Big Sky River

by Linda Lael Miller

  Lucy yipped and yelped exuberantly and broke away to run in circles around the now-crouching twins, her ears tucked back in that funny way, simply unable to contain herself in the face of such joy.

  Elle and Erin laughed at her antics, rising back to their feet, dusting bits of lawn grass off their jeans. Glancing warily back, in tandem, to make sure the chickens were still on the far side of the picket fence.

  “I think it’s safe to say Lucy likes you,” Tara observed.

  “Silly dog,” Erin said, with such fondness that Tara’s throat constricted. “Silly, wonderful dog.”

  Inside, Tara gave the twins a quick tour of the downstairs, Lucy following everywhere they went, panting with the lingering excitement of having guests—these humans were just full of delightful surprises, she seemed to be thinking—and then they all trooped up the back stairs, along the hallway and into their room.

  Tara had worked hard renovating that old house, and she was proud of it, but she knew a moment’s trepidation while she waited for the girls’ reactions to their very modest quarters.

  They lived in a very pricey penthouse, after all, with ten rooms and a spectacular view of the most exciting city in the world.

  “This is cool,” Elle finally said, one hand resting on Lucy’s golden head as she looked around.

  “Like being at camp,” Erin added cheerfully, tossing her backpack onto one of the twin beds. “Except fewer bunks.”

  “Goon-face,” Elle said benevolently, “it’s not like camp at all. The look is called ‘shabby chic,’ for your information.”

  Tara pretended she hadn’t heard the term “goon-face,” pointed out the door to the guest bathroom, and suggested the girls get themselves settled in while she went downstairs and made a pitcher of lemonade.

  They were flipping a coin for the first shower, evidently their go-to way of making minor decisions, Lucy watching them in fascinated adoration, when Tara left the room and returned to the kitchen, humming under her breath. Fifteen minutes later, she was sitting on the front porch, contentedly rocking in her favorite wicker chair and waiting to serve the lemonade, when Opal drove up in her tanklike station wagon, causing the previously calm chickens to squawk wildly and kick up clouds of fresh dust.

  Lucy, probably still enthralled with the goings-on upstairs, wasn’t there to bark a greeting.

  “Hello, there!” Opal sang, waving as she got out of the car.

  Two small boys scrambled from booster seats in the back, and Tara, who had seen the children a few times, usually at a distance, thought she would have recognized them even without previous encounters. Both of them looked like Boone in miniature, which meant they’d be heartbreakers for sure when they got older, though hopefully not arrogant ones, like their father.

  “Ms. Kendall,” Opal said, as the boys came to stand on either side of her, looking warily at the mob of clucking, pecking chickens surrounding them, “this is Griffin.” She laid a hand on the older boy’s shoulder, then did the same with the younger one. “And this is Fletcher.”

  Fletcher frowned at the chickens and moved closer to Opal. “Do those things bite?” he asked.

  “No,” Opal assured him. “They just make a lot of noise.”

  “Chickens don’t even have teeth,” Griffin informed his brother scornfully. “So how could they bite?”

  Tara met the visitors at the front gate, swinging it open, hugging Opal and then solemnly shaking hands with each of the boys in turn. “I’m very glad to meet you both,” she said. “And I know Elle and Erin will be, too.”

  “Who’s that?” Fletcher said, wrinkling his nose.

  “Thought we’d just stop by and say hello,” Opal explained, overriding the question. “We won’t stay long.”

  “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 t
heir 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.

  The tension seemed to abate a little, and she was just congratulating herself on the success of her front-porch peacekeeping mission when she saw a car turn in out by the mailbox.

  Specifically, a sheriff’s department squad car.

  Boone.

  Tara froze, irritated with herself for being surprised and, admit it, a tad electrified, too. Get a grip, she thought. The man lives next door. He probably saw Opal’s car here as he was passing by and decided to stop in, knowing his boys would be with her.

  The cruiser caused another chicken riot, which resulted in clouds of feather-speckled dust and a cacophony of fowl complaints. Boone opened the door, a wry half grin resting easy on his sexy mouth, and set his hat on his head as he got out.

  Tara almost expected to hear the twangy theme from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly as he shut the car door and ambled, in that loose-jointed way of men who are damnably comfortable in their own skin, toward the front gate.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Tara saw Griffin’s little-boy chest swell with a pride that clearly said, That’s my dad.

  “Another cowboy,” Erin said, in a fascinated whisper.

  “With a gun,” Elle added, sounding as awed as her sister.

  For some ridiculous and incomprehensible reason, Tara’s heart was racing, and her breathing was so shallow that hyperventilation seemed a very real possibility. She swallowed and smiled, raising one hand to shield her eyes from the afternoon sun.

  And the dazzle of a cowboy sheriff with a killer smile.

  Boone gave the brim of his hat a cordial tug and worked the latch on the gate. He looked tall enough to step right over the top of it, but he passed through it like a normal human being. Lucy, that traitor, scrambled to her feet and trotted down the porch steps toward him, toenails clicking, tail swinging like a big feather. The dog didn’t even bark.

  Boone chuckled and bent to pat Lucy’s head, then lifted his deep brown eyes to take in the greeting committee clustered under the shade of the sloping porch roof.

  It was the oddest thing, Tara reflected, then and long after, how time seemed to stop in that instant, as if the whole galaxy had paused, drawn in a collective breath and then started up again.

  “Hey, Dad,” Griffin called, breaking the silence.

  “Hey,” Boone responded gruffly, and though he was speaking to the child, his gaze was fixed on Tara. He looked confused, maybe even a little alarmed.

  Was she just imagining it, or had he felt the cosmic shift, too?

  Impossible, she decided as Opal stepped out onto the porch to join them.

  “Are we disturbing the peace, Sheriff?” she teased, grinning.

  Boone stopped in the middle of the walk, folded his muscular arms, and tilted his head ever-so-slightly to one side. A grin quirked one corner of his mouth as he pretended to consider the question. “Well,” he finally drawled, still looking at Tara, “one of you is surely doing that, but I don’t expect I’ll be filing charges anytime soon.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  TARA INVITED BOONE to join the gathering on her porch and have some lemonade. At least, he thought she had—he couldn’t be sure of that or much of anything else, standing there on her front walk the way he was, struck stone-cold stupid by the mere sight of her. And had he really just make that lame joke about how she was disturbing the peace?

  Tara was definitely disturbing his peace, but Opal, all four of the kids and the dog seemed calm enough.

  After an internal struggle that seemed to take half of forever, Boone gathered the wits to look away from T
ara’s slightly flushed face and say to his sons, “I guess we ought to go on home now.”

  “Supper’s waiting for you in the refrigerator,” Opal said, looking from Boone to Tara and back again, an impish little smile forming at one corner of her mouth. “All you’ve got to do is heat it up—I wrote the temperature on the foil. I’ll be at your place in the morning, around the same time I got there today.”

  Finally free from whatever had held them in statue formation, Griffin and Fletcher both started toward Boone, Griffin with a sort of restrained eagerness, Fletcher dragging his sneakered feet. His lower lip stuck out a little, too, and a lonely place deep in Boone’s heart flinched at the sight—the kid looked so small and so skinny, all knees and freckles, elbows and attitude.

  Was it possible to love somebody the way he loved these kids and survive?

  “Thanks for making supper and for offering to babysit again, Opal,” Boone said, finding his voice, still keenly aware of Tara and wishing he could ignore her, block her out of his awareness somehow, “but I’ve signed the boys up for the day-camp program over at the community center, and they’re expected first thing tomorrow.”

  Fletcher looked at him then, further rebellion gathering in that pug-nosed little face like thunderclouds in a glowering sky. There was a tantrum brewing, for sure.

  “Day camp?” Griffin asked seriously, not exactly balking, but not as friendly as before, either. “Or day care?”

  “Day care,” Fletcher said ominously, “is for babies.”

  “Like babysitting,” agreed Griffin.

  Boone suppressed a sigh, resettled his hat. No matter what he said, no matter how good his intentions, it was always wrong. “We can discuss all that later,” he said, his voice quiet and even, “at home. Right now, just get in the car, okay?”

  “It won’t be legal,” Griffin pointed out sagely, sizing up the cruiser. “Me and Fletcher need booster seats.”

  Shit, Boone thought. Was every conversation going to turn into a verbal tug of war? He wasn’t used to getting all this guff—he was the head honcho at work, after all, and there’d been no one at home to differ with him, either. Until now, that is.