Big Sky Wedding Page 2

  Remembering, Brylee squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. Even now, the humiliation was vivid, visceral, an actual ache in her middle, like the aftermath of a hard punch.

  Oh, but time heals most wounds, or at least desensitizes them a little. She’d eventually made peace with Hutch—he was now married to the former Kendra Shepherd, also of Parable, and they had two beautiful children, with another on the way. They were happy, and Brylee certainly didn’t begrudge them that.

  Just the same, there were still times, like now, when she flashed back to the whole scene, and when that happened, it seemed the proverbial rug had been yanked out from under her feet all over again, leaving her breathless, figuratively wheeling her arms in a hopeless attempt to maintain her balance.

  Once the internal roller-coastering stopped, she logged out of the program on her computer and rested her elbows on the edge of her desk, her face pressed into her palms. She wasn’t going to get any more work done today, might as well accept it.

  Snidely gave a small, sympathetic whimper and rested his muzzle on her thigh, lending what comfort he could.

  Brylee lifted her face, gave a broken chuckle and tousled the dog’s ears. “If I ever meet a man who’s half as loyal as you are,” she told Snidely, “I’d marry him in a heartbeat. Even if I have to hog-tie him first and then drag him to the altar.”

  Snidely whined again, as if in agreement.

  Brylee bent and planted a smacking kiss on the top of his sleek, hairy head and pushed back her desk chair carefully, so she wouldn’t run over one of Snidely’s paws. “Let’s go home,” she said, with gentle resignation.

  Home was the family ranch, Timber Creek, and she and Walker owned it jointly, though Walker ran the place and did most of the work involved. Brylee and Snidely lived in a spacious apartment, an add-on behind the kitchen, and those quarters had always suited her just fine, since she spent most of her time at Décor Galore, anyway.

  Now, though, Walker had married his singing-cowgirl sweetheart, Casey Elder, whom Brylee loved dearly, as she loved their two teenage children, Clare and Shane, and their new baby, three-month-old Preston. Casey and Walker were adding on to the house—they planned on having several more children—and happy chaos reigned.

  As hard as her brother and sister-in-law tried to include her in things, though, Brylee felt like a third wheel, even an intruder. Walker and Casey were still on their honeymoon, even after a year of marriage, and the way those two loved each other, they’d probably be perpetual newlyweds.

  They needed privacy, family time.

  Besides, Brylee was beginning to feel like a spinster aunt, the legendary old maid hovering on the fringes of everybody else’s lives.

  Was it wrong to want a home, a husband and children of her own? Or was she asking too much? After all, she had a fabulous business, one she’d built with her own two hands, and barring global financial catastrophe, money would never be a problem. Maybe it was just greedy to want more, especially when so many people didn’t have enough of anything, including the basic necessities of life.

  She was still debating the subject when she arrived at the home-place, minutes later, in her trusty-dusty SUV. Casey sat in the porch swing, gently rocking the little bundle that was Preston in her arms.

  Casey was a fiery redhead, beautiful and talented, but in that moment she resembled nothing so much as a Renaissance woman in a painting by one of the masters, a vision in shades of titian and green.

  She smiled as Brylee and Snidely got out of Brylee’s rig.

  “Come sit a minute,” she said, in her soft Texas drawl, patting the cushion beside her. “Preston is sleeping, and I’m just sitting here thinking about how I’m the luckiest woman in the world.”

  Something of what she was feeling must have shown in Brylee’s face as she approached, because Casey’s expression changed for an instant, and there was a flicker of sadness in her eyes. “You know,” she said fretfully, “it’s a wonder I can walk right, what with one foot in my mouth at all times.”

  Brylee smiled, climbed the porch steps, joined Casey and her sleeping nephew on the ancient swing. It had been there for as long as she could remember, that swing, the place where, as a little girl, she’d cried every time her mother left again. The place where she’d dreamed big dreams, and talked herself out of the blues a thousand times, especially after the breakup with Hutch.

  Would she ever rock her own sleeping baby there, as Casey was doing now?

  For some reason, Zane Sutton popped into her mind just then, and she must have blushed, because Casey narrowed her green eyes and studied her closely, missing little or nothing.

  “What’s up?” Casey asked. “And don’t say ‘nothing,’ Brylee Parrish, because I wasn’t born yesterday, and you look as though you might be coming down with a fever, you’re so flushed. Your eyes are bright, too. Do you feel okay?”

  Brylee sighed, feeling pretty lucky herself, albeit in a melancholy way. Maybe she didn’t have a husband and a baby, but she had Casey, and Walker. Clare and Shane, too, and a lot of friends who genuinely cared about her.

  “I just ran into Zane Sutton,” she confessed. “In the woods, between Décor Galore headquarters and his ranch house. Technically, I guess I was trespassing.”

  Casey’s eye twinkled with amused mischief. “Is he pressing charges?” she asked.

  Brylee laughed, but it was a ragged sound, brief and harsh against the tender flesh of her throat. “No,” she answered, “I don’t think so. But I still feel extra stupid.”

  Casey frowned affectionately, and the joy didn’t leave her eyes. Baby Preston, cosseted inside a lightweight blue blanket, stirred against his mother’s chest. “Now, why on earth would you, of all people, feel stupid? You’re one of the smartest women I know, Brylee, and that’s saying something, because I know some sharp ladies.”

  Remembering, Brylee blushed again. “I thought I was alone,” she confided. “I was...hugging a tree.”

  “Oh, horrors,” Casey teased. “Not that.”

  “He thinks I’m a flake, Casey.”

  “Did he say that?”

  “Not in so many words, but still. I was hugging a tree. And I feel like an idiot.”

  “Why? Trees are excellent company. What’s wrong with hugging them?”

  “You’re being deliberately kind,” Brylee accused, but with affection. Casey was the sister she’d always yearned for, and one of her closest friends in the bargain.

  “Excuse me.” Casey grinned. “I happen to like trees myself—they’re good people, so to speak. I like to hug them when I get a chance. Unless there’s a reporter hiding up there in the branches, anyway.”

  Brylee laughed, and this time, there was more sincerity in the sound. “I probably looked foolish, that’s all,” she said, moments later, when she was more reflective.

  “And you care what Zane Sutton thinks of you?” Casey challenged mildly. “That’s interesting. Also, encouraging. Walker will be thrilled to hear it.”

  “Don’t you dare tell my brother,” Brylee said, knowing the request was hopeless. Casey and Walker didn’t have secrets, not from each other, anyway.

  “Are you attracted to Zane, Brylee?” Casey pressed, still smiling mysteriously. “Because if you are, I can get you a date with him. We’re friends, Zane and I—we did a movie together once.”

  Sometimes, like now, Brylee forgot that her sister-in-law was a major celebrity, a famous Country-Western singer and sometime actress. She’d sung for kings, queens and presidents, racked up dozens of prestigious awards. Still, Casey was so salt-of-the-earth that it was easy to forget how well-known she actually was.

  “The last thing in the world I want is a date with Zane Sutton,” Brylee said. “So forget the whole idea, please.”

  Casey grinned. “Whatever you say,” she replied, with a note of slyness in her tone that unnerved Brylee a little. “But Zane is an old friend of mine, like I said. So don’t be surprised if he turns up at our supper table one night rea
l soon.”

  “Give me advance notice,” Brylee responded, “and I’ll make other plans.”

  Casey laughed. “You’re as stubborn as your brother, you know that? Maybe even more so, if such a thing is possible. Do I really need to point out how many women there are in this world who would fall all over themselves for a chance to spend just one evening with Zane?”

  “Invite one of them,” Brylee suggested briskly, as Snidely curled up at her feet.

  Casey handed over the baby, a warm little armful that filled Brylee’s heart with love and a bittersweet yearning. “Hold your nephew for a few minutes,” she said. “I’ve had to pee for the past half hour.”

  With that pithy—and typical—announcement, Casey disappeared into the house, headed for the nearest bathroom.

  Brylee gathered her nephew close, lightly kissed the downy top of the baby’s head and whispered, “Your mama is right. She is the luckiest woman in the world.”

  * * *

  ZANE STOOD AT the edge of the woods for a few moments, solemnly surveying his “new” home—the long one-story stone house, with its big porch and many chimneys. The windows were tall and set deeply into their casings, the inside sills wide enough to sit on, and the place had a quietness about it that had charmed him, even when he’d only seen pictures on a real estate website. In person, the effect was even stronger.

  Those were the things he liked about the place.

  The things he didn’t like were more numerous: as he’d told Brylee out there in the woods, the structure needed a lot of work. The grass in the yard was seriously overgrown, of course, after being neglected for so long, and speckled with dandelions and other less comely weeds. As for the picket fence, weathered and falling over here and there, well, a coat of paint wasn’t going to do the trick.

  Slim, spotting him, rose and ambled on over to offer a greeting.

  “We’ve got our work cut out for us, boy,” Zane said, shifting his gaze to the barn. It was large and, like the house, made of stone. Unlike the house, it was in remarkably good shape. Maybe he and Slim ought to move into one of the stalls, or the tack room, while the renovations were going on.

  Just then, he heard an engine, and turned to see a van pulling in down by the teetering mailbox, sides emblazoned with the electric company’s logo.

  “Let there be light,” Zane said dryly, but his mind was still on Brylee Parrish, and her blatant belief that he’d change this ranch into some kind of flashy showplace.

  Tennis courts? Indoor swimming pools? Media rooms?

  He hadn’t even had those things in Tinseltown.

  A nice condo? Sure. An expensive car that could almost fly? You got it.

  By Hollywood standards, though, he’d lived modestly, and all he really wanted, even now, was a place to keep his horse—he’d missed being able to ride Blackjack whenever the mood struck him, back there in California, gotten downright lonesome for the animal’s company, in fact. The barn, four sturdy walls to keep out the wind and a solid roof over his head completed his current aspirations, as far as living arrangements went.

  The van pulled to a stop in what passed for a driveway, dust billowing up around the vehicle in a cloud, and a balding man with a belly and a clipboard got out, grinning from ear to ear.

  Zane drummed up a grin of his own. Put out his hand, because that was what people did in the country whenever they met up, and he’d missed the ritual.

  The new arrival—the stitching on the pocket of his work shirt said his name was Albie—shook Zane’s hand enthusiastically. “When I told my wife I’d be turning on the juice for none other than Zane Sutton himself today,” Albie beamed, “she made me promise to get your autograph and tell you she loved all your movies.”

  Zane’s expression, though friendly, might have seemed a touch forced, to anyone more observant than Albie. “Thanks,” he said, and left it at that.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ALONE IN HER apartment, except for Snidely, of course, Brylee did weekend things. She washed and dried her hair, gave herself a pedicure as well as a manicure, and then a facial to round out the routine. She chose a red-and-white polka dot sundress to wear to church in the morning, gave it a few quick licks with the iron and hung it carefully from the hook on the inside of her closet door. She selected white sandals and a red handbag to complete the ensemble, setting those on the cushioned window seat in her bedroom, where they would be in plain sight.

  Brylee liked to make her preparations well in advance, wherever preparation was humanly possible, which was most of the time. In her considered opinion, there were enough surprises in life, careening out of nowhere, blindsiding her just when she thought she had everything covered, so she preferred not to leave herself open to the unexpected, if given the smallest option.

  She would have described herself as “organized,” but she knew there were other definitions that might apply, like “obsessive” or even “anal.”

  Okay, so she was something of a control freak, she thought, leaving her shabby-chic bedroom, with its distinctly female decor, for the living room.

  Here, she’d chosen pegged wood floors instead of carpeting, and the fireplace was a wonder of blue and white, burgundy and gold, pale green and soft pink tiles, each one hand-painted. She’d colored and fired them all herself, using the kiln at her friend Doreen’s ceramics studio in Three Trees, and just looking at them made her feel good. Some had tiny stars, swirls or checks, while others were plain, at least to Brylee, and the result was a kind of quasi-Moroccan magic.

  She’d hooked the big scatter rugs, too, mostly on lonely winter nights, while a blaze flickered on the hearth, managing to pick up many of the colors from the tiles. The couch, love seat and two big armchairs were clad for spring and summer in beige cotton slipcovers with just the faintest impression of a small floral print; when fall rolled around, she’d switch them out, for either chocolate-brown or burgundy corduroy. Most everything else in the room rotated with the seasons, too—the art on the walls, the vases and the few figurines, even the picture frames on the mantelpiece, though the photos inside remained the same: Casey and Walker, beaming on their wedding day, Clare and Shane goofing off up at the lake, Snidely sporting a stars-and-stripes bandana in honor of Independence Day. Now, of course, she’d added a few prized shots of little Preston, as well.

  Brylee believed change was a good thing—as long as it was carefully planned and coordinated, of course.

  She was aware of the irony of this viewpoint, naturally, but she’d built a thriving business on the concept of fresh decor, geared to the seasons, to the prevailing mood or to some favorite period in history. Hadn’t Marie Antoinette had her spectacular bedroom at Versailles redecorated from floor to ceiling in honor of spring, summer, fall and winter?

  Yeah, but look how she ended up, Brylee thought, making a rueful face.

  Snidely stood in the kitchen doorway, looking back at her, tail wagging, his mouth stretched into a doggy grin. Fluent in Snidelyese, Brylee understood that he wanted his food bowl filled, or a treat, or both, if all his lucky stars were in the right places.

  Brylee chuckled and slipped past him, executing a slight bow in the process. “Your wish is my command,” she said, her royal mood, no doubt spawned by the brief reflection on the French court, lingering.

  The kitchen, like the living room, was big, especially for an apartment. The appliances were state of the art and there was an island in the center of the space, complete with marble top and two stainless-steel sinks. She’d picked up the dining set cheap, at one of those unfinished furniture places, stained the wood dark maple and tiled the surface of the round table in much the same style as she had the fireplace.

  A bouquet of perfect pink peonies, cut from the garden her great-grandmother had planted years ago and placed in an old green-glass canning jar, made a lovely centerpiece. Brylee paused to lean over and draw in their vague, peppery scent. They would be gone soon, these favorites, and she meant to enjoy them while she could. T
he lilacs, which grew in profusion all over the ranch house’s huge yard, had already reached their full, fragrant purple-and-white glory and quietly vanished, along with the daffodils and tulips of early spring. There were still roses aplenty, rollicking beds of zinnias, clouds of colorful gerbera daisies, too, but Brylee missed the ones that had gone before, even as she enjoyed every new wave of color.

  She needed flowers, the way she needed air and water; to her, they were sacred, a form of visual prayer.

  A knock sounded at her back door just as she was setting Snidely’s bowl of kibble on the floor. Glancing up, she saw her teenage niece, Clare, grinning in at her through the oval glass window.

  “In!” Brylee called, grinning back.

  Sixteen-year-old Clare, a younger version of her mother, Casey, was blessed with copper-bright hair that tumbled to her shoulders in carefully casual curls, bright green eyes and a quick mind, inclined toward kindness but with a mischievous bent. If she looked closely enough, Brylee could see Walker in the girl, too, and even a few hints of herself.

  Not for the first time, she marveled that Walker and Casey had been able to keep their secret—that Walker had fathered both Clare and Shane—for so long.

  “I think I’ve got a date,” Clare confided, in a conspiratorial whisper, tossing a bottle-green glance in the direction of the inside door that led into the main part of the ranch house. Maybe she thought Casey was on the other side, with a glass pressed to her ear, eavesdropping.

  If anyone was listening in, Brylee reflected, amused, it was more likely to be Clare’s brother, fifteen-year-old Shane, with whom the child shared a sort of testy alliance—with an emphasis on the testy part. She and Walker had been that way, too, growing up, though they’d had each other’s backs when necessary.