Parable, Montana [4] Big Sky Summer Page 20

  Presently, she opened her eyes again, and they shone like molten emeralds, casting the kind of spell that lasts forever.

  Did she know what she was doing to him?

  Walker doubted it. There was a certain confounding innocence, a sort of reckless naïveté, about the woman—fame, fortune and two children born out of wedlock notwithstanding. She was part firebrand and part angel, and he liked her that way.

  Casey might be infuriating at times, but she was never dull. There was too much rip-roaring, pepper-and-vinegar, go-for-broke life in her.

  They searched each other’s eyes, and Walker finally ground out a rusty “Well?”

  She smiled a little, nodded, welcomed him inside her.

  *

  WALKER SLEPT SOUNDLY, like the thoroughly satisfied man he was, and Casey, sitting up in bed, watched him, loving the way a lock of his hair fell across his forehead, loving the sweep of his unfairly thick eyelashes, the rise and fall of his muscular chest. She rested her palm over his heart, lightly, so she wouldn’t wake him, and delighted in the smattering of silken furriness.

  I love you, Walker Parrish, she vowed silently.

  When had she fallen for him, exactly?

  Hard to tell. Maybe it was that first night, when they met in a run-down cowboy bar after a rodeo held on the back acre of nowhere, and slow-danced to the jukebox. The next day, with her heart wedged into her throat and her eyes scalding with inexplicable tears, she watched him ride a bull named Say Your Prayers.

  Watched him win.

  When the weekend was over, they’d parted ways—Casey had some bookings coming up, and he was headed back to Montana—but running into each other became something of a habit in the months to come.

  They’d taken their time becoming lovers—Casey, while not a virgin, was inexperienced, and Walker—well, suffice it to say, he’d had a reputation for knowing his way around a woman’s body—but when it finally happened, in a motel room in Cheyenne, Wyoming, the skies split open and the angels sang. At least, that’s how it was for Casey.

  She’d been astounded by the things Walker made her feel, taking her outside herself the way he did, curling her toes with a simple kiss, causing her heart to take wing and soar, like some great bird glorying in its wildness.

  And she’d been terrified. Friends warned her that Walker Parrish was the love-’em-and-leave-’em type, and she could believe it. Women swarmed around him, in bars, behind the chutes at the rodeo, even in parking lots.

  Still, their paths continued to cross—Casey couldn’t deny that she’d booked herself and the band at as many rodeos as possible—and each time they made love, she became more determined to guard her heart. And each time, that was harder to do.

  Then Clare was conceived. Casey’s career was just starting to take off by then—she was opening for some of the biggest acts in country music, and she’d just signed a recording contract. To say that pregnancy was inconvenient would have been the understatement of the modern era, and Casey knew the advice she was receiving—put the baby up for adoption—made sense, from a practical standpoint.

  But her heart wouldn’t hear of it.

  Word had gotten back to Walker, and he’d shown up at the stage door one night, determined and bristly.

  And she’d lied to him, having convinced herself that she couldn’t have done otherwise, swearing that another man had fathered her child.

  Walker hadn’t believed her at first, but she’d kept on insisting, and, finally, she’d seen something fracture behind his eyes.

  Watching him walk away was one of the hardest things she’d ever had to do, and she’d had to fight to keep herself from calling him back, telling him the truth, letting fate take over from there.

  Now, she thought, with a bittersweet pang crowding her throat, things had come full circle. She was married to Walker, for better or for worse. They didn’t get along any better than they ever had, except when they were having sex, and what were they supposed to do the other twentysome hours of the day?

  On top of that, she’d bet her first guitar that she was pregnant—for the third time. Which only went to show that some people never learned their lesson.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CASEY SAT AT THE KITCHEN TABLE, her feet tucked behind the rung of her wooden chair, studying a dog-eared cookbook she’d found in a drawer, its margins crowded with handwritten comments from way back, judging by the faded ink and formal penmanship. There were also sticky notes jutting out from many of the pages, different, more recent observations, written in a loopy scrawl and plentiful as the feathers in a bird’s wing.

  The finer points of food preparation still eluded her. What did it mean, for instance, to “braise” a cut of beef? What happened when a batch of fudge “sugared”?

  She eyed her smartphone, the source of easy answers—run a quick search and the mysteries of braising and sugaring would be revealed, she figured.

  Too bad about the hard answers, though, replies to questions like How do I love Walker Parrish without losing myself in him completely? and Besides Casey Elder, superstar, who am I? Is there more to me than my singing voice?

  The landline rang then, startling her out of her musings.

  Since Walker was outside, conferring with his foreman, Al Pickens, Casey got up, crossed to the nearby counter and picked up the cordless receiver. Still distracted, she practically croaked, “Hello?”

  “Good,” a female voice said on a sigh. “It’s you.”

  “Who is this?” Casey asked, frowning, back to the cookbook again, riffling through it, determined to find a recipe she could conceivably follow well enough to make something Walker might actually eat.

  Unlike last night’s effort at spaghetti, which wound up as one big clump of half-done noodle-substance and would have had to be cut into slices, if served in the first place, instead of spooned out in lovely, steaming dollops.

  “It’s Brylee,” came the answer, patient but a little breathless. “Your sister-in-law?”

  “Oh,” Casey said, closing the cookbook, which was roughly the size of a classroom dictionary. Now that she was tracking the conversation, her first question was, as always, “Are the kids okay?”

  “So far,” Brylee said, causing a little trapdoor to swing open in the pit of Casey’s stomach, one she might just fall through if she didn’t hold on. “We’re at the supermarket in Parable, and we’re surrounded.”

  “By what?” Casey asked, nerves jangling like a pocket full of small change.

  “By reporters,” Brylee answered, almost in a whisper. “There are all these—these people out in the parking lot, with cameras and microphones. Even vans with satellite dishes on top. Evidently, they’ve been keeping out of sight, waiting for us to come out of your house, so they could follow us. They keep calling out Clare and Shane’s names, and the manager locked the doors, but he’s worried about keeping customers out, too. And in, of course. It’s like being under siege.”

  Casey paced, too agitated to sit or even stand still in one place. She strode over to the back door, opened it and yelled, “Walker!”

  “Oww,” Brylee complained, probably wincing and holding her cell away from her ear.

  “Sorry,” Casey threw out.

  Walker immediately broke off the discussion he’d been having with Al and several of the ranch hands, looking worried, and hurried in her direction.

  “Stay put,” Casey said to Brylee. “Tell the manager not to open those doors until Walker and I get there—”

  “Wait,” Brylee broke in, calmer now. “The manager just called the sheriff’s office—Boone Taylor is on his way over here right now, with a couple of deputies for backup. He’ll get us to the ranch okay, so there’s nothing to fret about.”

  Nothing to fret about. Casey fought down a swell of exasperation; this was no time to lecture Brylee on mob psychology.

  Walker burst in from the porch just then, almost tearing the screen door off its hinges in the process. His face was stony with conc
ern, his eyes narrowed. “What is it?” he demanded, shuffling to one side so he wouldn’t step on Doolittle, squeezing past him through the slim gap.

  “Put Clare on for a moment, will you, Brylee?” Casey asked, and mouthed Stay calm at Walker while she waited to hear her daughter’s voice.

  “Mom,” Clare said, moments later, a note of panic in her voice. “The tabloids came out early—special editions, evidently—and we’re all over them, you and Walker and Shane and me. The headlines—they’re all about us being your guilty secrets, and they’re calling you a liar—”

  “Clare,” Casey broke in, “never mind the headlines for now. We can talk about all of that later, when you and Shane are back here, with us, where you belong.”

  Walker was glowering by then. He looked like an old-time gunslinger facing a showdown and more than ready to draw and fire. “I don’t read lips,” he informed Casey in a scratchy whisper.

  Casey waved her hand, tried to ignore him. Not easy, since he seemed to fill that kitchen from wall to wall and ceiling to floor, he was so—present.

  “Do we, Mom?” Clare’s voice was small, shaky. She was used to living in the limelight, but this latest development was clearly getting to her. “Do we belong anyplace, Shane and me? What’s real and what isn’t?”

  Those questions pierced Casey like the tip of a poisoned spear. “Listen to me, sweetheart. Boone—Sheriff Taylor—will be there any minute. He’ll bring you home and we’ll deal with the situation then, when we’re all together.”

  “Okay,” Clare whispered uncertainly.

  Once, she’d believed Casey would keep her and her brother safe, no matter what. Now, her faith had been shaken, maybe toppled, and little wonder. She’d been lied to, by her own mother, repeatedly.

  Casey felt sick, pressed her free hand to her stomach.

  Brylee came back on the phone. “Boone’s here,” she said with obvious relief. “We’ll be on our way shortly.”

  Casey nodded, opened her mouth to answer, but the dial tone was already buzzing in her ear.

  Numbly, she turned to Walker, explained that the press had effectively cornered Brylee, Clare and Shane inside a supermarket.

  Walker shoved a hand through his hair as he listened, his jawline so tight that a white pallor pulsed under his tan. He’d caught the reference to Boone, though, or he might have been even more upset than he was.

  Casey finished the account as it had been relayed to her, and then swallowed hard, willing herself not to cry. She’d had run-ins with the tabloid press before, of course, but never like this, with her children trapped inside a public building, and never in Parable or Three Trees. She felt violated, helpless and scalded all over with fury, all at once.

  Walker took her firmly by the shoulders, probably afraid her knees would give out and she’d crumple to the floor if he didn’t hold her up. The rage in his eyes softened to a kind of bleak comprehension.

  Casey knew he was realizing what it could really mean, being married to someone like her, and in another moment or two, he’d be wishing he’d never heard of Casey Elder, let alone fathered two of her children, brought them all here to Timber Creek and effectively blown the lid off his otherwise ideal life.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  Walker drew Casey close, just when she would have expected him to push her away, cupped the back of her head in one hand, squashing her ponytail. “Don’t apologize,” he said hoarsely. “This isn’t your fault.”

  She tilted her head back, looked up at him, astonished. “Of course it is, Walker,” she argued. “And I wouldn’t mind if I was the only one who might get hurt in all this, but I’m not. Shane and Clare are directly in the line of fire, and so are you.”

  He kissed her forehead, gave her ponytail a light, teasing tug. “The kids are safe, Casey,” he reminded her. “Brylee, too. Right now, that’s what matters. And you saw this coming, remember?” His mouth twitched at one corner. “It’s the main reason you got down on one knee and asked for my hand in marriage, as I recall.”

  Casey gave a raw little rasp of laughter, in spite of herself, and thumped Walker’s chest with the side of her right fist. “I didn’t get down on one knee,” she said. “Let’s get that straight.”

  The twitch became a full-fledged grin. “But you did propose,” he insisted.

  “I suggested.” Even as she spoke, Casey wondered what was wrong with her. Why was her first response to Walker always an urge to argue?

  Just then, a rap sounded, rattling the screen door, and Al Pickens stuck his head partway inside. “Boss? Is there a problem?”

  Walker turned to look at his most faithful employee and longtime friend, and smiled. “It might be time to circle the wagons, all right,” he said.

  Briefly, Walker explained the situation.

  Casey frowned, puzzled. Do what?

  Al clearly understood, which was more than she could have claimed. He nodded and said, “I’ll put a couple of men at the main gate, and the rest can beat the brush for any of them sneaky reporters, make sure they don’t get close to the house again.”

  Walker nodded. “No rough stuff,” he specified mildly.

  “Darn.” Al grinned, showing a few missing teeth, and tugged once at the brim of his battered hat. His face was round and weather-worn, his eyes small and twinkly. “I was kinda looking forward to going all John Wayne on at least one of those yahoos.”

  Walker chuckled, waved Al off with a motion of one hand and focused his attention on Casey again.

  She felt as though the floor had turned to rubber under her feet, and she thought she might throw up.

  Walker eased her back into the chair she’d been sitting on before the phone rang, lost in the arcane realm of home cooking, and related what Brylee had told her about the supermarket siege. He walked over to one of the cupboards, got out a glass, moved to the sink, filled it to the brim with cold water and brought it to Casey.

  She took the glass in both hands, sipped slowly, in hopes that the stuff would stay down.

  Walker took the chair nearest hers and waited with her, lightly massaging her nape, where the muscles had clenched up tight, like a knot in a length of steel cable.

  Slowly, Casey began to feel a little better, though she knew she wouldn’t relax completely until Shane and Clare got there, until she could see both her children with her own eyes and touch them and know for sure that they hadn’t been hurt.

  “Has this happened before?” Walker asked gently, after she’d stopped trembling and begun rolling her head from side to side in response to the massage. The release of tension was almost sexual.

  “I’ve tangled with the so-called press a few times in the past,” Casey responded, “and they’ve made up some pretty nasty stories about Clare and Shane along the way, too. Especially Shane. They claimed he was on drugs and I sued them for that one, but this is the most aggressive they’ve ever gotten.” She remembered what her daughter had said about the early editions of the weekly tabloids, headlines and photos blazing with manufactured scandals. Extra! Extra! Read all about it!

  Thoughtfully, Walker sorted through her answer in his head. Then he pushed back his chair, crossed to the desktop computer on a counter against the far wall and logged on.

  Even before she saw his back stiffen, Casey knew it was bad. Maybe worse than bad.

  Walker swore under his breath, clicking from one site to another.

  When he turned around to face her again, his face was like a storm cloud. He looked as though he might be about to go find Al and the other cowboys and form a posse, vigilante-style, forgetting the “No rough stuff” decree he’d issued earlier.

  Casey went to him, slipped her arms around his waist. This time, she was the voice of reason. “This will pass, Walker,” she said gently. “It always does.”

  He looked grim, even harried. Again, he raked his fingers through his hair. “Greaseball reporters are one thing,” he ground out, “and the crazies who take everything they write as g
ospel are another, dammit. Suppose some freak job hears voices telling him to kidnap Clare and Shane and actually follows through? Have you ever thought of that?”

  She touched his cheek, felt the stubble of a new beard bristling against her palm, even though she’d watched him shave less than two hours before. “Only about a million times,” she answered softly. “Walker, I’m truly sorry for dragging you into this—”

  Walker’s nostrils flared, and his eyes flashed, bull angry. “‘Dragging me into this’?” he retorted through his teeth. “These are my children we’re talking about here, Casey. I should have been in the loop a long time ago, don’t you think? I’m Clare and Shane’s father, remember? What if something had happened to them because I wasn’t around to protect them?”

  Casey had never seen Walker, or anybody else, so furious. “Nothing did happen, though,” she said, very carefully and very quietly. “I was never, ever careless about their safety, Walker. When I thought there was a need for extra security, I notified the police, in whatever city we happened to be in, or I hired bodyguards—”

  His nose was practically touching hers, and his eyes continued to shoot fire. She was half expecting him to paw at the ground with one foot, sprout horns and lower his head to charge. “I’m their father,” he said. “You kept me from them, all this time.” A pause, one of those dangerous moments when everything can change. “How am I supposed to forgive you?”

  There it was, the elephant in the room, the thing they hadn’t really talked about.

  If Walker couldn’t forgive her, Casey reasoned dizzily, he certainly couldn’t love her, either. The honeymoon, such as it had been, was definitely and permanently over, and last night’s lovemaking, as powerful, as transformative, as sacred as it had seemed, hadn’t been lovemaking at all. It had been garden-variety sex, the cheap, meaningless kind that belonged in the backseats of cars or in trashy rooms rented by the hour.

  If Walker had drawn back his fist and punched Casey in the stomach, he couldn’t have hurt her any more deeply. She reeled away from him, shrugged him off when he tried to lay his hands on her shoulders, stared blindly out one of the windows until she saw Boone’s squad car turn in the gate, lights whirling.