With any luck, Casey thought, he was still away.
She made her way through the throng of guests to Boone and Tara, who beamed like a pair of human lighthouses as people shook Boone’s hand and hugged Tara and congratulated them over and over again.
When her turn came, Casey hugged both of them, first Tara, then Boone. Doris and the children, it seemed, had already been absorbed into their various circles of friends, because they were nowhere in sight.
“You look beautiful,” Casey told Tara, meaning it.
Tara did look beautiful, glowing with happiness as Boone slipped a husbandly arm around his bride’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “There’s nothing like a honeymoon to perk a person up,” Tara said, and then blushed.
Casey smiled. She couldn’t have been happier for her friends, so why was her throat thick with unshed tears? Another pang of envy struck, too, shaming her. “And where did you go on this mysterious honeymoon, or is that still a secret?”
“Hawaii,” Tara said with delight, stretching out her bare arms to show off her golden tan. “We had our very own grass hut.”
Boone sighed cheerfully at the memory, and Tara gave him a light poke in the ribs with one elbow.
“It’s good to have you back,” Casey said, kissing Tara’s cheek. “Let’s get together soon.”
Tara nodded. “Soon,” she agreed.
Since other new arrivals were waiting to speak to Tara and Boone, Casey moved on, looking for Kendra or Joslyn much the same way a shipwrecked sailor might search the horizon for land.
In the process, she crashed right into a broad, hard and all-too-familiar chest, looked up and met Walker’s eyes. The impact of that rocked her far more than the physical collision had, and that was saying something.
Well, she thought, trying to be philosophical while her heart flailed around in her chest like a bird trying to escape a cage, that settled one question, anyway. Walker Parrish was definitely back from his travels.
“Hello, Casey,” he drawled, smiling down at her.
Did he know what that smile did to her? If he did, he was an unconscionable rake, taking unfair advantage.
“Walker,” Casey croaked out in reply. Why hadn’t she stayed at home, camping out in her room, watching the Soap Channel in her bathrobe and eating too much ice cream?
Because Tara and Boone were her friends, that was why, she reminded herself sternly. And because, mostly, it wasn’t like her to hide out.
“We didn’t finish our conversation,” Walker reminded her. His voice was gruff and low, but his eyes were gentle. He’d decided, in his infinite mercy, to make things easy for her, she concluded.
The arrogant bastard.
“No,” she said sweetly. “You went off to some rodeo and left me to stew in my own juices, wondering what was going to happen next. Waiting for the proverbial other shoe to drop.”
Walker rolled his shoulders, the only outward indication that he was tense, too. “It’s my job. I had a contract. What was I supposed to do, Casey?”
“You could have called,” she replied, smiling hard for the benefit of anybody who might be looking their way while she knew her eyes were shooting green fire. “Said you’d be out of town for a while. Something.”
He leaned in until their foreheads were almost touching. “You mean,” he said, barely breathing the words, “the way you called me almost fifteen years ago and told me you were carrying my baby?”
Casey’s cheeks flamed, and she was glad she hadn’t been to the punch bowl yet, because she might not have been able to keep herself from flinging the contents of her cup in his handsome, self-righteous face. That would have been a fine how-do-you-do, with the whole of Parable County looking on.
“There’s no need to be rude,” she snapped rudely, folding her arms and letting the smile fall away, since it was too hard to hold on to, anyhow.
“Tomorrow,” Walker said, and she couldn’t tell whether that glint in his eyes was fury or amusement. “My place, at high noon. That’s when the sh—mustard hits the fan, Casey Jones.”
Casey, on fire moments before, went icy cold. Swallowed hard, looked away for a moment, forced herself to look back. He’d drawn a line in the sand, and she had no choice but to step over it if she wanted to make things right with her children.
“We’ll be there,” she said.
Walker had the gall to grin that wicked grin, the one that always made her want to either slap him silly or tear off all her clothes and jump his bones on the spot.
Obviously, the latter wasn’t an option, and, for that matter, slapping was off the table, too. Casey had taught Clare and Shane that hitting was wrong, and she could hardly go against her own rule, as badly as she might want to do just that. Especially not in public.
“Noon,” he repeated, like Gary Cooper scheduling a showdown on the street in front of the old saloon.
Casey fairly snarled her response. “Noon,” she agreed.
Then she turned on one heel and proceeded to put as much space between herself and Walker Parrish as she could.
*
WALKER WATCHED HER walk away, smiling to himself and enjoying the way her shapely blue-jeaned backside swayed from side to side as she moved. She was wearing a baseball cap, pulled down low over her eyes, and her long ponytail jutted through the opening in back, swinging to the beat of her outrage.
Though nobody would have guessed it, Walker figured he was as nervous about tomorrow as Casey was—maybe more so, because Shane and Clare would probably be just as mad at him as they would be at their mother, and neither he nor the lady had a leg to stand on when it came to the right and wrong of it all.
A lie, however well-intentioned, was still a lie.
“Where’s Brylee?” asked a feminine voice at his side just as Casey vanished into the mob.
Walker looked over and saw Joslyn Barlow standing next to him. She was pretty calm and collected, for somebody trying to smuggle a bowling ball under her dress.
“Why do people keep asking me that?” he asked calmly, but with a smile. He liked Joslyn, after all, liked her husband, Slade, too, and he knew she really cared about his sister.
Joslyn widened her eyes in a mockery of innocence and countered, “Because we’d like to get a straight answer?”
Walker, remembering the glass of beer he was holding for the first time since he’d nearly spilled it all over Casey in the collision, took a sip and savored it before offering a reply. “She’s probably at home, or in her office or racing around on a forklift in the warehouse.”
Brylee owned Décor Galore, a direct marketing company specializing mostly in home parties and online sales. She’d built it from nothing to a multimillion-dollar corporation in a few short years, and Walker worried that she’d die of overwork before she ever got a chance to enjoy the fruits of all those twelve-and sixteen-hour days.
Sipping punch, Joslyn smiled sadly. “It’s only fair to warn you,” she said, “that Opal’s getting mighty concerned about Brylee, and she’s thinking about stepping in.”
Walker pretended horror. “Oh, no,” he gasped, splaying his free hand on his chest, “not that.”
Joslyn laughed. “Never underestimate the power of Opal,” she told him. “When she’s on a mission, she’s a force to be reckoned with.”
“I thought she specialized in matchmaking,” Walker said. Over the tops of people’s heads, he caught a distant glimpse of Casey, talking with Kendra Carmody and none other than the great Opal herself.
For some reason, that made his shirt collar feel too tight, even though he’d left the uppermost snaps unfastened.
“That’s true enough,” Joslyn agreed. “Opal has uncanny instincts, particularly when it comes to romance.”
“All that and a fantastic housekeeper, too,” Walker said, trying to ignore Casey, especially now that Kendra had wandered away and left her alone to confer with Opal.
Joslyn smiled. “We’ll be losing Opal soon,” she said. “At least, as far as h
ousekeeping goes. She’s getting married.”
“I heard,” Walker said.
Casey and Opal seemed deep in conversation, earnest as all get-out. What the devil were those two talking about?
Joslyn said goodbye then and slipped away, and Walker remembered that he’d been on his way over to talk to Patsy McCullough about Dawson when he got sidetracked talking to Casey. Talking? They’d been taking potshots at each other, the way they did everywhere but in bed.
It was downright discouraging. Looking around, he spotted Patsy once again, now sitting primly on a folding chair in the shade of a maple tree, a full paper plate balanced on her lap, though she didn’t look all that interested in food.
Walker had dropped Dawson off at home on his way to Boone and Tara’s place—the boy had had a fine time at the rodeo, but he’d declined the invitation to go on to the party, claiming, with all justification, that he was too tired.
It wasn’t the tiredness that troubled Walker, though; he could have used twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep himself, right about then. No, it was what the boy had said about Doolittle, who went along on the trip—that he thought the dog used to belong to Treat McQuillan, his mother’s current boyfriend. Dawson and his sister were getting attached to the critter when he just dropped off the radar—there one day, gone the next.
Dawson, who’d been spending a lot of time alone back then, having just gotten out of the hospital after yet another surgery, had missed the dog’s company, so he’d asked Treat where he was. Treat had evaded the question repeatedly, finally saying that “the mutt” had run off, and good riddance, since he’d turned out to be more trouble than he was worth.
The last thing Walker had wanted to do was give up Doolittle—they were true partners now—but what’s right is right, and he’d asked Dawson if he wanted the dog back. He’d been relieved, of course, when the boy shook his head no and said Doolittle was better off staying where he was.
Now, making his way toward Patsy, who smiled at passersby but didn’t make any noticeable effort to join the festivities, being famously shy by nature, Walker considered the obvious fact that Patsy had every right to date whoever she wanted, and her relationship with Treat was none of his or anybody else’s business. He didn’t even know what he was going to say to the woman, but he’d made up his mind to say something.
By his reasoning, if McQuillan would turn out a helpless dog, leaving it to fend for itself, how kind was he likely to be to Dawson and his little sister? Would they end up being “more trouble than they were worth,” as Doolittle had been? Would Patsy?
“Hello, Patsy,” Walker said, very quietly, when he reached her.
“Walker,” she replied with a cordial nod. “I guess you must have left Dawson off at home.”
“He was tired,” Walker said, affirming her assumption.
“It was good of you to take him with you,” Patsy offered. “I haven’t seen my boy so happy since before—before—” She fell silent, swallowed hard.
It was no wonder that the accident was hard for her to talk about, Walker figured. Most likely, the image of her son plunging off the water tower haunted her, waking and sleeping, and how did a person deal with the knowledge that Dawson would need more surgeries in the years to come, none of which would give him back the use of his legs?
Walker crouched, reached over and took Patsy’s thin, work-worn hand. Things were better for the McCulloughs, at least financially—the community had been generous, Casey included—but all that trouble would have scratched the shine off just about anybody’s spirit. She’d had a lifetime of it, even before Dawson got hurt.
“You holding up okay, Patsy?” he asked.
She didn’t pull her hand free, but she did look a mite uncomfortable. Was McQuillan the jealous type? Probably.
“Most of the time,” she answered. “Some days are harder than others, though.”
Walker let go of her hand but remained where he was, sitting on his haunches and looking up into her weary, resigned face. He’d made a sizable donation to Dawson’s medical fund, and he knew Brylee had, too, as well as the Barlows, the Carmodys, Boone and Tara, and others. Even the itinerant movie stars had sent hefty checks, though they rarely took part in anything that went on in Parable or Three Trees.
“Treat’s good with the kids?” Walker asked.
Patsy’s eyes immediately widened. “Who says he isn’t?” she immediately retorted.
“Nobody,” Walker said gently. “I was just wondering.”
“Why?” It was a demand. Patsy McCullough, normally so docile, so beaten down by bad husbands and hard times, was riled.
Walker let out his breath. “Dawson said there was a dog—”
“That dog ran away,” Patsy snapped. “They do that, Walker. It isn’t Treat’s fault.”
Walker stood up, glad he was a Montana cowboy and not an ambassador of some kind. With his talent for diplomacy, he’d likely have started World War III just by pissing somebody off at a cocktail party.
Before he could think of anything to say—anything that wouldn’t make matters worse, that is—Treat showed up, in uniform and obviously on the lookout for something to raise hell about. If the pompous-ass rent-a-cop didn’t find any trouble handy, Walker thought, he was likely to make some.
Walker would have welcomed a confrontation in any other setting, but this was Boone and Tara’s home-from-the-honeymoon party, and a brawl would not only spoil it, it would become the communal memory of the occasion, overriding everything good.
Patsy immediately leaped into the breach, shooting up from her folding chair and overturning her untouched food on the ground, her voice soft but nearly frantic. “Walker was just telling me that he and Dawson had a good time at the rodeo.”
Walker frowned. Was she scared of McQuillan? He couldn’t help recalling that night at the Boot Scoot Tavern, when the then-deputy had essentially manhandled Brylee after she refused to dance with him. Did Treat make a habit of pushing smaller, weaker people around?
“Isn’t that nice,” Treat said acidly.
“Now, Treat, don’t—” Patsy protested lamely.
“I’ll be on my way,” Walker put in, ignoring the chief of police and focusing on the lady. If he didn’t go, things were going to get ugly. “If you ever need anything, Patsy, call me. Dawson has my numbers.”
Treat’s color flared, as though there were an overheated engine inside his head, fixing to throw a rod. “If Patsy needs anything—” he seethed “—I’ll be the one she calls.”
People were starting to notice, turning toward them. Slade, Hutch and Boone, none of them fans of Treat McQuillan, started moving in their direction.
Patsy clutched Treat’s arm. “Take me home,” she pleaded, her voice quiet and quick. “Right now. My boy’s been gone for a while, and I want to see him.”
Treat’s Adam’s apple raced up and down the length of his neck like an elevator gone haywire, and his eyes bulged, but he finally gave in and, with stiff-spined dignity, squired Patsy toward the road, where his car was parked with lots of others.
Walker watched them go, troubled.
“Everything all right?” Boone asked, being the first one there. He might have been the bridegroom, but he was also the sheriff, and he took the job seriously.
“I hope so,” Walker answered, finally turning to face his friend.
Slade and Hutch joined them. Slade had been the sheriff of Parable County before Boone took office, and Hutch was the type to go ahead and deputize himself whenever he thought there might be a need for reinforcements. Whatever their differences over Brylee, and the infamous wedding-that-wasn’t, Walker liked Hutch Carmody.
Treat and Patsy roared off in his fancy new police car, throwing up a plume of dust behind them.
Slade shook his head, quietly disgusted, and returned to the party.
Boone went back to his bride, as any sane man would have done in his place, which left Hutch and Walker by themselves.
An awkward
development, to say the least.
Hutch laid his hand briefly on Walker’s shoulder, saying nothing, then turned and walked away.
Walker lingered a while, circulated among the other guests as best he could and kept one eye on Casey Elder the rest of the evening.
*
CASEY COULDN’T EVEN THINK about breakfast the next morning, so she sat at the table on the sunporch, her coffee untouched and her plate empty, watching Shane and Clare as they simultaneously bickered and consumed their oatmeal and fresh fruit.
So much for the brother-sister alliance.
Doris, in uniform and miffed because she prided herself on her cooking and got cranky when everybody didn’t choose to eat it, came and went from the kitchen with her carefully powdered nose in the air, her mouth tight and her eyes averted.
“I suppose you’d eat if Lupe had made breakfast,” she said, sniffing, on one swing through with the coffeepot.
Casey smiled sadly, getting the reference. Lupe had been Casey’s grandmother’s housekeeper and cook, and Doris knew that Casey adored the woman. When she was younger, Lupe and Juan had been more like family than her well-heeled grandparents. Some of the happiest days of her childhood, in fact, had been spent on Lupe’s father’s truck farm, in the Texas hill country, where he and the rest of his gigantic family had raised various vegetables and sold them at farmers’ markets and from various roadside stands throughout July and August and well into September.
Good-natured people, who spoke so little English that they always communicated with Casey through Lupe or Juan, the Garcias had taken Casey into the fold, treated her like one of their own, right down to the hoeing, weeding and harvesting.
She’d been proud to sell squash and tomatoes, lettuce and cabbage, cobs of corn still in their green husks, watermelons and asparagus and all the rest. If her grandparents, who traveled widely and chose to leave their sometimes unruly granddaughter in the care of the help, had known she was on the farm, wearing borrowed overalls and getting the knees grubby, digging potatoes and weighing produce and making change for passing strangers, they’d have had a fit.
Parable, Montana [4] Big Sky Summer Page 11
