Scamp looked up at him, gave a sympathetic whimper and wagged his tail once.
The door opened again and Boone turned, expecting to see McQuillan, wanting to rant some more, or Mayor Hale with another demand for Hutch Carmody’s arrest.
But it was Tara standing there, her face glowing. She clutched a paper in her hand, some sort of document, and waved it like a flag of triumph.
“James is going to let the girls stay with me—indefinitely!” she crowed. “Maggie Landers happened to be in the café at the same time we were, and she drew up a preliminary custody agreement then and there!”
If Tara was happy, Boone was happy.
He crossed to her, lifted her by the waist and spun her around in a laughing circle. “How did that happen?” he asked, setting her down but still holding her close against him.
“I was right about the social-media thing. The school isn’t going to take Elle and Erin because they’re afraid they’ll run away again.” She paused, sobered a little. “They’re probably right about that, I’m afraid.”
“But the bottom line is the twins are staying right here in Parable,” Boone supplied.
Tara nodded happily. “Indefinitely,” she said, tearing up a little.
And then he kissed her.
She melted against him. “I’ve never made love in a jail cell,” she crooned after the kiss.
Boone laughed. “I’d call that a good thing,” he said. “And I don’t want to be a wet blanket or anything, but this isn’t going to be your first time.”
Tara pouted prettily. “Don’t you want me?”
“Like a brush fire wants dry grass,” Boone answered huskily, “but it’ll have to wait.”
There was no telling how long the wait would be, since they’d agreed that lovemaking was out when the kids were around, which was pretty much all the time, at least until after they were married. And Boone was partial to beds when it came to sex, though a grassy meadow or the backseat of a car—a private car, not his cruiser—would probably fit the bill, too.
“Slow and steady,” Boone murmured, kissing Tara’s nose. “That’s how we’re going to play this, lady.”
Tara twinkled up at him, her arms around his neck, her hips grinding slightly against him.
No hat was going to cover this hard-on.
“That’s how I like it,” she teased, her tone sultry, her scent making him light-headed. “Slow and steady.”
“Then I’m your man,” Boone told her.
She smiled and kissed him, quickly but with sizzle. “Keep that in mind,” she answered. “At least for the next fifty years or so.”
EPILOGUE
Concert Night
COME SATURDAY AFTERNOON, as he made a few rounds in his cruiser before turning his badge over to Slade Barlow for the night, Boone could have sworn he felt a sort of thrumming in the air, the pre-echo of music, heavy on the bass, even though Casey’s benefit concert wasn’t scheduled to start until 9:00 p.m. He supposed it was excitement and anticipation; Parable was already filling up with folks from out of town, including some news crews, and the stores and cafés were doing a lively business.
Pulling into the parking lot at the courthouse, with Scamp at his side, Boone met Treat McQuillan in his rattletrap interim patrol car, salvaged from a scrap outfit, by the looks of it.
They stopped, side by side, to nod curtly at each other.
McQuillan looked agitated, so Boone sighed and rolled down his window.
“You can’t deputize Hutch Carmody!” blurted the new chief of police, tiny eyes bulging. That nasty temper of his had to be hard on veins and arteries; one of these days, the man was going to blow a gasket. “He’s practically a suspect!”
In point of fact, Boone hadn’t deputized his old friend, but suspected, after a quick glance around the lot, where he spotted Hutch’s shiny truck, that Hutch had gone ahead and appointed himself to the position.
Which was fine with Boone—and even finer if it got under McQuillan’s lazy hide, as seemed to be the case.
“Hutch isn’t a suspect,” Boone replied reasonably. He’s definitely guilty. Saw him tear down that damnable water tower with my own eyes.
“I’m warning you, Boone—I’ll nail those guys. That water tower was an historical treasure.”
“It was a death trap,” Boone countered, rolling up his window again. This conversation was over.
McQuillan sped off, muffler rattling, probably on his way to bust choir-practice attendees on a charge of unlawful assembly.
Shaking his head, Boone parked in the usual spot, unbuckled his seat belt and got out of the cruiser, Scamp jumping out after him. These days, the critter went by the name Deputy Dog around Parable, riding shotgun most of the time and hanging out in the office with Boone.
Inside, Boone and the dog followed the corridor to his office door, which was slightly open. Stepping through, he spotted Slade right away, trying to work the new coffeemaker, a contraption Becky had purchased on QVC and expected to charge to the county. Boone had paid for the gadget himself.
“Afternoon,” Slade said in that laid-back drawl of his. “Feels weird to be back here—déjà vu all over again, to quote Yogi Berra.”
Boone answered with a nod of acknowledgment and swung his gaze toward Becky’s desk. Sure enough, Hutch was sitting behind it, with his booted feet propped on the surface, old-West style. Looked like a scene out of that 1950s movie Rio Bravo.
“Make yourself at home,” Boone said drily.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Hutch replied with a grin. He settled back in his chair, cupped his hands behind his blond head. “Tough job,” he added as a good-natured gibe.
Boone batted the proverbial ball right back over the net. “Compared to what you normally do,” he quipped, “I suppose it is.”
Although Hutch worked Whisper Creek Ranch, his home-place, and could cowboy with the best of them, he had a lot of hired help and a net worth sizable enough to bail out the banking sector all over again.
“My brother here,” Hutch drawled, gesturing toward Slade, “is acting sheriff. And he’s already signed me on to help keep the peace.”
“Right,” Boone said, finally letting loose with a chuckle; he was wound up tight, not because of the concert, though he was looking forward to hearing Casey sing and watching one of her legendary performances, but because afterward he and Tara were spending the night together, alone. All the kids would be at Casey’s place for the minishow and the sleepover.
“Patsy McCullough’s back home,” Slade commented, finally extracting a cup of coffee from the machine. “She and the girl, anyhow. Dawson’s still in the hospital, of course, but he’s doing real well, already getting in some physical therapy and grousing because he can’t attend the concert tonight.”
Boone grinned. He’d gotten the news earlier, and driven by Patsy’s place to have a look at the brand-new wheelchair ramp in front of her small house. “I love this town,” he said.
“Me, too,” Hutch agreed wryly. “Except when I hate it.”
Slade chuckled at that, and so did Boone.
The regular deputies arrived, and Slade took charge with no trouble at all.
Boone headed for the community center with Scamp, leaving the squad car for Slade and taking his old beater of a truck, and picked up Griffin and Fletcher. In a few hours, Opal would collect them and take them, along with Elle and Erin, to Casey’s place. Along with her churchgoing posse, Opal would serve as a chaperone.
She’s the one I should have deputized, Boone thought with another grin.
“You’re not taking this truck on your date with Ms. Kendall, are you?” Griffin immediately asked, once he and his brother were planted on the bench seat, cheek by jowl. There was no backseat, like in Hutch’s and Slade’s fancy extended-cab rigs, so the boosters were wedged in, and the dog had to ride on the floorboard.
“She said we could call her Tara,” Fletcher interjected. They’d spent a lot of time together over the past few days,
since James Lennox’s dramatic departure for New York, and Tara had won his sons’ hearts as surely as she had his.
Griffin gave his brother an impatient glance. “This thing might fall apart before you even get to the fairgrounds,” he complained to Boone.
Boone smiled, ran his knuckles lightly over the kid’s crew cut. “Don’t worry about it, Romeo,” he replied. “We’ll probably take her car.”
“Who’s Romeo?” Fletcher wanted to know.
“Never mind,” Boone answered.
And so it went.
At home, the boys rushed to gather up their new sleeping bags and other overnight gear, piling it all carefully next to the kitchen door as though they might have to make a break for it. Once the collecting was done, Griffin went outside with Scamp, and Boone had a rare moment alone with his younger son.
“Hey, buddy,” he said. “You gonna be all right away from home for a whole night and everything?”
Fletcher squared his shoulders. “I’m not a baby, Dad,” he reminded Boone. “I even stopped wetting the bed.”
“You sure did,” Boone agreed. He hadn’t had to throw sheets into the washer and dryer for a while now. “I’m proud of you.”
“Can we go see Aunt Molly and Uncle Bob?”
Boone crouched, so he and the boy were eye to eye. “Sure,” he said gently. “As soon as they’re ready for company. Uncle Bob’s still in rehab right now, so he’s pretty busy.”
Fletcher nodded solemnly, and Boone ached for him, wondering if he was still homesick for Molly and her family.
“Are you going to marry Tara?”
The question, earnest and hopeful, knocked Boone back on his figurative heels. “I hope so,” he answered. “It’ll be a while, though.”
Fletcher broke into a grin. “Can we live in her house, instead of this one?”
Boone laughed and squeezed the boy’s shoulder as he stood up straight again. “We’re still figuring that out,” he replied. In fact, he and Tara had discussed future living arrangements and agreed that building a whole separate house didn’t make sense, since they had a perfectly good one already.
Full circle, Boone had thought. He’d begun his life in Tara’s farmhouse, he and Molly growing up there with their mom and dad, and it looked as though he’d live out the rest of his days under the same roof.
Once, not so long ago, the idea, while appealing, would have chafed his pride. Now, if it meant being with Tara, he’d have set up housekeeping in her chicken coop.
Anyway, instead of a house, they planned on putting up a good barn, getting horses and riding gear for the whole crew.
Outside, a car horn tooted, and Fletcher practically vibrated with excitement.
Boone went out, hauling some of the boys’ gear, and grinned at Opal, who was just getting out of her station wagon. There was something different about her, he thought, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Same straitlaced dress, practical shoes, outdated hairdo.
It was the glow, he realized suddenly. The woman was lit up from the inside, as if she’d swallowed a harvest moon whole.
Griffin and Fletcher got busy loading their stuff into the back of the station wagon while Boone stood in the tall grass, facing Opal, and tilted his head to one side, grinning.
“What’s different about you?” he asked forthrightly.
Opal seemed to preen for a moment, her smile full of mischief and spirit, and then she simply lifted her left hand, showing off the respectable diamond glittering on her ring finger.
“The Reverend proposed,” she said, and then she actually blushed.
Boone was pleased. “When’s the wedding?” he asked.
Opal executed a mock glare that failed to lessen the twinkle in her dark eyes. Leaning in a little, her voice low so the boys wouldn’t overhear, she replied, “After I’ve got you and Tara married up proper, that’s when.”
He laughed. “Your mission in life, I presume?” he teased.
“Joslyn and Slade and Hutch and Kendra finally got it right,” Opal declared, as though still winded by her matchmaking efforts. “Once you and Tara tie the knot, I can retire and just be a minister’s wife.”
“What about all the other loners in Parable County?” Boone asked, touched as well as amused. “Don’t you have to fix up a few other couples?”
Opal looked thoughtful. “Well,” she said, in all seriousness, “I might have to step in with Casey Elder and Walker Parrish, so maybe I’ll just be semiretired. But everybody else is on their own, ’cause I’m going to be real busy lovin’ my husband.”
Boone kissed her forehead. “Congratulations,” he said. “The Reverend Dr. Walter Beaumont is one lucky man.”
“And he sure can catch fish,” Opal confirmed, turning to make sure the boys were ready to roll and leaving Boone standing there baffled. He sure can catch fish?
They drove off then, the boys waving, Opal honking and Scamp barking a farewell.
Boone watched them until they turned onto the county road, then went back into the double-wide, Scamp keeping spritely pace, to get ready for his hot date.
* * *
TARA FELT AS GIDDY as a high school girl about to attend her first prom, and she changed clothes three times before settling on black jeans, a blue silk shirt and boots.
By the time Boone knocked at her front door, she was downright jittery and very glad Opal had already picked up Elle and Erin for the big night at Casey’s since they would surely have teased her.
Tara almost tripped coming down the stairs, and when she opened the door, her heart swelled with love. Boone looked cowboy-handsome, standing there in his crisply pressed white Western shirt, creased jeans and shiny boots. He held his hat in one hand and regarded her almost shyly.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Ready,” she managed to say.
He’d brought Scamp over to keep Lucy company while they were out, and the two dogs sniffed noses and went amiably off toward the kitchen, their owners forgotten.
“You look beautiful,” Boone said with gruff sincerity.
So do you, Tara wanted to say. She let her eyes make the statement and said, “Thank you,” instead.
She got her purse and stepped onto the porch, locking up the house behind her. “I hope I’m not underdressed,” she fretted, as Boone took her arm in a gentlemanly hold, escorting her toward the front gate.
“I actually prefer you underdressed,” Boone said. “Make that undressed, but you look way beyond good right now, lady.”
* * *
THE RUSTED-OUT TRUCK, parked where the chickens normally roamed, looked especially bad sitting forlornly in the gathering dusk. Like the double-wide, it seemed to be disintegrating before his eyes.
Boone felt a twinge of embarrassment. I’ll get a new rig, he promised himself. Tomorrow, damn it.
“I guess we could take your SUV,” he said, glancing down at Tara. She sparkled brighter than Opal’s new engagement ring.
And she looked up at him, smiled. “Let’s take yours. I’m trying to live down my city-slicker reputation.”
Boone laughed, loving her even more than he had a minute before, and helped her into the old wreck, glad he’d wiped down the seats and vacuumed the floorboards. “If word gets out that your chickens are practically house pets,” he joked, once he was behind the wheel, “you might be stuck with the label for life.”
She reached over, patted his blue-jeaned thigh. “Surely my secret is safe with you,” she said, smiling conspiratorially.
“I don’t know,” Boone replied. “I am fond of fried chicken.”
She made a face, but it was obvious she knew he was teasing.
The parking lot out at the fairgrounds, where the rodeo was held every summer, was jammed with cars and pickups, news vans and even a few semitrucks. Casey’s fans came from all walks of life, and judging by the varying license plates, some of them were willing to go the distance.
Boone parked the truck and helped Tara out. He bought tickets, ev
en though Casey had offered him free seats, because the cause was a good one. They made their way through the excited crowds and managed to find seats.
The special stage set up in the middle of the arena flashed with colored lights, but only the instruments were visible, which added to the excitement of the many, many waiting fans.
High school kids hawked souvenir T-shirts and glossy programs—all profits going to the fund for the McCullough family, like the ticket sales—and Boone bought two of each. It was goofy, he supposed, but he liked the idea of him and Tara going around town in matching T-shirts. Going steady, he thought, amused.
Finally, the band members took the stage, and the lights went crazy, as did the audience. The keyboard man sounded a familiar chord, everything went dark, and when the lights came up again, Casey stood front and center, resplendent in a rhinestone-studded white pantsuit and matching boots, a guitar slung over her shoulder. Lighters flickered all over the bleachers, and the foot-stomping and shouting was deafening.
Once the audience settled down a little, Casey made a little speech about how welcome she and her family felt in Parable, and how glad they were to be a part of such a fine community, a place with a heart. She reminded them that every nickel raised that night would go to Dawson McCullough, his mom and his sister—Patsy and her daughter had seats near the stage, and she asked them to stand—and cheers erupted again. Tears ran down Patsy’s smiling face, while Casey acknowledged the applause humbly, and the lead guitar player launched into a familiar refrain.
The concert was on.
Casey Elder rocked the Parable County Fairgrounds that night, performing for nearly two hours before bringing everybody to their feet with a stirring rendition of “God Bless America.”
Hokey, maybe, Boone thought. But he sang along loudly, like everybody else in the bleachers.
Wrapping it up, Casey thanked everybody for coming and promised to autograph programs over at the Boot Scoot Tavern later on, where there would be lots of dancing and more opportunities to contribute to the fund.
Big Sky River Page 25
