“I’m scared,” Tara said, after a long and difficult silence.
Joslyn replied gently. “Don’t be,” she said. “This is a date, Tara—not a life sentence with no possibility of parole. Let go and enjoy the evening.”
“But—”
“You’re still scared,” Joslyn supplied with understanding. “That’s okay, Tara—Boone probably is, too. He’s no monk, but as far as I know, he hasn’t asked a woman out on an actual date since before he and Corrie were married. This is big.”
Tara did not want to deal with “big,” or the concept of a dead wife, either. “Were you scared when you and Slade first got together?”
“No,” Joslyn said. “I was terrified, and so was Slade, though he probably wouldn’t have admitted as much.”
Tara got a little of her sass back. “It isn’t helping, you know,” she said, flustered, “the way you keep drawing parallels between you and Slade and Boone and me. This isn’t the same thing at all.”
“If you say so,” Joslyn answered, practically singing the words. When she went on, she was her usual reassuringly affable self. “Let’s get together for lunch this week—you and Kendra and me, and Casey, too, if she can make it. Have ourselves some girl-time.”
“Sounds good,” Tara said, because it did. Of all the friends she’d made in her life, Joslyn and Kendra were two of the best, and Casey was fast becoming a part of the group. “Do you think Kendra’s up for going out? It’s pretty soon, after all.”
“Are you kidding me?” Joslyn retorted happily. “She’s one of those insufferable women who can give birth in the morning and go bungee jumping in the afternoon.”
This time it was Tara who laughed, and the sudden release of so much tension left her a little dizzy. On this note, she and Joslyn ended the call.
The girls had finished feeding the chickens and were moving toward her, smiling tiredly, a pair of city kids rapidly going country, faces dirt-streaked, clothes in dire need of washing.
Neither of them had said a single word about James and Bethany’s wedding, to which they were clearly not invited, nor about James himself. Their silence on the subject of this momentous change in their lives troubled Tara, hard as she tried not to worry so much. She would have felt better if they’d cried, or flown into a fit of temper and spouted fury. At least then she could have comforted them.
Her dizziness subsided, she stood, watching her girls.
As it was, she had to guess at what they were thinking and feeling, sensing as she did that asking them outright, for the moment at least, would be tantamount to poking at a fresh wound.
So she would wait and watch for an opening in their combined shells, and trust that things would work out okay in the long run, though she was afraid to engage too deeply or too often in certain hopes—that James would let the twins stay with her and attend classes in Parable this year, for instance, instead of insisting on boarding school.
But James was anything but predictable—he might be so wrapped up in his new marriage that he didn’t want to be bothered with a pair of preteen girls at all. Leaving them with Tara would be an easy out—write a few checks, send a few superficial emails or texts, parent his children from a comfortable distance.
On the other hand, as image-conscious as he was, James might want to play the part of devoted husband and father, the professional man who had it all, fabulous career, loving family. Not that the charade would keep him from sending Elle and Erin away to some expensive and august learning establishment, because his personal convenience was even more important to James than outward appearances were, but he’d manage to come off looking like Dr. Wonderful just the same.
He was handsome, he was rich, he was confident. So what if he was an inch deep, all reflection and no substance?
Unlike Boone Taylor, a complicated man full of mysteries.
“You look sad,” Erin commented when she and Elle reached the place where Tara stood, lost in thought.
She summoned up a determined smile. “I was just thinking hard,” she said, and though the statement was deceptive, it wasn’t exactly a lie. “That’s all.”
Just then, laughter floated from across the slice of river between her place and Boone’s, and something leaped inside her. She turned to see Boone and his boys standing on the opposite bank, brandishing fishing poles.
“Do you think Mr. Taylor would let us try to catch a fish?” Erin asked, her tone as wistful as her gaze. They were on the outs with James, temporarily, Tara hoped, but in that moment both her stepdaughters showed distinct signs of daddy-envy.
Tara hesitated, watching Boone with his young sons, and smiled. She doubted that either twin would make it past baiting the hook, but maybe she was wrong.
“There’s only one way to find out,” she said. “Ask him.”
With that, both Elle and Erin were off, running toward the gleaming strand of water, Lucy galloping tirelessly behind them.
Tara followed, at a much more sedate pace, nervous about another encounter with Boone after their conversation at Bernie’s, but refusing to give in to cowardice by hanging back.
Boone looked up and saw her approaching, and he grinned a slow, sexy grin as he handed off his fishing pole to Elle, who was first on the scene. Showing all the symptoms of a little-boy crush, Griffin offered his fishing rod to Erin and began instructing her in the fine art of casting and reeling in.
Tara crossed the board bridge carefully, her arms folded against the slight chill of the evening, and Boone waited for her on the other side.
“I hope we’re not intruding,” she said.
Boone shook his head from side to side, just once, watching her with an unreadable expression in his eyes. His dog, Scamp, frolicked at his side, while Lucy stayed with the children, as if afraid they’d fall in and drown if she wasn’t vigilant.
When the girls finally went back to New York, Tara reflected, with a pang, poor Lucy would be lost.
Elle squealed suddenly, and both Boone and Tara turned to see her holding the fishing pole high, a shimmering catch at the end of the line. Boone walked over, deftly freed the fish and tossed it back in the river.
Elle and Erin both gazed at him in adoration. They were in the market for a hero, and it looked as though Boone Taylor was elected.
“We always throw them back,” Griffin explained importantly.
Tara looked at Boone, mildly surprised. She wouldn’t have pegged him for the sensitive type, at least where catching fish was concerned.
“Why catch them in the first place?” Erin asked, puzzled.
Good question, Tara thought.
“Because it’s fun,” Griffin told Erin, with exaggerated patience.
“Oh,” Erin replied, and handed her pole back to Fletcher. Evidently, her fascination with the sporting life was short-lived. Elle, on the other hand, wanted to try again.
Soon, Griffin, Fletcher and Elle, along with both dogs, formed a busy little huddle on the bank, while Erin sat nearby in the grass, her arms around her upraised knees, her head tilted back so the last dazzle of sunlight warmed her face.
Easily, Boone took Tara’s hand, led her a little ways back from the water, and the two of them sat down on an old log, keeping an eye on the kids.
Tara didn’t exactly pull her hand free of Boone’s after they were seated, but she definitely withdrew it.
“Tell me about before,” Boone said presently.
She knew he wasn’t asking about her career, or what it was like growing up in a place like New York City. He was asking about her life with James. The remarkable thing was, she didn’t mind answering.
She bunched her shoulders, then unbunched them again, with a sigh and a flicker of a smile, because the kids and the dogs were having such a good time, laughing and chattering and trying to catch fish. “It’s not a very interesting story, really,” she said, conscious of Boone close beside her, aware of his solid strength and the peaceful set of his broad shoulders. They weren’t quite touching, but it was
almost as good, for Tara, at least. “I was in love with a dashing young doctor, and the dashing young doctor was madly in love with himself, and there was no winning him over, though God knows, I tried.” She sighed again, interlaced her fingers in her lap, deliberately relaxed them. “I knew it wasn’t going to work, but I just couldn’t seem to give up,” she added after a few moments, her gaze resting on the twin reasons for staying with James as long as she had.
“They’re great kids,” Boone said.
Tara nodded. “I wish they were mine,” she said.
“They seem to think of you as their mom. You’re good with them, Tara.” There was something faintly sad about Boone’s remark.
“Thanks,” Tara said, turning her head at last, taking in his profile.
Joslyn was right on all counts, she concluded. Boone Taylor was one hot cowboy-sheriff, and she was scared to death of him.
Why? Because if she wasn’t very, very careful, she could care about him, care deeply and, yes, passionately. Ever since the divorce from James she’d managed to convince herself that her safe and peaceful life, with her fractured heart thickly swathed in pride and independence, was enough.
But it wasn’t. The thing was, just the thought of loving again felt so risky that it almost took her breath away.
“What was Corrie like?” she asked gently, after a long but not uncomfortable silence had unfolded itself between them. “I mean, I know the surface details, that she was really pretty and everyone liked her and then she got terribly sick, but that isn’t the same as knowing her.”
Boone didn’t speak for so long that Tara thought he was going to get up and walk away from her without a word, rejoin the kids on the riverbank, pretend they hadn’t had this conversation at all.
Then, gravely, he replied, “She was funny, full of life, always up for whatever came next. We had our share of dustups, there’s no denying that—Corrie tended to throw things at me when she was mad and I could go three days without talking to her, knowing full well that it drove her crazy—but we were still, well, partners. We were both in for the long haul, right from day one. Giving up wasn’t an option.”
Tara smiled softly. She’d wanted, even expected to have that kind of forever-relationship with James, but, looking back, she could see that there’d never been any chance of that. James had loved himself, but she’d been no better, really, because she’d loved the idea of him, the potential he never quite reached, the husband and father he could have been but never was.
She’d loved Elle and Erin, a pair of cherubic, motherless toddlers, from the very beginning, though. Now, she realized how perilously easy it would be to take Griffin and Fletcher into her heart the same way, accepting their father as part of the deal. She was on dangerous ground, she decided.
Very dangerous ground.
CHAPTER TWELVE
WHEN THE MOSQUITOES came out and sunset was spilling purple shadows over the horizons on all sides, Boone rose from the rough-barked log near the water, where he’d been sitting beside Tara for much too long—and not nearly long enough—and held out his hand to her for the second time that evening.
She didn’t need his help standing up, of course, but there was still such a thing as common courtesy, and Boone had been well schooled in that, first by his mother and then by his older sister, who had appointed herself Mama-Two, the sequel.
When Tara hesitated, then slowly placed her palm on his, he was quietly pleased—pleased and scared shitless, like somebody trapped on a carnival ride with a maniac at the controls.
“Time to call it a day,” Boone told his kids, who were swatting at bug bites and starting to bicker, a sure sign that they were tired and probably hungry, to boot. They’d need supper, a bath and bedtime prayers, in that order.
Tara backed him up, over a chorus of protesting groans from all four of the children. “Thanks for letting Elle and Erin try their hand at fishing,” she said. She’d softened toward him, Boone could tell that, but she seemed a little wary, too. Like she’d enjoyed their time together but still couldn’t get away quickly enough.
Boone could relate to the dilemma. The urge to kiss her was overwhelming, and if the twins and his boys hadn’t been there, he probably would have given in to the temptation. Inside, he was still reeling, out of control, roller-coaster-run-amok stuff.
“You’re welcome,” he finally found the presence of mind to reply. Then, in a gruff and hasty undertone, he added, with an abruptness that made the tops of his ears burn, “Remember, a deal’s a deal.”
Tara looked up at him, frowning slightly, making him want to touch the tip of an index finger to the little crease in her brow, smooth it away. “I beg your pardon?” she asked, with a note of caution in her voice.
Boone sighed, frustrated with himself. He’d never had a way with women, like his friends Hutch Carmody and Slade Barlow did, never learned how to flirt or make small talk because he and Corrie had both been so young when they had hooked up, and being together had always been enough. “I was just thinking you might back out—of going to the concert with me, I mean.”
Amusement brightened her eyes and her highly kissable mouth crooked up at one side. “I’m a woman of my word, Boone Taylor,” she said. Then she frowned again, as some wayward thought had just struck her like a tiny meteor. “Won’t you have to work the night of the concert, though? You are the sheriff, after all, and a chance to hear Casey sing is bound to attract people from all over Montana, if not Idaho and Washington, too. What about crowd control and all that?”
Boone realized he’d clamped his back teeth together and deliberately relaxed his jaws. The truth was, he’d forgotten all about his job, all about everything except the way this woman looked and smelled and how her hand felt in his.
He was up for a lot more touching.
“I’ll figure something out,” he said. If it kills me.
The kids had gathered the fishing poles into a tepee formation by then, and even the dogs looked worn-out, tongues lolling, heads and tails drooping.
Tara simply nodded, as though satisfied with Boone’s answer, and after that, the two families went their separate ways, Tara and the twins and the golden retriever walking back toward her place, and Boone, his sons and Scamp back to the double-wide.
Walking toward it in the twilight, Boone couldn’t help noticing how much his home looked like a big metal box, left out in the weather for too long. It almost seemed to be hunkered down in the deep grass, settling into the earth, like it was trying to dissolve itself, atom by rusted-over atom.
He wanted to look back, watch Tara and her crew until they were safely across the spit of river and climbing the slope toward the farmhouse, but some instinct prevented him from doing so. If there was trouble, he reasoned, one if not all three of the females would probably let out a holler to alert him.
They didn’t.
“Are you and Ms. Kendall going out on a date?” Griffin asked bluntly, a full hour after Boone had fed them a boxed mac-and-cheese supper with cut-up wieners added for protein, overseen their nightly bath and finally tucked them into bed.
Boone rubbed his chin, feeling the stubble of a late-day beard and wondering if he’d looked seedy to Tara, down there by the river. “Now why would you ask a question like that?” he stalled.
“You held her hand,” Fletcher put in with alacrity.
“And both of you sat real close together on that log,” Griffin elaborated.
“I like her,” Boone finally admitted. He had to give them something, after all, or they’d just keep on pestering him till the cows came home. Which would be a long time, given that he didn’t own any cattle.
Griffin smiled broadly, pleased. More surprisingly, so did Fletcher.
“She’s nice,” said the younger boy.
“And pretty,” said Griffin.
“Is this conversation going anywhere in particular?” Boone asked with a tired grin. “Or are you two just trying to get out of saying your prayers and going to sleep?�
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“We’re just saying,” Griffin told him airily. Boone wondered if they’d discussed the Dad-Tara situation between themselves, and if so, what they’d said.
Suddenly, as if on cue, both boys clasped together their hands and tightly squeezed their eyes shut. Prayer time.
“Thank You, God, for the fun we had fishing with our dad,” Fletcher said earnestly. “And for letting Scamp come to live with us.”
Boone’s throat tightened a little.
“And please give us a new mom,” Griffin requested. “Our old one is up there with You, but I guess You know that already. Ms. Kendall would be perfect for the job, because she has a nice house and lots of chickens and she makes good cookies.”
Boone squeezed the bridge of his nose between a thumb and forefinger and closed his eyes for a moment. Not only did the kids want a mom—he hadn’t had a clue—but they’d already picked her out. And he hadn’t missed the “nice house” reference, either.
He waited for the amens to ring out before he cleared his throat and said carefully, “You might be putting the cart before the horse when it comes to signing Tara—Ms. Kendall—on for mom-duty.”
“Aunt Molly says God likes to hear about stuff we want,” Griffin said, unfazed.
“And we want a mommy,” Fletcher chirped. A pause. “Aunt Molly’s like a mom, but she’s not our mom. We have to share her with our cousins and, anyway, she’s in Missoula and that’s far.”
Kids, Boone thought, as winded as if the business end of a ramrod had just barreled into his solar plexus. They can land a sucker punch without lifting a hand. “You won’t be going back to Missoula,” Boone told his children kindly, but in a matter-of-fact tone of voice, “except for visits every now and again. And that won’t be for a while, because your uncle needs some serious mending time.”
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