Big Sky Summer

Walker smiled down at the daughter who thought of him as a beloved uncle, and in that moment Casey caught a glimpse of a place deep inside him, that part of his soul where he was this child’s father, not just a loyal and trusted friend of the family.

“Let’s wait a couple of minutes,” he said, taking Clare’s hand and squeezing it lightly.

Somehow, Casey found her voice. “The bride and groom always have the first dance, honey,” she told Clare. “It’s tradition.”

Clare’s emerald eyes sparkled with mischief and spirit. “Okay,” she agreed good-naturedly, still looking up at Walker with something like hero worship. She bit her lip, then blurted out eagerly, “When I get married, will you give me away? Please, Walker? I wouldn’t want anybody else to do it except you.”

Casey lifted her chin, swallowed. “That’s a ways off,” she said somewhat weakly. “Your getting married, I mean.”

“I’d be proud to walk you down the aisle,” Walker told his daughter, “when the time comes.” He paused, eyes twinkling, and one corner of his mouth crooked up in a grin, the way it did when he was teasing. “Of course, it all depends on whether or not I like the yahoo you choose for a husband.”

Clare laughed, clinging to his arm and clearly adoring him. “If I like him,” she reasoned with confidence, “you will, too.”

Walker chuckled and kissed the top of the girl’s head. “You’re probably right about that, princess,” he agreed.

Boone and Tara owned the dance floor, waltzing slowly, closer than close, lost in each other’s eyes.

Casey’s own eyes scalded, and she looked away quickly, afraid Walker or Clare would notice, but they, like everyone else, were watching the newlyweds.

As prearranged—Casey knew her showmanship—hundreds of snow-white rose petals drifted down on Boone and Tara like a velvety, fragrant first snow, spilling from a net strung up in the high branches of a venerable maple tree.

The guests were impressed, gasping in delight, and Boone and Tara looked up, smiling, Tara putting her hands out to catch some of the petals in her palms.

Casey started the applause, her throat thick with emotion, and the rest of the company joined in.

In the interim, the makeshift band launched into a twangy ballad that opened the dance floor to all comers, while Boone beckoned for others to join them. Clare practically dragged Walker onto the floor, and seeing how happy Clare was to have his full and laughing attention, Casey felt the starch go out of her knees. She made her way to the porch steps and sat down, willing herself not to blubber like a sentimental fool.

There, in the shade, amid all that celebration, she thought of the lies she’d told, right from the beginning. Sure, she’d been young and scared, wanting Walker a lot but wanting her then-blossoming career even more, back then at least. She’d told Walker the baby she was carrying belonged to another man, someone he didn’t know, and at first, he’d believed her. They’d broken up, as she’d planned, because Walker was a proud and decent man, but the grief she felt after losing him was something she hadn’t reckoned on, consuming and painful as a broken bone.

Casey had done what she always did: she’d carried on. Barely showing even when she was near full term, she’d been able to camouflage her pregnancy, from the fans and the media, anyway, by wearing flowing gowns and big shirts.

But a year later, she and Walker had met up again, and they’d both lost their heads and conceived Shane.

Knowing Walker wouldn’t buy the same story twice, Casey called him from the road when the second pregnancy was confirmed.

Nobody’s fool, Walker had soon figured out that the redheaded baby girl, just learning to toddle around on her own, was his, too.

All hell had broken loose, and the battle was on.

Walker wanted to get married immediately, but his cold rage was hardly conducive to romance. They’d wrangled back and forth over the children for a couple of years, though they never got quite as far as the courtroom, and finally, they’d forged a sort of armed truce.

Unwillingly, Walker had agreed to go along with Casey’s story—that both Clare and Shane were test-tube babies, fathered by an anonymous sperm donor—as long as he was allowed regular visits with both children.

For a long time, it worked, but now—well, Casey could feel the framework teetering around her, and she was scared.

Kendra sat down beside her on the porch step just then, touched her arm. Her friend was the only person on earth, besides Casey and Walker, of course, who knew the truth about Clare’s and Shane’s births. Oddly enough, it had been Walker who’d told her, possibly out of frustration, rather than Casey herself.

“It’s not too late to fix this, you know,” Kendra said gently, bumping her shoulder briefly against Casey’s. She was watching as Clare persuaded Walker to dance with her just once more, her gaze soft with understanding.

“Has anybody ever told you that you’re too damn perceptive sometimes, Kendra Carmody?”

Kendra smiled. “I might have heard it once or twice,” she replied. Then her smile faded and her expression turned serious. “Things like this have a way of coming out, Casey,” she said, nearly in a whisper. “In fact, given how famous you are, it’s a miracle the story hasn’t broken already.”

Casey wiped her cheeks with the back of one hand, sat up a little straighter. “What if they don’t understand?” she asked, barely breathing the words. “What if Clare and Shane never forgive me?”

Kendra sighed, then countered with a question of her own. “Do you want them to hear it from somebody else?” she asked.

CHAPTER TWO

THOUGH IT WASN’T QUITE DARK, lights glowed yellow-gold in the kitchen windows of the ranch house when Walker pulled in, and that raised his spirits a little, since he was grappling with a bad case of lonesome at the moment. Leaving Clare and Shane and, okay, Casey, too, had that effect on him, especially at that homesick time around sunset, when families were supposed to gather in a warm and well-lit room, laughing and telling each other all about their day.

Not that long ago, his ancient, arthritic black Labs, Willie and Nelson, would have been waiting in the yard to greet him, tails wagging, gray-muzzled faces upturned in grinning welcome and the hope of a pat on the head, but they’d both passed on last fall, within a few weeks of each other, dying peacefully in their sleep as good dogs deserve to do. Now they rested side by side in a special spot near the apple orchard, and Walker never got through a day without missing them.

He swallowed hard as he left the truck behind, heading for the house. He’d raised Willie and Nelson from pups, and Brylee had been urging him to replace them, but he wasn’t ready for that. For the time being, he’d rather share his sister’s dog, though Snidely went everywhere with his mistress, which meant he wasn’t around home much.

Walker let himself in through the side door, which opened into the spacious, old-fashioned kitchen, his suit jacket slung over one shoulder, and was heartened to find Brylee there. Blue-jeaned and wearing a T-shirt with the motto Men Suck on the front, her heavy brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, she was splotched with flour from head to foot.

Snidely kept watch nearby, curled up on a hooked rug.

“Hey,” Walker said, addressing both of them, draping his jacket over the back of a chair.

Snidely lifted his head, sighed and rested his muzzle on his forelegs again.

“Hey,” Brylee said, careful not to look at Walker. She’d been baking bread, probably for hours. The air was scented with that homey aroma, and pans full of rising, butter-glistened dough waited, assembly-line fashion, on the counter nearest the stove. “How was the wedding?”

Walker wanted a beer and a quiet chat with his sister, but he had to get out of his suit and head for the barn and stock pens, to make sure the chores had all been done. With six ranch hands working the place year-round, though, the task was more habit than necessity. “It was a wedding,” he said, pausing. He wasn’t being flippant; the church variety was always pretty much the same, that’s all—white dress and veil for the bride, nervous groom, preacher, organ music, crowded pews, tons of flowers.

Every line of Brylee’s slender body looked rigid as she absorbed his reply, and she kept her back to him. Whenever somebody got married, she folded in on herself like this, keeping frenetically busy and pretending it didn’t matter.

“So it went off without a hitch, then?” she asked, her tone so falsely airy that a crack zigzagged its way down the middle of Walker’s big-brother heart. Brylee wouldn’t have wished what had happened at her wedding on anybody, but she always asked that same question after every new ceremony and she always seemed to be braced for the worst.

“I’d say it was perfect,” Walker answered gently. He’d retrieved his jacket from the chair back, but beyond that, he hadn’t moved. His feet seemed to be stuck to the kitchen floor.

Brylee looked back over one flour-coated shoulder, offered a wobbly smile that didn’t quite stick to her wide mouth. “That’s good,” she said, blinking once and then turning to the dough she was kneading.

“What’s with all the bread?” Walker asked.

“Opal Dennison and some of the other ladies from her church are holding a bake sale tomorrow, after the second service,” she replied with brave good cheer, though her shoulders slumped slightly and she was careful to keep her face averted. “To raise more money for the McCulloughs.”

Young Dawson McCullough, seriously injured in a fall from the now-demolished water tower in town, had worked on the ranch since he was big enough to buck hay bales and muck out stalls, after school and during the summer, and he was practically a member of the family.

“And you’re the only woman in the whole county who signed up to bake bread?” Walker asked lightly.

Brylee stopped, stiff along her spine again and across her shoulders. She kept her head up, but it looked like an effort. “Don’t, Walker,” she said softly. “I know what you’re trying to do, and I appreciate the thought, but, please—don’t.”

Walker sighed, shoved a hand through his hair. He opened his mouth, thought better of saying more and closed it again, went on through the kitchen, along the corridor, past the dining and living rooms, and into his spacious first-floor bedroom, where he peeled off the suit and kicked off the dress shoes and put on worn jeans, a lightweight flannel shirt and boots.

The relief of being himself again was enormous.