Big Sky Summer Part 9

FOR A FULL WEEK, nothing happened, nothing regarding the big reveal, at least. Walker didn't call or stop by, or even grace Casey's in-box with an email.

Clare and Shane remained clueless as far as their paternity was concerned. They swam in the community pool every afternoon, hung out with their friends, played tag with the dogs in the backyard and rarely sniped at each other. That last part was the tip-off, Casey figured. They were smart kids: they knew some kind of major change was imminent, and they'd formed an alliance, probably brief, probably tenuous, but an alliance nonetheless.

Casey was grateful for small favors.

Boone and Tara returned from their honeymoon, and Boone ran the sheriff's department again, but otherwise, both of them kept a low profile for a few days. Then, letting the local grapevine spread the word, they invited practically the whole county to a big Friday-night party at their place, complete with barbecued beef, washtubs full of potato salad, slow-roasted corn on the cob and biscuits the size of Frisbees. Those who knew Tara well, as Casey did, noticed right away that chicken wasn't on the menu, and were amused by the irony.

Tara, a former cosmetics tyc.o.o.n, had been billing herself as a chicken farmer from the day she moved to Parable, but, as far as anybody knew, not one of her fine feathered friends had ever been beheaded, subsequently cleaned and plucked, cut to pieces and fried in bacon grease, let alone turned up crispy and delicious on somebody's dinner plate.

People were tolerant of this oddity-in rural areas like Parable County, chickens weren't pets, and their purpose was clear: give eggs and eventually wind up in a skillet or a stewpot-reminding each other that, after all, Tara was from New York City, and therefore might be expected to have a few strange ideas rattling around in that pretty head.

Though she'd rather have continued hibernating and feeling sorry for herself, Casey spiffed herself up, put on black jeans, a long-sleeve T-shirt to match, shiny boots and a modic.u.m of makeup and, to appease the part of her that wanted to hide, a baseball cap. She drove, with Doris and the kids, out to Boone and Tara's farm.

Ah, Boone and Tara, Casey reflected with a smile.

At first, they were feuding neighbors, that pair, Boone living, with his two young sons, in a double-wide trailer one step away from being condemned and surrounded by high gra.s.s and a.s.sorted junk-an annoying contrast to Tara's well-kept farmhouse, just across the little slice of river that separated their two properties.

Now the double-wide was long gone, and a beautiful barn and white-rail corral stood in its place, complete with horses. The newlyweds, along with Boone's boys, Griffin and Fletcher, and Tara's teenage twin stepdaughters, Erin and Elle, resided in Tara's house, since their doctor father was too busy to raise them. It was s.p.a.cious, that august Victorian structure, the kind of place that would look perfect, with just a dusting of snow and a holly wreath at the door, on the front of a Christmas card. They were already adding on, making room for babies.

Babies. Ouch.

As she parked the SUV in a field, amid dozens of other vehicles, Casey recalled the brazen thing she'd said to Walker, up there at his great-great-grandparents' homestead the day they'd gone horseback riding, about how a baby might be a problem for him, but she kind of liked the idea. Just remembering that made her blush, never mind that it was completely true.

After all, she was still young, only in her thirties, and she wanted another child very much. Maybe several. But she'd been a fool to say as much to Walker, after the way she'd brought Clare and Shane up-wholly loved, but lied to, nonetheless.

What had she been thinking?

She sighed, trying to dodge the inevitable riot of emotions. She hadn't been thinking at all, and that was the trouble. She'd never been able to put two sensible thoughts together when it came to Walker Parrish. If she had been, everything would have been different. She'd either be a childless loner, still pursuing her career at full throttle, or married to Walker, living on the ranch and popping out brothers and sisters for Clare and Shane.

"Mom?" Clare prompted as they walked toward the Taylors' yard, which was already bursting with laughing visitors. "This is a party, not a funeral. Buck up, for Pete's sake."

Casey smiled while scanning the crowd for any sign of Walker. "You're right, honey," she agreed quietly, but part of her still wanted to turn tail and run like h.e.l.l. They'd gotten into that stupid row, she and Walker, before they could agree on a time and a place for the powwow to end all powwows, and she'd been guiltily grateful for the reprieve. At the same time, the nearly unbearable dread had continued to build.

According to the kids, who kept track of him like a pair of private detectives staking out a cheating husband, Walker had been off hauling bulls and broncos to some distant rodeo over the past week or so, and, much to Shane's thinly disguised irritation, he'd taken Dawson McCullough along with him, wheelchair and all.

With any luck, Casey thought, he was still away.

She made her way through the throng of guests to Boone and Tara, who beamed like a pair of human lighthouses as people shook Boone's hand and hugged Tara and congratulated them over and over again.

When her turn came, Casey hugged both of them, first Tara, then Boone. Doris and the children, it seemed, had already been absorbed into their various circles of friends, because they were nowhere in sight.

"You look beautiful," Casey told Tara, meaning it.

Tara did look beautiful, glowing with happiness as Boone slipped a husbandly arm around his bride's shoulders and gave her a squeeze. "There's nothing like a honeymoon to perk a person up," Tara said, and then blushed.

Casey smiled. She couldn't have been happier for her friends, so why was her throat thick with unshed tears? Another pang of envy struck, too, shaming her. "And where did you go on this mysterious honeymoon, or is that still a secret?"

"Hawaii," Tara said with delight, stretching out her bare arms to show off her golden tan. "We had our very own gra.s.s hut."

Boone sighed cheerfully at the memory, and Tara gave him a light poke in the ribs with one elbow.

"It's good to have you back," Casey said, kissing Tara's cheek. "Let's get together soon."

Tara nodded. "Soon," she agreed.

Since other new arrivals were waiting to speak to Tara and Boone, Casey moved on, looking for Kendra or Joslyn much the same way a shipwrecked sailor might search the horizon for land.

In the process, she crashed right into a broad, hard and all-too-familiar chest, looked up and met Walker's eyes. The impact of that rocked her far more than the physical collision had, and that was saying something.

Well, she thought, trying to be philosophical while her heart flailed around in her chest like a bird trying to escape a cage, that settled one question, anyway. Walker Parrish was definitely back from his travels.

"h.e.l.lo, Casey," he drawled, smiling down at her.

Did he know what that smile did to her? If he did, he was an unconscionable rake, taking unfair advantage.

"Walker," Casey croaked out in reply. Why hadn't she stayed at home, camping out in her room, watching the Soap Channel in her bathrobe and eating too much ice cream?

Because Tara and Boone were her friends, that was why, she reminded herself sternly. And because, mostly, it wasn't like her to hide out.

"We didn't finish our conversation," Walker reminded her. His voice was gruff and low, but his eyes were gentle. He'd decided, in his infinite mercy, to make things easy for her, she concluded.

The arrogant b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

"No," she said sweetly. "You went off to some rodeo and left me to stew in my own juices, wondering what was going to happen next. Waiting for the proverbial other shoe to drop."

Walker rolled his shoulders, the only outward indication that he was tense, too. "It's my job. I had a contract. What was I supposed to do, Casey?"

"You could have called," she replied, smiling hard for the benefit of anybody who might be looking their way while she knew her eyes were shooting green fire. "Said you'd be out of town for a while. Something."

He leaned in until their foreheads were almost touching. "You mean," he said, barely breathing the words, "the way you called me almost fifteen years ago and told me you were carrying my baby?"

Casey's cheeks flamed, and she was glad she hadn't been to the punch bowl yet, because she might not have been able to keep herself from flinging the contents of her cup in his handsome, self-righteous face. That would have been a fine how-do-you-do, with the whole of Parable County looking on.

"There's no need to be rude," she snapped rudely, folding her arms and letting the smile fall away, since it was too hard to hold on to, anyhow.

"Tomorrow," Walker said, and she couldn't tell whether that glint in his eyes was fury or amus.e.m.e.nt. "My place, at high noon. That's when the sh-mustard hits the fan, Casey Jones."

Casey, on fire moments before, went icy cold. Swallowed hard, looked away for a moment, forced herself to look back. He'd drawn a line in the sand, and she had no choice but to step over it if she wanted to make things right with her children.

"We'll be there," she said.

Walker had the gall to grin that wicked grin, the one that always made her want to either slap him silly or tear off all her clothes and jump his bones on the spot.

Obviously, the latter wasn't an option, and, for that matter, slapping was off the table, too. Casey had taught Clare and Shane that hitting was wrong, and she could hardly go against her own rule, as badly as she might want to do just that. Especially not in public.

"Noon," he repeated, like Gary Cooper scheduling a showdown on the street in front of the old saloon.

Casey fairly snarled her response. "Noon," she agreed.

Then she turned on one heel and proceeded to put as much s.p.a.ce between herself and Walker Parrish as she could.

WALKER WATCHED HER walk away, smiling to himself and enjoying the way her shapely blue-jeaned backside swayed from side to side as she moved. She was wearing a baseball cap, pulled down low over her eyes, and her long ponytail jutted through the opening in back, swinging to the beat of her outrage.

Though n.o.body would have guessed it, Walker figured he was as nervous about tomorrow as Casey was-maybe more so, because Shane and Clare would probably be just as mad at him as they would be at their mother, and neither he nor the lady had a leg to stand on when it came to the right and wrong of it all.

A lie, however well-intentioned, was still a lie.

"Where's Brylee?" asked a feminine voice at his side just as Casey vanished into the mob.

Walker looked over and saw Joslyn Barlow standing next to him. She was pretty calm and collected, for somebody trying to smuggle a bowling ball under her dress.

"Why do people keep asking me that?" he asked calmly, but with a smile. He liked Joslyn, after all, liked her husband, Slade, too, and he knew she really cared about his sister.

Joslyn widened her eyes in a mockery of innocence and countered, "Because we'd like to get a straight answer?"

Walker, remembering the gla.s.s of beer he was holding for the first time since he'd nearly spilled it all over Casey in the collision, took a sip and savored it before offering a reply. "She's probably at home, or in her office or racing around on a forklift in the warehouse."

Brylee owned Decor Galore, a direct marketing company specializing mostly in home parties and online sales. She'd built it from nothing to a multimillion-dollar corporation in a few short years, and Walker worried that she'd die of overwork before she ever got a chance to enjoy the fruits of all those twelve- and sixteen-hour days.

Sipping punch, Joslyn smiled sadly. "It's only fair to warn you," she said, "that Opal's getting mighty concerned about Brylee, and she's thinking about stepping in."

Walker pretended horror. "Oh, no," he gasped, splaying his free hand on his chest, "not that."

Joslyn laughed. "Never underestimate the power of Opal," she told him. "When she's on a mission, she's a force to be reckoned with."

"I thought she specialized in matchmaking," Walker said. Over the tops of people's heads, he caught a distant glimpse of Casey, talking with Kendra Carmody and none other than the great Opal herself.

For some reason, that made his shirt collar feel too tight, even though he'd left the uppermost snaps unfastened.

"That's true enough," Joslyn agreed. "Opal has uncanny instincts, particularly when it comes to romance."

"All that and a fantastic housekeeper, too," Walker said, trying to ignore Casey, especially now that Kendra had wandered away and left her alone to confer with Opal.

Joslyn smiled. "We'll be losing Opal soon," she said. "At least, as far as housekeeping goes. She's getting married."

"I heard," Walker said.

Casey and Opal seemed deep in conversation, earnest as all get-out. What the devil were those two talking about?

Joslyn said goodbye then and slipped away, and Walker remembered that he'd been on his way over to talk to Patsy McCullough about Dawson when he got sidetracked talking to Casey. Talking? They'd been taking potshots at each other, the way they did everywhere but in bed.

It was downright discouraging. Looking around, he spotted Patsy once again, now sitting primly on a folding chair in the shade of a maple tree, a full paper plate balanced on her lap, though she didn't look all that interested in food.

Walker had dropped Dawson off at home on his way to Boone and Tara's place-the boy had had a fine time at the rodeo, but he'd declined the invitation to go on to the party, claiming, with all justification, that he was too tired.

It wasn't the tiredness that troubled Walker, though; he could have used twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep himself, right about then. No, it was what the boy had said about Doolittle, who went along on the trip-that he thought the dog used to belong to Treat McQuillan, his mother's current boyfriend. Dawson and his sister were getting attached to the critter when he just dropped off the radar-there one day, gone the next.

Dawson, who'd been spending a lot of time alone back then, having just gotten out of the hospital after yet another surgery, had missed the dog's company, so he'd asked Treat where he was. Treat had evaded the question repeatedly, finally saying that "the mutt" had run off, and good riddance, since he'd turned out to be more trouble than he was worth.

The last thing Walker had wanted to do was give up Doolittle-they were true partners now-but what's right is right, and he'd asked Dawson if he wanted the dog back. He'd been relieved, of course, when the boy shook his head no and said Doolittle was better off staying where he was.

Now, making his way toward Patsy, who smiled at pa.s.sersby but didn't make any noticeable effort to join the festivities, being famously shy by nature, Walker considered the obvious fact that Patsy had every right to date whoever she wanted, and her relationship with Treat was none of his or anybody else's business. He didn't even know what he was going to say to the woman, but he'd made up his mind to say something.

By his reasoning, if McQuillan would turn out a helpless dog, leaving it to fend for itself, how kind was he likely to be to Dawson and his little sister? Would they end up being "more trouble than they were worth," as Doolittle had been? Would Patsy?

"h.e.l.lo, Patsy," Walker said, very quietly, when he reached her.

"Walker," she replied with a cordial nod. "I guess you must have left Dawson off at home."

"He was tired," Walker said, affirming her a.s.sumption.

"It was good of you to take him with you," Patsy offered. "I haven't seen my boy so happy since before-before-" She fell silent, swallowed hard.

It was no wonder that the accident was hard for her to talk about, Walker figured. Most likely, the image of her son plunging off the water tower haunted her, waking and sleeping, and how did a person deal with the knowledge that Dawson would need more surgeries in the years to come, none of which would give him back the use of his legs?

Walker crouched, reached over and took Patsy's thin, work-worn hand. Things were better for the McCulloughs, at least financially-the community had been generous, Casey included-but all that trouble would have scratched the shine off just about anybody's spirit. She'd had a lifetime of it, even before Dawson got hurt.

"You holding up okay, Patsy?" he asked.

She didn't pull her hand free, but she did look a mite uncomfortable. Was McQuillan the jealous type? Probably.

"Most of the time," she answered. "Some days are harder than others, though."

Walker let go of her hand but remained where he was, sitting on his haunches and looking up into her weary, resigned face. He'd made a sizable donation to Dawson's medical fund, and he knew Brylee had, too, as well as the Barlows, the Carmodys, Boone and Tara, and others. Even the itinerant movie stars had sent hefty checks, though they rarely took part in anything that went on in Parable or Three Trees.

"Treat's good with the kids?" Walker asked.

Patsy's eyes immediately widened. "Who says he isn't?" she immediately retorted.

"n.o.body," Walker said gently. "I was just wondering."

"Why?" It was a demand. Patsy McCullough, normally so docile, so beaten down by bad husbands and hard times, was riled.

Walker let out his breath. "Dawson said there was a dog-"

"That dog ran away," Patsy snapped. "They do that, Walker. It isn't Treat's fault."

Walker stood up, glad he was a Montana cowboy and not an amba.s.sador of some kind. With his talent for diplomacy, he'd likely have started World War III just by p.i.s.sing somebody off at a c.o.c.ktail party.

Before he could think of anything to say-anything that wouldn't make matters worse, that is-Treat showed up, in uniform and obviously on the lookout for something to raise h.e.l.l about. If the pompous-a.s.s rent-a-cop didn't find any trouble handy, Walker thought, he was likely to make some.

Walker would have welcomed a confrontation in any other setting, but this was Boone and Tara's home-from-the-honeymoon party, and a brawl would not only spoil it, it would become the communal memory of the occasion, overriding everything good.

Patsy immediately leaped into the breach, shooting up from her folding chair and overturning her untouched food on the ground, her voice soft but nearly frantic. "Walker was just telling me that he and Dawson had a good time at the rodeo."