Parable, Montana [4] Big Sky Summer Page 8

  Walker smiled at that, but when he and the former lint-wad joined the others, he would have sworn Snidely had understood Brylee’s kindly lecture and decided to abide by her suggestions. He sniffed at the painfully thin wayfarer; then, amazingly, walked over to his bed, one of several placed at various household locations in case of sudden dog exhaustion, picked up his favorite toy, a red plastic fire hydrant, with his teeth, brought it back and set it carefully at the black dog’s feet.

  “Isn’t that sweet?” Brylee marveled.

  “It’s weird, that’s what it is,” Walker commented, wondering if he was hallucinating or something. In his experience, dogs might tolerate each other’s presence, but they tended to be territorial about their possessions and their food.

  Brylee dismissed Walker’s remark with a wave of one hand. “What’s his name?” she asked.

  “Damned if I know,” Walker said. “I just found him outside the supermarket, remember? And he hasn’t shared any information.”

  Brylee made a wry face, then shook her head once, in case the face hadn’t expressed her low opinion of his intelligence clearly enough. “You’re being deliberately obtuse,” she cried with despairing good humor. “This dog needs a name, so he knows there’s a place for him in the scheme of things. He’ll need a veterinary checkup, too, and maybe some special vitamins to build him up.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Doolittle,” Walker said.

  Brylee’s whole face lit up. “That’s it!” she cried jubilantly. “We’ll call him Doolittle!”

  Walker chuckled. “Whatever,” he said, studying the dog’s unimpressive countenance. “It’s probably a pretty apt handle, considering what he’s likely to contribute around here, which won’t be much.”

  “Wrong,” Brylee argued on a swell of conviction. “Doolittle might not herd cattle or guard against marauding intruders, but he’ll be excellent company, and that’s worth something, isn’t it?”

  “I reckon it is,” Walker concluded as the dog gazed up at him in wary adoration.

  “Did you get the shampoo and the other things I asked for?” Brylee asked. So much for the greeting-card moment.

  “In the truck,” Walker said, starting for the side door, meaning to bring in the small bag containing the items he’d bought at the supermarket.

  Doolittle, he soon learned, wasn’t about to let his new master out of his sight. As Walker left the house, that dog stuck to his heels like a gob of chewing gum on a hot sidewalk.

  Walker brought the dog food in first, then the bowls and the toy, but Doolittle, hungry though he surely was, wouldn’t be distracted by the offer of a square meal. He clearly intended to go wherever Walker went, period.

  Laughing, Brylee said she’d get the last bag herself and left the house.

  Walker opened the kibble bag, scooped some into one of the plastic pet bowls and set it on the floor. While Doolittle sniffed the food suspiciously, as though it might be booby-trapped, Walker filled the water bowl and put that down, too.

  Doolittle was thirstier, it turned out, than he was hungry. He lapped up that whole bowl full of good country well water and looked up at Walker, asking for more as clearly as if he’d spoken in plain English.

  Walker refilled the bowl and Doolittle drank most of that, too, before turning to the kibble.

  Snidely watched the whole scene with quiet interest for a few moments, then ambled over and casually reclaimed his fire hydrant.

  Brylee came in with the small shopping bag, set it on the counter. Watched fondly as Doolittle munched away on his supper.

  Walker, remembering that the front of his shirt was soaking wet from washing the dog in the laundry sink, held the fabric away from his chest and frowned with distaste.

  Brylee laughed, not in the halfhearted, forced way that had become a habit with her, but for real. Until they’d gone horseback riding with the kids earlier that same day, Walker hadn’t heard her let go. It was about time.

  “Give me the shirt,” she said, holding out one hand. “I’ll wash it next time I run a load of whites.”

  Walker undid a few buttons, then got impatient and peeled the garment off over his head, mussing up his hair in the process. Then, bare-chested and mildly self-conscious about it, he went to his room to find a T-shirt.

  Doolittle immediately stopped eating and followed.

  In his bedroom, Walker rummaged through the antique blanket chest and made a square, tidy pile for Doolittle to sleep on, over by the fireplace. While the dog checked out the bed and all corners of the room, Walker pulled on an old T-shirt.

  When he went back to the kitchen, Doolittle accompanied him.

  Brylee and Snidely had retreated to Brylee’s apartment by then, so Walker locked the side door—nobody came to the front entrance except for the UPS man and those hell-bent on spreading the Good News, whatever reception they might receive.

  “Looks like it’s just you and me,” Walker told the dog.

  He got a can of beer out of the fridge, popped the top and turned one of the kitchen chairs around to straddle it, resting an arm across the top of its ladder-back.

  Doolittle returned to his bowl of kibble and resumed his supper.

  And thoughts of Casey and the kids, held at bay for a short time, flooded back into Walker’s mind, like rising waters taking out a flimsy dam. He took a long drink of beer, swallowed and waited for the foam to settle in his stomach.

  “Beware of redheaded women,” he told Doolittle, who paid no discernible attention to the advice.

  *

  “WHERE’S UNCLE MITCH?” Clare asked long after she and Shane and the motley crew of dogs arrived home. She stood on tiptoe, peering out the kitchen window, having noticed, finally, that the guesthouse was dark and the rental car was gone.

  Casey, seated at the table in her flannel pajama bottoms and a band shirt, her legs curled beneath her on the chair, tossed off her answer. “He got called back to Nashville,” she said. Liar, accused her conscience, which refused to be suppressed for another moment. “Or something like that.”

  Shane, sitting across from her and sipping hot chocolate, made a snorting sound. “Good,” he said. “He wants to marry you, Mom, and that would be a serious bummer.”

  Casey’s mouth nearly dropped open. “What would make you say such a thing?” she practically gasped.

  Clare turned around at this, all ears, but she kept her face expressionless. She looked like a hurricane trapped in a barrel, full to bursting with opinions that were bound to bust loose.

  “He asked me,” Shane said, pausing to pretend he was gagging, “for permission to propose. Said I was the ‘man of the house,’ and it was only right to consult me before he made his pitch.”

  “He asked me, too,” Clare put in, looking indignant, “even though I’m not the man of the house.”

  Casey was aghast—and furious with Mitch. She tried to speak, but all that came out was a sputter reminiscent of a lawn mower failing to start when the cord was pulled.

  “Did Mitch propose, Mom?” Clare pressed.

  Casey closed her eyes. A headache flashed across her brain and then rolled back and forth between her temples. “Yes,” she said. “After a fashion, he did.”

  Both kids were staring at her when she opened her eyes again.

  “And you said—?” Shane prompted, pale except for the circles of defiant red splotching his cheeks.

  “I said no, of course,” Casey informed her children, somewhat indignant that her answer to such a question wasn’t perfectly obvious.

  Clare beamed and punched the air with one fist, like a cheerleader celebrating a Hail Mary score on behalf of her team, with only seconds to go before the final buzzer sounded.

  “Now I won’t have to run away,” Shane said matter-of-factly, and with measurable relief.

  “You were planning to run away?” Casey demanded. That was one of her worst fears, that Clare or Shane would take off on their own sometime, in a fit of adolescent angst, and she wouldn’t know w
here they’d gone. Running away from home was dangerous enough for any kid, but for the children of a celebrity, it was asking to be abducted, held for ransom and God only knew what else. The mere idea made her queasy.

  “Only as far as Timber Creek Ranch,” Shane replied lightly. Then his expression changed, in the blink of an eye, and he looked thoughtful. “Do you think Walker wishes Dawson McCullough was his son?”

  The question struck Casey like a bolt of lightning from a clear blue sky. She couldn’t have answered to save her soul.

  Clare did it for her. “No, dork brain,” she told her brother, her tone and manner none too charitable. “Walker’s a realist. He’s into what is, not making stupid wishes that have a snowball’s chance of coming true.”

  Casey spent a few moments groping for her lost equilibrium. It wasn’t what Clare had said that troubled her so much as the way she’d said the words stupid wishes. She’d sounded so jaded, so cynical.

  Was this the same child who, as a little girl, wished on stars and believed unquestioningly that the tooth fairy and a legion of guardian angels and Santa Claus always kept tabs on her and her brother, whether they were rolling along some highway in a tour bus or calling yet another hotel suite home?

  Casey wanted to weep for that long-ago Clare, confidently hanging up her stocking wherever Christmas Eve happened to find them, assuring her younger brother that it was dumb to worry. Hadn’t Santa Claus always caught up with them before?

  “I’m not a dork brain,” Shane told his sister heatedly. “And you’re not supposed to call names, horse face!”

  “That’s enough,” Casey said wearily. “Off to bed, both of you. Tomorrow’s a whole new day.”

  “It’s only nine o’clock, Mom,” Clare protested.

  “It feels like midnight,” Casey responded, briefly closing her eyes again and squeezing the bridge of her nose between a thumb and forefinger. The headache wasn’t letting up.

  “Can I cruise the net for a while at least?” Shane asked, shambling to his feet, which seemed to be growing twice as fast as the rest of him, and causing all three dogs to leap to attention, ready for adventure.

  Casey had employed experts to keep track of the sites Clare and Shane visited on their computers, blocking the unsavory ones, but, compared to her, the kids were superhackers. They could probably sail right past any barrier they came across online.

  “Watch TV instead,” she said. “Or, here’s an idea. Read a book.”

  Shane groaned like a prisoner sentenced to solitary confinement, though he, like Clare, was an avid reader. He’d devoured all the Harry Potter books, not to mention The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings trilogy and a lot of similar tomes.

  “Take the dogs out first,” Clare commanded her brother. “If you don’t, they’ll pee in the house—or worse.”

  Shane scowled at Clare, but he took the dogs outside.

  “When did you stop believing that wishes can come true?” Casey asked her daughter, the moment they were alone in that vast kitchen. She hadn’t consciously decided to raise the question—it had simply popped out of her mouth.

  Clare looked too skeptical for someone so young. “Every year when I blow out the candles on my birthday cake,” she answered, “I wish for a dad.” She paused and spread her hands, apparently indicating the absence of said father. “Obviously, I’ve been wasting my breath, at least on the wish front, since I was five.”

  Casey willed back the tears that would have filled her eyes if she’d allowed them to get that far. Bucking up, that had been her grandfather’s term for overriding inconvenient emotions.

  Sometimes, it was hard to do.

  “Oh, honey,” she said when she could manage even that much.

  Clare lifted one slender shoulder in an offhanded semblance of a shrug, then crossed to Casey, leaned over and kissed her on top of the head. “Everybody has to grow up sometime,” she said, and vanished up the back stairs, bound for her bedroom.

  Forty-five minutes later, when the kids and the dogs were finally showing signs of staying put behind their doors, Casey drew a deep, quavering breath, picked up the phone and scrolled until Walker’s number appeared.

  She speed dialed before she could back out, and waited through one ring, then two, then three. Her heart pounded the whole time, and a little voice in her head repeated, Hang up, hang up, hang up…

  Finally, Walker answered, his voice a sleepy rumble. “Casey?” he muttered.

  “Were you asleep?” Casey asked.

  “No,” he said. “Which isn’t to say I wasn’t trying.”

  She carried the cell phone into the cavernous living room, spoke in a whisper. If ever there had been a time when privacy was vital, this was it.

  “You were right,” she forced herself to say. And, man, it wasn’t easy.

  Walker was silent for a long moment, then he let out a slow, quiet whistle of exclamation. “Who is this, really?” he joked.

  “You know damn well who it is,” Casey retorted, unamused. “And there’s no need to make this any harder for me than it already is.”

  “Say your piece,” Walker said generously. “The part that comes after You were right, I mean.”

  He was loving this, Casey thought, tight-jawed. “We have to tell Clare and Shane the truth.”

  “Babe, you’re not going to get any argument from me on that score.”

  Casey scrubbed away tears with the back of one hand. Buck up, she told herself sternly, but it didn’t help much. “The question is, how?”

  “In plain words,” Walker said.

  “What if they hate me?” Casey fretted, pacing.

  “They might be angry for a while,” Walker told her, gruffly gentle. “But hate you? That’ll never happen.”

  “I thought I was doing the right thing,” Casey lamented.

  “I know,” Walker replied, tough and tender at the same time, like any cowboy worthy of the name. “In time, I think Clare and Shane will understand that.”

  “In time,” Casey echoed, miserable.

  “Don’t build this up into more than it is, Case,” Walker advised. How different it was, when he called her by that shortened version of her name from when Mitch did the same. “I’m not going to hang you out to dry by putting all the blame on you. I just want my kids to know they’re my kids, and that I love them. They don’t have to take sides, like this was some kind of war.”

  “That doesn’t mean they won’t,” Casey said in anguish as she paced the darkened living room. “Take sides, I mean. You’ll be the hero, and I’ll be Darth Vader.”

  “Not if I don’t play the hero, and you don’t play the villain.”

  Casey frowned, working her way through that somewhat-cryptic sentence. “You’ll stand up for me?” She hardly dared hope for that.

  “Of course,” Walker said without hesitation. “You’re their mother, Case. And you’ve been a good one. Clare and Shane will get through this. We all will.”

  “Do you really think so?” It was lame, but Casey couldn’t help asking.

  “Have I ever told you about my mother?” Walker countered.

  “Not really,” Casey said. Whenever she and Walker had been alone together, back in the early days anyhow, they hadn’t talked about anything or anybody. They’d been too busy making love.

  Making babies.

  “Remind me to do that sometime,” Walker said. Something about the masculine timbre of his voice wrapped itself around Casey like an invisible caress.

  Casey agreed that she would, but the fact was, she couldn’t think that far ahead, couldn’t think beyond the expressions on her children’s beloved faces when she dropped the bomb.

  Oh, by the way, she imagined herself saying, Walker is your biological father. Sorry I didn’t mention that sooner.

  “How are we going to do this?” she asked in a frantic whisper. Just then, she missed old-fashioned phones, the kind with cords you could twist around your fingers.

  “Very carefully,” Walker answe
red. “Did it ever occur to you that Clare and Shane might be happy to find out they were conceived in the usual way, instead of in a test tube?”

  Casey recalled what Clare had told her in the kitchen, about all those ungranted birthday wishes, and felt such a stab of painful regret that she nearly doubled over. “I’m so scared,” she confessed.

  “You don’t have to do this alone,” Walker promised.

  “When?” Casey was pacing again. “When are we going to tell them, I mean?”

  “I think you and I ought to discuss it first,” Walker said reasonably. “In person. So we can present a united front and all that.”

  Casey felt a rush of purely unfounded relief. “Walker?” she ventured.

  “What?”

  “Thank you.”

  “For what?” He sounded honestly puzzled.

  “For not using this situation as a weapon to beat me over the head with,” Casey answered. “Some men would, you know.”

  “I’m not ‘some men.’ And you’d do well to remember that, Casey.”

  As if she’d ever been able to forget, for as much as a second, how unique Walker Parrish really was. He was a passionate man, with a strong body and stronger opinions, but, for the sake of his children, he’d kept a secret he didn’t want to keep. Now, after years of dutifully playing the avuncular family friend—he’d never made any bones about his misgivings—he wanted to “present a united front.” He was willing to defend her, to take on as much of the blame as necessary.

  And that was no small thing.

  “Good night,” she said.

  “I’ll be by tomorrow,” he replied.

  “What about the kids?” Casey worried. “They’ll be around—”

  “They can stay with your housekeeper or that manager guy, if you trust him.”

  “Mitch is gone,” Casey said, without meaning to offer up the information in the first place. “He and I had—words.”

  Walker was quiet for a long moment. Casey could tell he wanted to pursue the subject further but, to his everlasting credit, he didn’t. “Well,” he finally said, “that leaves the housekeeper.”