Big Sky Secrets

by Linda Lael Miller

  At that moment, she spotted Ria’s car, the same unprepossessing compact she’d driven back in Portland, before Uncle Frank died, swing into the lot out by the big Whistle-By Truck Stop sign.

  Saved.

  “There’s my aunt now,” Quinn chimed, pointing. She hoped Sheriff Taylor would get back into his cruiser and drive away, satisfied that the runaway was about to be collected by a responsible adult and, therefore, all was well. No point in hanging around; he must have crimes to solve, even way out here.

  “I guess I’ll stay and have a word with her,” Boone Taylor said, making it plain that he wasn’t planning to budge until he had a real handle on what was going on. “Why don’t you leave the dog with me, go inside and rustle up a bowl of water for him?”

  “He doesn’t have a leash or anything,” Quinn reasoned, though she wanted, and badly, to ask for water for Bones and use the restroom.

  “I’ll keep an eye on him while you’re gone” was the sheriff’s quietly pragmatic reply. “Go on inside.”

  Ria, instead of having a straight shot, had to wait while a huge 18-wheeler made a three-acre turn and wound out onto the highway.

  Reluctantly, but desperate for the bathroom and worried that Bones might be seriously dehydrated by now, Quinn set the dog down carefully at the sheriff’s feet, told the animal she’d be right back, honest to God, no fooling, cross her heart and hope to die, and entered the truck stop.

  First stop, the ladies’ room. She peed, washed her hands and face at one of three sinks and slowly straightened to take in her reflection in the long mirror affixed to the wall. No wonder the sheriff was hanging around, she thought.

  Her brown hair was tangled, her clothes were rumpled and she looked like a fugitive on the run, straight out of an episode of Dates from Hell or Deadly Women or some other true-crime show.

  Okay, Ria was outside, waiting for her. Probably chatting with the sheriff by now.

  But she, Quinn, definitely wasn’t out of the proverbial woods.

  Resigned, she bent over again, cupped her hands under the faucet and splashed more cool water onto her face until she began to feel remotely human.

  * * *

  RIA, BACK BEHIND the wheel of her car, with Quinn in the passenger seat and the scruffy little dog perched on the girl’s lap, couldn’t stop thinking of all the terrible things that could have happened to her niece between Portland and Three Trees.

  “I can’t believe you hitchhiked,” she said, well aware that she was repeating herself and quite unable to help it.

  Quinn leaned her head back and sighed. Her eyes were closed and her lashes, golden-brown like her hair, fluttered slightly. “I was desperate,” she said, very softly, very simply. “Meredith was going to send me away to camp, for the whole summer. I would have been older than most of the counselors, never mind the actual campers, all of whom were probably under twelve.”

  Ria felt a pang of sympathy then, and the sudden, wild fear inspired by the knowledge that Quinn had come all this way, mostly in the company of strangers, began to subside. Yes, the child could have been abducted, raped, murdered, out there on the highway—hitchhikers disappeared all the time, all over the country. Especially young women.

  Still, none of those things had actually happened, thank heaven. Quinn was right here beside her, safe and sound, if a little the worse for wear.

  “Your mother must be beside herself,” Ria fretted. They were passing through the town of Three Trees by now, and she considered stopping at the big discount chain store for kibble and a collar and leash for the dog, along with whatever else Quinn happened to need, of course, but she decided that the errand could wait awhile.

  Quinn lifted one shoulder slightly, as if to shrug, opened her eyes and turned to face Ria. “Are you going to send me back?”

  “I don’t know,” Ria said, in all honesty, her hands tightening on the steering wheel, her palms suddenly damp. Whatever her own feelings about Meredith might be, Quinn was the woman’s daughter. By now, her half sister had probably called the police, put up a reward for the girl’s safe return, even hired private detectives to aid in the search. In Meredith’s shoes, Ria knew she would have done some or all of those things herself. “You have to call your mother the minute we get home, though. She’ll be frantic.”

  Quinn sighed. “Annoyed,” she conceded. “Definitely inconvenienced. But ‘frantic’? No way. After all, the whole point of sending me to camp was to get rid of me.”

  Troubled, Ria let the remark pass unchallenged. They were passing a string of fast-food franchises just then, so she picked one at random, slowed the car and signaled to turn into the parking lot. “You must be hungry,” she said, in belated explanation.

  “A little,” Quinn said, very softly. “Can we get Bones a burger, too? I have some money in my backpack—” She indicated the seat behind them, where she’d stashed her one piece of luggage, with a small motion of her head. “I can pay you back later.”

  “That,” Ria said, “is the least of my worries right now.”

  They pulled into the drive-through line, and when their turn at the speaker came, a brief consultation was held and then Ria placed the order—a fish fillet sandwich, fries and a diet cola for Quinn, a cheeseburger off the children’s menu for the dog.

  “Don’t you want anything?” Quinn asked, when the person inside had confirmed their requests and specified the amount they’d be expected to pay at the second window.

  She sounded so concerned. And so young.

  Ria’s heart ached. What was going on at home that had caused Quinn to take to the road the way she had? Surely it wasn’t just the prospect of summer camp—much as she apparently disliked the idea, her niece had indeed been “desperate” to get away.

  Questions, questions, questions.

  And the time wasn’t right to ask any of them.

  “No,” Ria replied, finally, with a shake of her head. “Not just now. I’ll have something when we get back to the house.”

  There was a pause, fragile and quivery, nearly tangible.

  Then Quinn asked, “Are you mad at me?”

  The subtext was Because if you are, I’m not going to know how to handle it. I need you to be on my side.

  “No,” Ria said, for the second time in two minutes.

  There were three cars ahead of them, each one stopping at the designated window to hand cash or an ATM card through, in exchange for paper bags with blotches of grease on the sides and cups the size of oil barrels, and Ria considered the rest of her answer carefully.

  “I’m not angry,” she said, finally. “Not completely anyhow, and not permanently.”

  Quinn gave a nervous little giggle. “That was ambiguous,” she remarked.

  “Hitchhiking is a stupid thing to do, Quinn,” Ria pointed out, irritated with herself because that was certainly stating the obvious, wasn’t it, and she’d sounded so pedantic, too.

  “I know that,” Quinn answered, and her beautiful green eyes brimmed with tears.

  They reached the window then, and Ria paid for the food, accepted the fragrant bag and Quinn’s soda, passed them over, not wanting to say more until they were out of the cheerful clerk’s earshot.

  The dog—Bones, wasn’t it?—had been curled up in Quinn’s lap until the transaction was made, but as soon as the food was inside the car, he perked right up, putting his grubby little paws on his mistress’s chest and sniffing wildly.

  Quinn chuckled softly as they drove away, ferreted out the dog’s cheeseburger and tore off a tiny piece for him.

  He gobbled it right down and, once again, Ria felt a stab of emotion, a poignant, heart-hollowing awareness that that big world out there could be so terribly hard on the helpless, whether they had four legs or two.

  While Quinn and the dog consumed their food, taking turns, Ria drove toward home, thoughtful and silent.

  There were still a million questions she wanted to ask her niece, yes, but the girl was obviously worn out, half-starved and G
od only knew what else. Quinn needed time to catch her breath, get her bearings.

  When the farm came into view, with its rows and rows of zinnias and gerbera daisies and other brightly colored flowers, Quinn sat up straighter and gave a little gasp. Bones, having devoured his cheeseburger, had settled back onto her lap again and drifted off into a snooze.

  “Wow,” Quinn said, in a murmur. “It’s beautiful!”

  Ria’s spirits rose by a smidgen, though she was dreading the necessary call to Meredith, had been all along. But she’d worked hard to keep her small operation afloat, weeding and watering, digging and hoeing, planting and replanting, slogging out to the greenhouse through knee-deep snow the previous winter to tend seedlings and sprouts, and the genuine admiration in Quinn’s voice meant a lot. Especially since Meredith and most of Ria’s friends back in Portland thought the whole enterprise was a hokey waste of time and financial resources.

  “Thanks,” she said, after clearing her throat, parking the car in the driveway instead of inside the detached garage because she knew she’d have to make a run into town for various supplies before the day was over. “It’s lots of work, for not much money, but I love it anyway.” She flashed on last night’s buffalo visit and added, “Mostly.”

  A blush threatened, because remembering the bison incident meant remembering Landry Sutton—and the kiss.

  And the date for Saturday night. What had she been thinking, saying yes to that? Now, at least, she’d have an excuse to beg off—unexpected company.

  Though that particular thought should have been a comfort, it left Ria feeling strangely disappointed instead.

  Quinn, naturally unaware of the whole quandary, opened the car door and got out, setting the dog on the ground with a tenderness that pinched a tender place in Ria’s carefully guarded heart. The girl looked around, taking in the famous big sky, the trees, the mountains and foothills that surrounded both Three Trees and its neighbor, Parable, thirty miles away.

  “I can see why you love this place,” she said, her voice almost reverent as she took it all in. “It’s so quiet—so peaceful.”

  The dog, meanwhile, trotted to the middle of the lawn, nose lowered to the ground, spent a few moments sizing the place up and finally raised one hind leg to christen the resin garden gnome. After that, Bones wagged his stubby tail and turned a perky gaze on Quinn and Ria, patient even though they were lagging behind when there was some serious exploring to do.

  “Sorry,” Quinn said, very quietly. “About the gnome, I mean.”

  Ria grinned. “No problem,” she said. “Look—he’s still smiling.”

  With a soft laugh, Quinn retrieved her backpack from the rear seat, but her expression turned solemn again as she started toward Ria, who waited for her on the flagstone walkway leading to the front porch.

  “Meredith won’t let me keep him, you know,” she said. “Bones, I mean. If I have to go back to Portland—”

  While Bones continued to check out the yard, Ria slipped an arm around her niece’s shoulders, gave her a brief squeeze. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, okay?” she advised, though she knew Quinn was right about the dog. Meredith definitely wasn’t an animal person. Heck, most of the time, she wasn’t even a people person. For her, everything had to be at a distinct remove, and preferably sterile—right down to conceiving a child.

  Quinn didn’t respond, except to sigh again and lean on Ria a little as they walked.

  “One thing at a time, sweetheart,” Ria told the woman-child beside her. “Our first order of business is to call your mother and let her know you’re all right. After that, we’ll play this by ear.”

  Quinn tried to smile in response, but her mouth wobbled, and the attempt fell away. Tears filled her eyes again.

  Ria wanted to cry right along with her niece as she unlocked the front door and opened it, and Quinn turned to summon the dog. He darted toward them, still grungy but full of pep now that he’d eaten and been invited into the house.

  Before she’d even set down her purse and dropped her car keys into the blue bowl on the small table beside the entrance, Ria made up her mind on one thing, at least. If Meredith forced Quinn to come home—as she well might—Bones wasn’t going to any shelter; he was staying right here on the farm, with her.

  After she’d shown Quinn around the cottage—there wasn’t much to see, since it was so small—the girl ducked into the bathroom to take a quick shower, and Bones went with her.

  Ria didn’t have a guest room, since she used the second bedroom as an office, but there was a foldout couch in there, and of course Quinn was welcome to it.

  The shower went on, and on, the sound of the running water a distant hum.

  Surely the child was clean by now. The dog, too, probably.

  Eventually, it occurred to Ria, sitting at her kitchen table making a shopping list, that the task of calling Meredith was going to fall to her. Quinn was obviously in avoidance mode and, besides, the girl’s emotions were at a very low ebb.

  Nobody knew better than Ria did that dealing with Meredith was an ordeal, even when a person was at her best. So, with a sigh, she got out her address book, looked up Meredith’s numbers and dialed, starting with the one for the office.

  It wasn’t a huge surprise when Meredith’s secretary said she was in and put Ria right through.

  Meredith’s “hello?” was strained, and a little breathless, but the fact that she was at work, with her daughter missing, was telling.

  “She’s here,” Ria said. “Quinn, I mean.”

  From there, the conversation went straight downhill.

  Meredith didn’t weep with joy and relief, and she didn’t yell, either. “That little brat is going to drive me crazy,” she said.

  Ria closed her eyes and counted to ten. She’d best fasten her mental seat belt—with Meredith it was always going to be a bumpy ride.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  HIGHBRIDGE REMOVED THE steaming pie carefully from the oversized wall oven in Landry’s kitchen and sniffed the rising steam with prim appreciation.

  Landry, who was just passing through on his way to the shower, having been out in the barn doing chores, paused. “That smells good,” he said. “Better than good, actually.”

  Highbridge looked down his nose at his employer, which was quite a trick, since Landry was taller. “It isn’t for you,” he stated imperiously. “I baked this pie for Ms. Manning, as a peace offering.”

  Landry frowned, irritated. He loved pie, and this one was fresh from the oven and redolent of his favorite filling, a combination of cherries and rhubarb. Frustrated, knowing at the same time that he’d already lost the battle, if not the entire war, he shoved a hand through his dusty hair and snapped, “You had a run-in with the lady, too?”

  “No,” Highbridge answered, his tone and manner lofty, his back straight as a fireplace poker. “I intend to take it over to her myself, as soon as it’s cooled down a little, as a token of apology—on your behalf.”

  Landry felt a slight rush of adrenaline—the unpleasant kind. “It just so happens,” he said, almost growling the words, “that I’ve already apologized. Furthermore, Ria—Ms. Manning—is going to the shindig at the Boot Scoot Tavern this Saturday night.” A pause, well savored. “With me.”

  Highbridge set the pie down on a nearby counter, returned the potholder-mitts neatly to their drawer. His expression was an annoying mixture of intrigued interest and pure skepticism. “You’re taking her to the Boot Scoot Tavern?” he inquired presently.

  Landry’s hackles went up, and his pride smarted a little, too. Something about the exchange reminded him, on a nebulously instinctive level, of the unfortunate soiree with Walker Parrish’s horse, Misery. “I’d have opted for someplace fancier,” he told the butler acidly, “but, lo and behold, it turns out there isn’t one. Not in Parable County anyway.”

  “She actually agreed to go out with you?” Highbridge said, as though such a thing were beyond the reach of his imagination. Not that he
had much of one in the first place. To the Englishman, dour reality was the only game in town.

  Landry might have mentioned the electric kiss he and Ria had shared, if he’d been the type to carry tales. “Don’t tell me you have your eye on the lady,” he said, with a grin. “She’s about half your age, in case you missed that.”

  For the one and only time since Landry had known him—he’d sort of inherited Highbridge after the last divorce from Susan—the butler colored up.

  Well, two patches of red appeared on his gaunt cheeks anyway.

  “I’ve noticed that,” Highbridge said, at some length and with a swell of dignity that raised his chest and bent his shoulders back a little. “I’d like to point out, if I may, that two people can become friends without—” he stopped, pursed his thin lips “—sex being a factor.”

  Landry chuckled, shook his head. “Why, Highbridge,” he said, amused rather than angry, “I think you just insulted me.”

  Which wasn’t to say sex wasn’t about to become an issue between him and Ria, because he knew it was. The lightning-rod kiss was all the proof he needed; just the memory of it tended to make him go hard if he failed to dismiss it as soon as it surfaced. Or if he couldn’t dismiss it, which happened a lot, too.

  Not that he intended to confide any of this in Highbridge—or anybody else. Some things, damn it, were private.

  In addition, as attracted to Ria as Landry was, a part of him did begrudge her the homemade pie. Highbridge was a master cook, but he didn’t bake often.

  Maybe, Landry reasoned silently, if he offered to deliver the thing personally, she’d be willing to share it. The chances were just as good, of course, that she’d smash it in his face.

  A little zip of anticipation coursed through Landry at the thought.

  Highbridge, by now ignoring Landry completely, disappeared into the pantry, probably in search of a box. After several years of devoted, if bristly, service, the man was patently predictable.