“Prognosis?” Boone had asked, bracing himself for the answer.
Hale, clad in his customary summer garb, a white suit that made him look like a character in some fifties movie set in the Deep South, had shrugged his beefy shoulders, but they’d slumped noticeably when he lowered them again. He’d shaken his head, sighed. “If that young man comes through,” he’d replied, raspy-voiced, “he’ll be in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. No question about that, I’m afraid.”
It struck Boone then that a person could be shocked by something without being surprised. He’d known this was coming, and yet he felt sucker punched.
After a moment or two of private recovery, Boone had asked for the name of the hospital Dawson had been taken to, so he could check on the kid personally. After making a mental note, he’d bitten the proverbial bullet and said, “About the water tower—”
Hale had interrupted brusquely. “Heard about that, too,” he’d growled. “Damn it, Boone, why didn’t you step in? Accident or no accident, that water tower was the oldest structure in the county. It was a historical landmark, for God’s sake. The Parable Preservation Committee is going to peel off a strip of my hide when they find out it’s been torn down—and yours, too, unless I miss my guess.”
“The thing was a menace,” Boone had replied flatly. “I wasn’t sorry to see it fall, and I think most people around here would agree.”
Most. But definitely not all.
“You’ll change your tune when the complaints start rolling in,” Hale had retorted, gesturing with the cigar to drive home his point. “I’ll expect you to charge Hutch Carmody and the others with destruction of public property before this day is over, Sheriff. And you might want to think about turning in your resignation, too.”
Boone’s spine had stiffened. “Don’t hold your breath, sir,” he’d answered, stepping back through the mayor’s front gate onto the uneven sidewalk. “On either score.” With that, he’d turned to leave.
He’d felt the mayor’s furious gaze boring into his back as he returned to the cruiser.
Recalling the exchange as he pulled into the courthouse parking lot a few minutes later, Boone spotted the waiting media vans—how had the reporters gotten to Parable so fast?
With an inward sigh, he parked the cruiser in the usual slot, near the door to his office and the county jail adjoining it, and took his cell phone from its holder, affixed to his belt. He wouldn’t be getting off work in time to pick up the boys at the community center that afternoon, that much was a certainty. There would be reports to write, interviews to give, calls to make, concerned citizens to deal with.
He speed-dialed a familiar number.
After two rings, Joslyn Barlow answered the phone at Windfall Ranch, where she and Slade lived, and Boone reluctantly asked to speak to Opal. When she came on the line, he asked her to get Fletcher and Griffin from school when three o’clock came around and keep them with her until he could pick them up.
Bless her, Opal agreed right away, as he’d known she would. “And Boone?” she ventured, when he was about to say thank you and goodbye.
“What?” he asked wearily.
“It isn’t your fault, what happened today,” Opal said. “You couldn’t have kept that child from falling. Fact is, it’s a miracle nobody’s gotten hurt long before this.”
Boone let her words sink in. “Thanks for that,” he told her. “But I don’t think Mayor Hale and the Parable Preservation Committee see things quite the same way as you do.”
“Hannibal Hale,” Opal sputtered dismissively. “That old buzzard should have retired years ago!” For her, one of the kindest people Boone had ever known, this was a virtual outburst of anger. “Don’t you pay any mind to what he says. The sensible people in this town will understand, you can count on that. In fact, they’ll be grateful.”
Boone sighed again. He wondered if Patsy McCullough would be grateful—or hopping mad because that tower had been left to stand for decades after it should have been dismantled. “I hope you’re right,” he said, gazing through his dusty windshield at the crowd of newspeople and assorted locals bearing down on him.
They ended the call.
Boone got out of the car, shoved the door shut behind him and shouldered his way through the growing throng. The back entrance to the courthouse, and beyond that, his office, seemed to recede farther into the distance with every step he took; he might have been wading through knee-deep mud, so sluggish did his progress feel.
Several microphones were shoved into his face.
“Sheriff, is it true that you stood by and allowed the destruction of an historical monument?” asked a woman he recognized from the five o’clock news out of Missoula.
“Yes,” he said, still walking. “It’s true. But right now, I’m a lot more concerned about the seventeen-year-old boy who took a fifty-foot dive off the thing. Dawson’s undergoing emergency surgery right now, after all, and his condition is critical.”
The newscaster didn’t flinch, or even blink. “Shouldn’t the county have taken safety precautions?” she pressed. “Prevented this tragedy somehow?”
Hindsight, Boone reflected glumly, is always twenty-twenty.
“The water tower is—was—within the town limits of Parable,” Boone said, lengthening his stride, doing his best to move forward without shoving anybody out of his way. “Strictly speaking, it isn’t in the county’s jurisdiction.”
“Will charges be filed against the men who tore the tower down?” another reporter asked, shouting to be heard over the others, all of them clamoring for a scapegoat, somebody to take the blame.
What was it with these people? Boone wondered fractiously. Were they really more worried about some negligible “historical site” than the well-being of the community’s kids?
“Not if I have anything to say about it,” he bit out. Hutch and the other two men had broken the law, but Boone wasn’t about to arrest any of them. As far as he was concerned, they’d simply done what nobody else had had the guts to do.
Finally, he pushed open the side door and stepped into the corridor leading to his office, trailed by the crowd, only to be greeted by all six members of the historical preservation group, every one of them irate—and not all that well preserved themselves, in point of fact.
At least the dog, Scamp, was glad to see him, wriggling happily and licking at the toes of his boots. Boone bent, scooped up the animal, and figuratively dug in his heels.
* * *
“IT’S A GIRL,” Joslyn announced, bypassing “hello” completely, when she called Tara that evening. She and the girls were having supper on the front porch, watching Lucy chase end-of-the-day butterflies in the yard and enjoying the peace and quiet of a country evening. The resident noisemakers, the chickens, had retired into their coop for the night.
Tara felt such a rush of joy at the news—weary joy, since she and the twins had been working hard all afternoon—that her throat tightened and her eyes stung for a moment. “She’s healthy? The baby, I mean? And Kendra’s all right?” she managed to ask.
Overhearing, and immediately connecting the dots, Elle and Erin smiled.
“Baby and Mama are doing great,” Joslyn replied, with a soft laugh. “Hutch, on the other hand, seems to be in some kind of daze. So says my handsome husband, anyway. Slade just got home from the hospital a few minutes ago, and he filled me in on the details before he went out to the barn to feed the horses.”
“Does Baby Girl Carmody have a name yet?” Tara asked. A car went by on the road, slowed to turn in at Boone’s place, jostled over the cattle guard. She recognized the station wagon Opal drove.
“If she does, Hutch and Kendra aren’t telling,” Joslyn replied, a smile warming her voice. “We might not find out until the christening.”
Watching the goings on over at Boone’s as she listened, Tara saw Opal and the little Taylor boys as they got out of the station wagon, walking through the gathering twilight toward the double-wide. For r
easons she couldn’t have put a name to, the sight caused a tiny pinch in her heart.
“What a day this has been,” Tara said, thinking how strange life could be, brimming with happiness and sorrow, all of a piece. “Is there any word about—about the boy who was hurt over at the water tower?”
“Dawson came through surgery alive,” Joslyn replied, solemn now. “But things are still touch and go. Poor Patsy must be beside herself with worry.”
“Yes,” Tara agreed as the lights blinked on in the trailer across the narrow branch of the river. She sucked in a deep breath, squared her shoulders. “Thanks for letting me know about Kendra and Hutch’s baby, Joss. I’d love to see her, as soon as visitors are allowed.”
“Me, too,” Joslyn answered. “I’ll call when I find out—we can go together.”
After that, the two women said their goodbyes, and Tara turned to the girls to relay what they’d already gathered from her end of the conversation.
Elle and Erin listened closely, finished with their supper and casting glances in the direction of the double-wide.
“That’s awesome,” said Elle.
“Are we old enough to babysit?” Erin wanted to know.
“It is awesome,” Tara agreed. “As for the babysitting part—well, actually, no, I don’t think you’re quite old enough.”
There was a brief silence.
“Could we walk over and say hi to Opal and the rug rats?” Elle asked, first to change gears. “And take Lucy with us?”
Tara considered the request—all the while resisting a crazy urge to keep the twins close, like a hen sheltering chicks beneath its wings—and finally nodded her consent. Elle and Erin might not be grown-up enough to look after newborn babies, but they were twelve years old, capable of navigating one of the largest cities in the world, not only on foot, but via the buses and subway system, too. Besides, there was less than a quarter mile between her house and Boone’s, and most of it was clearly visible from her yard. “I guess,” she agreed aloud, gathering up plates and glasses and silverware to take back to the kitchen. “Just be careful, okay? And don’t stay longer than half an hour.”
After fetching a leash for Lucy and grabbing a flashlight “just in case,” Tara’s stepdaughters set out, taking the path that wound along the water’s edge instead of the road. There was a narrow place where someone had laid out boards as a makeshift bridge, and Tara watched as the girls went straight for it. Their voices floated back to her on a warm breeze scented with country smells—mud and grass, mostly, along with pine trees and sun-dried laundry and the faintest whiff of chicken manure.
Tara lingered on the porch, her hands full of supper dishes, watching with a love-swelled heart as the girls, on the fast track to womanhood, and the dog paused on the other side of the sliver of water to examine an old rowboat, half-sunken and mired in gluey mud.
She wondered fretfully if she should have gone along with them. Until today, she’d considered Parable an almost mystically safe place, but she’d been proven wrong, hadn’t she? Even here, terrible things happened, people got hurt—
She shook off the mental image of the water tower, and the long drop to the ground from its height.
Think about Hutch and Kendra’s baby, Tara told herself. Think about Elle and Erin, and what a blessing it is to have them here with you.
Soon, she went inside, carried the dishes to the kitchen sink and looked up Boone’s home number. Then she picked up the receiver on the wall phone and punched in the digits.
Opal answered with a cheery, “Sheriff Taylor’s residence. This is Opal Dennison speaking.”
Tara smiled, amused. “Hello, Opal Dennison,” she replied. “This is Tara Kendall. I’m just calling to alert you that Elle and Erin are on their way over even as we speak. They wanted to say hello to you and the boys.”
“That’s fine,” Opal said heartily. “Have they had supper?”
“Yes,” Tara answered. “We just finished eating.”
“That’s too bad,” Opal responded. “Griffin and Fletcher and I picked up a pizza in town, and I think our eyes were bigger than our stomachs. Rented a couple of movies, too. Would it be all right if the girls stayed for a while? The boys will enjoy the company and I’d be glad to drop them off at home later on when I leave.” She paused. “Of course, that won’t be until Boone turns up, and there’s no telling what time that’ll be.”
Tara was torn between a certain possessiveness—her time with Elle and Erin was limited, and she treasured every moment of it—and the need for a little solitude, so she could sort through some things.
“Tell you what,” she said, after some thought, “if Boone isn’t back by the time the second movie ends, call me, and I’ll come over and get Elle and Erin myself. Lucy’s with them, by the way—that’s all right, isn’t it?”
“Sure it’s all right,” Opal said, her voice as warm and motherly as a hug. To Tara and many other people, the woman represented everything that was good about Parable, Montana, and all the towns like it, and just talking to her made Tara feel more hopeful. “Here they are now, peeking in at me through the screen door.” Her voice changed as she turned from the receiver to call out a welcome. “You girls come on in, and bring that dog with you.”
Smiling, Tara thanked Opal, and they both said goodbye and hung up.
Alone for the first time since the twins had gotten off the airplane in Missoula, without even Lucy to keep her company, Tara stood very still, there in her empty kitchen, listening to the relative silence.
Her first response was a rush of loneliness, the achy kind that a homesick child feels at sunset. Clearly, solitude wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
Shaking off the feeling, she loaded the dishwasher, tidied up the kitchen, brewed herself a cup of herbal tea and returned to the porch, planning to sit on the steps for a while, watching the first stars pop out and enjoying the twilight songs of bugs, a few birds settling into their nests and the soft breeze.
Unfortunately, the mosquitoes were out in full force by then, and Tara was forced to retreat to her home office. There, she switched on her computer, waited for it to boot up and finally went online. So much for counting stars and generally communing with nature on the porch steps on a summer night. She was as much an internet junkie as anybody else.
There were emails awaiting her, including a cell-phone photo of Baby Girl Carmody bundled in her proud mother’s arms, a hospital-room shot, no doubt taken by an equally proud father. The message itself had been sent by Kendra, however, which must have meant she was recovering nicely. We’ll be home tomorrow. Come and see us, she’d written.
Tomorrow. Tara smiled and dashed off a quick Reply. She’s absolutely beautiful. What’s her name?
Not expecting an answer right away, she went on to her other emails, all of which had come in since that morning, and noticed there was one from James. Given that the subject line—I NEED A BIG FAVOR!—was written all in caps, the cyber equivalent of shouting, she knew she couldn’t have missed it when she scanned the list the first time. No, James’s email must have come in while she was admiring the photo of Kendra and the baby, which might mean he was still online.
Any contact with James Lennox unnerved Tara, especially when she wasn’t expecting it. He was effectively a stranger. But, then, that was nothing new. She’d never really known him at all, she reflected, even when they were married.
Bracing herself, she drew a deep breath—don’t say you want me to send the girls back to New York right away, she pleaded silently—and opened the message.
Getting married, James’s missive began, typically blunt. No caps, no punctuation. Evidently, he’d used up his supply of those writing the subject line. We’re thinking of a honeymoon cruise—around the world. It’ll take six weeks—any chance the twins could stay with you until school starts again, right after Labor Day?
Tara just sat there for a moment, staring at the screen. Sure, she was relieved that James wasn’t cutting Elle and Erin’
s visit short—more than relieved—but as far as she knew, the man hadn’t said anything to his daughters about getting married again. Was he expecting her to break such important news to them, so he wouldn’t have to?
The thought of her ex avoiding a huge responsibility like that one made Tara seethe—how could James be so callous, so selfish, so inconsiderate of his own children?
Be reasonable, Tara. You’re jumping to conclusions. Okay, so maybe James had told Elle and Erin what his plans were. But surely, if that was the case, the girls would have mentioned it to her, wouldn’t they? It wasn’t as if they were eager to acquire another stepmother, after all.
Slowly, Tara let out her breath. She hit Reply, waited a few beats and typed, Elle and Erin are welcome to stay here as long as they need to, of course. But do they know you’re getting married again?
She paused, afraid James would think she was jealous or hurt that he planned on remarrying—and nothing could have been further from the truth.
He responded almost immediately, confirming her suspicion that he’d been lurking, waiting for her answer. That’s great, he wrote. You’re great. By the way, I sent you a check today—you know, in case the kids need anything.
Do they know? Tara fired back.
It won’t come as a surprise, James hedged, after waiting so long that Tara was beginning to think he’d left his computer. She could picture him hunkered over the keyboard of the laptop he kept in his den.
You need to tell them, James.
Another long pause followed, then, I think they might take the whole thing better if they heard about it from you.
Tara rested her elbows on the edge of her desk, splayed her fingers wide, and shoved them into her hair as she lowered her head and indulged in a silent scream. Then, feeling slightly more composed, she answered, That isn’t fair to Elle and Erin, James. You’re their father. You’re getting married. You need to level with them—now.
Big Sky River Page 14
