Big Sky Country

by Linda Lael Miller

  Slade was still holding her hand, their fingers interlocked.

  “Do you ever miss this house—living here, I mean?” he asked.

  Joslyn hadn’t expected that question—didn’t know what she’d expected.

  She shook her head. “Not really,” she replied presently, not looking at him, because she knew he might see too much in her eyes if she did. “We were happy enough here as a family, at least until—well, until everything came out, but the place never really belonged to me in any real way. It was my stepfather’s home—looking back, it seems to me that Mom and I were sort of temporary, like pampered guests at some high-end spa.”

  His mouth crooked up at one corner, and she wanted to touch his hair, trace the strong line of his jaw and find the slight cleft in his chin with her fingertip. But she was content, for now, to hold his hand—the connection was charged, but it also seemed perfectly natural.

  “If it were any of my business,” Slade said quietly, rubbing a calloused thumb lightly over her knuckles, blissfully unaware, no doubt, that he was awakening senses in her that went far beyond the original five, “I’d ask Kendra straight out what she wants with this big place. She probably rattles around in it like a buckshot pellet in the bottom of a pail.”

  Joslyn smiled at the quaintness of the comparison and recalled the general outlines of Kendra’s childhood, joined, as it had been, to her own. Kendra had grown up in her grandmother’s cluttered double-wide, just barely on the right side of the railroad tracks, constantly reminded that she was underfoot, in the way, an unavoidable liability. She hadn’t been physically abused, as far as Joslyn knew, but she’d certainly been neglected, tolerated at best. Not loved.

  Any affection Kendra had received came from kindly teachers and from Opal, Joslyn’s mother, Dana, and from Joslyn herself. She’d had few friends, except for them.

  Even as a little girl, Kendra had been ethereally beautiful, somehow wistful, like a lost fairy princess trying to find her way home to some faraway, enchanted land. Kendra had wanted to own this grand house, Joslyn guessed, because she’d been loved there, wanted and welcome.

  “I think Kendra planned on filling the place with children,” Joslyn heard herself explaining. “And living happily ever after with Jeffrey.”

  An instant after she’d spoken, Joslyn regretted blurting out something her friend would surely consider personal and private.

  “Except the marriage didn’t work out,” Slade said, still caressing Joslyn’s knuckles. “That’s a problem I can relate to.”

  Joslyn felt a quickening inside. “Was it hard?” she asked. “Getting divorced, I mean?” Talk about your dumb question, she chided herself silently. When had getting a divorce ever been easy?

  Slade glanced briefly back over one shoulder, as if he expected Shea to be standing somewhere nearby, listening in. Then he sighed. “It was hard,” he confirmed.

  “What happened?” Joslyn couldn’t resist asking, her voice soft.

  He sighed, looking out at the gathering twilight, the garden and the lawn and the guesthouse. And still holding her hand.

  “Nothing drastic,” he answered after Joslyn had had a few moments to wish, yet again, that she’d kept her mouth shut.

  Slade sighed, turned his head, looked down into her eyes. “Divorce is a strange thing,” he replied quietly. “In my case, at least, it wasn’t so much being apart from Layne that made it tough, but losing Shea, and never knowing the other kids Layne and I would have had if we’d stayed together.”

  It seemed only right to rest her head against the side of his upper arm. A perfect fit. “Life never seems to turn out the way we planned, does it?” she asked, thinking of all the things she’d put off so she could throw herself into the all-consuming task of making up for someone else’s mistake.

  The sudden awareness that she’d stepped out of her own life to make those amends, that she’d essentially abandoned herself, left her stricken and a little sick at heart.

  All the time, she’d believed she was doing the right thing—she still believed the bilked investors had deserved to get their money back—but what had she sacrificed in the meantime? What had she missed out on?

  “What was your plan, Joslyn?” Slade asked, and even though it was an uncomfortable question, it broke the spell of confused remorse that had gripped her moments before.

  She sighed. “I didn’t have one for a long time,” she replied, lifting her head, sitting up straight, tugging the hem of Kendra’s dress down over her knees. “It was all about coping, getting by. Surviving, I guess.”

  “Sounds grim.”

  “It wasn’t so bad,” Joslyn said. “Just not fulfilling.”

  Just empty. Just lonely. Just marching in place while who knew how many chances to be happy went by.

  “Define fulfilling,” Slade urged, with a spark of humor catching like starlight in his eyes.

  “A career to be proud of—a home and a family—” Joslyn blushed, afraid she’d said too much. It certainly wouldn’t have been the first time, after all. “What about you? What fulfills you, Slade?”

  He thought for a long time. “I used to think I wanted to be sheriff until I reached retirement age,” he finally said. “Now, I’m not so sure. It’s going to sound crazy, but I’d like to work up an honest sweat every day, driving cattle, digging post holes, stringing wire, pounding nails. I guess I’m a throwback to the Old West, just like one of my deputies said.”

  “You want to be a rancher,” Joslyn observed rhetorically, absorbing the knowledge.

  “That’s pretty much the size of it, yeah.”

  She smiled. “But you still can’t make up your mind whether or not to buy the place where you’re living now,” she said.

  Something changed in his face, hardened along the lines of his jaw. For a moment, Joslyn thought he was going to stand up and walk away, leaving her sitting there by herself, but, once again, he surprised her.

  “As you probably know, John Carmody was my biological father. Turns out he left me half of Whisper Creek Ranch and a considerable sum of money when he died. I don’t care about the money—I still haven’t decided against giving it back or passing it on to some charity—but that ranch? It’s symbolic, I guess, of everything I never had.”

  Joslyn simply watched and waited, amazed that he’d share something this intimate with her. He probably didn’t know Hutch had already sketched in the outlines of the situation for her.

  “Hutch has been trying to buy me out since the will was read,” Slade went on. “We finally agreed to decide the matter with a horse race. He wins, I sell him my share and walk away and Whisper Creek is all his.”

  “And if you win?”

  “I get the main house, he lives elsewhere on the ranch, and we run the outfit together, Hutch and I,” he replied.

  “Which is why you’re going to that livestock auction on Saturday,” Joslyn ventured, uneasy. What if Slade—or Hutch—got hurt or even killed in this horse race?

  “Partly,” Slade answered. “I doubt if there’ll be any Thoroughbreds on offer, but you never know. Mostly, I’m going because I promised Shea a horse. The responsibility will be good for her.”

  She remembered something Shea had said earlier—that she and her dad would have to keep their horses at Whisper Creek because they couldn’t use their own rickety barn.

  Which would mean Hutch and Slade would be running into each other constantly, even before the stupid race took place. Given their volatile history, those repeated encounters might be more dangerous than the race itself.

  She pulled her hand away. “That’s crazy,” she said.

  Slade arched one eyebrow. “Buying Shea a horse?”

  “No,” Joslyn said tautly, stiffening her spine and raising her chin. “I’m talking about the horse race. It’s an insane idea, Slade.”

  “Tell that to Hutch,” Slade said, letting go of her hand. “He’s the one who came up with it.”

  Joslyn bristled. “I would have expe
cted you to have more common sense than Hutch,” she told him.

  “Thanks,” Slade said. “I guess.”

  “I mean, of the two of you, you’ve always been the practical one—”

  “Maybe that’s the problem,” Slade mused aloud, getting to his feet. Reaching down to help her to hers. “Maybe I’ve been too practical.”

  In the next moment, he shocked her again—by pulling her close and kissing her, gently at first, then hard and deep.

  As frustrated as she was, she melted against him, incapable of pulling away. It galled Joslyn to know that if he’d swept her up in his arms, carried her across the yard to the guest cottage and had his way with her, she wouldn’t have offered a word of protest.

  Even more galling was the fact that he was the one in control here.

  Presently, he let her go, moved past her and crossed the darkened sunporch to step into the kitchen.

  “Shea!” he called. “It’s time to head for home.”

  Joslyn remained where she was, listening as Shea issued a good-natured protest, and Opal accepted Slade’s polite thanks for the meal she’d prepared. And then she dashed for the guest cottage, to avoid saying good-night to their guests.

  She waited in the dark cottage until she heard Slade’s truck start up, drive away, tires crunching on the gravel.

  When Joslyn returned to the main house, Opal was sitting at the table, sipping a cup of raspberry tea. Lucy-Maude was curled up in her lap, and Opal stroked the cat with her free hand, making her purr.

  “Where did you run off to?” Opal asked, peering fretfully at Joslyn. “You didn’t even say goodbye to our company.”

  Since Joslyn didn’t have an excuse for disappearing, she didn’t offer one.

  Instead, she shook her head, sighed and made herself a cup of raspberry tea, joining Opal at the table.

  Opal, thank heaven, did not continue the lecture.

  * * *

  SLADE WAS UP LONG AFTER Shea had disappeared into her room with her cell phone. He tore down the bed he’d just bought, maneuvered all the parts, including the mattress and box spring, down the stairs and into the room that would be Opal’s.

  There, he put it back together.

  That job done, he dug out the air mattress he’d slept on at the duplex, carried it up to his room and plugged it in to power the pump.

  There was a whooshing sound as the mattress inflated, and Jasper, seated in the doorway, looked wary of the whole process.

  Once the too-familiar mattress was full, Slade threw on a couple of sheets and tossed his pillows in that direction also.

  Then he shoved a hand through his hair and sighed, looking at Jasper again. He needed more to do if he was going to keep thoughts of Joslyn at bay, but short of adding on a room or building a barn, he was out of options. Immediate ones, at least.

  “One more trip to the yard,” he told his dog, “and we’ll turn in.”

  Jasper seemed to understand; he trotted happily down the back stairway and across the kitchen to the door. There, he waited with his muzzle pressed to the crack while Slade caught up to him.

  While Jasper explored the grass, Slade stood with his head tilted back, taking in the moon and stars. They’d seemed a little brighter and a lot closer to earth before, he thought, when he and Joslyn were looking up at them together.

  The night was quiet, except for crickets chirping and the faint murmur of the creek down over the hill. In the distance, the lights of Boone Taylor’s place gleamed, and beyond them, just the merest twinkle of a glow came from Tara’s chicken farm.

  Idly, Slade wondered how Boone was getting along with his new neighbor. A loner by nature, Boone had considered buying the chicken farm himself, just so nobody could move in next door.

  Now, obviously, it was too late for that.

  The thought made Slade smile, albeit a little sadly. It would be a good thing if Boone took a shine to Tara—he’d done nothing but work since his wife died a couple of years ago—it was time old Boone did some socializing.

  Like you’ve got any room to talk, Slade reminded himself. From the day his divorce from Layne was final up to now, he hadn’t done much “socializing” either. He’d picked up a few women, always in other towns, even other counties, but that had been more about sex than anything else—he couldn’t recall even one of their names.

  And now there was Joslyn. He’d never wanted any other woman the way he wanted her—not even Layne.

  It scared him a little, the intensity of it, and while he wasn’t the timid sort, he was a bit gun-shy. Joslyn, unlike everybody since Layne, was someone he could care about. She was smart—the workings of her mind intrigued him almost as much as the lushness of her body—and when she smiled at him, it was like being knighted by the beautiful queen of some finer, gentler realm.

  But it wasn’t love. He’d have known if it was.

  That decided, he whistled for Jasper, and the dog came back to him, tongue lolling. They went inside, but Slade still wasn’t ready to sleep.

  So he took the new computer out of its box and set it up on the kitchen table, for want of a better place. He opened another box to find the router and still another that contained the printer. The instructions might have been written by a dyslexic Martian, but after several cups of strong coffee and a lot of swearing under his breath, Slade managed to get the contraption up and running.

  It was after midnight when Shea padded downstairs in her nightgown, patting back a yawn with one hand, to join him in the kitchen.

  “Dad? Do you realize it’s the middle of the night?” she asked, bending to pat Jasper, who got to his feet and went to greet her. “What are you doing?”

  “What does it look like I’m doing?” Slade countered reasonably, amused by the parental tone she’d taken.

  “Don’t you have to work tomorrow?”

  Slade grinned, scraped back his chair, stood and carried his cup to the sink. “Yes,” he answered, “I do. But I got to wondering if I could put this computer together and get it online, a backwoods rube like me, and then I had to find out, one way or the other.”

  Shea stood a few feet away, her arms folded. “Why don’t you just admit it?” she countered. “You can’t stop thinking about Joslyn Kirk. That’s the real reason you aren’t asleep.”

  He sighed. “Go back to bed, Shea. You’ll need your strength, putting in a full day at the Curly-Burly tomorrow.”

  She made a rueful face, though her eyes, as usual, were smiling. “How much strength does it take to sweep up hair?” she retorted.

  “Plenty,” Slade said. “My mother believes in hard work—her own, and yours.”

  “I was thinking of taking the day off, actually,” Shea announced, in a tone that said she was testing the waters. “You know, so I could stay here and help Opal get settled, put her things away and everything—”

  Slade halted his stepdaughter’s speech with a raised index finger. “One second,” he interrupted. “You only started work this morning. Now, you want to take tomorrow off?”

  “Special circumstances,” Shea pointed out. “You’ll be patrolling the county all day, ignoring people with electric helmets on their heads and whatever else you do. Who’s going to make Opal feel welcome?”

  “Opal,” Slade said, in wry truth, “can take care of herself. I told her I’d leave the door unlocked in the morning, and it’s pretty obvious what needs to be done around here.” He spread his arms, indicating the clutter surrounding them both.

  It was weird how he’d gotten by with so little stuff living at the duplex, and now, all of a sudden, he was surrounded by things.

  “She doesn’t even have a car,” Shea persisted. Slade saw law school in her future; she was born to argue any case, no matter how flimsy. “How is she supposed to get out here in the first place?”

  “Opal told me at supper that her friend Martie will drive her out,” Slade answered with exaggerated patience. “And I’ve already got a line on a good used car for her to use in the fu
ture—Boone offered to sell me his late wife’s compact. Now will you go back to bed?”

  Shea hauled back a chair at the table and plunked herself down on the seat. “Sure, Dad,” she said. “When you turn in, I’ll do the same.” A pause. “Did you say ‘late,’ just now? You’re buying Opal a dead person’s car?”

  “As far as I know,” Slade said, “it isn’t haunted.” Sadness touched the center of his heart, though, remembering Boone’s pretty bride, Corrine. They’d been high school sweethearts, Boone and Corrine, “joined at the hip,” as Callie liked to say, apart only when Boone served his hitch in the Marines.

  Corrine had died a couple of years ago of breast cancer—at the age of thirty-two. Boone hadn’t been the same since, and who could blame him?

  “Stubborn,” Slade said, shaking his head, bringing his attention back to his stepdaughter. “You’re stubborn.”

  “Believe it,” Shea responded. “You’d almost think I was a Barlow.”

  Slade sighed again. Thrust a hand through his hair—again.

  So that was it. There was still some breath and a heartbeat in the subject of the adoption that never happened, so she wanted to kick it around a little longer.

  “Shea,” he said, his voice quiet, “I can’t change the past. I can’t go back in time and adopt you, as much as I wish that were possible.”

  She was quiet for a long time. Then she asked, very softly, “What about now? Why couldn’t you adopt me now?”

  “Shea, that probably isn’t even possible now that your mom and I are divorced. The legal complications boggle the mind—and besides, I don’t think your mom would agree to that anyway.”

  “How do you know if you don’t ask her?”

  “Sweetheart, your real dad isn’t going to win any prizes for parenthood, but he’s out there somewhere. And even if your mom wanted to let me adopt you, this guy has rights where you’re concerned.”

  “What rights? He was a sperm donor.”

  “Your mother was married to him, Shea.”

  “No, she wasn’t.”