Big Sky Secrets

by Linda Lael Miller

  “Take me back to my place,” Ria said, climbing into Landry’s truck without waiting for him to agree.

  He got in, pushed the ignition button. “What the hell is going on here?” he asked, pretending to be confused.

  “The better question,” Ria informed him, “would be what the hell is coming off there? You’re in for it, Landry Sutton.”

  He laughed again. “You promise?” he asked.

  “You can take it to the bank,” Ria replied.

  Less than ten minutes later, they were inside the cottage. The place was deliciously cool and quiet. They headed straight for the shower, stripping off their clothes as they went, leaving the garments strewn behind them. Under the spray, they kissed, lathered each other, kissed again.

  Ria felt strong and powerful, like an Amazonian queen. When Landry pulled her toward him, though, already focused on her breasts, she shook her head, closed one hand around his erection.

  This time, there was no denim to get in the way.

  He gave a ragged groan, and Ria let her fingers and palm glide along the length of him, slowly at first, then more and more rapidly.

  “We did this your way last night, cowboy,” she told Landry. “Today, we’re doing it mine.”

  Ria brought her man to the edge, but she didn’t allow him to go over it. Instead, she shut off the water, handed Landry a towel, wrapped another around herself, though she was anything but cold, and headed for the bedroom.

  Landry followed, still bewildered, still huge and hard.

  In the middle of the room, Ria dropped her towel, and fire leaped in Landry’s blue eyes, but he just stood where he was, still wet from the shower, like a man in a trance.

  She prowled as she crossed the small distance between them, ran her hands lightly from the sides of his waist to his thighs.

  And then she was kneeling.

  Landry uttered a sharp, husky gasp when she took him into her mouth.

  Her name became his litany, and with deliberate slowness, Ria proceeded to drive Landry Sutton crazy, nibble by nibble, tease by tease, caress by caress. She made him wait—then moan—and then wait some more. She was enjoying every moment, every nuance of what she was doing to him and the way he was responding.

  Finally, Landry gave a low shout, and his fingers, burrowing gently, feverishly, in her hair while she ravished him, suddenly locked around her head. “If you—don’t stop—right now—”

  Ria didn’t stop.

  He cried out again, in surrender and in useless protest. Then his powerful body flexed violently—once, twice, a third time—and Ria flexed with him, followed his every move, fierce joy coursing through her all the while.

  When it was finally over, Landry was a little unsteady on his feet, but he still had the strength to draw Ria up from her knees. They both went sprawling onto the bed, Landry breathing hard, Ria whispering to him, caressing him as he made the slow descent to earth.

  After a few minutes, Landry fell into a light sleep, and Ria’s heart swelled with the poignancy of all she felt for him—he was impossibly strong, damnably sure of himself and yet willing to be vulnerable.

  She lay there for a while, snuggled against him, then got up, padded into the bathroom, washed her face and brushed her teeth. Next, she followed the path of discarded clothes until she found her jeans.

  Frank’s ring was still in the pocket; she took it out, studied it for a moment, then closed her fingers around it again. She found a small box, saved from the Christmas before because it was too nice to throw away, placed the framed picture of Frank inside and then the wedding band.

  Moving on to the living room, and the coat closet beside the front door, she stood on tiptoe to slide the box onto the high shelf. She’d gathered the photo albums, too, and stowed them alongside the box before she realized Landry was there.

  He stood in the doorway, wearing his jeans and nothing else, his hair rumpled, his eyes peaceful, though she could see desire stirring in their blue depths.

  Ria smiled, dusted her hands together, closed the closet door and went to him, again crossing a divide—the one between before and forever.

  There would be no going back.

  EPILOGUE

  THREE DAYS LATER, Ria and Landry were married by the Reverend Walter Beaumont, in his small church in Parable. Zane was Landry’s best man, but young Nash stood up with them, too, looking proud in his one and only suit.

  Quinn served as maid of honor, while Meredith sat among the other guests, looking not quite so icy these days. To Quinn’s delight, she’d agreed to move into the cottage, since Ria had already joined Landry on the ranch, just as he’d predicted she would.

  “We’ll stay until Quinn finishes high school,” Meredith had told Ria the day before, when they were seated side by side on the steps leading to the front porch, Bones dashing happily around the familiar yard. “She loves it here, and I need a quiet place to reinvent myself, so it works for both of us.”

  Ria had hugged her sister then, on impulse, and, though Meredith hadn’t exactly hugged her back, she didn’t pull away, either.

  It was a beginning, to be followed, most likely, by a lot of other beginnings, but that was okay with Ria.

  Now, as Mrs. Beaumont struck a resounding chord on the church organ, everyone turned in the pews, smiling at the bride—Walker and Casey and their two older children were there, as were Slade and Joslyn Barlow, Hutch and Kendra Carmody and Boone and Tara Taylor. Brylee sat with the sheriff and his wife, glowing with a secret of her own, Cleo stationed protectively at her other side. The announcement hadn’t been made yet, but both Ria and Landry, given a variety of clues, had guessed what was going on. Zane and Brylee were expecting a baby.

  Highbridge, ready to give the bride away, stood tall beside Ria, beaming and proud. Ria, clad in the pale blue silk dress Quinn and Meredith had helped her choose, felt beautiful.

  She turned and winked at the butler. Her dress was gorgeous, all right, but she wasn’t sure which of them was better dressed, because Highbridge had on the spiffy tuxedo he’d once worn, he claimed, to serve afternoon tea at Buckingham Palace. The queen herself had accepted two delicate watercress sandwiches from his tray, the story went, and he’d retired the outfit when the day was over, for the sake of posterity.

  It touched Ria’s heart that he’d taken the prized suit out of mothballs in honor of the occasion, airing it on the clothesline and brushing it thoroughly that morning.

  “Shall we?” Highbridge asked, with a slight grin. “We’ve already missed the first cue.”

  Ria nodded. “We shall,” she replied as the organ music began again, from the top.

  She kept her eyes on Landry, standing up there at the altar, and walked resolutely toward him, without a doubt in her mind—or her heart.

  He watched her approach with an expression of mingled delight and impatience.

  As Ria and Highbridge passed the front row of pews, she caught a glimpse of Zane, Nash and Landry’s father, seated by himself, his thinning hair slicked down, a carnation tucked into the buttonhole of his suit jacket.

  “I thought the old ticker was about to give out on me for sure, when I left here a few days back,” he’d told his son and future daughter-in-law the evening before, when he’d suddenly arrived at their door, suitcase in hand. “Got as far as Boise and checked into a motel to wait for the end. Nothing happened right away, so I decided I’d like to hear one of my boys’ voices just once more, so I called the boy on the phone. He told me the two of you were fixing to get hitched, and I plumb forgot about going to meet my Maker, packed up and headed straight for the highway and stuck out my thumb.”

  Ria had been amused by the story, and very touched by the effort Jess Sutton had made to get back to Three Trees in time for the ceremony.

  At first anyway, Landry hadn’t said much.

  Ria and Highbridge had exchanged glances, made an unspoken agreement to give father and son some space and left the kitchen, Highbridge retiring to his quarters
, Ria making for the master bedroom, where she perused the stack of design magazines she’d bought in town that day.

  Now that they were getting married, Landry had declared, it was time to call in the builders, turn the place into a real home. He’d buy more buffalo, too, and maybe some cattle in the bargain, get a real herd started. The house was to be Ria’s project; the livestock would be Landry’s.

  The magazines did not provide much distraction, however, and Ria finally set them aside. She reached for the small blue velvet box resting on Landry’s dresser, opened it to admire the simple but elegant pendant inside, a silver horse’s head on a gossamer chain. Landry had given Ria the necklace earlier that day, eyes twinkling as he asked her to “go steady” with him—for the rest of time.

  When Landry had joined her in bed, it was very late, and he’d said nothing about his talk with his father.

  Ria hadn’t asked any questions—it was a given that a breach as deep and wide as the one between Jess Sutton and his sons could not be spanned in a single conversation—she’d simply put her arms around her man, nestled in close and said, “I love you.”

  Landry had made love to her then, slow, sweet, almost reverent love.

  The memory thrilled through Ria even now, in the generous light of a July afternoon, as she and Highbridge took the last few steps toward the man she loved, and would continue to love, today, tomorrow and always.

  Landry took her hand when she reached his side, squeezed gently, held on.

  “Dearly beloved,” the minister began ebulliently, “we are gathered here—”

  Ria listened to the time-honored words of the marriage ceremony, holding each vow and promise Landry made in her heart, tucking them away to be treasured all the days of her life. She offered the corresponding replies in a soft, clear and very certain voice—she’d never been as sure of anything as she was of her love for the man beside her, of his for her.

  Wide golden bands were exchanged, Ria’s inset with diamond baguettes, Landry’s plain and sturdy, both rings symbolizing a love as sweeping and eternal as the big Montana sky.

  Finally, Reverend Beaumont pronounced Landry and Ria husband and wife.

  “You may kiss the bride,” he announced, in his wonderful, booming voice, beaming at Landry.

  “My pleasure,” Landry replied gruffly, turning to Ria, cupping her face in his hands. His eyes shone and the expression she had come to cherish was there, the baffled joy of a man who had just made some marvelous, unexpected discovery.

  He bent his head to touch his lips to hers, just briefly, and then kissed her in earnest.

  Some of the wedding guests applauded, while others laughed with delight, and still others snapped pictures. All the while, sunshine streamed through the stained-glass windows high above the altar, falling over the bride and groom like a benediction, splashing them with bright golds and crimsons, deep greens and blues, vivid purples and pearly shades of white, the patterns ever-changing, like those inside a kaleidoscope.

  Looking ahead, Ria knew their life together, hers and Landry’s, would be like that, a shining, beautiful thing, often surprising, always growing. There would be a few shadows, too, of course—that was the natural order of things—but with Landry at her side, Ria could face anything.

  The organist sounded a triumphant chord.

  Mr. and Mrs. Landry Sutton hurried down the aisle, hand in hand, just beginning their long journey to forever.

  * * * * *

  Be sure to watch for Linda’s next novel,

  THE MARRIAGE PACT,

  the first in a brand new Western Wyoming-set trilogy,

  coming in June from Harlequin HQN.

  Keep reading for an excerpt from BIG SKY WEDDING by Linda Lael Miller.

  Love awaits in Parable, Montana…

  If you loved Big Sky Secrets, don’t miss these other great, sweeping tales from the West, by #1 New York Times bestselling author Linda Lael Miller.

  Big Sky Wedding

  Big Sky Summer

  Big Sky River

  Discover fan favorites The Creeds and The McKettricks in ebooks everywhere as well!

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  CHAPTER ONE

  THERE WAS, AS it happened, considerably more timber in and around the town of Three Trees, Montana, than the name would lead a person to believe, and that was fine with Zane Sutton. He’d had enough urban crowds, concrete, steel and pavement to last him a good long while—say, forever.

  Now? Bring on the trees, the blue and purple mountains, the wild rivers and the crystal-clear lakes and streams.

  For most of his adult life, Zane had taken each day as it came, content with whatever those twenty-four fleeting hours had to offer, rarely planning anything beyond entering the next rodeo, in the next town over, the next county over, the next state over. Everything else—relationships, off-season jobs, mostly driving, loading or unloading trucks, and even his accidental career in the movies—wound behind him, basically meaningless, a long trail of things that had seemed like a good idea at the time.

  It wasn’t that Zane had a lot of regrets. Recently, though, he’d begun thinking that, at thirty-four, he ought to choose a direction, stop carousing and start acting more like a grown-up. He’d wanted to light somewhere and stay put, see if he couldn’t rustle himself up a life with some substance to it.

  Now, under a June sun bright as polished brass, with his boots firmly planted on land that belonged to him, mortgage-free, Zane took off his hat, ran the fingers of one hand through his light brown hair, drew a deep, smog-free breath and tilted his head back to admire the cloudless stretch of blue overhead, arching from horizon to horizon. As far as he was concerned, no ceiling in any cathedral anywhere, no matter how grand, could rival that particular patch of big Montana sky.

  The sight stirred a certain reverence inside him, and he drank it in whenever he remembered to look up. He felt the tenuous beginnings of restoration in the rocky, parched terrain of his soul, a nurturing process, like a good, steady rain at the end of a long drought.

  He’d finally found a home on these acres upon acres of land, and he intended to take root, like the venerable oaks and pines, cottonwoods and firs, all around him. He’d bought Hangman’s Bend Ranch as an investment a few years before, in a what-the-hell-why-not kind of mood, going halves with his hotshot investment tycoon brother, Landry, who was a different brand of drifter than Zane, but a drifter just the same.

  Neither one of them had bothered to visit the place; they’d just signed the papers and gone on with their lives.

  Although Zane couldn’t speak for his brother, he himself had been restless for a long time, since boyhood, for sure, but just a few days before, he’d had an epiphany of sorts. Nothing mystical, no blinding light knocking him flat, no angels singing; he’d simply realized he was damn good and fed up with the status quo, glamorous though it was. Acting in movies was all right—mostly easy work, if deadly boring a lot of the time—but lately it had been getting harder and harder to tell the difference between playing a part and the real deal.

  The offshoot of all this sudden clarity was that Zane had found himself on a car lot in L.A., trading in his supercharged European ride for a shiny silver pickup truck with an extended cab. In a spate of nonverbal ad-libbing, he’d driven the new truck to the nearest animal shelter, gone inside and adopted a dog, an unprepossessing critter, big and black with floppy ears. He dubbed the animal Slim, mainly because its ribs showed, a consequence of missing a few meals along the way. Leaving pretty much everything else he owned behind, Zane, with Slim, had headed no
rth by northeast, stopping only to grab a couple of drive-through burgers here and there, gas up the truck and snooze a little in rest-stop parking lots.

  They’d reached Hangman’s Bend late the previous night, camping out in the unfurnished ranch house. That morning, Slim had taken a liking to a certain shady spot on the porch, so he’d stayed behind when Zane set out to get a good look at the wooded section of his land. He was on foot because his horse, Blackjack, was still in transit from the California stables where he’d been boarding the gelding since his move to L.A. several years earlier.

  He followed the meandering creek for a bit, enjoying the way it stitched its path through the woods like a wide strand of silver thread, clear and sun-sparkled and almost musical as it rolled over worn stones that resembled jewels under the water, coursed around primordial boulders and tree stumps, some of them petrified, on its way to wherever it was going.

  Zane made a mental note to check a map later, when he got back to the house, because he liked knowing the facts about things, liked knowing exactly where he was, both literally and figuratively, but at the moment, he was in no great hurry to turn homeward. He was out to find the southern corner of his property, supposedly staked out and flagged.

  At least eight feet wide—probably ten or twelve in some places—the stream would be difficult to cross, but eventually he came to a natural bridge, a line of six flat stones, small and fairly far apart. Still fit, even after living fancy from the day he signed that first film contract till he left Hollywood behind him, he figured he could make it to the other side without getting his boots wet, let alone taking a header into that glacier-chilled creek water.

  With his arms outstretched for balance, the way he and Landry used to do when they walked the top rail of a fence as kids, he moved with relative ease, never setting both feet down on the same rock, since there wasn’t room. When he reached the opposite bank, no longer concentrating so hard, he stopped short, startled by what amounted to a vision.