Dream Country by Luanne Rice

Hathaway said, carrying in a basket of apples. “She told me you were inside working, and she asked me to give you these.”
    “How do they know I’m here?” It was just a question; she was past cringing. People had watched her work during Jake’s ordeal, thought she was cold-blooded. They’d be saying the same thing now. She knew that she was in the category of “other”: a woman who had lost one, and now another, of her children.
    “They see your car, figure you’re waiting by the phone.”
    Daisy narrowed her eyes, carving the left cheekbone on the disc of bone. Her latest piece was called “Lonely Girl.” It was a simple face, open and innocent, distant as the moon. Daisy would set it in eighteen-karat gold, to show that it was precious. She would link it with pebbles of polished tourmaline, each stone representing a virtue the lonely girl carried within herself, so that even though she might be alone, she was still blessed: courage, kindness, intelligence, grace.
    “Daisy.” Hathaway took hold of her sister’s wrists, making her drop her tools.
    “It’s Sage,” Daisy said, staring into the small bone face, no more than an inch in diameter, yet full of her daughter’s spirit.
    “Stop working,” Hathaway said. “Talk to me.”
    “It’s just that—” Daisy began, her voice in control but her hands beginning to shake. “I can’t stand it, Hathaway.”
    “I don’t see how you could.”
    “I called James. I just told him about her being gone . . .”
    Hathaway just stared, giving Daisy that silent support her sister was so good at giving, when she understood to the depths of her soul without saying a word. Daisy let herself fall apart. She needed to be held, and her sister pulled her into her arms, stroking the top of her head. Hathaway knew what to do.
    “What did he say?” Hathaway asked after a long time.
    “You wouldn’t believe it.”
    “Go ahead. Tell me.”
    “He’s still waiting for Jake.” Daisy pulled back so she could see Hathaway’s eyes. “Now he thinks Sage is coming to see him, so he’s waiting for her, too. We don’t know for sure, though, do we? I mean, I’m just guessing. We don’t have any definite proof. She could be anywhere—”
    “Calm down, Daisy.”
    Daisy took a deep breath. “But James believes me. He’s ready for her, if that’s where she’s going.”
    “Vigilant,” Hathaway said, her neck long and her head held up. Daisy knew her sister thought James was noble in an insane sort of way. When Daisy would rant and yell about his not accommodating the inconveniences of divorce, not coming east to see Sage so Daisy wouldn’t have to send Sage west, Hathaway could always see James’s side.
    “It was hard to tell him,” Daisy said.
    “It couldn’t be easy for anyone, but especially not for the two of you.”
    “We don’t see eye to eye on anything,” Daisy said, trying to breathe. “How were we ever married?”
    “I think . . .” Hathaway began, but she held herself back.
    “I was nuts,” Daisy said. “That’s what. Moving out west, marrying him. I was trying to be someone I wasn’t, pretending.” She trailed off.
    “Pretending what?” Hathaway asked. “To love him?”
    Daisy shook her head. No, she had never had to pretend that. “Living a life that wasn’t mine. I’m from New England; this is where I belong. I like things safe. We couldn’t last, you know? I see that now, but no one could have told me then.”
    But even as she spoke, her words didn’t quite ring true. She had loved the West, found depth and meaning there that she still felt today. Her jewelry proved it, and so did her dreams. At night she dreamed of red rocks, long trails, big sky, the scent of cedar and sage, the feeling of James’s arms around her shoulders.
    “Americans marry Frenchmen,” Hathaway said gently. “Italians marry English. Why be so hard on yourself because you married a cowboy? You always loved horses, loved to ride. To me it seems