Big Sky River

“Nonsense,” Tara answered. “I’m glad you’re here. I just made lemonade, and I think I could rustle up a few cookies if I tried.” She smiled at the boys, wanting them to feel welcome. Lord knew, they must have had problems enough, being Boone Taylor’s sons. “Elle and Erin are my stepdaughters. They’re visiting from New York.”

“Oh,” said Fletcher, mildly disgusted. Girls, his expression said.

“Cookies?” Griffin asked hopefully.

Fletcher made a face. “I don’t like lemonade,” he said. “It’s too sour.”

“Hush, now,” Opal told him. “Don’t you be rude, Fletcher Taylor.”

“Yeah,” Griffin agreed. “Don’t be so rude, poop-head.”

“That will be enough of that ornery talk,” Opal decreed good-naturedly. Nothing seemed to fluster the woman—she was the eye of the hurricane, the port in the storm, generous competence personified.

Without comment, Tara led them all inside, through the house to the kitchen, Opal checking everything out as they went and making approving noises.

“You have sure done wonders with this old house,” she said as they reached their destination. “Back when Boone’s folks lived here, it was a sight, let me tell you.” Both the boys looked up at her curiously, and she was quick to add, “Not that it wasn’t clean, mind you. Polly Taylor kept it up real nice, but Leroy used to park his motorcycle in the living room when the weather was bad, to protect the paint job, he said. Leroy didn’t trust that old barn not to fall right in on top of his pride and joy once the snow came and made the roof sag.”

Tara smiled to herself, thinking that the proverbial apple didn’t fall far from the tree, given the shape Boone’s own place was in, but of course she wouldn’t have said it out loud with Griffin and Fletcher right there to hear.

Opal had just taken a seat at the table, with a somewhat weary sigh, when Lucy came racing down the back stairway, barking her brains out, having finally clued in that, wonder of wonders, there was more company. Elle, freshly showered and barefoot, wearing white shorts and a yellow top, was right behind her.

Griffin and Fletcher glanced at her, then immediately gave themselves up, laughing, to Lucy’s face-licking hello.

Tara made introductions, over the tumult, and Elle nodded to the boys and extended a hand to Opal. “How do you do?” she said, sounding very grown-up.

Opal beamed a smile at the child. “I do just fine,” she replied. “How about you?”

“I’m good,” Elle said, sounding unusually shy.

“Boys,” Opal said, “quiet down a little now. I declare, I can’t hear myself think over the racket.”

“The dog’s the one making all the noise,” Fletcher protested.

Opal sighed again. “Well, take her outside, then,” she said, the soul of patience.

“Let’s check out the yard,” Elle suggested, leading the mass exodus through the back door, Lucy bringing up the tail-wagging rear.

“Phew,” Opal said when she and Tara were alone in the newly quiet kitchen. “I’m not used to kids that age anymore. Joslyn and Slade’s little one, Trace, being just a baby and all.” She leaned forward a tad and added confidentially, “Poor little fellas. They’re missing their aunt and uncle something fierce.”

Absorbing that, Tara washed her hands at the sink, took glasses from the cupboard and lined them up on the counter, added ice to two of them, then got the lemonade pitcher from the fridge and poured for Opal and herself. “Will they be visiting long?” she asked, remembering yesterday’s interlude with Boone by the ATM at Cattleman’s Bank.

“I do believe they’re here to stay this time,” Opal said quietly. There was a still a glint of sympathy in her eyes, but something else, too, something Tara couldn’t quite read. “Griffin—that’s the bigger boy, you know—he’s just thrilled to be back with his daddy, though he tries not to let on too much. Fletcher, on the other hand, well, he’s likely to try hitchhiking back to Missoula first chance he gets if we don’t keep an eye on him right along.”

Tara felt a twinge of sadness, for the children and maybe even for Boone. A little.

“Did something happen?” she asked carefully. Either Joslyn or Kendra had mentioned Boone’s children the night before, during their visit, but Tara had been thinking about Elle and Erin at the time, and how much she’d missed them, and hadn’t gotten the gist of it.

Opal sighed and gave a little nod. “Sure did,” she replied. “Molly—that’s Boone’s sister—she and her husband, Bob, have been looking after Griffin and Fletcher pretty much since their mama, Corrie, died. Now, Bob’s gone and had an accident on the golf course, which is the bad news. The good news is that those boys are back here where they belong. Bob and Molly were real good to them, but Boone’s their daddy.”

Tara had known some of Boone’s story, that he was a widower anyway, and that he had two children, but she’d been hazy on the details, telling herself that the less she knew about her redneck neighbor, the better off she’d be. Before she’d come up with a response to Opal’s words, though, Erin came down the back stairs, her hair damp from her shower and curling madly in all directions. She wore a pink sundress and, like her twin, she was barefoot.

Tara made more introductions, and Erin responded politely before looking around the quiet kitchen. “Where are Lucy and Elle?” she asked.

“Outside,” Tara answered, with another smile. Her face was starting to hurt, but she couldn’t help it. She was just too happy to maintain a normal expression for very long.

Erin excused herself and hurried through the back door.

“Maybe I ought to find out what they’re doing out there,” Tara fretted. She was a little rusty at mothering, she realized; back in New York, she’d never have let Elle and Erin out of her sight unless they were in the company of one or more trusted adults.

“They’re just fine,” Opal said with pleasant certainty, and Tara believed her. Settled back into the chair she’d half risen from on the spur of the moment.

“Are you working for Sheriff Taylor now?” Tara asked when the conversation lagged, albeit in a comfortable, kick-off-your-shoes-and-sit-awhile kind of way.

“No,” Opal said, shaking her head slowly. “I’m just helping out for a little while. Boone wasn’t expecting to get the kids back when he did, and I figured he might be in over his head at first.”

“Oh,” Tara said, nodding and taking a sip from her frosty glass of lemonade. When it came to Boone Taylor, irritation had sustained her for a long time. It was odd to find herself feeling a little sorry for the man, but kind of satisfying, too, because she knew it would annoy him plenty, rooster-proud as he was.

The kids came back inside then, all four of them, with Lucy in the lead.

They were only passing through, it turned out, on their way to the front porch, where they could keep an eye on the chickens and Griffin could point out his dad’s place, across that slice of river that separated it from Tara’s property.

Leaving Opal to sip her lemonade in peace, Tara piled a plate high with cookies, filled four more glasses from the pitcher and carried the refreshments out front on a tray.

Griffin was standing at the end of the porch, one arm extended toward the double-wide on the other side of the water, pointing an index finger.

“You live there?” Elle asked, sounding amazed though not quite disdainful. “That’s an actual house?”

Tara closed her eyes for an instant, cleared her throat loudly and made a rattling fuss of setting down the tray on the low porch table.

“Yes, it’s a house,” Griffin replied tersely, offended.

“It’s really a trailer,” Fletcher interjected, in a helpful tone. “It had wheels, once.”

“Lemonade and cookies!” Tara sang out.

“What’s wrong with it?” Griffin asked, frowning at Elle. So much for diverting the conversation away from the trailer next door.

“Nothing, squirt,” Elle replied cheerfully. “Give me a break, here, will you? I didn’t mean any harm—I’m from New York City and we don’t have trailers there, that’s all.”

Tara passed out lemonade, and the children each accepted a glass, though they barely seemed to see her.

“We lived in a house in Missoula,” Fletcher said, gripping his lemonade tightly in small hands. “It was bigger than this one and way nicer.”

“Well, excuse me,” Elle said, with lighthearted indignation.

Erin was perched in the porch swing, her feet curled beneath her on the floral cushion. She smiled angelically and commented, “That’s what you get for making snotty remarks, sister-dear.”

“Suppose we all start over?” Tara suggested.