Big Sky

by Stacey Coverstone

  Table of Contents

  Big Sky

  Copyright

  Praise for Stacey Coverstone

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  A word about the author...

  Thank you for purchasing this Wild Rose Press publication.

  Big Sky

  by

  Stacey Coverstone

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Big Sky

  COPYRIGHT © 2012 by Stacey Coverstone

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Rae Monet, Inc. Design

  The Wild Rose Press

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Yellow Rose Edition, 2012

  Print ISBN 978-1-61217-005-3

  Published in the United States of America

  Praise for Stacey Coverstone

  Honorable Mention Winner

  for Best Western Romance 2010

  and

  CAPA Nominee

  for Best Historical Romance 2010

  ~*~

  “HIGH LONESOME is a sweet love story put together so skillfully, the reader doesn’t want to put the book down.”

  ~Camellia, Long and Short Reviews

  ~*~

  “HIGH LONESOME is probably the best sweet western contemporary romance I've read, ever.”

  ~Candace, Reading New Mexico

  ~*~

  “Stacey Coverstone's books are fast-paced, action-packed, and the chemistry between her two main characters always sizzles. Her unique writing style produces emotionally charged books that I can't put down. Coverstone has earned her place as a top-notch author. She is a must-read for me.”

  ~Brenda, The Romance Studio

  ~*~

  “Stacey Coverstone sketches a lovely romance that this reader enjoyed immensely. There were times when I sat spellbound. Her dynamic characters are well developed, and the reader comes away satisfied with the conclusion of everything.”

  ~Linda, Fallen Angel Reviews

  ~*~

  “The one thing that struck me above all is Coverstone's remarkable talent for painting a picture with her words.”

  ~Kelley, CK2's Kwips and Kritiques

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my wonderful husband,

  Paul, for his love, encouragement, and support.

  I would also like to thank Julie Lence,

  my critique partner,

  for her friendship and the endless hours

  she puts into helping me get my novels in shape.

  A thank you also goes out to Melissa Blue,

  my Montana author friend,

  for reading this book and assuring me

  it was a winner.

  Chapter One

  “Dammit! Come on!” Taylor Young turned the key in the ignition and pumped the gas pedal again. “Come oooon!” she urged through clenched teeth. But it was no use. Her rented car had stalled a mile from the entrance to the Slash Y Ranch, and that’s where it would stay, as the continued grinding of the engine attested.

  “Crap!” She slapped her open palms against the steering wheel. Next time she saw that weasel of a man at the car rental place, she was going to give him a piece of her mind. “I knew it was a bad idea to come back here,” she muttered.

  Six years had passed since Taylor had left for L.A. What her sister Jamie had done back then was so unforgivable, she’d sworn she’d never step foot in or anywhere near Prosperity, Montana again. And she’d kept to her vow, not even returning for Jamie’s funeral two months ago. But then Will had called.

  It had not been unusual for her stepfather to phone now and then in the years since she’d left, but his calls had become consistent in the past two months. Taylor had received the same message every week since Jamie’s death; Mama was begging for her to come home. But to learn during this last call that her mother had gotten drunk, fallen, and broken a hip had been completely unexpected. Mama had never drunk to excess, as far as Taylor was aware. But things could change.

  “Your mother misses you something terrible,” Will had said. “She can’t stand that the two of you still aren’t speaking. And now that Jamie’s gone, she feels there’s nothing to live for anymore. She’s been drinking for some time now, to hide her pain. I’m worried about her.”

  Those words and the hitch in her stepdad’s voice had shaken Taylor deeper than she’d wanted to admit. And while she’d tried hard to convince herself otherwise, his argument for her to come home had been a sound one. He’d made a point of stressing that Mama needed more help than the day nurse he’d hired could give. Her needs went beyond therapy for the hip. She wanted her only living daughter at her side.

  It had taken two gut-wrenching days of indecision, but despite the hurt that still lingered from her mother’s past betrayal, Taylor had finally made up her mind to come home. Surely, she could manage a couple of days sitting by Mama’s bedside and behaving in a civil manner.

  After throwing a few things into an overnight bag, she’d hopped on the red-eye with her stomach churning. And it hadn’t stopped.

  Taylor figured she’d stay just long enough to find out how long it would take the hip to heal. Maybe she’d be able to convince Will to get her mother into a program for alcohol abuse if her problem was as bad as he’d let on. They’d play some cards, talk about trivial subjects like the weather, and Taylor would do her best to avoid a conversation about Jamie. Then she’d go back to L.A., her condo, and her dream career as a freelance celebrity photographer.

  That was the best thing about freelancing. She was her own boss and set her own schedule. There was nothing on her calendar for the next couple of weeks that couldn’t be rescheduled. A day or two away from the job wouldn’t hurt. Even staying here a week, if it came to that, would not affect her earning potential in a negative way. She’d been working hard for the past few years and socking money away in the bank. Besides, it had been over a year since she’d taken a real break.

  She cranked the key once more and got the same result as before. The day wasn’t starting off good, which had to be a bad sign. She placed her forehead on the steering wheel and sighed. If the rest of the visit went the way it was starting—and she suspected it would—next
time she left Montana, she swore it would be for the last time.

  “You’ve gone and flooded it,” said a deep voice outside the open window.

  Startled, Taylor raised her head and peeked over the top of her sunglasses. Two hundred and ninety-five dollar Christian Dior glasses, and they still slid down her nose. Standing next to the car was a well-muscled black and white paint horse with an equally muscled cowboy mounted on top.

  A quick perusal with her professionally trained eye revealed a self-assured horseman who looked to be in his late thirties. Relaxed in the saddle, his hand dangled over the horn. Both his denim shirt and jeans were faded, which hinted they’d been washed and worn over and over. His hair, hanging just below his ears, was the shade of honey. A crooked grin lit up his bronzed skin, and piercing blue eyes twinkled mischievously from beneath a well-worn cowboy hat. Obviously he was one of her stepfather’s ranch hands.

  “I guess I did,” she replied, while shoving the sunglasses up the bridge of her nose.

  “You must be Taylor,” he said, flashing a hundred-watt smile.

  “I am.” She let her eyes dwell on him, taking in the firm jaw, the straight and well-defined nose, and the tiny indentation in his chin. “And you are?”

  “Brett Austin.” He touched a finger to the brim of his hat in a traditional western-style greeting while remaining comfortably seated in his saddle.

  “Hello, Mr. Austin.” She turned the key once more, but nothing happened.

  “It’s flooded,” he repeated. “The engine needs time to cool before you try again.”

  “Oh. Right.” She rolled her eyes under her sunglasses, annoyed at her bad luck and wondering how long it took an engine to cool. “Thanks for the tip,” she smiled, knowing her irritation had nothing to do with him.

  “Heard you might be coming home from California. First time in six or seven years, I was told. That’s a mighty long time between visits.” He tipped his head toward the vehicle. “You know what they say about Karma. Could be this rented lemon is payback for staying away so long.”

  What? Her ire rose quicker than a teapot set on the stove to boil. What did this cowboy know about Karma? And who did he think he was to judge her without knowing her? Not getting off his horse to check if there was more going on with the car than it being flooded was one thing, but rudeness was another matter entirely. Back in L.A. she was used to bad behavior, but here in Montana, people were of a different breed. Or at least they had been when she was growing up.

  Taylor ripped off her sunglasses and glared at him. “I don’t see how my business is any of yours, Mr. Austin.”

  “You can call me Brett,” he grinned.

  “Whatever.” She was hot, tired and cranky, and didn’t feel like conversing with a nosy hired hand. Turning away, she rummaged through her purse and pulled out her cell phone. There were no bars.

  “No cell phone service out here,” Brett said.

  “I can see that.” She snapped the phone shut and tossed it back in the purse. “I forgot how isolated the ranch is,” she mumbled. “And how backward Montana can be.”

  “Your mom will be glad to see you,” he went on, disregarding the dig about Montana. “Poor lady is getting around slow and having to do physical therapy every day, and she doesn’t like it one bit. But a woman her age doesn’t bounce back from a broken hip so fast, you know?”

  Taylor stared at him and then blew air from her mouth like a horse. “Don’t you have something to do?” she asked, throwing one hand into the air. “Some cattle to rustle up? Fences to mend? Or hay to bale?” She slammed her foot on the gas pedal and pumped it several more times. When she realized her efforts were in vain, she rubbed her throbbing temples where a headache was forming.

  “You’re not going to get that vehicle started anytime soon,” Brett stated matter-of-factly. “Like I said, it needs to sit a while. Climb out and hop on back.” He patted the horse’s rump. “I’ll take you up to the house.”

  The horse turned its head and stared at her. There seemed to be a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

  “Thanks. But I’m not going to ride on the back of that animal with you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t know you or that paint.”

  Brett chuckled and shrugged his broad shoulders. “You’re a grown woman and free to do as you wish, but Will’s not going to like it much if I leave you stranded on the road.”

  “I’m hardly stranded. It’s only about a mile to the gate. I’ll be fine. The car will start soon. Or I’ll walk if I have to.”

  With his face twisting in contemplation, Brett gnawed his lower lip.

  “Don’t worry about Will,” Taylor assured. “You’re not going to get in trouble. I’ll wait a while as you suggested, and then I’ll be up to the house once I get the car going.”

  “I can sit with you while you wait.”

  She shook her head. “No need. I’m sure you’re busy. But thanks for stopping by.” She didn’t feel like chatting any longer, but she didn’t intend on being rude, either. Like him.

  “Okay.” His eyebrow arched. “If you’re sure.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “I’ll see you later then.” He nodded goodbye and flicked the reins. “Giddy-up, Bill.” With a cluck of Brett’s tongue, the horse took up a slow trot.

  Taylor peered through the windshield and watched the man’s body sway in perfect rhythm with his gelding’s gait. He knew how to sit a horse. But what did he know about cars? For all she knew, that cowpuncher understood as much about vehicle maintenance as her—which was next to nothing. She might be waiting here for an hour before the thing started again.

  Frowning, she glanced down at her kitten heels and wished she had on more sensible shoes. In her anxious state of mind and hurry to leave, she hadn’t changed clothes or even packed tennis shoes in her carry-on case. What had she been thinking? She worked in pumps nearly every day in L.A., but this was Montana. Walking a mile down a hard-packed dirt road would destroy the shoes—not to mention her feet.

  And it was getting hot in the car with no air conditioning. Patience had never been her strong suit.

  Sticking her head out the window, Taylor hollered to Brett’s back, “Mr. Austin, tell Will I’m out here and need a lift. Won’t you?”

  He kept the horse moving forward, as if he hadn’t heard.

  Darn. Perhaps she should reconsider the cowboy’s offer. She was almost certain he’d let Will know of her predicament if he saw him, so she probably wouldn’t have to wait long in the heat. But what if he didn’t see Will? What if her stepdad wasn’t even at the house? He could be in town or riding the range. After all, there was no reason for Will to think she’d decided to make the trip. She hadn’t made any promises when they’d talked on the phone two days ago.

  Grunting, Taylor flung the car door open and jumped out. Planting her feet apart in the middle of the road, she placed two fingers between her lips and whistled, just as Daddy had taught her as a kid. Surprisingly, she hadn’t forgotten how.

  The whistle got Brett’s attention. He turned the horse in a circle and told Bill to whoa. Then he tossed his hand over the horn again and his and Taylor’s gazes locked. His intense stare burned a hole into her, and a lazy smile split his face. Her head angled in question. Suddenly, she felt as if her slacks were made of see-through paper.

  When he lifted his hand and waved her forward, she narrowed her eyes at his cocksure grin.

  Chapter Two

  As she grabbed her purse from inside the car, she didn’t know why, but it felt like a net full of butterflies had been set free in her stomach.

  Taylor locked the doors with the key-bob and strode toward Brett with her heels sinking into the gravel. When she halted a couple of feet away, she said, “You know it would have been polite if you’d at least met me halfway. My shoes are probably ruined.”

  He countered with another smile that could have melted ice. “If I had, I wouldn’t have been able to enjoy watchi
ng you strut in those clodhoppers.”

  Not expecting that comeback, Taylor felt her cheeks warm.

  “Hope you brought a pair of boots and jeans with you. Your pretty slacks might get ruined, and there’s not much use for shoes like that around here. This is a working cattle ranch.”

  “I know the kind of ranch this is,” she huffed, jutting out her chin. “Look, Mr. Austin…”

  “Brett,” he interrupted.

  She cleared her throat. “I realize you work for Will Banner. But in case no one gave you a history lesson on the Slash Y when you hired on, it was my father, Carson Young, who built this ranch. I don’t require the Brett Austin travel guide description of the ranch. I know every inch of this property, forward and backward.”

  He slapped his knee and amusement flashed behind his blue eyes. “Me too. How about that? You and I have something in common.” His gaze moved leisurely up and down her body. “I never would have imagined it. I thought you might have forgotten about country life, you being a city girl now.”

  He extended his hand to hoist her up, chuckling.

  “This is a tall horse,” she said, ignoring his comment and eyeballing the sixteen-hand gelding.

  “Don’t tell me you grew up on a ranch and have never ridden a horse before.”

  “Of course I have,” she snorted. “My daddy put me on my first pony when I was two years old.”

  “Then grab onto me and stick your foot in the stirrup. But don’t dig those spikes into Bill’s side or he’s liable to take off like a jackrabbit. He’s not fond of spurs.”

  Brett lifted his foot out of the stirrup so she could put hers in. Before she did, she slipped off the pumps and clutched them between her fingers. She didn’t want to take any chances with Bill. Then she slid her hand into Brett’s large, calloused one, put her bare foot into the stirrup, and he swung her onto the back of the paint as if she weighed no more than a dried leaf.

  “That was easy, wasn’t it?” he said, taking up the reins and nudging the paint into a trot with his spur-less boot heels. “Bill’s a little bouncy when he gets going. Better put your arms around me. I don’t mind if you hold tight.”