Parable, Montana [4] Big Sky Summer Read online

  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 passion now, of quiet but unshakable conviction, not amusement. “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 sexually, 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. Hell, 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!”

  “Sex 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 reassuring 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 damn 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, flustered, 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 damned if she did, and damned 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 sexy 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-ass 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 embarrassment, 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.

  Casey whirled slowly for his benefit, like a runway model showing off the latest fashion, fairly exuding irony.

  Walker frowned. “Whose shorts are those?” he asked.

  Suddenly, Casey’s green eyes twinkled and, though she was still careful to keep her distance, she actually smiled. “Jealous?” she retorted.

  “Hardly,” Walker replied, still frowning. Whoever had owned them was a scrawny dude, obviously.

  “They used to be Shane’s,” Casey generously informed him, all in her own good time. “He decided they were geeky and gave them a toss.”

  Relieved to learn that the boxers hadn’t been left behind by some lover of Casey’s, scrawny or not, and willing to die before he’d let on that he’d been the least bit worried, Walker smirked a little. “I’m with Shane,” he said. “They’re definitely geeky.”

  “Get used to it,” Casey replied, saucy as all get-out. “I have half a dozen other pairs and I always sleep in one of them.”

  Walker locked his gaze with hers and tossed back the covers on her side of the bed with a smooth motion of one arm. “There are some things a man can’t be expected to get used to,” he answered, grinning now. “And sleeping with somebody in boxers definitely falls into that category.”

  Casey hesitated, then hotfooted it over to the bed and jumped in beside him. Most likely, Walker thought, she was afraid somebody was hiding outside in the shrubbery with a camera, ready to record her wedding-night attire for posterity.

  Fortunately, none of the windows lined up with the bed—he’d made double-sure of that earlier. Besides, the blinds were all pulled.

  She huddled on her side of the mattress, sheets and lightweight blankets drawn up almost to her chin. Her eyes were huge.

  Walker became exasperated. “Will you please stop acting like a scared virgin?” he asked, tossing aside one of the two pillows he’d been propped up on and lying down flat. “It’s only been about a week, in case you’ve forgotten, since the last time you were in this bed, clawing at my back with your fingernails and begging for more.”

  Color washed up from her neck to her cheekbones to her forehead. Her temper was rising, which, as far as Walker was concerned, was a good sign. He’d been starting to think she really was afraid of him.

  “I hope you bought better-quality condoms since then,” she said. Then, after a regretful pause, “Not that we’re going to need any of those.”

  Walker rolled onto his side, propped his head on one elbow and regarded her steadily. “You’re right about one thing, Mrs. Parrish,” he said, in a low rumble. “We’re not going to need condoms.”

  Again, her eyes widened. “What do you mean by that?” she asked.

  As if she didn’t know.

  “I mean,” Walker murmured, his mouth very close to hers now, “that that particular horse is not only already out of the barn, but halfway across the county by now. And you and I have never had much luck with condoms anyway, have we?”

  She blinked. “You’re not planning on kissing me, are you?” she asked.

  “I’m planning on doing one hell of a lot more than that,” Walker replied. “But if you want me to stop at any time, all you have to do is say so.”

  Her mouth opened, and her throat worked, but no sound came out.

  Walker chuckled, covered her mouth with his and, at the same time, hauled those boxer shorts down over her knees and then her ankles.

  With a groan, the kiss having turned into a sparring match between their two tongues by then, Casey kicked free of the boxers and wrapped her arms around Walker’s neck.

  He dealt with the T-shirt next, pushing it up until not only her silky belly but her luscious breasts were bared to him, felt a soaring triumph when she broke the kiss just long enough to pull the garment off over her head and hurl it away. An instant later, she was burying her fingers in his hair, initiating the next kiss herself, her perfect body already inviting him into her depths.

  There was no foreplay that first time, because neither one of them could wait that long. Their bodies, in full mutiny, remembered the glorious fire of their last encounter viscerally, at the cellular level, and would not be denied the fusing they craved so fiercely.

  Casey spread her legs wide, and Walker positioned himself between them, found the velvety entrance to all the heaven he needed at the moment and took her in a single thrust of his hips.

  She crooned and arched her back as she received him, and she gasped his name. Again, their mouths sought and found each other, and their tongues did sweet battle, and Walker deliberately slowed his pace.

  It wasn’t easy, especially with Casey doing everything she could to drive him over the edge, but Walker called on every ounce of self-control he possessed, determined
to make this ecstasy last.

  Casey’s hips flew, and she was warm and soft, everywhere, inside and out. Her palms roamed over his back, his shoulders, his buttocks, urging, taunting, claiming.

  Walker nearly lost his mind, but he didn’t surrender.

  Slowly—very slowly—he moved, sheathing and unsheathing himself in Casey, breathing her name, pausing now and then to nibble at an earlobe or suckle one of her hard and waiting nipples.

  She grew more and more desperate, whimpering and writhing, gasping out his name in ragged bursts.

  When at last she began to climax, he knew it by her cries and the way she tightened around him, seized him, held him captive inside her. With one last thrust and a low, raspy shout of nearly unbearable pleasure, Walker let go.

  It seemed like forever before their mutual releases finally subsided and they collapsed onto the mattress, landing hard, like a pair of skydivers whose parachutes had failed to open.

  Because bolting out of bed on a surge of moral regret was Casey’s usual M.O., Walker was ready for it. He pinned her beneath him, gently clasping her wrists and pressing them into the pillow on either side of her head.

  “Say it,” he challenged, getting hard again, letting her feel him pressing against her thigh. “Say no.”

  Casey made a sighing sound instead, closing her eyes.

  I love you, Casey Elder, Walker thought with soul-sundering clarity, but he knew better than to say those words out loud. She’d either throw them back in his face or pretend she hadn’t heard, and there was no telling which of those reactions would have hurt more.

  They remained as they were for long moments, skin on skin, breath on breath, heartbeat on heartbeat, savoring those things, neither of them moving a muscle.

  Walker, having admitted the truth, if only to himself, might have seemed still, but inside he was busy grappling with wild surges of emotion. He’d probably loved Casey from the instant he laid eyes on her, but the realization had taken a long time to surface, like a seed planted too deep in the ground.