Parable, Montana [4] Big Sky Summer Page 26

  Casey forced herself to move slowly, though she wanted nothing more than to run to Walker and leap into his arms. She stopped about three feet away from him, heart pounding.

  “Clare’s fine,” he said at some length. “And so is Shane.”

  Casey swallowed hard, nodded. Behind her, the small private plane taxied for takeoff. She hadn’t even brought her luggage along, she’d been in such a hurry to leave L.A.

  “Do we have a chance, Walker?” she heard her own voice ask.

  He frowned, and neither of them moved. “What do you mean, ‘Do we have a chance?’” he asked.

  “After all that’s happened,” Casey choked out, watching him. “Two babies, all that time apart, all the mistakes and the lies—” She couldn’t go on.

  Walker took her gently by the shoulders and said the words she’d thought he’d never say. “I love you, Casey. And the mistakes and lies belong to both of us, so why don’t we just let them go and move on?”

  “Did you just say you love me?” Casey all but whispered. Her voice was almost gone, and not just because she’d sung her heart out on live TV a few hours before.

  The slightest smile lifted one corner of Walker’s mouth. “That’s what I said, all right. Am I in this all alone, or what?”

  She gave a sob of laughter then, and threw her arms around his neck. “I love you now, and I always have, Walker Parrish,” she blurted out, clinging to him, reveling in the hard, warm substance of him.

  “You might have said as much,” he told her gruffly, his breath warm at her ear, his arms tight and strong around her.

  “Back at you, cowboy,” Casey said, happier than she’d ever thought she could be. “I didn’t hear ‘I love you’ coming from your direction, either.”

  He chuckled, and then he kissed her, so deeply and so thoroughly that her last doubts gave way.

  At home, the kids and the dogs were all asleep, which was a good thing because Casey and Walker had had a heck of a time even getting that far before they started making love.

  Walker picked Casey up in the kitchen and carried her to their room, his strides long.

  There was a lot to settle—the problems with Clare, for starters, and where things would go from here—but this time, this shining strand of moments and minutes and hours, belonged only to the two of them.

  Behind closed doors, they undressed each other, stepped into the shower stall together, kissing even as the warm spray of water drenched them both, slickening their fevered bodies, spiking their eyelashes, soothing away everything but the desperate drive to be joined, two beings melded into one.

  They took things slowly, though, savoring every kiss, every caress, every whispered word. All the unsaid “I love yous,” stored up for years, came rushing to the surface now, as unstoppable as lava from a volcano.

  They lathered each other with soap, rinsed away the suds, and Casey marveled at the pitch of her arousal. Lovemaking wasn’t new to them, but that night, it seemed new, a first in the history of Creation.

  Presently, Walker knelt, his hands stroking Casey’s thighs before he parted her, ever so gently, with a motion of his thumbs.

  When he took her into his mouth, her whole body convulsed with primitive pleasure, and she bit down hard on her lower lip to keep from shouting his name in welcome, in need, in love. Not the paper roses and Valentines kind of love, but the real thing, a sacred equation of one man and one woman.

  Satisfaction came quickly for Casey, consuming her like a fire. She flexed and flexed again as Walker continued to enjoy her, her hands locked behind his head to hold him there.

  But once was never enough, and when the violent shudders of release had finally ceased, Walker draped her legs over his shoulders—they wouldn’t hold her any longer—and nuzzled in for an encore.

  The water turned lukewarm, but neither of them cared; they might have been making love under a summer rainfall, or anywhere. The place didn’t matter, nothing did, beyond the simple fact that they were together. Really together, for the first time ever.

  Somehow—Casey was in too much of a daze to recall the mechanics later—they wound up on top of their bed, still slippery-wet, hair dripping, bodies frantic, and she saw their whole future in Walker’s eyes as he looked down at her, silently asking her permission, the way he always did.

  She saw them raising Clare and Shane together, with all their combined love and determination.

  She saw them bringing home the new baby, the one growing inside her, nurtured not only by her body, but by her soul.

  She saw more children, and grandchildren, too. All of them as much a part of the ranch as the land and the creeks, the river and the sky.

  Most of all, she saw love, the tough, durable kind that knows no endings, but only beginnings, only a shared freedom, and the gift to grow in all directions, like those flowers rioting around the ruins of the homestead cabin up on the hill.

  She nodded, said it again. “I love you.”

  Walker was inside her in a single stroke, going deep, commanding, conquering, and yet with a tenderness so poignant that Casey’s spirit soared, even before her body did.

  Their releases were simultaneous, a fusion of two lightning bolts into one cataclysmic flash, and achieved only after much sweet striving. They were locked in a kiss all the while, their cries echoing between them.

  The descent was long, slow and delicious.

  In between skirmishes, the lovers slept, arms and legs entwined, Walker’s chin resting atop Casey’s head. Each time they awakened, they made love again, sometimes sleepily, sometimes desperately, and when dawn finally broke, they were joined, and the sunrise became Casey’s climax, blinding and beautiful, all pink and gold dazzle, a sky full of fire.

  July 15

  OPAL STOOD AT THE FRONT of the little church, head high and shoulders squared, beside her bridegroom, the Reverend Walter Beaumont. One of the reverend’s colleagues had come to Parable especially to perform the ceremony, and every pew was packed.

  Standing in the choir loft, Casey scanned the congregation, found Walker and Clare and Shane, and she was glad she wouldn’t have to sing for a few more minutes, because just then, her heart was filling her throat.

  A family—her family, with all the attendant challenges and triumphs, all the ups and downs. How did she get so lucky?

  Walker looked up at her then, as if he’d heard her thoughts. His expression was completely solemn—until he winked.

  Casey smiled, blushed a little and looked away.

  She spotted Joslyn and Slade Barlow, their firstborn squirming between them on the pew, as toddlers will, each of them holding a blue-wrapped bundle in loving arms. Shea, Slade’s stepdaughter, was there, too, beaming proudly at one of the week-old twins, then the other.

  She found Hutch and Kendra Carmody next, sitting with their shoulders touching and their gazes on the bride and groom. Their little girl, Madison, sat beside them, fussing over her baby sister, kicking and cooing in her infant seat.

  Boone and Tara Taylor, with four children between them, took up most of one pew. Tara’s arm was looped through Boone’s, Casey noticed, and her head rested against his shoulder.

  Casey brought her gaze back around to Walker and Clare and Shane, and happy tears filled her eyes, because there sat Brylee, big as life, her face glowing with joy as Opal and Walter exchanged their vows.

  Walter’s kiss was Casey’s cue to sing, and sing she did.

  The song was a special one, a collaboration between herself and Clare, about love finding its own way, in its own time, and enduring.

  Clare turned to look up at Casey midsong, mouthing the words they’d written together at the piano in the ranch house living room, and Casey’s heart swelled again, with love for her daughter, her good husband, her fine son, and the wings of her gratitude carried her voice to the heights.

  When the song ended, there was a stirring silence, almost palpable.

  Then Opal and Walter broke with tradition and turned, smilin
g up at Casey and clapping their hands. The rest of the congregation joined in, and Casey stepped back, out of view, and descended the stairs from the small loft.

  The celebration, held at the house on Rodeo Road, which Casey used as headquarters and a place to record with the band, went on for hours. She still wasn’t doing concert tours, but singing itself wasn’t optional for her—she had to have music, had to make music—and Walker not only understood, he was proud of her.

  Except for a brief flurry of media attention centered around Clare’s brush with the law—the shoplifting charges had been dropped, but Walker and Casey had insisted she perform some kind of community service just the same—the tabloids and other “news” outlets had backed off. Clare helped Marti Wren out three afternoons a week at the animal shelter, and once remarked that if this was punishment, she should have gotten into trouble sooner.

  Shane, a cowboy through and through, rode the range with his dad as often as possible, and did his chores without complaint—mostly. He was bound and determined to last longer than three seconds the next time he entered a rodeo, and that seemed like a reasonable goal to Casey.

  She still hated the idea of her son on the back of a bucking bronco, of course, but she kept that to herself—mostly.

  While the band played, Opal and her new husband danced on the floor specially constructed for the occasion, smiling into each other’s eyes, surrounded by friends and family, immersed in the glow of their love.

  Walker stepped up behind Casey, slipped his arms around her and rested his chin on top of her head. “Pretty romantic,” he said, turning her gently around to face him, handing her a small velvet box.

  Casey, not expecting a gift, was taken aback. “What’s this?”

  “Open it and see,” Walker said.

  She lifted the lid, peered inside the box and saw a beautiful heart-shaped pendant in tones of gold and silver, with two tiny charms suspended in the center—two Western hats, one to represent each of them. “Thank you,” she murmured, overwhelmed with love for this man she’d married.

  Fingers trembling a little, she removed the necklace from its case and handed it to Walker, so he could drape it around her neck and fasten it.

  He did that, squeezed her shoulders lightly. “I think we ought to go straight home and celebrate.”

  Casey laughed, turned in Walker’s embrace and smiled up at him. “That’s not a bad idea, cowboy,” she said. “Not a bad idea at all.”

  *

  Be sure to look for Linda’s next PARABLE novel, Big Sky Wedding, on sale in September from HQN Books!

  Keep reading for an excerpt from Big Sky River by Linda Lael Miller!

  Love Awaits in Parable, Montana…

  If you loved Big Sky Summer, don’t miss these titles from New York Times bestselling author Linda Lael Miller.

  Big Sky Country

  Big Sky Mountain

  Big Sky River

  Want more? There are more than forty Linda Lael Miller titles available in ebook format, including numerous stories featuring the memorable men and relationships of the Creeds and McKettricks series. Available wherever ebooks are sold!

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  CHAPTER ONE

  SHERIFF BOONE TAYLOR, enjoying a rare off-duty day, drew back his battered fishing rod and cast the fly-hook far out over the rushing, sun-spangled waters of Big Sky River. It ran the width of Parable County, Montana, that river, curving alongside the town of Parable itself like the crook of an elbow. Then it extended westward through the middle of the neighboring community of Three Trees and from there straight on to the Pacific.

  He didn’t just love this wild, sprawling country, he reflected with quiet contentment. He was Montana, from the wide sky arching overhead to the rocky ground under the well-worn soles of his boots. That scenery was, to his mind, his soul made visible.

  A nibble at the hook, far out in the river, followed by a fierce breaking-away, told Boone he’d snagged—and already lost—a good-sized fish. He smiled—he’d have released the catch anyway, since there were plenty of trout in his cracker-box-sized freezer—and reeled in his line to make sure the hook was still there. He found that it wasn’t, tied on a new one. For him, fishing was a form of meditation, a rare luxury in his busy life, a peaceful and quiet time that offered solace and soothed the many bruised and broken places inside him, while shoring up the strong ones.

  He cast out his line again, and adjusted the brim of his baseball cap so it blocked some of the midmorning glare blazing in his eyes. He’d forgotten his sunglasses back at the house—if that junk heap of a double-wide trailer could be called a “house”—and he wasn’t inclined to backtrack to fetch them.

  So he squinted, and toughed it out. For Boone, toughing things out was a way of life.

  When his cell phone jangled in the pocket of his lightweight cotton shirt, worn unbuttoned over an old T-shirt, he muttered under his breath, grappling for the device. He’d have preferred to ignore it and stay inaccessible for a little while longer. As sheriff, though, he didn’t have that option. He was basically on call, 24/7, like it or not.

  He checked the number, recognized it as Molly’s, and frowned slightly as he pressed the answer bar. She and her husband, Bob, had been raising Boone’s two young sons, Griffin and Fletcher, since the dark days following the death of their mother and Boone’s wife, Corrie, a few years before. A call from his only sibling was usually benign—Molly kept him up-to-date on how the boys were doing—but there was always the possibility that the news was bad, that something had happened to one or both of them. Boone had reason to be paranoid, after all he’d been through, and when it came to his kids, he definitely was.

  “Molly?” he barked into the receiver. “What’s up?”

  “Hello, Boone,” Molly replied, and sure enough, there was a dampness to her response, as though she’d been crying, or was about to, anyhow. And she sounded bone weary, too. She sniffled and put him out of his misery, at least temporarily. “The boys are both fine,” she said. “It’s about Bob. He broke his right knee this morning—on the golf course, of all places—and the docs in Emergency say he’ll need surgery right away. Maybe even a total replacement.”

  “Are you crying?” Boone asked, his tone verging on a challenge as he processed the flow of information she’d just let loose. He hated it when women cried, especially ones he happened to love, and couldn’t help out in any real way.

  “Yes,” Molly answered, rallying a little. “I am. After the surgery comes rehab, and then more recovery—weeks and weeks of it.”

  Boone didn’t even reel in his line; he just dropped the pole on the rocky bank of the river and watched with a certain detached interest as it began to bounce around, an indication that he’d gotten another bite. “Molly, I’m sorry,” he murmured.

  Bob was the love of Molly’s life, the father of their three children, and a backup dad to Griff and Fletch, as well. Things were going to be rough for him and for the rest of the family, and there wasn’t a damn thing Boone could do to make it better.

  “Talk to me, Molly,” he urged gruffly, when she didn’t reply right away. He could envision her, struggling to put on a brave front, as clearly as if they’d been standing in the same room.

  The pole was being pulled into the river by then; he stepped on it to keep it from going in and fumbled to cut the line with his pocketknife while Molly was still regathering her composure, keeping the phone pinned between his shoulder and his ear so his hands stayed free. Except for the boys and her and Bob’s kids, Molly was all the blood kin Boone had left, and he o
wed her everything.

  “It’s—” Molly paused, drew a shaky breath “—it’s just that the kids have summer jobs, and I’m going to have my hands full taking care of Bob….”

  Belatedly, the implications sank in. Molly couldn’t be expected to look after her husband and Griffin and Fletcher, too. She was telling her thickheaded brother, as gently as she could, that he had to step up now, and raise his own kids. The prospect filled him with a tangled combination of exuberance and pure terror.

  Boone pulled himself together, silently acknowledged that the situation could have been a lot worse. Bob’s injury was bad, no getting around it, but he could be fixed. He wasn’t seriously ill, the way Corrie had been.

  Visions of his late wife, wasted and fragile after a long and doomed battle with breast cancer, unfurled in his mind like scenes from a very sad movie.

  “Okay,” he managed to say. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Are you at home, or at the hospital?”

  “Hospital,” Molly answered, almost in a whisper. “I’ll probably be back at the house before you get here, though.”

  Boone nodded in response, then spoke. “Hang on, sis,” he said. “I’m as good as on my way.”

  “Griffin and Fletcher don’t know yet,” she told him quickly. “About what’s happened to Bob, I mean, or that you’ll be coming to take them back to Parable with you. They’re with the neighbor, Mrs. Mills. I want to be there when they find out, Boone.”

  Translation: If you get to the boys before I do, don’t say anything about what’s going on. You’ll probably bungle it.

  “Good idea,” Boone conceded, smiling a little. Molly was still the same bossy big sister she’d always been—thank God.

  Molly sucked in another breath, sounded calmer when she went on, though she had to be truly shaken up. “I know this is all pretty sudden—”

  “I’ll deal with it,” Boone said, picking up the fishing pole, reeling in the severed line and starting toward his truck, a rusted-out beater parked up the bank a ways, alongside a dirt road. He knew he ought to replace the rig, but most of the time he drove a squad car, and, besides, he hated the idea of going into debt.