Texas Sunrise by Fern Michaels Page B

hugged the foundation, and a magnificent rose garden surrounded the house, complete with trellises and statuary.
    It was a hell of a spread, Riley liked to say, and all of it his and Ivy’s. One day it would belong to his son, Moss. A grin stretched across his face. Thousands of acres of prime land where thoroughbreds and cattle grazed contently.
    Once, the land had been owned by Riley’s great-grandfather, Seth Coleman. It was said that when he first saw it, he felt as though he could reach up and touch the sun. He had come from dark beginnings, and this great house was his major achievement. He hoped that building a house upon the rise would bridge his past with his future. He was not a romantic, but the name Sunbridge was entirely his own conception.
    Riley brought the Bronco to a stop outside the front doors. He liked going in past the ethereally graceful rose garden and the feminine sweep of the clematis vine that surrounded the oak doors. He remembered how the house had looked before the tornado swept it all away. There had been shiny, dark wooden floors, massive beams supporting the ceilings, thick, dark Oriental carpets, and man-sized leather furniture. Each time he entered the old house, he imagined the smell of his great-grandfather’s cigar smoke, the thudding of high-heeled cowboy boots, and the sound of boisterous men drinking hard whiskey. Now Sunbridge was full of sunlight, earth-tone furniture, white walls and light oak floors. The smells were those of his wife and new son. The sounds were popular rock, Ivy’s laughter, and Moss’s gurgling. The floor-to-ceiling walls were gone now, replaced with half walls, so that the entire first floor was open and inviting.
    He almost had it all, he thought as he opened the massive oaken doors. As always, he stood stock-still and pitched his baseball cap toward the peg on the hat rack, the only thing to survive the tornado that had destroyed the house.
    â€œHey, anyone home?” he called from the center hallway.
    â€œOnly us Colemans,” Ivy said, and laughed as she stepped toward her husband and gave him little Moss to hold.
    â€œSo, what’s for dinner?” Riley wrinkled his nose as he tried to discern the tantalizing smells wafting about. Moss squealed, his chubby arms flailing the air. Riley hoisted him high, then nose-dived him downward. “Ooops, sorry, Ivy, I forgot you don’t like me doing that. He loves it, don’t you, Moss?” he said, setting the baby down on the floor. “Now it’s your mommy’s turn.”
    Riley took Ivy in his arms. She smelled so wonderful, just the way Moss smelled, clean and powdered, with a trace of perfume. Ivy was a constant, a given. He knew when he walked in the door, at the end of either a bad or good day, there would be a smile on her face. Dinner would be ready, Moss would be alert and playful, and they’d each have a bottle of 7UP, their drink for the cocktail hour. He looked forward to his homecoming each day with a passion.
    They had their soft drink ritual while Moss crawled about, dragging his stuffed animals with him. After dinner, Ivy warmed the bottle of formula and Riley decked out his son in Billie original sleepwear. Together they read him a story, then Ivy crooned a lullaby while Riley cranked up the Mickey Mouse mobile hooked onto the crib. With the night-light on and the door half open, the contented parents embraced in the hallway.
    Riley’s favorite room, the den, was where they sat side by side to watch the news. During commercial breaks, they talked about the day’s events, their hands clasped together, their shoulders touching.
    â€œCole called today, so did Sawyer,” Ivy said, snuggling against her husband. “Cary called right before you got home and said for you to call him early in the morning. I called Maggie this morning, and your aunt Susan is there visiting. Riley,” she said, squirming around to face him,