Big Sky Summer Part 17

Leaving Doolittle behind to recover from the festivities, they left the house together, heading for the barn.

No one was around-even the ranch hands were elsewhere, though they'd been present for the wedding-and yet there was a feeling in the air that made Casey uneasy. Stopping in the yard, she turned in a full circle, very slowly, looking for the source of her discomfort.

Sunlight flashed off something in one of the nearby oak trees, a silvery glint, and that was when Casey spotted the reporter, lurking in the high branches. She muttered a very unladylike word and headed in that direction, fists clenched.

Rapid clicks sounded as the sneak took pictures.

Walker, keeping pace, tilted his head back, adjusted his hat and grinned. "I'll be d.a.m.ned," he said.

This kind of intrusion was new to him, but Casey was anything but amused. "Get down from there before you break your darn fool neck!" she ordered, looking around again as the branches rustled and shook overhead. Where there was one photographer, in her experience, there were a dozen.

Worse, that particular tree was situated close enough to the house to provide a clear view of the living room, where the ceremony had taken place.

"This is a free country," the tree man argued, sounding braver than he probably was. "There's the First Amendment-and freedom of speech-"

"Don't you lecture me on the Bill of Rights, you jacka.s.s," Casey shot back. "It just so happens that I have a few rights of my own!"

Walker chuckled again. He was loving this, which only made Casey more furious.

"You carrying a gun, cowboy?" the spy asked warily. A round, bespectacled face peered down at Walker through the foliage.

"No," Walker answered affably, "but I could lay my hands on one in short order, if I were so inclined." He paused. "If I were you, buddy, I'd get the h.e.l.l out of here before this redhead decides to climb right up there after you and smash that camera of yours over your head."

More branches shifted and creaked, and the photographer, a portly sort who had, in Casey's view, defied gravity as well as good manners by hauling himself up into that tree in the first place, made his way down.

Backing away quickly, he huffed, "Don't let her get me!"

And then he turned and ran for his life.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

WALKER WAS PRACTICALLY doubled over laughing as he watched the pudgy, tree-climbing reporter making an awkward dash for the tall timbers, but Casey was not amused. While she understood that tabloid stringers and photographers had a right to earn a living like everybody else, she'd had so many private moments interrupted or flat-out ruined over the course of her career that she'd run out of patience a long time ago.

It only made matters worse that, since settling in Parable, she and the kids had enjoyed a certain slackening of media attention, though they'd never been entirely free of it, and now, as she'd expected and feared, the semihiatus was obviously at an end. Game on.

Time to shift emotional gears from neutral to overdrive. Again.

Folding her arms, Casey sighed and watched balefully as the reporter finally disappeared into a stand of brush down by the main road. Moments later, a car engine started up with a roar, soon followed by the screech of tires as he tore out of there.

Walker, quiet now, slipped an arm around Casey's shoulders-which, she realized with a stab of annoyance, were trembling. She'd better buck the heck up, she thought, because the die was cast and, by G.o.d, her children weren't going to come out on the losing end.

"Case," her new husband said, very quietly and with a gentleness that was very nearly her undoing, "it's all right. He's gone."

"For now," Casey conceded grudgingly. She did let Walker hold her close against his side, though, and it felt good not to be alone, not to have to be strong, if only for a few moments. Too good.

"Let's go for that ride," Walker said, steering her toward the barn.

Casey looked around, but she knew they were by themselves, at least in terms of sneaky reporters. It was small comfort, because there had been others, of course. They'd simply been faster than Tarzan of the Oak Tree-by now, they were probably in Three Trees, behind the doors of their cheap motel rooms, swilling beer and congratulating themselves, antic.i.p.ating the fat checks they'd soon be banking. Thanks to modern technology, they'd probably already zipped very personal photos and wildly speculative stories about Casey, Walker, the children and the wedding itself off to waiting editors.

"What if we're followed?" Casey fretted. Secretly, she'd entertained a fantasy that she and Walker might consummate their marriage after all, somewhere out there under the big sky, sheltered by venerable trees and high gra.s.s, with their horses grazing peacefully nearby.

Now, of course, s.e.x in the tall gra.s.s was out of the question. The thought of their being seen making love, let alone photographed, chilled her blood.

"Don't be paranoid, Casey Jones," Walker counseled with an easy grin. His arm was still around her shoulders, strong and sure, and they had almost reached the barn door. "If that guy was an example of his breed, they won't be following us on horseback, and we'd hear anything with a motor from a long way off."

Casey nodded, biting her lower lip, but she was still thinking that such things were easy enough for Walker to say, because he'd never been stalked, never had to console disappointed children after an innocent and entirely ordinary outing-a birthday party, an afternoon movie, a visit to a zoo or a theme park-had been spoiled, cut short by obnoxious photographers and pseudojournalists.

He'd probably never had to watch Fourth of July fireworks or the New Year's Eve countdown on a hotel TV, instead of celebrating in person, or attend weddings and christenings and even funerals in the company of several bodyguards, because there had been a rash of death threats.

While she pondered these recollections, Walker saddled a gelding named Smokey for her and then Mack, the buckskin, for himself.

Back outside, in the afternoon sunshine, he gave Casey a leg up into the saddle. She'd been too preoccupied to prove that she could d.a.m.n well mount a horse on her own, whatever he thought of her riding skills.

Walker swung onto Mack's st.u.r.dy back and they were on their way, pa.s.sing between the horse pasture and the bull pens and on into an open field, rippling with sweet-scented gra.s.s. The sun was warm on their backs, and the st.u.r.diness of horse flesh and the creak of leather began to calm Casey's nerves, degree by degree.

"Tell me what life's been like for you," Walker said quietly, resettling his hat as he spoke, and reining Mack in a little to keep pace with the more sedate Smokey. "Not the visits to the White House, or being named Entertainer of the Year all those times, stuff like that-but the nitty-gritty, day-to-day things."

The response that leaped to Casey's mind was "lonely," interestingly enough, but she didn't say it. For one thing, she was too proud, too attached to her independence and the strength she made it a point to project, even when she didn't feel it.

For another, she knew Walker was still thinking about the reporters and photographers, not the good ones, the courteous professionals, of whom there were many, but the intrusive, obnoxious types who apparently lived to invade her privacy and that of her children. Those people, mostly men, though there were a few women in the mix, could put a scurrilous spin on something as simple as a picnic in the park or a routine stint in the hospital.

Outdoor meals with the band members and their families became cult meetings, and a bad case of strep throat, complicated by exhaustion brought on by weeks on the road and requiring IVs and medical observation, could be twisted into a secret abortion. Casey could handle being the target of that kind of gossip, but it wasn't always directed at her alone-sometimes Clare was dragged into it, and even Shane had been credited with a serious drug problem.

Casey told Walker those stories, and a few others, as they rode, and difficult though some of it was, she felt relieved just to vent to this quiet, nonjudgmental man, listening attentively to every word she said.

That was a new experience, mostly. She'd discussed such things with Mitch, and with the guys in the band, but only because they'd usually witnessed the incidents for themselves, so there was no hiding it from them. The bodyguards and members of law enforcement encountered in the course of her travels were paid to care what happened to Casey Elder and her children, though they were unlikely to have any real emotional investment in possible outcomes.

Joslyn, Kendra and Tara, new friends and yet among the best she'd ever had, would have sympathized, of course, but burdening them with problems brought on by her own public persona seemed unfair. After all, prying eyes and wagging tongues were part of the deal-by choosing fame, riding tall in the figurative saddle, she'd made herself a lightning rod.

All of which meant that Casey had always carried most of the load herself, and tried not to complain about the effort, even in the sanctuary of her stubborn soul.

By the time she'd finished the tale, she and Walker had reached the tumbled-down cabin in the hills, the site of his forebears' nineteenth-century homestead, via a different route than before.

Only then, when he'd dismounted and reached up to help Casey down off Smokey's wide back, did Walker offer a comment on the long and complicated diatribe.

"Things are going to be different now," he said, facing her, the reins still in their hands, their bodies not quite touching as they stood there in all that quietness, surrounded by the singular gifts of a big sky summer-the cloudless, overarching canopy of watercolor blue in a shade so tender it bruised the heart to look up at it; warm, soft breezes, caressing the flesh like the touch of an angel's fingertips; the faint, perfect fragrances of wildflowers and old-fashioned peonies; the occasional chirp of an unseen bird, guarding its nest in one of the trees.

Casey must have looked a little skeptical at Walker's words, because, seeing her expression, he gave a low chuckle and planted a light, swift kiss on her forehead.

"Things are going to be different," he reiterated without a trace of male arrogance, "because I'll be around. I figure if one of those guys gets out of line, all I have to do is make an example of him, and the others will get the message."

Casey opened her eyes wide. "You don't mean you'd punch one of them or something like that?"

"I mean," Walker clarified, in all sincerity, "that I'll do whatever is necessary to keep my wife and my children safe."

"Oh," Casey said. While she didn't believe that violence, the bare-fisted cowboy kind or any other, was an acceptable solution, a part of her definitely liked the idea that anybody who meant her or the kids harm would have to get by Walker Parrish first.

Only a fool would even make the attempt.

But, then, fools had never been in short supply, now, had they?

"There's something else I've made up my mind about, Case," Walker added, cupping her chin in his hand. The spark remained in his eyes, but it was one of pa.s.sion now, of quiet but unshakable conviction, not amus.e.m.e.nt. "We got married for Clare and Shane's sakes-I understand that. But if you're sleeping in one room and I'm in another, well, that sort of defeats the whole purpose, mostly because of the message it sends-that we're together but separate. We might as well have skipped the whole process of getting hitched, if that's how it's going to be."

Casey's heart picked up speed until it was racing. She knew Walker was right, but sharing his bed every night was a huge risk in itself-she'd be vulnerable, and not just s.e.xually, because her mind and soul would be laid bare to him, as well as her body.

The spirit might be willing, but the flesh was weak. h.e.l.l, the flesh-her flesh-wasn't just weak, it was flagrantly wanton. Given a voice, every part of her would have been shouting a hallelujah chorus of "Bring it on, cowboy!"

"s.e.x wasn't part of the deal," she reminded him, somewhat lamely.

He kissed her, not in the way he did when he fully intended to seduce her, on the spot, but with rea.s.suring affection. "True enough," he said. Then, after an agreeable pause, he asked, "When was the last time I forced myself on you, Casey Jones?"

She straightened her spine, set her hands on her hips. She knew a full-court press when she was the object of one. "That's just the trouble," she retorted. "You don't have to drag me off into your cave by the hair. All you ever have to do, Walker Parrish, is touch me in the right places-and, dammit, you know just where those places are!"

He laughed, pushed his hat to the back of his head and countered, "Doesn't that tell you something?"

"It tells me," Casey answered, going on pure bravado, "that when you turn on the charm, my clothes tend to fall off. It's all bliss-until I come to my senses again."

"That," Walker responded affably, "sounds like a personal problem."

"How do you figure that?" Casey snapped. More bravado. Things were melting inside her, expanding, getting ready.

"I'm your husband," he reminded her, not in a demanding way, but as a person stating a simple fact. "Therefore, it's my prerogative to 'turn on the charm,' as you put it, but all it would take to put the brakes on is a simple no from you, and you know it. I might be about as cordial as a wounded bear for a while, but I'm not going to barge in-so to speak-where I'm not wanted."

Casey merely stared at him, at a loss for words, furious because every single thing he'd said was true. Saying no was her responsibility, when push came to shove, not his.

And she was no d.a.m.n good at saying no to Walker Parrish. She had two children, a skittish heart and a twitch in the pit of her stomach to prove it.

"I'll sleep with you," she finally said. "But you have to promise not to touch me."

"Sorry, lady," Walker answered, clearly enjoying her discomfort, "but that's a promise I can't make."

"Whatever happened to win-win negotiations?" Casey demanded, fl.u.s.tered, thinking she'd faint if her heartbeat didn't slow down soon.

Walker smiled, but his eyes and the set of his jaw remained serious. "I've done things your way for a long time," he told her after mulling the words over silently for a few moments. "But the way I see it, marriage is a partnership, and that means you're going to have to do some things my way, Mrs. Parrish. And sharing my bed is one of them."

"What about my right to say no?"

"You can refuse," Walker said easily, "but you'll have to pack up your stuff and move back to the mansion if you do. Either we're husband and wife or we're not. Make a choice."

Casey felt her face flush with heat. She was in that storied place-between a rock and a hard place. And she was stuck.

"Is this an ultimatum?" she challenged, though she felt anything but tough-minded at the moment.

Walker considered the question for longer than she would have liked. Then he adjusted his hat, crooked a grin at her and said, "Not exactly. I'm definitely hoping you'll decide to stay right here on the ranch with me, but if you insist on celibacy, well, then, I guess we've got a standoff."

She huffed out a breath, folded her arms again, glared up at her hardheaded husband. She wouldn't have chosen to marry Walker, since they didn't get along most of the time, now being a case in point, but she couldn't begin to imagine being anybody else's wife, either. Never had imagined it, actually, for all that she'd longed for a real home and an old-fashioned family setup.

And that was a big part of her problem, the main reason she had a string of go-nowhere flirtations behind her, but not much else. As far as she was concerned, there might as well have been only one man in the world: this one.

When it came to Walker, she was d.a.m.ned if she did, and d.a.m.ned if she didn't.

Forget win-win.

So she finally caved. "All right," she said. "You win." A pause. "This once."

At that, Walker threw back his head and gave a shout of laughter. Then he lifted Casey by the waist, spun her around until she was dizzy and, finally, set her back on her wobbly feet and kissed her senseless.

WHEN IT WAS FINALLY TIME to turn in for the night-as in, when Casey ran out of stall tactics like folding the rented chairs, taking down wedding decorations, wrapping and freezing what was left of the cake and, in the end, whipping up a supper that proved inedible-Walker breathed a silent sigh of relief.

While he collected Casey's suitcase from the guest quarters and carried it to their room, she locked herself in the master bath and took what must have been the longest shower on record. When she finally came out, looking shy as a novice nun recently released from her vows and sent home from the convent, she was swaddled in his ancient flannel bathrobe-more like lost in it, since it all but went around her twice.

Walker rarely used the robe, preferring, except in the dead of winter, to simply let himself air-dry after a shower, since, for all intents and purposes, he'd lived alone for most of his adult life. Plus, it saved on towels.

How things had changed, he thought now, with an inner grin. He was already in bed, with the covers resting roughly at his waistline and a couple of pillows fluffed up behind his back, and hoped he didn't seem half as eager for Casey to join him as he was.

If this had been a real wedding night, of course, she'd have on some s.e.xy wisp of lingerie instead of his ugly bathrobe, he mused, but there was always an upside. Since she'd been in the shower when he brought up her suitcase, she was probably bare-a.s.s naked under all that faded flannel.

He smiled and, catching him at it, Casey planted her feet and folded her arms, waxing stubborn. Not that that was any big stretch, when you considered how wide her streak of cussedness probably was.

"What?" she demanded. She was flushed, either from the heat of the shower or from embarra.s.sment, and her red hair had steamed itself into limp spirals.

"I was just thinking about wedding nights in general and ours in particular," Walker drawled, cupping his hands behind his head and settling in for whatever fate had in store for the two of them.

"I'm here under duress," Casey protested. "In this room, I mean."

Walker chuckled and shook his head. If he hadn't been enjoying this so much, he'd have been riled, he supposed. She seemed to be forgetting, conveniently, that this marriage had been her idea.

"No," he argued, amused, "you're here because you chose to stay instead of going back to town."

"Semantics," she said dismissively, marching over to the mirror above his bureau and studying her reflection closely, as though she'd expected to see somebody else's face looking back at her. Maybe she was wondering who that woman in the bathrobe was, and what she'd done with the indomitable Casey Elder.

"Are you planning on wearing that robe to bed?" Walker asked mildly.

"You just never mind what I'm wearing to bed," she told him peevishly. Then she marched herself over to the bench next to the fireplace, where he'd placed her suitcase, opened the lid and rummaged through the contents until she came up with plaid flannel boxer shorts and a T-shirt that had seen better days, if not better decades.

"You're not serious," he said, referring to her choice of nightwear. He'd have preferred the robe, by a country mile.

She gave him a look calculated to quell any stirring that might be going on under the sheets, retreated into the bathroom again and came out five minutes later, looking young enough to be jailbait.

The shorts had a placket in front, and the T-shirt was downright disreputable, with a hole under one arm and a sprinkling of bleach stains across the front.