a mistake, but she should’ve waited for spring. She might have waited, except that she’d wanted to be here for Christmas. The memory of that one holiday, her first in this house, had tempted her back.

      She chuckled sadly. God, she was still trying to relive it. How pathetic…

      Stepping past the shoes and underwear on the stairs, she went back to her mother’s bedroom to confront the vulgar graffiti on the wall. This room, those words, brought back so much of what she’d experienced when she lived here. Her friends’ parents’ disapproving glances and hushed words: Julie’s brought home that Caldwell girl again. We need to have a talk with her…. Lucky’ll turn out to be just like her mother, you wait and see…. We’re law-abiding, churchgoing folk. We can’t have that kind of influence in this house. The suggestive whispers of the boys in school: Is your hair that red everywhere? Let’s go behind the bleachers and take a look…. With a mother like yours, you ought to know all the tricks.

      All the tricks? Growing up, Lucky had known more about sex than she should have, but certainly not from her own experience.

      Sliding down the wall to the bare floorboards, she opened the weathered book she’d found when she finally went through the boxes her brothers had sent her after Red’s funeral. The list of male names scrawled in her mother’s hand brought back fragments of memory Lucky had tried for years to suppress. Men, coming in and out of their ramshackle trailer while Lucky was small, ruffling her hair or handing her a shiny quarter. Men moaning behind the closed door of her mother’s bedroom.

      Despite the terrible cold, sweat gathered on Lucky’s top lip. She wanted to burn the journal, obliterate the proof. But she couldn’t. Dave Small, Eugene Thompson and Garth Holbrook were all listed as having “visited” her mother twenty-five years ago, right around the time a man would’ve had to visit Red for Lucky to be born. Unless Red was seeing someone she didn’t write down, which seemed unlikely given her scrupulous records, one of these men was probably her father….

      Lucky recognized Dave Small’s name, and Garth Holbrook’s, too. Both had been prominent citizens of Dundee, giving her some hope that she could identify with or admire her father at least a little more than she did her mother. They might have visited a prostitute several times, but Lucky knew from watching Red that being faithful wasn’t easy for a lot of people. It was even possible that they hadn’t been married when they’d associated with her mother.

      She