Big Sky Summer Part 14

"d.a.m.ned if I know," Walker admitted glumly.

"Well, you'd better figure something out, don't you think?"

Walker frowned. "Why are you all fired up about this? Aren't you even a little bit pleased to find out there's more to this family than you, me and our now-you-see-her-now-you-don't mother?"

"I'm delighted," Brylee snarled, pus.h.i.+ng back her chair and standing up so suddenly that she startled her ever-present sidekick, Snidely, in the process, sending him into a brief, skittering retreat. "But my feelings are beside the point right now, frankly, and so are yours and Casey's. Dammit, Walker, this is about Clare and Shane!"

"I never said it wasn't about them," Walker pointed out, getting to his own feet because, by G.o.d, when people yelled at him, his only sister included, he didn't take it sitting down. Not even when they were 99 percent right. "What the h.e.l.l do you want me to do, Bry?"

Tears filled her eyes. "Give your kids a home," she said. "Give them a real family."

With that, Brylee grabbed up her purse, s.n.a.t.c.hed her cell phone off the charger over by the coffeemaker and stormed out of the house. Snidely followed, pausing once to look back, sadly, at Walker and Doolittle.

Give your kids a home. Give them a real family.

Walker sank back into his chair. Did Brylee think he wanted to do anything else but that? He loved his children, always had, even before he found out that Clare, like Shane, was his own. Not a day had gone by without his thinking of them, and Casey, too.

But when you got down to bra.s.s tacks, he had to admit that Brylee had a point. He might not have been able to persuade Casey to marry him back then, in the thick of things, but he could have asked for-and fought for, if necessary-some kind of joint custody arrangement. He could have played a greater part in Clare's and Shane's lives-a much greater part.

He could have told them about their ancestors, shown them pictures in the photo alb.u.ms, such as they were, let his children see parts of themselves-a smile, a set of the shoulders-in the images of those who had gone before.

He could have given his son and daughter that gift, if nothing else-the sense of continuity, of belonging, of being links in a chain that went way back.

Most of all, he could have loved them, openly, not in secret.

Maybe, Walker thought glumly, as all this came home to him and finally got through his thick skull, he wasn't so different from his always distant, hands-off mother. Maybe, deep down, he simply hadn't wanted to be bothered.

Or was it a matter of plain old run-of-the-mill cowardice? A subconscious fear that Clare and Shane, used to private jets and the best of everything, wouldn't have wanted what he had to offer-the country life, with ch.o.r.es and regular school and the kind of clothes ranch kids wore?

h.e.l.l, he thought. He was never going to figure this one out, especially if he stood there in his kitchen stewing about it.

He had to do something.

Walker summoned Doolittle, grabbed his hat from its peg and plunked it down hard on his head as he strode toward the door, still not knowing what that something was.

"HEY, MOM!" SHANE YELLED from the entryway. "Mrs. Dennison is here!"

Standing at the top of the front stairway, holding an armload of towels in need of was.h.i.+ng-to her chagrin Casey hadn't been able to locate her own laundry chute, though she knew there was one, somewhere-she puzzled over the announcement for a moment, before her preoccupied brain translated Mrs. Dennison to Opal.

Being careful not to stumble, since she couldn't see her feet for the heap of towels, Casey hurried down the steps, dropped her burden nearby and stepped into the echoing foyer.

Opal stood there, grinning from ear to ear, a ratty old suitcase at her feet. She didn't seem to mind that all three dogs were sniffing at her luggage.

"I guess you must be wondering what I'm doing here, with half my worldly belongings," Opal said before Casey could manage more than a h.e.l.lo. The woman looked as pleased as a game show host about to award the big prize. "And the answer is, word got back to me that your Doris was called away on a family emergency, so I'm taking over for her."

In Parable, Opal Dennison was something of a legend. Wherever she went, tangled situations got untangled in short order, and then there were the weddings.

Three of them, so far-that Casey knew of.

Yikes.

"Great," Shane interjected enthusiastically. "Does this mean we don't have to eat Mom's cooking?"

Opal laughed, a deep, rich sound, full of joy. "Now, I'm sure your mother is a fine cook, young man," she scolded affably, "but she's probably got better things to do than stand at the stove all day."

"What about Joslyn and Slade?" Casey managed to ask. After all, Opal worked for them. "Don't they need you-especially with another baby on the way?" That morning, in an email exchange with Joslyn, she'd mentioned that Doris had left town to look after her injured sister, but she certainly hadn't expected the Barlows to fork over their housekeeper. She'd been venting, that was all.

"They'll manage fine. They've got a nanny these days, and they'll have to learn to get by without me anyhow, since I'm fixing to marry the Reverend Mr. Beaumont next month." Opal slipped out of her colorful spring jacket, hung it neatly from one of the hooks on the ma.s.sive coat tree opposite the grandfather clock. "Not that I'm planning to lounge around watching soap operas after the wedding," she added briskly. "Being a preacher's wife is a full-time job in itself. Now, where should I put my things?"

Casey found her voice again. Nodded to Shane to handle the suitcase. "The downstairs guest room," she said, pointing toward the opposite side of the house. The little apartment off the kitchen had once been Opal's, she knew, but now it was Doris's domain, even though she was away for the time being.

Of course, Opal was aware of the guest room in question, having worked in the mansion for years as the employee of the first owners, the Rossiters, and she marched off toward it, Shane following with the suitcase, the dogs trailing behind like members of a circus parade.

As soon as they were out of sight, Casey rushed back, gathered up the pile of towels she'd dropped at the foot of the stairs and carried them into the laundry room, stuffing half of them into the washer, then stopping, peering at the k.n.o.bs and switches, momentarily baffled.

In the end, it was a matter of common sense, of course, and she got the machine going. What she needed now was a cup of tea, to settle her down a little.

Just as Opal and Shane returned to the kitchen, Clare appeared, still clad in cotton pajamas and yawning behind one hand. Tendrils of her hair stuck out around her head like a coppery halo, making her resemble an angel in a Renaissance painting.

As if.

"It's about time you got up," Shane remarked, always ready with a jibe whenever he encountered his sister.

Clare made a face at him, and then turned a sunny smile on Opal, fit to bring a field full of wildflowers into bloom. For all the notice the girl paid Casey, however, she might as well have been part of the woodwork.

Opal proceeded to open a drawer, pull out an ap.r.o.n and tie it around her waist. "Looks like somebody ought to haul off and make some breakfast," she said, beaming, "before wholesale starvation sets in."

"Mom tried," Shane explained tolerantly, "but the oatmeal blew up in the microwave, and even the dogs won't eat it."

Casey gave her son a look, but it bounced off him like a bullet off the big S on Superman's chest.

Clare, still ignoring her mother, meandered over, peered into the microwave and said, "Yuck."

The word, one of her daughter's favorites, wasn't a cheery "Hi, Mom!" nor was it directed specifically to her, but Casey figured something was better than nothing.

"I was just about to clean up the mess-" Casey faltered, embarra.s.sed. A domestic G.o.ddess she wasn't-she'd never had to be. Growing up at her grandparents' place, Lupe and her nieces had done all the household tasks, and as soon as she'd had two nickels to rub together, Casey had hired Doris.

Opal waved her away. "I don't mind doing it," she said. "Why don't you just relax for a few minutes, go on outside and admire all those beautiful flowers in the yard? I'll give a shout when the food's ready."

Clare was rooting around in the refrigerator, looking for a carton of yogurt. "Don't make anything for me," she said brightly, still refusing to acknowledge Casey's existence. "I'm on a diet."

"Diet," Opal scoffed. "Pish-posh. You'll have a decent meal, girl, and that's the end of it."

Remarkably, Clare straightened, shut the refrigerator door and stood there empty-handed, the yogurt evidently forgotten.

"Okay," she said meekly.

Casey stared for a moment. Who was this changeling, posing as her daughter? More to the point, what magic was Opal working? Was there an instruction book?

Instead of asking, she poured a cup of coffee, carried it out through the sunporch and onto the steps and did as she'd been told. She just sat there, admiring the flower beds, where roses bloomed, fat and velvety and wildly colorful, like a convention of aging madams, clad in their best outfits and meeting to compare notes and plan better brothels. The peonies-white and red, pink and candy-striped-were at the height of their brief but spectacular glory, enjoying one last hurrah before June gave way to July, while their lilac colleagues were already gone. The Gerbera daisies and the dinner-plate dahlias and the irises and the hearty zinnias flourished, though, belonging more to summer than to spring.

The beauty and the delicious blend of fragrances all but took Casey's breath away. Up until this moment, she realized with quiet chagrin, she'd barely even noticed the exquisite riot of color in her own backyard. She'd been too busy, but doing what?

She heard dog feet crossing the sunporch behind her, nails clicking on the tiles and the faint squeak of Shane's sneakers.

The Labs went by, one by one, brus.h.i.+ng against Casey's shoulder as they pa.s.sed. Then Shane sat down beside her on the step, watching fondly as the critters played tag and chased b.u.t.terflies and rolled in the lush green gra.s.s.

Reveling in the fact that they were alive.

In that moment, Casey knew she could have walked away from her career, if not her music, even given up this mansion and her stock portfolio, fancy equipment, buses and glittering stage clothes, and still been perfectly happy, as long as she had her children, her dogs and cats, and plenty of flowers.

She thought of Walker, of the way he'd held her and made her body sing a song all its own, wordless and fierce, the day before.

Well, okay, almost perfectly happy, then.

She and Walker were like a pair of dancers, both determined to lead, constantly stumbling over their own and each other's feet, always a little out of step with the tune.

n.o.body had everything, did they?

Shane broke the silence, and the mood, with a chipper, "Would it be all right if I called Walk-Dad?" How long had he been working up his courage to ask her that?

"Now?" Casey stalled. Behind them, through the open door on the other side of the sunporch, Opal's and Clare's voices rose and fell, circled and finally interwove, like ribbons floating in midair, guided by a magician's wand.

"I have his cell number," Shane said, sounding mildly defensive.

Casey slipped an arm around Shane, but loosely, and was relieved when he didn't shrug her off, the way he sometimes did when there were other people around, especially kids his own age. "Go ahead and call your dad," she said with gentle humor. "You don't have to ask my permission to do that."

"I do if I want to ask him to let me go along next time he hauls stock to a rodeo," Shane said, not looking at her, but straight ahead, past the dogs and the flower gardens and the high wall at the back of the property. He was gazing, she surmised sadly, into a whole new world just opening its doors to him.

Casey set her coffee cup down beside her foot, moving with careful deliberation so she wouldn't spill the stuff. She didn't know a whole lot about what Walker actually did when he was on the road, besides hauling broncos and bulls from place to place, but she was clear on one aspect of it: he was usually gone for days at a time.

"Has he said anything about taking you with him, Shane?"

Shane shook his head. "Not recently," he admitted. "Back when Clare and I used to visit the ranch for a couple of weeks every summer, we talked about it once in a while. Walker said I'd have to wait until I was a little older." He paused, gave her a sheepish grin and spread his hands. "Well, now I'm older," he finished.

A twinge squeezed Casey's heart, and, much as she wanted to reach out and smooth Shane's sleep-rumpled hair with a motherly hand, she refrained. If Walker refused Shane's request to follow the rodeo, the boy would be crushed. If he said yes, on the other hand, she would be crushed. She'd miss her son every minute of every day, and worry about him, too, and his departure, however brief the journey, would be the beginning of letting him go for good.

Her throat constricted.

"So, what's the word, Mom?" Shane asked, blithely oblivious to the fact that she was falling apart. Which, of course, was a good thing. "If Dad lets me go on the road with him, will you be cool with that?"

h.e.l.l, no, she wouldn't be cool with it, Casey thought. Walker worked with dangerous bucking horses and bulls bred to hurl cowboys skyward and then try to stomp them to a b.l.o.o.d.y pulp when they landed in the dirt. There was all that loading and unloading, and all those long and lonely roads.

Shane, eager to help his dad, and to prove himself, could so easily get hurt-badly hurt.

On the other hand, the rodeo business was as much a part of Shane's heritage as country music, wasn't it? She and Walker were like two very separate rivers, merging, and Clare and Shane were a blend of both. She'd been able to pretend for a long time that they were hers alone, but that was over.

Somehow, she had to accept that they were Walker's, too.

"Mom?" Shane prompted, determined to get an answer.

"If Walker says you can go, and he promises to make sure you stay safe," Casey forced herself to say, "then I'll deal with it. I can't say I'll be 'cool' with it, as you put it, but I'll deal." Somehow.

Shane grinned. "Fair enough," he said. Then he stood up, beanstalk gangly, and sprinted over to wrestle with the dogs, using up some of their spare energy and, hopefully, some of his own, as well.

If only he'd get too tired to fall in love with rodeo, Casey thought wryly.

No such luck. He was Walker Parrish's son, and that meant the cowboy life was in his blood.

Casey sat, her coffee forgotten, and instead of Shane roughhousing with the dogs, instead of her flower gardens, she saw a dusty arena surrounded by bleachers packed with rodeo fans.

She heard the auctioneer-like drone of the announcer's voice, saw a chute gate swing open and a bull explode through the gap, with a cowboy on its back, spurring hard while the animal spun and bucked.

The rider looked like Walker, but he wasn't. He was younger and leaner, with most of the hard spills still ahead of him.

He was her Shane, but Walker's, too.

Opal yanked Casey out of the vision with a hearty "Breakfast's on the table. Come and get it!"

The next few minutes were chaotic, what with all the bounding around of one boy and three dogs, Opal fussing cheerfully that she was going to trip over one of those critters and break her neck if they kept getting underfoot like that, Clare fully dressed, with her hair brushed and caught up in a clip on top of her head, her expression civil, if not exactly mom-friendly.

Once the meal was over, and the kids had cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher, Casey and Opal sat alone, in the blissful quiet, collecting their thoughts.

"See what you've gotten yourself into?" Casey asked her friend after a few moments, grinning as she lifted her coffee cup to her lips.

Opal chuckled. "Once it's just the reverend and me," she observed, "without kids and dogs and some sort of ruckus going on all the time, I'm not sure I'll know how to act."

"You'll figure it out," Casey said, confident of that much at least. "Did you say the wedding is scheduled for next month?"

"We just set the date," Opal answered with a nod. She paused to admire the respectable engagement ring gleaming on her left hand. When she looked up again, there was a hopeful expression in her eyes. "It'll be July 15-that's a Sat.u.r.day-and we were wondering if you'd sing, the reverend and me. I know it's a lot to ask, you being famous and all, but, well, we thought-"

"Opal," Casey interrupted firmly. "Of course I'll sing. In fact, my feelings would have been hurt if you hadn't asked."

The beaming smile was back. "Thank you, Casey Elder," Opal said. A beat pa.s.sed, and then the smile faded. "Now," she said, suddenly serious, "I'm just going to go right ahead and b.u.t.t in where I've got no business sticking my nose. What's the holdup with you and Walker getting together?"

Casey couldn't answer for a few moments, she was so taken aback, though she knew she shouldn't have been surprised. Opal was famous-make that infamous-for her matchmaking, after all.

This time, though, she was definitely barking up the wrong tree.

"We're friends, that's all," Casey hedged. Friends, mimicked a voice in her head, as every cell in her body remembered the fevered intensity of their lovemaking, with benefits.

"How long do you think you're going to be able to keep that story rolling, once word gets around that you and Walker had two kids together?" Opal challenged, firmly but not unkindly.

Casey put one hand to the base of her throat. "Where did you hear-?"

"Your Clare told me just this morning," Opal replied matter-of-factly, "while I was making breakfast. Evidently, the news came as quite a shock to the child, though I'm sure she'll manage to wrap her mind around it soon enough, smart as she is. But right now, she's mighty rattled, and I guess I'm easy to talk to, because she poured out her heart to me."