But that didn't mean it was what he wanted to do forever or that the ranch he owned didn't matter to him. Other than Polly, it mattered more than anything.
He told her that. "It's my home. It's the place I always come back to."
But he wasn't going to do it forever anytime soon. And he was honest about the rest of his life, too.
He was an actor. He went where he had to. When he married Polly—he said "when," not "if"—he'd still have to do some jetting. Depending on the roles he chose, he'd still spend time in various remote or exotic parts of the earth. He wouldn't be in Montana every day of his life. But wherever he was, he would love her, and he would like her—and the kids—to be with him as much as possible. And in any case, he told her, his job didn't define who he was.
Deep down Sloan was the cowboy he'd always been. In his bones and in his blood he was still part of a long line of Montana men who loved their land and their cattle. He might go other places, do other things, but this was where his heart was.
It was where Polly's was, too.
So, he told her firmly, for all that their lifestyles seemed different, their lives—what they loved and valued—weren't really so different, after all.
"Mmm," she said, and then offered another objection. "But you're a bachelor. I'm a widow with four kids."
"I did happen to notice that," he replied solemnly, then assured her, "I like your kids."
She just looked at him and uttered another noncommittal, "Mmm."
He could tell she wasn't convinced. "I love your kids," he said because it was more than simple "like" these days. The longer he knew them, the more he knew the statement was true.
Jack, equal parts exuberance and innocence, was a boy after his own heart. He loved having Jack trailing after him asking question after question. He liked practicing roping with Jack. He liked offering advice on the Pinewood Derby car. He liked hitting hockey pucks with Jack and feeding cattle with him. He couldn't imagine having a better son than Jack, and he told Polly so.
"Mmm," she said.
But he noticed that she smiled when she watched the two of them together, and he knew, whether she said it or not, that she was glad there was a man around the house for Jack to latch onto.
He loved the girls, too. He'd known a lot of women over the past few years, but he really knew very little about girls. It was endlessly fascinating to get to know them. They were baffling and contrary and absolutely wonderful.
Horse-mad Daisy was so unfailingly cheerful and wonderfully uncomplicated that he wished her mother would take lessons from her. Intense, yet dreamy, Artemis, aka Lizzie, popped up at odd hours and stood watching him in silence, while he was fixing the sink or changing a lightbulb or reading a script, and when he looked up and smiled she'd say, "Can I ask you something?"
She had as many questions as Jack, but of a very different sort.
"How can you tell when boys like you?" she asked him once. And after he'd stumbled his way through that, she'd asked, "If boys don't like you, do you think that will ever change?"
He took her questions as seriously as he took Jack's. He tried to explain how boys behaved and what they thought.
"They don't think," he said flatly. "Not often. They mostly act. And react."
And that had led them to a discussion of the differences between men and women. Sloan couldn't believe he was talking about this to a sixteen-year-old. But when he didn't shy away from her questions, she came back with more.
A week or so later she asked if he thought she should kiss on a first date.
"You're not old enough to date!" he blurted, then realized that she was only a year younger than Polly had been when she'd got pregnant with Sara. "Well, maybe you are," he said. "But go slow. You remember what I said about guys not thinking? Well that goes double when they're kissing girls. They know what they want, and it's not always for the best."
"Like sex," she said.
Well, yes.
Sloan wasn't sure if that was a question or not, but he answered it, anyway. "You definitely don't want to have sex. Not at your age. And," he added, "not just to be doing it. Sex is … well, fun—" cripes, he was blushing! "—but it means a whole lot more when you're in love."
Artemis/Lizzie smiled. "Like you."
He didn't know if that was a question either, nor did he know if Polly would want him to admit that he had made love to her. But the fact was he did love her, and he wasn't ashamed to admit that.
He nodded. "Like me."
If Jack and Lizzie, under whatever name, and Daisy talked at length to him about one thing and another, Sara never said much at all. She left the house early most mornings. She came home late most nights. And when she was there, she seemed to be a shadowy presence, a slim, dark-haired, pale-faced, preoccupied girl.
"Is she okay?" Sloan asked.
"She's fine. She has midterms," Polly explained.
But as February turned into March and March turned into April, it seemed to Sloan that midterm was lasting a heck of a long time.
"She has papers, too," Polly told him. "Sara's premed. And you know what that means. She's working her tail off. But that's Sara. She's always had more purpose than everyone else put together. She and Gregg are determined to get into a top medical school. Can you believe it? Someday my daughter will be Dr. McMaster."
"Pretty impressive," Sloan agreed, though he hoped Sara was happier about it than she looked.
He didn't have much time to worry about Sara, though. Convincing Polly was a full-time job. He was lucky he had a hiatus before filming started on the picture he was doing for Trevor MacCormack with Becca Reed.
He had finally met with them during the days he was back in California before Celie came for her weekend. Trevor had been delighted with the chemistry between him and the up-and-coming Becca. A slight blonde woman with a surface look of a vulnerable pixie, Becca drew on reserves of tremendous power. She was a born actor. A natural.
"Like you," Trevor had told him. "It works. When the two of you are together things hum."
Fortunately, they weren't going to start humming until the first of May. Becca had commitments on a film in Ireland, Trevor was finishing up work on a project down under, then wanted another rewrite of the script, and Sloan, as usual, had bargained for time to be home during calving and branding—not that he was at his ranch a lot of the time this year.
But when he was, it was heaven. He'd always seen his ranch as a family place—and now it felt that way for real. He and Polly and whichever kids were available went up most weekends. Once or twice Joyce and Celie had come, though Celie appeared to be getting a life, and Joyce seemed to be spending most of her days studying languages of one sort of another.
Sloan didn't miss them. It was Polly he wanted. She made the ranch feel like home. And the kids brought a dimension he hadn't imagined.
He had a great time with Daisy, showing her the horses, then riding out with her. He taught Jack and Eric a lot about calving and branding. And Jack was becoming a dab hand with a catch rope. Those two came almost every weekend. And once the play ended even Lizzie/Artemis came up.
One of those times, she tracked him down in the corral where he was fixing the fence. She watched in silence until he finished, and he wondered what she was going to ask him this time and mentally prepared for it.
But all she said was that she was thinking of changing her name. "Tuck McCall says Artemis sounds affected."
Sloan looked up. "Does he?"
Lizzie nodded seriously. "But at least he knew which goddess she was."
"Good for Tuck." It was more than he did. He straightened up and flexed his shoulders.
"Tuck's pretty smart," she went on. "And he doesn't call me Lizard anymore. He can drive now. He got his license last week."
"Cool."
"He said he might take me to the movie in Bozeman."
A date? Lizzie? "No kissing," Sloan said automatically.
Lizzie laughed. "As if!"
He
ruffled her hair and grinned at her.
From the kitchen window Polly saw the two of them grinning at each other. Then, as she watched, Sloan, who was carrying his toolbox in one arm, slung the other arm around Lizzie's shoulders and the two of them walked toward the barn.
Like father and daughter.
He treated them all just like he would his own children. If only…
The thought teased her. Tempted her. It would be so very easy to let it happen.
He was so good with them all. He was a great role model for Jack. He seemed to listen when Daisy went on ad nauseam about horses. He made Lizzie laugh. And sometimes she thought Lizzie talked more to him than she did to her own mother.
He was good for her kids. He was good for her.
Sloan Gallagher had made her feel like a woman again. He'd made her aware that she was more than a mom. He made her laugh, too. And he made her silly and humble and hungry for his touch.
He said he loved her.
But for how long?
He was here now, but this wasn't his real life. This was an idyll. The first of May he'd be gone to Kauai working on a film.
"Halfway across the world," she'd said when he'd told her.
"There are phones. I called you from Tierra del Fuego. Or you could come with me."
She'd shaken her head. "The kids—"
"—can come along."
"School—"
"—is out in a little more than a month."
"But—"
"Think about it," he said. "I love you." That's what he always said.
Polly thought about it—about him. Sometimes it seemed that was all she did. Day after day she thought about Sloan, about his easy charm and warm smiles and wonderful loving. He was good with her kids. He was nice to her mother. He'd made an ally of her sister. He said he loved her.
But every time he asked her to marry him, Polly couldn't quite manage to say yes.
She was afraid.
A guy could go gray waiting for Celie O'Meara to get her head on straight.
It wasn't bad enough that she'd dithered away ten years after Matt Williams, dreaming about Sloan Gallagher and various other Hollywood heroes. When she finally came to the realization that Gallagher wasn't her forever man, she still couldn't see that Jace was.
God knew he gave her plenty of opportunity.
He was right there every day, working his tail off in the hardware store, toting and carrying, stacking and cutting, being helpful and cheerful and not saying, "I told you so," once.
Well, maybe once.
But only because he'd been provoked. Only because it was obvious after Celie returned from her weekend that Gallagher hadn't come back to Elmer for her, but because he'd had his sights set on Polly all along.
But would Celie acknowledge she'd been barking up the wrong tree?
Hell, no. She acted like it was her idea ol' Sloan and her sister were a match. And she seemed perfectly happy about it. That was what galled him—that she could see now that Sloan and Polly were made for each other, and she still acted as if he didn't exist.
"Well, hell's bells, boy, just ask 'er out," Artie said.
Artie had come home the week after Celie came back from Hollywood. But he hadn't been back on his feet really, so Jace had stuck around. He couldn't work on his corrals anyway until the weather warmed, so he stayed on with Artie, living in Elmer, working full-time at the hardware store and having his nonexistent love life analyzed by a ninety-year-old man.
"No," Jace said flatly. Because he knew what would happen if he did.
Celie would look at him like he was something she'd found on the bottom of her shoe, then she'd curl her lip in disgust, say flatly "No"—and that would be that.
Jace wasn't putting his heart on the line without some encouragement. A flat-out turndown and he'd have no place to go but home. He'd waited too long for Celie to do something stupid like that.
"She'll come around," he told Artie. "Celie's like a skittish mare."
"Celie's like a horse?"
"A skittish one." Jace nodded solemnly. He'd been working with a mare that belonged to his brother-in-law, one that had been trained up wrong. You had to go slow with horses like that, come at 'em sideways. Take it easy. No direct confrontations.
"Sure," he said. "Just gotta go at 'em slow like. Soothe 'em."
Artie rolled his eyes. "Sounds to me like you'll put 'em to sleep."
"Trust me," Jace said with more certainty than he felt. "She'll come around."
"She might not. She might take off," Artie said.
"No. Not Celie." That was one thing Jace was certain of. Celie loved Elmer. She belonged here. He watched her every day when she went outside to look at the mountains. She would just stand there, breathing deep, looking around, letting the breeze ruffle her glorious dark hair. He watched her and longed to go up to her and run his fingers through her hair, longed to put his arms around her.
But whenever she saw him, she turned quickly away and came back in. It had been going on for weeks, and he wasn't getting anywhere.
"Watchin' paint dry is more excitin' than watchin' you court that woman," Artie said.
"I ain't courtin' her."
"I did notice. She ain't gonna wait forever, ya know. Ya oughta ask her to a movie," Artie said. "Or out to a meal."
But Jace couldn't. He'd never had a lick of trouble asking any other woman out, but no other woman had ever mattered.
"Well, suit yerself," Artie said, disgusted. "But she might meet another feller."
Jace did have to consider that. She had come out of her shell after her weekend with Gallagher. She didn't sort of smile vaguely in the direction of her cowboy customers anymore. She looked straight at them and, by God, she batted her lashes and showed she had dimples. She'd even done a little flirting with that kid, Cy Williams, last time he was in.
Cripes, Jace thought, what if she hooked up with yet another wrong one?
"Maybe I could just take her with me down to Billings to pick up the lawn mowers," he said at last. It was early April.
Mowers would be selling soon. He had to go down on Saturday.
"That's romantic." Artie just shook his head.
But Jace couldn't see himself being romantic with Celie. Hell, chances were if he so much as complimented her, he'd get his face slapped.
But a couple of hours, just the two of them in Artie's big truck, might set things on the right road at last. He could come at her sideways then, get her talking, charm her the way he used to charm all those buckle bunnies—if he even remembered how.
So when she came out to the warehouse the next morning as he was shifting a load of lumber, he said casually, "I'm goin' to Billings Saturday to pick up lawn mowers. Artie wants you to come along." Which was only the truth—Artie did want him to ask her out.
But Celie just shook her head. "I'm not going to be here."
"What the hell do you mean, you're not going to be here?" That Williams kid hadn't lined her up for something, had he?
"I'm going on a singles cruise."
A flea on roller skates could have knocked him over. "A what! A singles cruise? What the hell are you going to do a stupid ass thing like that for?"
Celie blinked rapidly, took a step back, then squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. "To meet men, obviously."
"But—"
But she didn't give him a chance to object. "Now that I'm over Sloan, it seems like an excellent idea."
"But—"
"Artie said it was fine with him."
"Artie knew?" That blankety-blank son-of-a-gun!
"I thought he told you. But he probably figured it wouldn't matter to you," Celie said offhandedly.
Jace felt as if she'd punched him in the gut. "You can't go."
"What do you mean, I can't go? Why not?"
"Because … because you can't afford it! You bought Sloan!"
"Well," she admitted, "he helped me out there. He paid my bid. Said it was the least he could do. I
always knew he was a good guy," she added with a grin.
Jace sputtered furiously. "You don't—you can't—" But Celie went on just as if he weren't strangling on a reply. "But I am. I'm not going to sit here all my life and wait for the right man to come along. I've wasted ten years. So I decided, if I was willing to spend twenty-three thousand dollars on the wrong man, I might as well spend a few thousand to find the right one."
"On a singles cruise?"
"You never know. I'm leaving Wednesday. So if you need to know where anything is, be sure to ask me before then."
"But—"
But Celie didn't wait to hear any more sputtered, furious objections. She smiled, waggled her fingers at him and was gone.
Joyce figured she had a vocabulary of about thirty-seven Vietnamese words now. She knew basic equivalents of please, thank you, yes, no, I need a taxi, how much does it cost? and I'm looking for my daughter, An.
She didn't expect she would ever have to use that last one. But it had been the one Walt was most eager to learn. And she didn't mind learning it, either. She liked spending time with Walt a couple of mornings a week. It gave her a focus, a sense of purpose beyond her job. She looked forward to him coming.
He came about ten and they sat at her kitchen table and drank coffee and listened to the tapes and tried to say the words. They were both pretty bad at it. Mostly they laughed at how bad they were. And then they talked about other things—about life and their kids and her grandkids. Walt envied her her grandkids.
"Maybe someday," he said.
"Nietos," she told him. "That's grandkids in Spanish." They checked their book, but they couldn't find the word in Vietnamese.
"You should learn Spanish," she'd told him last week.
"I didn't get any Mexican girls pregnant," he'd said with a rueful smile.
The smile was evidence that things had changed. After his heart attack, Walt told her, he'd been lost and depressed and then desperate to find his other daughter. He'd felt guilty and bereft. It had become a quest.
In a way it still was. But he'd come to understand it better. He told Joyce last week that he knew he might never meet the young woman he had sired. He knew that, no matter what he wanted, she might not want to meet him.
The Great Montana Cowboy Auction Page 26