Eric’s tone wasn’t bragging, just firm.
“That’s good to know,” Nathan said. Only years of not-blinking in court kept him from swearing, but once he reached his corner office, he did just that.
“Damn,” he muttered, tossing his briefcase atop the stacks of folders, files and briefs that still needed his attention. Of all the legal firms in all the cities of the west coast, why did GroWell have to pick his? Nathan didn’t like the movie Casablanca, but he’d seen it twice to humor his wife, and suddenly he was feeling a lot of sympathy for Humphrey Bogart.
CHAPTER THREE
CASEY WANTED TO hate the car.
But she couldn’t.
The Lexus drove like a dream. The leather seat cushions were sinfully comfortable, the controls exactly where they should be, her visibility kingly. And something about the vehicle reminded her of learning to drive behind the wheel of her father’s truck, a cantankerous Ford F-100. Flat-out the most disreputable-looking heap of junk on the road, that truck had made her feel in control of her destiny.
A complete illusion, of course. Not three months after her driving lesson, she was on a plane for Boston to live with her aunt, who made her take driver’s training from a company that specialized in teaching young girls. Casey’s teacher had been an overweight, bald man who bathed in Calvin Klein cologne. She’d passed the test, procured her license then didn’t get behind the wheel again until college.
No wonder I’m such a lousy driver, she thought, reaching down to turn up the stereo. I never get any practice.
She didn’t think that was going to be a problem any more. In California, everyone drove. As evidenced by the number of cars on State Highway 132, which linked I-5 to Highway 99, the main two arteries running the length of the state from north to south.
Whoever had installed the presets of the channel selector must have fixed them on Bay area stations. Once she passed the sprawling city of Tracy, all that came in was static. She hit the scan button and stopped it at the first clear station. Country-Western. She hadn’t listened to the music in years, but still felt a soft spot for it in her heart. She and her best friend, Sarah Myerson, had grown up singing along to the sad, crazy, broken-heart tunes.
After the song was over, two voices picked up a dialogue that obviously had been going on before Casey started listening.
“We’re taking calls from listeners on the topic of dating ethics. Miss Priss here maintains that women never date a friend’s ex, while men show no such restraint whatsoever. Is this true? Give us a call. Enquiring minds want to know.”
“No,” Casey said vehemently. “Absolutely not true. Female friends are every bit as lascivious as male friends. I speak from experience.”
“Here’s Mike in Bakersfield. What’s your take on this topic, Mike?”
“I married my best friend’s ex-wife.”
“His wife? Wow. How’s that working out? Does he still talk to you?”
“Sure. We see each other socially. He’s remarried, now. It’s not a problem. They got married for the wrong reasons and once she was free, I made my move.”
“There you go. All’s well that ends well, I guess,” the male commentator said with a chuckle.
His female counterpart spoke. “That’s just the man’s point of view. Notice the lack of women callers. We don’t do that kind of thing. It’s not kosher.”
“Damn right,” Casey muttered. “But that doesn’t mean some women don’t do it. Sarah sure as heck swooped in on Jimmy once I was out of the picture.”
And now they’ve got a baby on the way.
Another song came on just as traffic from some road work picked up requiring her full attention. She tuned out the voices on the radio and in her head until the next caller—a woman—started to speak.
“You’re wrong. It does happen. Not often, but there are women out there who don’t have any integrity. They’ll take any guy who shows them a little attention—even their best friend’s ex. I know. It happened to me. I not only lost my boyfriend, but my best friend, too. That’s what really makes it so hard to get past. The hurt lasts a long time. Way past the point where you could give a rat’s behind about the guy.”
Casey chuckled and nodded. “Isn’t that the truth?”
She and Jimmy had broken up before Casey had left for Boston. She’d done the honorable thing, the right thing, and set him free. She’d known he wasn’t the type to write letters, nor could she expect a gorgeous young cowboy like Jimmy to wait. She’d been reasonable, practical and grown-up. But her fifteen-year-old heart never completely forgot, nor quit dreaming about him—his kiss, his smile.
Casey was still a virgin when she arrived in Boston, but she and Jimmy had shared something special and unique. First love. And Casey had expected her best friend—the person who knew “everything” about her relationship with Jimmy from first look to first kiss—to understand and respect that.
And Sarah had for a while. She and Casey wrote faithfully every week at first. Then every month. Eventually, they sent holiday greeting cards, usually with a photo or two. Then those stopped, too.
Casey found out about Sarah and Jimmy when she came home for Christmas her senior year. A mutual “friend” was quick to tell all. The two had been an item ever since the homecoming dance that fall. Sarah had created quite a stir by bringing a date who wasn’t a student. A cowboy two years older than her.
Casey never talked to her friend again. She learned of the couple’s engagement and subsequent marriage through Red, who seemed to have completely forgotten that Jimmy was the boy in the hayloft with his daughter. Jimmy continued to work for her father, earning the title of foreman. Red often spoke highly of Sarah, who seemed to fill the role Casey had planned for herself with impossible style and grace.
As always, Casey was the odd man out. And now, she was on her way home. To somehow save the day. Unfortunately, Casey had been so sure she’d never return to California to live she hadn’t bothered to take the bar exam in her home state when she had the chance.
Now, she couldn’t have argued on her father’s behalf in court even if she wanted to, and she wasn’t totally certain she did. As the call-in people on the radio could attest, old grievances were often the most enduring.
“OH, MY LORD,” Casey whispered under her breath an hour later as she mentally tallied the number of cars and pickup trucks parked in Red’s long, eucalyptus-lined driveway. “Everybody for thirty square miles must be here.”
So much for the quiet reunion she’d envisioned. She wondered why Red hadn’t warned her that there would be a crowd here. “Well, duh,” she muttered. “Why do you think?” Because he knew she would have put off coming. For being an absentee father most of her life, Red still knew her well. Too well.
She eased the Lexus over the bridge that crossed an irrigation spillway Casey had always euphemistically called a creek. Every spring, she and Sarah had floated on air mattresses from the house through the pasture to the main road where Red’s barn was located. On days like this, Casey noted, looking around.
Not much had changed from the last time she was here. The house could use a paint job, but Red was good about hiring help to maintain the general appearance of the place. Always had been. Probably because Casey’s mother had insisted on it.
Abby Buchanan had grown up with money. The daughter of a prosperous Wyoming rancher, she’d gone against her parents’ wishes and married an upstart cowboy who swept her off her feet and took her to California. Casey had loved hearing her father’s stories about the early years when they’d struggled. He’d made it sound glamorous. But her aunt had set Casey straight when she moved to Boston.
“Your mother worked her bottom off just to keep them out of the poorhouse. It wasn’t until your father swallowed his pride and borrowed enough money to buy a small ranch that they began to prosper. And that probably wouldn’t have happened if not for you.”
“Me?”
“As soon as your mother found out she was pregnan
t, Red called our father and mended enough fences to buy Willow Creek. Frankly, I never thought Red would settle down long enough to make a go of it, but Abby couldn’t have been happier. Not that she ever complained about traipsing around the rodeo circuit. As far as your mother was concerned, Red Buchanan could do no wrong.”
Not for the first time, Casey wondered how differently things would have turned out if her mother and baby brother had lived. But wishing had never gained her much in the past, so she put aside the “what-ifs” and got out of the car.
Her cream-colored, silk-blend slacks looked deceptively casual, yet elegant. She’d rolled back the sleeves of her navy blouse far enough to display a refurbished gold-and-diamond watch she’d purchased from her favorite “junk” dealer in Boston. Casey didn’t think of herself as vain but she’d dressed with care for this meeting. Meg always said the right clothes were as good as armor.
She stepped away from the vehicle and studied the small black remote in her palm to make sure she pressed the right button. She sure as heck didn’t want to set off the alarm. Her thumb depressed the button and she started to drop the key in her purse just as a sudden baying made the hair on the backs of her arms rise.
“Oh, God,” she said with a groan. “The dogs.”
Lifting her gaze, she watched as four beasts charged out from the wraparound deck. Mud. Paw prints on silk. Nuts. Nuts. Nuts.
Casey frantically withdrew the key again and dove for the door latch. The car gave a little jolt and a siren wailed a woo-woo-woo in harmony with the barking.
She spun around to face the animals. “No,” she shouted, holding her arm out straight. Like that would do any good. Everyone knew that while Red might be a good rancher, as a dog trainer, he was worthless.
She closed her eyes and crouched against the car to minimize the damage. She had other clothes in her suitcase, but this was by far her best outfit and now she’d walk into the gathering looking like something the dogs hauled in from the field.
A sudden, crisp whistle pierced the air.
The barking stopped.
Casey straightened and looked over her shoulder. The four drooling beasts—a deerhound, a chocolate Labrador with a graying muzzle and two mixed breeds—all vaguely familiar to her, sat frozen, eyes turned toward a tall, lanky cowboy who descended the steps of the porch with casual grace.
“Jimmy?” she croaked, her voice a high-pitched squeak that made her face heat up. This wasn’t the way she’d imagined meeting her old flame—nearly treed by her father’s ill-mannered dogs.
“Hi, Case,” Jimmy said, his tone huskier than she remembered. Of course, the last time she saw him he’d been a boy. Now, he was a man. A gorgeous hunk of a man.
Why couldn’t he be balding and bowlegged as she’d hoped? Instead, his dark-blond hair was brushed away from his face, the sides and back short to accommodate a hat, no doubt. Her father wore his hair in the same style, although Red’s waves were pure white.
“Your dad said to keep a lookout for you in case the dogs tried to ambush you. I had them locked in the mudroom, but they must have escaped.”
Casey turned off the car alarm and started toward the house, detouring to avoid the quartet that squirmed and whined, obviously waiting for a word from the man. “I truly appreciate the rescue. I have a feeling mud and drool are the two things that would never come out of these pants.”
“That would be a shame, since they look so good on you.”
The compliment surprised her. This adult Jimmy possessed a polish and confidence his youthful counterpart would have killed for. The Jimmy she’d known had been tongue-tied around girls and excruciatingly shy—two traits she’d found utterly endearing.
In an attempt to avoid the things that needed to be said between them, she smiled her thanks then asked, “Who are these mutts?”
“Jonesy, Dufus, Cry Baby and Rose,” he said, pointing to each one. The dogs gave him a look that could only be described as devotion.
“Are they your official fan club?” she asked when she reached the steps.
He shrugged casually. “Your father made me take them to obedience class after they treed the UPS guy. Now, we’ve bonded.”
Jimmy moved to one side as she mounted the stairs, her hand gripping the worn railing. “I’m guessing Red has quite a crowd in there.”
He nodded. “Half the membership of the farm association, I figure.”
“I wish I’d known. I’d have chosen another time to come.”
His wry grin confirmed what she suspected.
“Which is why Red failed to mention that he was holding a meeting here today.”
“That would be my guess, but you know your dad. He plays his cards close to his chest.”
Casey had heard that saying for years but she’d failed to understand how apropos it was—not just to her father, but to the man she married as well. Nathan kept things bottled up inside him and avoided her attempts to bring his feelings out in the open. She’d find herself stifling her emotions in return. She often likened it to living next to an active volcano—look out when it blows.
Red, on the other hand, let loose his pent-up emotions on a regular basis—yelling, stomping his feet, slamming doors, reducing his housekeeper to tears or driving his daughter into the open arms of the first handsome young man who professed to love her. Nathan was far too civilized to yell. He just kept everything inside, and, like Casey, ate far too many antacids.
“I suppose it’s too late to turn around and run,” she said, her hand on the levered door handle.
“I don’t think the dogs would like that.” His obvious humor kept the words from sounding like a threat.
Casey smiled despite her sudden attack of nerves. Good thing she’d skipped breakfast or her stomach might be giving her trouble. She righted her shoulders and took a deep breath. “Legs don’t fail me now,” she murmured.
Jimmy must have heard because his low chuckle followed her indoors. But he didn’t. Before closing the door behind her, he said, “Good luck. I have to check on Mother and her new brood. If Red asks, I’ll be back in an hour or so. And I’m taking the dogs with me in case you need anything from your car.”
Casey found it odd that Jimmy would duck out in the middle of a meeting, but she kept her opinion to herself. She followed the sound of voices down the short hallway to what her parents had called the family room—a vast open space that included the kitchen and dining areas, plus a seven-foot hearth and cathedral ceiling with skylights.
As she scanned the room, picking out more familiar faces than she’d expected to find after so long an absence, her gaze fell on one person she hadn’t expected to find. Sarah. Coffee carafe in hand, the very pregnant woman was refilling the cup of an older woman who looked vaguely familiar. Except for her rounded belly and faint smudges under her eyes, Sarah looked just the same—sweet, charming, easy to love. Her trademark Julia Roberts smile was firmly in place. Too firmly?
Casey brushed the thought aside. Sarah and Casey had been best friends from the day the Myersons had rented a mobile home from Red on a nearby quarter of land, but even after Sarah’s father was elected sheriff and the family moved into town, the girls remained close. Distance couldn’t come between the two.
No, it took more than mere miles to end their friendship. It took a boy. Jimmy.
And now, something was wrong between Sarah and Jimmy. Casey didn’t have any details because her father was a deplorable source of gossip, but when she’d asked who was living in the guest house, Red had muttered, “Jimmy. For now. And that’s all I’m going to say about it.”
Sarah straightened and put her free hand to her lower back. The cotton of her lilac-colored maternity top draped lovingly around her pregnant belly. A prickle of tears made Casey look away sharply.
“We can’t burn ’em out ’cause nothing’s built yet,” a man in a sweat-stained Ducks Unlimited ball cap said.
His voice was vaguely familiar, but Casey couldn’t place a name with the ma
n’s corpulent face.
“Now, let’s not promote violence when there’s a deputy present,” Casey’s father said. Then he slapped his knee and pointed. “Oh, wait, that was Deputy Franklin speaking.”
Jerry Franklin? District all-team quarterback when I was a freshman? Casey suddenly felt old.
Everyone laughed, including Jerry.
Someone at Red’s elbow whispered something to him and pointed in her direction. Her father’s impressive shock of white hair turned her way, drawing a matching response from the majority of the people in the room.
“Casey T.,” Red boomed. “You made it.” He moved his arm like Moses parting the Red Sea and a path materialized. “Everybody. You remember my daughter, Casey, don’t you? She’s a lawyer now, and she’s come to save us from the turkey menace.”
Casey tried not to groan and roll her eyes. She was nobody’s savior. That was Nathan’s strong point—bailing companies out of trouble with the IRS, helping affluent young sons and daughters of wealthy families beat their raps, screwing the deserving public out of millions of tax dollars. Casey’s clients were remote parcels of land that deserved to be recognized as valuable wetlands or pristine prairie or whatever made it special in the eyes of the environmental community.
“Hi, everyone,” she said with a quick wave.
A muffled clapping sound made her cheeks turn hot, but she kept her chin up, knowing one set of eyes belonged to Sarah. She walked to her father and gave him a hug. Red Buchanan was a bear of a man—larger than life and full of energy. She’d never known him to back down from a fight and wasn’t surprised that he could engender this kind of support for his cause.
A Baby on the Way Page 4
