Parable, Montana [4] Big Sky Summer

by Linda Lael Miller

  “Right,” Casey said. “That leaves Doris.”

  “I’ll pick you up before breakfast,” Walker finished up. “We’ll have something to eat over at the Butter Biscuit, and then we’ll head out here to the ranch, saddle up and ride.”

  “It’s been a while,” Casey reminded him.

  He chuckled. “A while since what?” he asked, his voice raspy and so thoroughly male that it made her nerve endings sizzle.

  Casey blushed. “Since I rode a horse,” she said with emphasis.

  “Glad we cleared that up,” Walker teased. “I might have thought you meant it’s been a while since we made love.”

  Casey had no reply. What could she say, after all? That her whole body burned for his touch? That, after two pregnancies and a load of heartbreak, she’d probably fall under his spell all over again, given half a chance?

  “See you in the morning,” Walker said after a few beats of eloquent silence.

  “See you in the morning,” Casey confirmed, all but sighing the words.

  *

  “WALKER’S HERE,” Shane announced, peering out through one of the sunporch windows as the familiar truck rolled up the driveway.

  “He is?” Clare asked breathlessly, hurrying over to see for herself.

  Casey, seated at the table with a cup of coffee in front of her, sighed. “He and I are going out for breakfast,” she said.

  Both kids turned their heads, stared at her over their shoulders.

  “Can’t we go along?” Shane wanted to know.

  “Not this time,” Casey said mildly.

  “What are we supposed to do?” Clare inquired dramatically. “Starve?”

  Casey stifled a chuckle, which would have come out sounding more like a sob, the way her emotions were behaving. “Doris will feed you,” she said as Walker’s truck door slammed and the dogs, a beat or two behind the times, uttered a few tentative woofs. “And, anyway, it’s not as if you’re helpless.”

  Clare folded her arms and looked stubborn. “What’s going on here?” she demanded.

  “Nothing you need to worry about,” Casey replied lightly. Yet. “The people from that rental place are coming to pick up the carousel today. If they show up while I’m gone, make sure they don’t trample any of the flower beds like they did when they delivered the thing.”

  Clare blinked. “What kind of answer is that?” she persisted.

  “The only kind you’re going to get,” Casey answered. Walker was almost to the porch steps by then, looking unfairly handsome in his usual getup of jeans, boots and a starched Western shirt.

  The kids didn’t lobby Walker to override Casey’s decree and let them come along on the outing, which surprised her a little. She hadn’t spoiled Clare and Shane, but she hadn’t raised her children to give up easily when they wanted something, either. They were scrappers, as she was, and they rarely kept to the sidelines.

  Walker greeted them quietly, then patted each of the eager dogs in turn.

  “I brought Doolittle along with me,” he told Casey solemnly when the dogs and the kids backed off a little. “He’s kind of mulish when it comes to being left behind.”

  “Doolittle?” Casey asked.

  “My dog,” Walker said with a tilted grin and a note of pride in his voice. “He did consent to ride in the backseat,” he added. “But it took some fast talking.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  WALKER PARKED directly in front of the Butter Biscuit Café. Casey, riding in the passenger seat, was turned halfway around, reassuring Doolittle that he’d be just fine waiting in the truck until they got through eating.

  Doolittle had warmed to Casey right off, and he proved to be surprisingly tractable over the issue of temporary separation. It must have been Casey’s celebrated charisma.

  “See?” Casey said to the dog, pointing toward the broad window, through which tables, part of the counter and quite a few customers were clearly visible. “We’ll sit right there, where you can see us the whole time.”

  Walker was not a fanciful man, but the gentle way Casey talked to Doolittle, and the way the dog seemed to respond, moved something inside him—something that had been rusted over and stuck fast for a long, long time. “You’re talking to a dog,” he pointed out reasonably, pushing open the driver’s side door.

  “What’s wrong with that?” Casey asked, just as reasonably, sitting tight while Walker rounded the truck to open her door.

  Facing her now, Walker shoved his hat to the back of his head and grinned. “Nothing, I reckon,” he said, thinking that he might have to grip the metal doorframe just to keep from falling right into Casey Elder’s impossibly green eyes.

  She smiled back at him, a little wistfully, he thought, unsnapped her seat belt and squeezed past him to stand on the sidewalk. That fiery red hair of hers, pulled back into a ponytail, gleamed in the morning sunshine, and she looked like a teenager in her jeans, ordinary boots and blue cotton top.

  Walker moved Doolittle from the backseat to the front so the critter could put his paws up on the dashboard and peer through the windshield, should he choose to do so. He left a window rolled down partway, too, so there would be plenty of air, and he and Casey walked toward the entrance to the restaurant, side by side but not quite touching.

  Looking back, a little confounded because he’d expected some whining and carrying on, Walker saw Doolittle gazing placidly out at him, forefeet resting on the dashboard of the truck, as he’d imagined the scenario moments before, but without the yowling, droopy ears and long-suffering countenance.

  “He’ll be all right,” Casey told Walker with a soft smile as he opened the door to the Butter Biscuit and held it for her. He’d told her all about finding Doolittle outside the supermarket while they were making the short drive over to the café, and she’d gotten all misty-eyed listening to the story.

  Inside, Essie, the portly proprietor, seated them immediately, directly in front of the main window, as Casey requested. They settled into the booth across from each other, fiddling with their menus, suddenly shy now that they were inside, with folks sliding curious and furtive glances their way.

  Casey looked out the window and waggled her fingers at Doolittle, who was watching them from the truck, just as she’d instructed him to do.

  “I guess he believed you,” Walker said, having decided on the special, whatever it happened to be that day. He had enough on his mind, thanks to this woman, and didn’t need even one more decision to make, however mundane it might be.

  Casey turned to face him. “Of course he believed me,” she said with a little grin. “Would I lie?”

  The next moment, one of awkward silence, reminded Walker of a mammoth caught off guard by the Ice Age and freezing so fast that it never got a chance to chew the grass in its mouth.

  Casey looked mortified, and somehow smaller than she was.

  Walker, deciding to spare her the obvious answer to her question, cleared his throat diplomatically and said, “I hope you’re hungry. The portions are big here at the Butter Biscuit.”

  Casey swallowed visibly and, for a moment, her eyes shone emerald behind a sheen of tears. She blinked rapidly as Essie approached with the coffeepot in one hand, her order book in the other and a stub of pencil riding above her right ear.

  “What’ll it be?” Essie asked. She probably thought she was being subtle, but Walker knew the woman was about to bust a gasket with the effort of keeping a whole passel of nosy questions to herself. Everybody in Parable County knew Walker and Casey were friends—that was old news, like Casey being famous, and the movie stars that came and went like ducks in a carnival shooting gallery—but to Essie, this probably looked a lot like a date. Maybe even a morning-after kind of deal.

  If only.

  “I’ll take the special,” Walker ground out, willing himself not to go red behind the ears. He could feel the other diners looking on, speculating. They’d be lucky if they got out of there, he and Casey, before the buzzing commenced.

&nbs
p; “With or without gravy?” Essie asked, going all twinkly.

  Walker, who hadn’t the first idea what the day’s special actually was, replied simply, “With.” To his way of thinking, there were very few foods that couldn’t be improved with a dollop of Essie’s epicurean gravy.

  Casey ordered something—Walker didn’t hear what—and Essie swept them both up in a knowing smile, gathered the menus with a flourish and pranced off toward the kitchen.

  Spoons clattered in coffee cups all around as the clientele took up wherever they’d left off when Walker and Casey came strolling in, bold as you please, like they were a couple or something.

  Casey smiled at him over the rim of her coffee cup. “It’s reassuring to know I’m not the only one here who’s nervous,” she said.

  Walker wasn’t about to admit to the jitters. He was calm, perfectly calm. Not that he was going to reach for his own coffee anytime soon, since he didn’t quite trust his grip.

  He laced his fingers together, hands resting idly on the tabletop. Throwing in breakfast before they got down to business had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now he wasn’t so sure.

  Casey’s green eyes widened mischievously. “Walker,” she said, “you look ready to jump out of your skin.” A pause. “I don’t bite, you know.”

  This time, he couldn’t resist. He raised one eyebrow and asked, “Don’t you?”

  Casey went as red as the vinyl bench she was sitting on. Leaning in a little, clearly flustered, she replied in a terse whisper, “Nipping and biting are not the same thing.”

  That was when the tension broke, and Walker couldn’t help it—he laughed. Right out loud and with all those nosy locals there to hear.

  Casey glared at him. “It isn’t funny,” she said.

  Walker pulled himself together. “Whatever you say, Casey Jones,” he replied, falsely gracious.

  “Dammit,” Casey shot back in a furious undertone, “I hate it when you do that!”

  “When I do what?” Walker asked innocently. “Call you ‘Casey Jones’?”

  “No,” Casey bit out, “when you say things like ‘Whatever you say.’ It’s placating, it’s condescending—it’s a way of dismissing my feelings! ‘Pay no attention to the little lady, she gets like this sometimes.’”

  “Whoa,” Walker said. “Hold it. It seems to me you’re reading a whole lot into a few simple words.”

  Casey sat back, hard. If it wouldn’t have meant she’d have to make a scene, she probably would have stormed out of the café right then and marched herself home to Rodeo Road without a backward glance.

  “Right,” she snapped. “Whatever you say, Walker.”

  “Look,” Walker said, catching her gaze and holding it, “if you’re trying to pick a fight so we don’t have to talk about—well, what we’re fixing to talk about—give it up, because I’m not about to get sucked into an argument.”

  Casey put both of her hands up, palms out, conceding the point, or so it would seem. “Okay,” she said, plainly begrudging him even that much. “Okay.”

  Nothing more was said until after Essie brought their food—a poached egg on wheat toast for Casey, biscuits, sausage and eggs swimming in gravy for Walker.

  All of a sudden, he didn’t have an appetite—he’d been ravenous as a bear after a long winter earlier—but leaving his food untouched would have let Casey know she’d gotten to him, and he wasn’t having that. He picked up his knife and fork and got ready to eat.

  Casey stared down at her meal with a kind of low-key horror, as if it was an eyeball looking back at her instead of an ordinary chicken egg riding a raft of toasted bread. “Why does this always happen?” she asked in a voice soft so that Walker barely heard it, even though the Butter Biscuit Café was unusually quiet.

  Walker could have pretended he didn’t know what she meant, tossed the question back at her as he had the one before it, but his personal code of honor wouldn’t let him do that a second time.

  Once had been pushing it.

  “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “But in the past, it always ended well.”

  Casey tried hard to look sour, but she ended up giving a little snort of laughter. “You’re awful,” she said. Then, in a whisper, she added, “It ended with a baby, and then another baby.”

  “I wondered what was causing that,” Walker teased, making her laugh again.

  After that, things lightened up considerably.

  They finished their meal—twice interrupted by passersby asking for Casey’s autograph, which she cheerfully gave. Walker paid the check, left a tip on the table for Essie and looked squarely back at everybody who looked at him as the two of them left the restaurant.

  Returning to the truck, Walker transferred a very happy Doolittle to the backseat, and Casey took the critter’s place up front. Push, he realized grimly, had just come to shove, because they were alone now, except for the dog, and they could talk freely.

  They didn’t, though.

  Casey rode in silence, seemingly lost in thought, and Walker just drove. When they reached the ranch house, Brylee’s rig was gone, which meant she was working, and the hands were all busy elsewhere.

  This was a relief to Walker, since he had his hands full dealing with one person—Casey—and any additions would have constituted a crowd.

  “I don’t suppose you remember how to saddle a horse,” Walker ventured, getting out of the truck, going around to open Casey’s door for her and then hoisting Doolittle from the backseat to the ground.

  “I never knew how in the first place,” Casey responded nonchalantly, jumping down from the running board. Walker wondered if she was scared, if it was a lamebrain idea on his part, having one of the most important discussions of their lives somewhere on the open range. Maybe they ought to go inside the house, like normal people, to have their say.

  Except that, to Walker, the exchange was much too important, and too sacred, to take place anywhere but under the big sky. The house, spacious as it was, would close in around him, making it hard to breathe, let alone concentrate on the subject at hand.

  “Allow me,” he said with a grand gesture in the direction of the barn.

  If Casey was scared, she wouldn’t have let him know it. Chin high and shoulders back, she sashayed through the tall, open doorway of that barn like Annie Oakley about to perform a little trick riding and some fancy shooting in a Wild West show.

  Whatever else a person might say about Casey Elder, Walker conceded silently, she had guts, no question about it. He saddled Smokey, the gelding Shane had ridden the day before, and then Mack, his own favorite. Casey trailed after him as he led both horses out of the barn.

  Sunlight glistened on the animals’ well-brushed coats, and Doolittle wandered over, curious about the goings-on.

  Cussedly independent, Casey mounted up on her own—somewhat awkwardly, though Walker pretended not to notice that—and he put down an urge to show off a little and simply put one foot in the stirrup and swung sedately up into the saddle. The fact was, he and Brylee had grown up riding bareback, often using halters instead of bridles, and when it came to getting on or off a horse, they were as agile as a pair of Apaches.

  “You can come along if you want to,” he told Doolittle, who stood looking up at him, head tilted slightly to one side as he pondered this new development.

  Instead of following, though, the dog turned away, walked slowly toward the porch, lapped up some water from Snidely’s outside bowl and settled down for a nap in the shade.

  “I’ll be,” Walker said.

  “He knows you’ll be back,” Casey observed softly.

  “So it seems,” Walker agreed.

  He looked back a couple of times as they headed for the road—one of his favorite trails snaked up into the foothills from the other side—but old Doolittle didn’t move a muscle. Maybe he’d had enough excitement for one morning.

  Casey, it turned out, was a natural in the saddle. She held the reins correctly, instead of sawing on
them as most greenhorns did, and as they climbed the hill just across the road, Walker and Mack leading the way, she knew to lean forward over Smokey’s neck instead of grasping the saddle horn in both hands and holding on for dear life as he’d half expected her to do.

  Walker was proud of her, in a quiet and private way that had little or nothing to do with her status as a world-famous singer. He resettled his hat, pleased, and rode on, slowing his pace when he figured Casey was having trouble keeping up.

  After twenty minutes or so, they reached the high, wide pasture overlooking the valley where his cattle, the ones he raised for beef, grazed on sweet grass and drank from Timber Creek, an offshoot of the Big Sky River.

  Dismounting in a copse of maple and oak trees—there had been a cabin here once, though only part of the chimney remained, along with a few weathered floorboards with wildflowers growing between the cracks—Walker looked up at Casey, stricken by the sight of her. For the umpteenth time since they’d met, years before, during some down-at-the-heels rodeo where she’d been asked to sing the national anthem and he’d been entered in the bull-riding competition, he thought how impossibly beautiful she was.

  Casey got down off Smokey, stretched the small of her back and looked around. “Who lived here?” she asked, still holding the reins.

  “My great-great-grandparents,” Walker replied, and he could almost feel roots sprouting from the soles of his feet, reaching deep into the rocky but fertile ground. “This was the original homestead, where they parked the covered wagon, unhitched the oxen, dug a well and threw together a shack just before winter hit.”

  Casey approached a runaway thicket of peony bushes, tall as trees and laden with red blossoms and buzzing with lazy bees. “These must have been her flowers,” she said, her voice wistful. “Your great-great-grandmother’s, I mean.”

  Walker nodded. “She brought them all the way from Kansas,” he answered. “Planted them that first spring, as the story goes.”

  Casey turned to look at him, shading her eyes from the sun with one hand. “It’s a happy sorrow,” she said, “seeing them untended, in this lonely place, but growing like crazy just the same.”