Chasing Tomorrow

Ironically, having a child had done all the things that Jeff had said it would do, all those years ago in London. It had filled the gap left by Tracy’s old life. And it had helped her get over him. The scars from Tracy’s marriage, and Jeff Stevens’s betrayal, would never fully heal. But after nine years they had faded, like the other myriad scars in her life, from her mother’s death, to the misery of jail, to the old friends she’d been forced to lose along the way.

Life is good now, she thought, turning up the winding mountain road that led to her ranch. It was April, and though there was still snow on the ground, it was melting fast. Soon “mud season,” as spring was called in these parts, would be fully under way. Tracy didn’t care. She loved the mountains in all their guises.

She was happy being Mrs. Tracy Schmidt. It wasn’t a role to her anymore. It had become her reality.

It was Gunther Hartog who had taught her that, in order to succeed as a con artist, you had to utterly immerse yourself in the identity you adopted for each job.

“It’s not enough to pretend to be the Countess of Nevermore, or whatever it is. You need to believe that you are that person. You need to become that person. Very few people can do that, Tracy. But you’re one of them.”

Dear Gunther. Tracy missed him.

Her mother used to pay her a similar compliment when she was a girl, although for very different reasons.

“Honestly, child,” Doris Whitney would say, “sometimes I don’t recognize you. You’ve got all the colors of the wind in you.”

To be a chameleon was both a blessing and a curse. But Tracy felt thankful for it today. Without that ability, she would never have made it here, to Steamboat, to a life of safety and contentment with her beloved son.

At long last, Tracy was home.

TRACY WAS CLEARING AWAY the supper dishes late that night when Blake Carter knocked on the door.

“Blake. What are you still doing here? It’s almost eleven.”

“We had a lot of trees felled this afternoon. I’ve been walking the property, checking that the boys did a good job.”

“By moonlight?”

“It wasn’t moonlight when I started,” said Blake. “Besides, I got a flashlight.” He patted his pocket.

“Well, you should get home to bed,” said Tracy, drying her hands on a dish towel. “Or did you want something?”

Blake looked suddenly awkward. “No, not really. I heard Nicholas was in some trouble again at school today, is all.”

Tracy frowned. “News travels fast.”

She wasn’t angry with Blake Carter. Over the years Blake had developed a close bond with Nicholas. The boy needed a positive male role model and Tracy couldn’t have asked for a better one than her ranch manager and friend. But one of the drawbacks of small-town life was small-town gossip.

“What happened?” Blake asked.

Tracy told him. “You should have seen the other mother’s face!” She laughed. “It was priceless. She knew she’d been had but she didn’t know how. They are not a nice family,” she added, breaking off a square of chocolate from the bar on the counter and offering Blake a piece.

“So what consequence is Nicky facing?”

“Consequence?” Tracy looked confused.

“He tried to cheat on his test, and then he lied to you about it,” Blake said sternly. “You don’t think you should punish him for that?”

“I . . . well . . . I didn’t really . . . we talked about it,” Tracy blustered.

Blake Carter’s raised eyebrow spoke a thousand words.

“Oh, come on,” said Tracy. “No harm was done in the end. And this Rock Carter is such a vile boy.”

“That’s not the point,” said Blake, “and you know it. You’re too easy on him, Tracy. You keep this up, he’s gonna be out of control at thirteen.”

AFTER BLAKE LEFT, TRACY crept into Nicholas’s bedroom.

Deep asleep, his dark curls spilling over the pillow and his arms flung wide across the bed, he looked positively angelic.