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Big Sky Wedding
Linda Lael Miller


Wedding bells are ringing in Parable, Montana, but Brylee Parrish hasn’t enjoyed the sound since being jilted at the altar by Hutch Carmody. She’s over Hutch now, and running a multimillion-dollar business is challenging enough for this country gal.So she should avoid falling head-over-boot-heels for A-list actor Zane Sutton. He’s come home to his rodeo roots, but Hollywood lured him away once and just might again. Yet everything about him, from his easy charm to his concern for his young half-brother, seems too genuine to resist…Zane didn’t come to Parable for love—but count on a spirited woman to change a jaded cowboy’s mind. Problem is, Brylee’s not convinced he’s here to stay. Good thing he’s determined to prove to her, kiss by kiss, that she’s meant to be his bride.







The “First Lady of the West,” #1 New York Times bestselling author Linda Lael Miller, cordially invites you to Parable, Montana—where love awaits

Wedding bells are ringing in Parable, Montana, but Brylee Parrish hasn’t enjoyed the sound since being jilted at the altar by Hutch Carmody. She’s over Hutch now, and running a multimillion-dollar business is challenging enough for this country gal. So she should avoid falling head-over-boot-heels for A-list actor Zane Sutton. He’s come home to his rodeo roots, but Hollywood lured him away once and just might again. Yet everything about him, from his easy charm to his concern for his young half brother, seems too genuine to resist….

Zane didn’t come to Parable for love—but count on a spirited woman to change a jaded cowboy’s mind. Problem is, Brylee’s not convinced he’s here to stay. Good thing he’s determined to prove to her, kiss by kiss, that she’s meant to be his bride.


Praise for #1 New York Times bestselling author Linda Lael Miller

“Miller’s return to Parable is a charming story of love in its many forms…. [A] sweetly entertaining and alluring tale.”

—RT Book Reviews on Big Sky River

“Miller’s down-home, easy-to-read style keeps the plot moving, and she includes…likable characters, picturesque descriptions and some very sweet pets.”

—Publishers Weekly on Big Sky Country

“A delightful addition to Miller’s Big Sky series. This author has a way with a phrase that is nigh-on poetic…this story [is] especially entertaining.”

—RT Book Reviews on Big Sky Mountain

“Miller’s name is synonymous with the finest in western romance.”

—RT Book Reviews

“Linda Lael Miller creates vibrant characters and stories I defy you to forget.”

—#1 New York Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber

“A passionate love too long denied drives the action in this multifaceted, emotionally rich reunion story that overflows with breathtaking sexual chemistry.”

—Library Journal on McKettricks of Texas: Tate

“Miller’s prose is smart, and her tough Eastwoodian cowboy cuts a sharp, unexpectedly funny figure in a classroom full of rambunctious frontier kids.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Man from Stone Creek


Big Sky Wedding

Linda Lael Miller




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Dear Reader,

We’re back in Three Trees and Parable, Montana, where the wedding bells just keep ringing!

Big Sky Wedding brings you the story of Brylee Parish—a heroine who hasn’t been so lucky in love. Only interested in running her multimillion-dollar business, she has no plans to hear those bells for herself anytime soon. Especially not with Zane Sutton—the A-list actor and playboy who’s come back to his rodeo roots.

Brylee’s not convinced of his charm, or that he’s home to stay. But Zane’s not giving up. This hardheaded cowboy is determined to make her see she’s meant to be his bride. Love is in the air in Big Sky Country, and I think we’re all ready for these two to take a big whiff.

In addition to this brand-new story, I’m delighted to announce that I have teamed up with Montana Silversmiths, the legendary makers of championship belt buckles and fabulous Western jewelry, to create a piece I call “Brylee’s Bracelet.” You’ll read all about it in the book and might even find yourself wanting one of your own. Just go to www.montanasilversmiths.com/brylees-bracelet (http://www.montanasilversmiths.com/brylees-bracelet). And know that one hundred percent of my share of the profits will go toward establishing perpetual funding for my Linda Lael Miller Scholarships for Women, in the hope that generations of deserving ladies of all ages will continue to benefit from the program.

Meanwhile, stop on by www.lindalaelmiller.com (http://www.lindalaelmiller.com) for my (almost) daily blog, excerpts from my books, videos of some very sexy cowboys, scholarship news and fun contests, along with a few surprises now and then. And be sure to look for Big Sky Secrets, out in January!

Happy trails, and thanks for the listen.

With love,







For Bob Massi, of FOX News fame, a generous soul to say the least, and to his lovely wife, Lynn, a genuine cowgirl, inside and out.

Thanks so much for your help setting up my scholarship foundation and for hosting the Master Mind dinner in Vegas!


Contents

CHAPTER ONE (#ub93cbce3-f207-5abb-a1df-08c2e1aa4f2d)

CHAPTER TWO (#u71ef38c5-8ffd-5867-8b0d-a4cdee3e9fe4)

CHAPTER THREE (#u7798fbfc-ba57-54f4-9959-cb4d7d347af7)

CHAPTER FOUR (#u6648ff38-c671-55c3-8070-e87dd61fabd4)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE

THERE WAS, AS it happened, considerably more timber in and around the town of Three Trees, Montana, than the name would lead a person to believe, and that was fine with Zane Sutton. He’d had enough urban crowds, concrete, steel and pavement to last him a good long while—say, forever.

Now? Bring on the trees, the blue and purple mountains, the wild rivers and the crystal-clear lakes and streams.

For most of his adult life, Zane had taken each day as it came, content with whatever those twenty-four fleeting hours had to offer, rarely planning anything beyond entering the next rodeo, in the next town over, the next county over, the next state over. Everything else—relationships, off-season jobs, mostly driving, loading or unloading trucks, and even his accidental career in the movies—wound behind him, basically meaningless, a long trail of things that had seemed like a good idea at the time.

It wasn’t that Zane had a lot of regrets. Recently, though, he’d begun thinking that, at thirty-four, he ought to choose a direction, stop carousing and start acting more like a grown-up. He’d wanted to light somewhere and stay put, see if he couldn’t rustle himself up a life with some substance to it.

Now, under a June sun bright as polished brass, with his boots firmly planted on land that belonged to him, mortgage-free, Zane took off his hat, ran the fingers of one hand through his light brown hair, drew a deep, smog-free breath and tilted his head back to admire the cloudless stretch of blue overhead, arching from horizon to horizon. As far as he was concerned, no ceiling in any cathedral anywhere, no matter how grand, could rival that particular patch of big Montana sky.

The sight stirred a certain reverence inside him, and he drank it in whenever he remembered to look up. He felt the tenuous beginnings of restoration in the rocky, parched terrain of his soul, a nurturing process, like a good, steady rain at the end of a long drought.

He’d finally found a home on these acres upon acres of land, and he intended to take root, like the venerable oaks and pines, cottonwoods and firs, all around him. He’d bought Hangman’s Bend Ranch as an investment a few years before, in a what-the-hell-why-not kind of mood, going halves with his hotshot investment tycoon brother, Landry, who was a different brand of drifter than Zane, but a drifter just the same.

Neither one of them had bothered to visit the place; they’d just signed the papers and gone on with their lives.

Although Zane couldn’t speak for his brother, he himself had been restless for a long time, since boyhood, for sure, but just a few days before, he’d had an epiphany of sorts. Nothing mystical, no blinding light knocking him flat, no angels singing; he’d simply realized he was damn good and fed up with the status quo, glamorous though it was. Acting in movies was all right—mostly easy work, if deadly boring a lot of the time—but lately it had been getting harder and harder to tell the difference between playing a part and the real deal.

The offshoot of all this sudden clarity was that Zane had found himself on a car lot in L.A., trading in his supercharged European ride for a shiny silver pickup truck with an extended cab. In a spate of nonverbal ad-libbing, he’d driven the new truck to the nearest animal shelter, gone inside and adopted a dog, an unprepossessing critter, big and black with floppy ears. He dubbed the animal Slim, mainly because its ribs showed, a consequence of missing a few meals along the way. Leaving pretty much everything else he owned behind, Zane, with Slim, had headed north by northeast, stopping only to grab a couple of drive-through burgers here and there, gas up the truck and snooze a little in rest-stop parking lots.

They’d reached Hangman’s Bend late the previous night, camping out in the unfurnished ranch house. That morning, Slim had taken a liking to a certain shady spot on the porch, so he’d stayed behind when Zane set out to get a good look at the wooded section of his land. He was on foot because his horse, Blackjack, was still in transit from the California stables where he’d been boarding the gelding since his move to L.A. several years earlier.

He followed the meandering creek for a bit, enjoying the way it stitched its path through the woods like a wide strand of silver thread, clear and sun-sparkled and almost musical as it rolled over worn stones that resembled jewels under the water, coursed around primordial boulders and tree stumps, some of them petrified, on its way to wherever it was going.

Zane made a mental note to check a map later, when he got back to the house, because he liked knowing the facts about things, liked knowing exactly where he was, both literally and figuratively, but at the moment, he was in no great hurry to turn homeward. He was out to find the southern corner of his property, supposedly staked out and flagged.

At least eight feet wide—probably ten or twelve in some places—the stream would be difficult to cross, but eventually he came to a natural bridge, a line of six flat stones, small and fairly far apart. Still fit, even after living fancy from the day he signed that first film contract till he left Hollywood behind him, he figured he could make it to the other side without getting his boots wet, let alone taking a header into that glacier-chilled creek water.

With his arms outstretched for balance, the way he and Landry used to do when they walked the top rail of a fence as kids, he moved with relative ease, never setting both feet down on the same rock, since there wasn’t room. When he reached the opposite bank, no longer concentrating so hard, he stopped short, startled by what amounted to a vision.

A wood nymph, dressed in faded blue jeans, battered boots and a pale green Western shirt, stood in the center of the small clearing just ahead, both arms wrapped around the trunk of a lone cottonwood tree. Her hair was brown and shiny and thick, just brushing her shoulders, and it caught the leaf-filtered light, threw it around like colored beams in a prism. Her head was tilted back slightly, her eyes closed, and the expression on her fine-boned face was downright blissful.

What the hell?

Zane could have watched her for hours—just looking at the woman gave him the same belly-clenching thrill he’d gotten in his bronc-riding days, in that moment before the chute gate swung open and the official eight-second countdown began—but, suddenly off his game, he took an unintended half step in her direction, a twig snapped under the sole of his boot and the moment was over.

The nymph’s eyes were wide, hazel or maybe green or pale gray, and at the moment, seeing him, they were shooting fire. She backed away from the tree, and Zane noticed that her shirt was open and she was wearing a tank top underneath. She had great breasts, neither too big nor too small, and bits of bark clung to her clothes. As she glared at him, she let her arms drop briefly to her sides, then fisted up both hands and pressed the knuckles hard against her well-made hips. He knew she recognized him when he saw her jawbones lock together, and that struck a wistful note somewhere in the vicinity of his heart. He’d have given a lot, in that moment, to be his pre-Hollywood self, just another cowboy with a cocky grin, an attitude and a line or two.

“What are you doing here?” the sprite demanded, finding her voice at last. She took a few marching steps toward him, evidently thought better of coming too close and stopped while there was still a safe distance between them. Her emphasis on the word you, though slight, chapped Zane’s hide a little, since, after all, he wasn’t the one trespassing on somebody else’s land, now was he?

“I live here,” he replied reasonably, in his own good time, standing with his feet planted slightly apart and his arms folded. The irritation he’d felt was short-lived, quickly replaced by a sort of amused delight. Whoever the lady was, the fact that she might have rescued those clean but otherwise shabby clothes of hers from somebody’s ragbag notwithstanding, she was most definitely a looker.

She didn’t come any closer, nor did she say anything, but it did seem that she’d lost some of her zip.

And Zane couldn’t resist adding, “Were you just hugging that tree, or was I imagining things?”

She blushed then, her cheeks going a glorious, peachy shade of pink. Her mouth was wide and expressive—inherently kissable. And, now that they weren’t standing so far apart, he could see that her eyes were hazel. The color probably changed, depending on what she was wearing, her present mood or even the weather.

“I was doing a personal-growth exercise,” she informed him stiffly, as though any idiot would have known that without asking, and Zane could tell she resented telling him even that much. She was proud and stubborn, he decided, and competent at everything she did.

But what the devil was a “personal-growth exercise,” exactly? Something she’d picked up watching the Oprah Winfrey Network?

He walked slowly toward her, put out his hand for a friendly shake, hoping she’d get the message that he wasn’t fixing to pounce. “Zane Sutton,” he said, by way of introduction.

She looked at his hand, then at his face, then ran both palms down the thighs of her jeans before shaking the offered hand for a full nanosecond. “Brylee Parrish.” She gave up the name grudgingly, like it was a state secret. “And I knew who you were without being told, thanks.”

Clearly, Brylee Parrish was not impressed by stardom, his or anyone else’s.

And he liked that, liked it a lot, because he’d never been all that dazzled by the phenomenon himself, based as it was on appearances instead of reality.

“Then you had an advantage,” Zane replied mildly.

Brylee cocked her head to one side, studying him skeptically. “You actors,” she finally said, not quite scoffing, but coming real close.

Zane chuckled. “I like to consider myself a recovering actor,” he said.

“Please,” she said, and though there was mockery in her tone, she wasn’t being sarcastic. Her hands were still on her hips, though, and her chin still jutted out, and everything about her warned, Stay back.

“You don’t think we can recover?”

She sighed, considering the question. “I’d say it’s unlikely,” she decided, at some length. “Show business people are—show business people.”

“Which means?”

“You come and go. You buy or build ridiculously big, elaborate houses, not just in Montana, but in Colorado and New Mexico and Arizona, too—all over the West, in fact, basically scarring the landscape and squandering natural resources. You get on your high horse and boycott things—beef, for instance—thereby putting good people out of business after generations of honest effort. You get involved in local politics just long enough to cause lasting problems, maybe start a few bitter feuds among the local yokels, and then you sell your property to some other famous so-called idealist know-it-all and move merrily on to ruin yet another community.”

Zane gave a long, low whistle of amused exclamation. There was some truth to her words—maybe a lot of it—but he didn’t like being lumped in with all those well-meaning but too-often fickle celebrities. Hello? He was a rodeo cowboy at heart, raised country by a woman who waited on tables for a living—the movie stuff had been thrust upon him, greatness not included. “Why not just come right out and say what you mean, instead of sugarcoating your opinions so I’ll feel all warm and toasty and welcome?” he gibed.

Brylee sagged a little at the shoulders, as though sighing with her whole body. “Most of us were hoping you wouldn’t show up,” she said. “That you’d just let the ranch sit there, instead of hitting Three Trees like some kind of consumer storm trooper, putting in media rooms, restaurant-style kitchens the Food Channel would envy, tennis courts and indoor swimming pools—Olympic-size, of course.”

“Gee,” Zane answered dryly. “Thanks for the generous assessment. Seems like you’re assuming a lot, though.”

“Am I?”

“Yes,” he said. “I believe you are. You don’t know a damn thing about me, Ms. Parrish, except that I used to live and work in Hollywood. And I happen to like the house I’m in now, pretty much the way it is. Except, of course, for the antiquated plumbing, the dry-rot in some of the walls, the missing floorboards and the sagging roof. Oh, and I’ll be glad when they switch the electricity on later today, I admit. But you’d probably view any improvements as conspicuous consumption, unless I miss my guess.”

“You won’t stay,” Brylee said flatly, after giving his words due consideration and then, obviously, dismissing them. And him.

“You’ll see,” he replied, every bit as nettled as he was intrigued.

And that was the end of their first conversation. She went one way, and he went the other.

Hardly an encouraging start, in Zane’s opinion, but a start, nonetheless.

Something—God knew what, but something—had just begun, he knew that by the strange tightening in his gut, and whatever it was, there would be no stopping it.

By the time he’d crossed the creek again, he was grinning.

* * *

BRYLEE STORMED BACK to her office/warehouse, just beyond Zane Sutton’s property line, her emotions veering wildly between fury and chagrin. Of all the people in the world who might have caught her in the middle of a sincere effort to ground herself, via a method she’d learned in a motivational seminar held for her salespeople, why did he have to be the one?

Snidely, her German shepherd, greeted her with a wagging tail and a wide dog grin as she entered her building by the back door. Since it was Saturday, the office and warehouse workers weren’t around, so she and her faithful companion had the place to themselves.

Normally, Brylee enjoyed the peace and quiet, and got a lot done because the usual weekday interruptions weren’t a factor, but that day, she’d have liked to vent to someone. Anyone.

For the time being, Snidely would have to do.

“We have a new neighbor,” she told the dog, who, as usual, seemed fascinated by every word she said, however unintelligible to the canine brain. “He’s a smart aleck and he’s arrogant as all get-out and darned if he isn’t way too good-looking for his own good or anybody else’s. Mine, for instance.”

Brylee locked the back door behind her and headed across the wide concrete floor of the warehouse, toward her nondescript cubicle of an office. Snidely, the most devoted of dogs, naturally followed, tail still swishing back and forth, eyes hopeful.

“Not that we have anything to worry about,” she ranted on, chattily, in a singsong voice. “Because, like most of his breed, Zane Sutton will move on to greener pastures, sooner rather than later, if we’re lucky.”

Why did that prospect give her a swift, sudden pang?

She stepped behind her desk—army surplus, no frills, like the rest of the furniture—and booted up her computer. Her company, Décor Galore, was an international operation; all over the world, hostesses held parties in their living rooms, directed by one of her salespeople—aka independent contractors—in return for a carefully chosen gift and discounts based on total sales, and invited their friends and relatives to buy wall hangings and figurines, prints of classic paintings, bouquets of exquisite silk flowers and every conceivable kind of candle.

When Brylee started Décor Galore, less than six years back, she’d been a one-woman sales force, setting up home parties, lugging card tables and two-page catalogs around the county, selling items she’d either imported or purchased wholesale, at a gift show. Now, she had over a thousand people signed up to sell and, except for the local discount store and the Native American casino just over the Idaho border, she employed more people than any other business owner in the area.

She’d expected this kind of success to be a lot more satisfying than it was, though. Not that she’d ever admitted as much to anybody, especially after she’d been so driven, worked so hard. Now, she had money enough to last for three lifetimes, never mind one.

She had a closet full of beautiful, custom-made clothes—which she never wore unless she was conducting management meetings or leading sales seminars. She could live anywhere she wanted, go anywhere she wanted. Over the past few years, she’d traveled to every continent on earth, staying in the best hotels and dining in the finest restaurants.

Perhaps more important, at least to her way of thinking, she’d helped put Three Trees, Montana, on the map. Her sales conventions brought hordes of people to the town—people with money to spend. She’d set up scholarships for high school seniors in both Parable and Three Trees, and, damn it, she’d made a real difference.

So why wasn’t she happier than she was?

Frowning, no nearer to answering that question than before, Brylee went online, scanned reports filed by her district and regional sales managers—the movers and shakers who headed up teams, drove company cars, took exotic all-expenses-paid vacations and, to a woman, earned at least twice as much money as the President of the United States, even in the current white-water economy. As usual, the managers were outdoing themselves, and doing their level best to outdo one another, too.

The result of all this constructive competition, which she actively encouraged? More money. Another record quarter. Why, if she chose to, she could take Décor Galore public, walk away and do whatever she wanted to for the rest of her life.

Unfortunately, she wasn’t entirely sure what that would look like. Would she still be herself, or some woman she didn’t know?

Once upon a time, engaged to Hutch Carmody, a rancher from over near the town of Parable, Brylee had thought she had it all figured out. A sort of romantic slam-dunk. She’d love Hutch, have his babies, content to be a wife and mother, albeit a very rich wife and mother, and grow old alongside her undeniably sexy man—that was the plan.

Of course, things hadn’t worked out that way. Hutch had called off their wedding, and not without fanfare, either. Not ahead of time, when she could have saved face, sent back the gifts, canceled the five-tier cake, uninvited the guests, talked to the photographer. No, she’d been standing in the church entryway in her wedding dress, her arm looped through her brother Walker’s, about to step into the next phase of her life, when her devastatingly handsome bridegroom had suddenly broken rank with his best man and the preacher, walked halfway down the aisle and said, “Hold it.”

Remembering, Brylee squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. Even now, the humiliation was vivid, visceral, an actual ache in her middle, like the aftermath of a hard punch.

Oh, but time heals most wounds, or at least desensitizes them a little. She’d eventually made peace with Hutch—he was now married to the former Kendra Shepherd, also of Parable, and they had two beautiful children, with another on the way. They were happy, and Brylee certainly didn’t begrudge them that.

Just the same, there were still times, like now, when she flashed back to the whole scene, and when that happened, it seemed the proverbial rug had been yanked out from under her feet all over again, leaving her breathless, figuratively wheeling her arms in a hopeless attempt to maintain her balance.

Once the internal roller-coastering stopped, she logged out of the program on her computer and rested her elbows on the edge of her desk, her face pressed into her palms. She wasn’t going to get any more work done today, might as well accept it.

Snidely gave a small, sympathetic whimper and rested his muzzle on her thigh, lending what comfort he could.

Brylee lifted her face, gave a broken chuckle and tousled the dog’s ears. “If I ever meet a man who’s half as loyal as you are,” she told Snidely, “I’d marry him in a heartbeat. Even if I have to hog-tie him first and then drag him to the altar.”

Snidely whined again, as if in agreement.

Brylee bent and planted a smacking kiss on the top of his sleek, hairy head and pushed back her desk chair carefully, so she wouldn’t run over one of Snidely’s paws. “Let’s go home,” she said, with gentle resignation.

Home was the family ranch, Timber Creek, and she and Walker owned it jointly, though Walker ran the place and did most of the work involved. Brylee and Snidely lived in a spacious apartment, an add-on behind the kitchen, and those quarters had always suited her just fine, since she spent most of her time at Décor Galore, anyway.

Now, though, Walker had married his singing-cowgirl sweetheart, Casey Elder, whom Brylee loved dearly, as she loved their two teenage children, Clare and Shane, and their new baby, three-month-old Preston. Casey and Walker were adding on to the house—they planned on having several more children—and happy chaos reigned.

As hard as her brother and sister-in-law tried to include her in things, though, Brylee felt like a third wheel, even an intruder. Walker and Casey were still on their honeymoon, even after a year of marriage, and the way those two loved each other, they’d probably be perpetual newlyweds.

They needed privacy, family time.

Besides, Brylee was beginning to feel like a spinster aunt, the legendary old maid hovering on the fringes of everybody else’s lives.

Was it wrong to want a home, a husband and children of her own? Or was she asking too much? After all, she had a fabulous business, one she’d built with her own two hands, and barring global financial catastrophe, money would never be a problem. Maybe it was just greedy to want more, especially when so many people didn’t have enough of anything, including the basic necessities of life.

She was still debating the subject when she arrived at the home-place, minutes later, in her trusty-dusty SUV. Casey sat in the porch swing, gently rocking the little bundle that was Preston in her arms.

Casey was a fiery redhead, beautiful and talented, but in that moment she resembled nothing so much as a Renaissance woman in a painting by one of the masters, a vision in shades of titian and green.

She smiled as Brylee and Snidely got out of Brylee’s rig.

“Come sit a minute,” she said, in her soft Texas drawl, patting the cushion beside her. “Preston is sleeping, and I’m just sitting here thinking about how I’m the luckiest woman in the world.”

Something of what she was feeling must have shown in Brylee’s face as she approached, because Casey’s expression changed for an instant, and there was a flicker of sadness in her eyes. “You know,” she said fretfully, “it’s a wonder I can walk right, what with one foot in my mouth at all times.”

Brylee smiled, climbed the porch steps, joined Casey and her sleeping nephew on the ancient swing. It had been there for as long as she could remember, that swing, the place where, as a little girl, she’d cried every time her mother left again. The place where she’d dreamed big dreams, and talked herself out of the blues a thousand times, especially after the breakup with Hutch.

Would she ever rock her own sleeping baby there, as Casey was doing now?

For some reason, Zane Sutton popped into her mind just then, and she must have blushed, because Casey narrowed her green eyes and studied her closely, missing little or nothing.

“What’s up?” Casey asked. “And don’t say ‘nothing,’ Brylee Parrish, because I wasn’t born yesterday, and you look as though you might be coming down with a fever, you’re so flushed. Your eyes are bright, too. Do you feel okay?”

Brylee sighed, feeling pretty lucky herself, albeit in a melancholy way. Maybe she didn’t have a husband and a baby, but she had Casey, and Walker. Clare and Shane, too, and a lot of friends who genuinely cared about her.

“I just ran into Zane Sutton,” she confessed. “In the woods, between Décor Galore headquarters and his ranch house. Technically, I guess I was trespassing.”

Casey’s eye twinkled with amused mischief. “Is he pressing charges?” she asked.

Brylee laughed, but it was a ragged sound, brief and harsh against the tender flesh of her throat. “No,” she answered, “I don’t think so. But I still feel extra stupid.”

Casey frowned affectionately, and the joy didn’t leave her eyes. Baby Preston, cosseted inside a lightweight blue blanket, stirred against his mother’s chest. “Now, why on earth would you, of all people, feel stupid? You’re one of the smartest women I know, Brylee, and that’s saying something, because I know some sharp ladies.”

Remembering, Brylee blushed again. “I thought I was alone,” she confided. “I was...hugging a tree.”

“Oh, horrors,” Casey teased. “Not that.”

“He thinks I’m a flake, Casey.”

“Did he say that?”

“Not in so many words, but still. I was hugging a tree. And I feel like an idiot.”

“Why? Trees are excellent company. What’s wrong with hugging them?”

“You’re being deliberately kind,” Brylee accused, but with affection. Casey was the sister she’d always yearned for, and one of her closest friends in the bargain.

“Excuse me.” Casey grinned. “I happen to like trees myself—they’re good people, so to speak. I like to hug them when I get a chance. Unless there’s a reporter hiding up there in the branches, anyway.”

Brylee laughed, and this time, there was more sincerity in the sound. “I probably looked foolish, that’s all,” she said, moments later, when she was more reflective.

“And you care what Zane Sutton thinks of you?” Casey challenged mildly. “That’s interesting. Also, encouraging. Walker will be thrilled to hear it.”

“Don’t you dare tell my brother,” Brylee said, knowing the request was hopeless. Casey and Walker didn’t have secrets, not from each other, anyway.

“Are you attracted to Zane, Brylee?” Casey pressed, still smiling mysteriously. “Because if you are, I can get you a date with him. We’re friends, Zane and I—we did a movie together once.”

Sometimes, like now, Brylee forgot that her sister-in-law was a major celebrity, a famous Country-Western singer and sometime actress. She’d sung for kings, queens and presidents, racked up dozens of prestigious awards. Still, Casey was so salt-of-the-earth that it was easy to forget how well-known she actually was.

“The last thing in the world I want is a date with Zane Sutton,” Brylee said. “So forget the whole idea, please.”

Casey grinned. “Whatever you say,” she replied, with a note of slyness in her tone that unnerved Brylee a little. “But Zane is an old friend of mine, like I said. So don’t be surprised if he turns up at our supper table one night real soon.”

“Give me advance notice,” Brylee responded, “and I’ll make other plans.”

Casey laughed. “You’re as stubborn as your brother, you know that? Maybe even more so, if such a thing is possible. Do I really need to point out how many women there are in this world who would fall all over themselves for a chance to spend just one evening with Zane?”

“Invite one of them,” Brylee suggested briskly, as Snidely curled up at her feet.

Casey handed over the baby, a warm little armful that filled Brylee’s heart with love and a bittersweet yearning. “Hold your nephew for a few minutes,” she said. “I’ve had to pee for the past half hour.”

With that pithy—and typical—announcement, Casey disappeared into the house, headed for the nearest bathroom.

Brylee gathered her nephew close, lightly kissed the downy top of the baby’s head and whispered, “Your mama is right. She is the luckiest woman in the world.”

* * *

ZANE STOOD AT the edge of the woods for a few moments, solemnly surveying his “new” home—the long one-story stone house, with its big porch and many chimneys. The windows were tall and set deeply into their casings, the inside sills wide enough to sit on, and the place had a quietness about it that had charmed him, even when he’d only seen pictures on a real estate website. In person, the effect was even stronger.

Those were the things he liked about the place.

The things he didn’t like were more numerous: as he’d told Brylee out there in the woods, the structure needed a lot of work. The grass in the yard was seriously overgrown, of course, after being neglected for so long, and speckled with dandelions and other less comely weeds. As for the picket fence, weathered and falling over here and there, well, a coat of paint wasn’t going to do the trick.

Slim, spotting him, rose and ambled on over to offer a greeting.

“We’ve got our work cut out for us, boy,” Zane said, shifting his gaze to the barn. It was large and, like the house, made of stone. Unlike the house, it was in remarkably good shape. Maybe he and Slim ought to move into one of the stalls, or the tack room, while the renovations were going on.

Just then, he heard an engine, and turned to see a van pulling in down by the teetering mailbox, sides emblazoned with the electric company’s logo.

“Let there be light,” Zane said dryly, but his mind was still on Brylee Parrish, and her blatant belief that he’d change this ranch into some kind of flashy showplace.

Tennis courts? Indoor swimming pools? Media rooms?

He hadn’t even had those things in Tinseltown.

A nice condo? Sure. An expensive car that could almost fly? You got it.

By Hollywood standards, though, he’d lived modestly, and all he really wanted, even now, was a place to keep his horse—he’d missed being able to ride Blackjack whenever the mood struck him, back there in California, gotten downright lonesome for the animal’s company, in fact. The barn, four sturdy walls to keep out the wind and a solid roof over his head completed his current aspirations, as far as living arrangements went.

The van pulled to a stop in what passed for a driveway, dust billowing up around the vehicle in a cloud, and a balding man with a belly and a clipboard got out, grinning from ear to ear.

Zane drummed up a grin of his own. Put out his hand, because that was what people did in the country whenever they met up, and he’d missed the ritual.

The new arrival—the stitching on the pocket of his work shirt said his name was Albie—shook Zane’s hand enthusiastically. “When I told my wife I’d be turning on the juice for none other than Zane Sutton himself today,” Albie beamed, “she made me promise to get your autograph and tell you she loved all your movies.”

Zane’s expression, though friendly, might have seemed a touch forced, to anyone more observant than Albie. “Thanks,” he said, and left it at that.


CHAPTER TWO

ALONE IN HER apartment, except for Snidely, of course, Brylee did weekend things. She washed and dried her hair, gave herself a pedicure as well as a manicure, and then a facial to round out the routine. She chose a red-and-white polka dot sundress to wear to church in the morning, gave it a few quick licks with the iron and hung it carefully from the hook on the inside of her closet door. She selected white sandals and a red handbag to complete the ensemble, setting those on the cushioned window seat in her bedroom, where they would be in plain sight.

Brylee liked to make her preparations well in advance, wherever preparation was humanly possible, which was most of the time. In her considered opinion, there were enough surprises in life, careening out of nowhere, blindsiding her just when she thought she had everything covered, so she preferred not to leave herself open to the unexpected, if given the smallest option.

She would have described herself as “organized,” but she knew there were other definitions that might apply, like “obsessive” or even “anal.”

Okay, so she was something of a control freak, she thought, leaving her shabby-chic bedroom, with its distinctly female decor, for the living room.

Here, she’d chosen pegged wood floors instead of carpeting, and the fireplace was a wonder of blue and white, burgundy and gold, pale green and soft pink tiles, each one hand-painted. She’d colored and fired them all herself, using the kiln at her friend Doreen’s ceramics studio in Three Trees, and just looking at them made her feel good. Some had tiny stars, swirls or checks, while others were plain, at least to Brylee, and the result was a kind of quasi-Moroccan magic.

She’d hooked the big scatter rugs, too, mostly on lonely winter nights, while a blaze flickered on the hearth, managing to pick up many of the colors from the tiles. The couch, love seat and two big armchairs were clad for spring and summer in beige cotton slipcovers with just the faintest impression of a small floral print; when fall rolled around, she’d switch them out, for either chocolate-brown or burgundy corduroy. Most everything else in the room rotated with the seasons, too—the art on the walls, the vases and the few figurines, even the picture frames on the mantelpiece, though the photos inside remained the same: Casey and Walker, beaming on their wedding day, Clare and Shane goofing off up at the lake, Snidely sporting a stars-and-stripes bandana in honor of Independence Day. Now, of course, she’d added a few prized shots of little Preston, as well.

Brylee believed change was a good thing—as long as it was carefully planned and coordinated, of course.

She was aware of the irony of this viewpoint, naturally, but she’d built a thriving business on the concept of fresh decor, geared to the seasons, to the prevailing mood or to some favorite period in history. Hadn’t Marie Antoinette had her spectacular bedroom at Versailles redecorated from floor to ceiling in honor of spring, summer, fall and winter?

Yeah, but look how she ended up, Brylee thought, making a rueful face.

Snidely stood in the kitchen doorway, looking back at her, tail wagging, his mouth stretched into a doggy grin. Fluent in Snidelyese, Brylee understood that he wanted his food bowl filled, or a treat, or both, if all his lucky stars were in the right places.

Brylee chuckled and slipped past him, executing a slight bow in the process. “Your wish is my command,” she said, her royal mood, no doubt spawned by the brief reflection on the French court, lingering.

The kitchen, like the living room, was big, especially for an apartment. The appliances were state of the art and there was an island in the center of the space, complete with marble top and two stainless-steel sinks. She’d picked up the dining set cheap, at one of those unfinished furniture places, stained the wood dark maple and tiled the surface of the round table in much the same style as she had the fireplace.

A bouquet of perfect pink peonies, cut from the garden her great-grandmother had planted years ago and placed in an old green-glass canning jar, made a lovely centerpiece. Brylee paused to lean over and draw in their vague, peppery scent. They would be gone soon, these favorites, and she meant to enjoy them while she could. The lilacs, which grew in profusion all over the ranch house’s huge yard, had already reached their full, fragrant purple-and-white glory and quietly vanished, along with the daffodils and tulips of early spring. There were still roses aplenty, rollicking beds of zinnias, clouds of colorful gerbera daisies, too, but Brylee missed the ones that had gone before, even as she enjoyed every new wave of color.

She needed flowers, the way she needed air and water; to her, they were sacred, a form of visual prayer.

A knock sounded at her back door just as she was setting Snidely’s bowl of kibble on the floor. Glancing up, she saw her teenage niece, Clare, grinning in at her through the oval glass window.

“In!” Brylee called, grinning back.

Sixteen-year-old Clare, a younger version of her mother, Casey, was blessed with copper-bright hair that tumbled to her shoulders in carefully casual curls, bright green eyes and a quick mind, inclined toward kindness but with a mischievous bent. If she looked closely enough, Brylee could see Walker in the girl, too, and even a few hints of herself.

Not for the first time, she marveled that Walker and Casey had been able to keep their secret—that Walker had fathered both Clare and Shane—for so long.

“I think I’ve got a date,” Clare confided, in a conspiratorial whisper, tossing a bottle-green glance in the direction of the inside door that led into the main part of the ranch house. Maybe she thought Casey was on the other side, with a glass pressed to her ear, eavesdropping.

If anyone was listening in, Brylee reflected, amused, it was more likely to be Clare’s brother, fifteen-year-old Shane, with whom the child shared a sort of testy alliance—with an emphasis on the testy part. She and Walker had been that way, too, growing up, though they’d had each other’s backs when necessary.

Brylee lifted her eyebrows and quirked her mouth up at the corners, in a way that said, “Go on, I’m listening,” and opened the refrigerator door to take out a diet cola for each of them. As she understood prevailing parental policy, Clare wasn’t allowed to go on one-couple car dates or to go out with the same boy more than three times in a row, and her parents practically ran background checks on anybody new to her circle of friends. Now, her twinkly air of secrecy indicated that something was up and, at the same time, belied any possibility that an executive exception had been made.

Clad in jeans, boots and a long-sleeved yellow T-shirt that made her hair flame beautifully around her deceptively angelic face, Clare hauled back a chair at the table and said a quiet thank-you when Brylee set the can of soda in front of her, along with a glass nearly filled with ice.

Brylee sat down opposite Clare and poured cola into her own glass of ice. And she waited.

“It’s not even an actual date,” Clare confided, blushing a little, shifting her gaze in Snidely’s direction and smiling at his exuberant kibble-crunching.

“How is a date ‘not actually’ a date?” Brylee ventured, but only after she’d taken a few leisurely sips of soda.

Clare gave a comical little wince. She’d basically grown up on the road, accompanying her famous mother and an extensive entourage on concert tours, and, though sheltered, overly so in Walker’s opinion, she was bound to be more sophisticated than the average kid. She’d been all over the world, after all, and met kings, queens, presidents and potentates. In Parable County—which had its share of troubled teens, like any other community—it was a good bet that Clare was considerably more savvy than most of her contemporaries.

“I guess a date isn’t really a date when it’s part of a youth group field trip,” the girl said sweetly, showing her dimples. “Mrs. Beaumont—Opal—and the reverend are chartering a bus and taking a whole bunch of us to Helena. We get to tour the capital buildings and stay overnight.”

Brylee smiled. She knew Opal and her husband, the Reverend Walter Beaumont, quite well, even though their church was in Parable and she attended one in Three Trees. They were beyond responsible, and both of them took a keen interest in the teen members of their congregation or any other.

“I see,” she said. “And this nondate is a date—how?”

Suddenly, Clare looked shy, and her lovely eyes turned dreamy.

Uh-oh, Brylee thought. Up to that moment, she’d been ready to dismiss a nagging sense that something was off. Now, she guessed she’d been right to worry, if only a little.

“Luke and I are going to sit together on the bus, that’s all,” Clare said. “And just sort of, well, hang out while we’re in Helena. You know, hold hands and stuff, when nobody’s looking. Spend a little time alone together, if we get the chance.”

“You don’t know Opal Beaumont very well if you think she won’t be keeping an eagle eye on every last one of you the whole time,” Brylee pointed out, with a little smile. She’d had a lecture or two from Opal herself—mostly on the subject of finding herself a good man and settling down—and she knew the woman didn’t miss much, if anything at all. A matchmaker extraordinaire, she was credited, sometimes indirectly, with jump-starting at least four relationships, all of which had led to marriage.

By the same token, though, Opal was devout, with the corresponding firm morals, and she’d guard her younger charges, girls and boys, with the ferocity of a tigress on the prowl.

Clare moved her slender shoulders in a semblance of a shrug. “Mom and Dad already said I could go,” she said, cheeks pink.

“And they know it’s an overnighter?” Brylee pressed, but gently.

Clare nodded. Then, guiltily, she added, “It’s the sitting together and the holding hands and the alone-time part I didn’t tell them about.”

Holding her palms up and opening and closing the fingers of both hands, Brylee imitated the sound the refrigerator made when she hadn’t shut the door all the way. “Danger,” she said, smiling again. “If you had a clear conscience about this, my girl, you wouldn’t feel any need to keep secrets from your folks. There’s something you’re not telling me.”

Clare sighed and looked at Brylee through lowered eyelashes, thick ones, like her mother’s. Like her father’s, for that matter. “Honestly, Aunt Brylee, Luke and I aren’t planning to do anything.”

“Then why sneak around?” Brylee challenged, though carefully. She’d been a teenager herself once, after all, and she knew coming on too strong would only cause more problems.

Clare answered with an uncomfortable question. “Are you going to tell Mom and Dad?”

Until several months after her parents’ long overdue marriage, Clare had persisted in referring to Walker by his first name, angry that he and Casey had kept the truth about their parentage from her and her brother, and, for that matter, the rest of the world. Both Clare and Shane were indeed Walker’s biological children, but calling him “Dad” was a relatively recent development, at least for Clare. Shane, already full of admiration for the man he’d always believed was a close family friend but wished was his father instead, had been thrilled when Casey and Walker broke the news.

Not so Clare.

“No,” Brylee said, after due consideration. “I’m not going to tell your mom and dad anything. You are.”

“They’ll just make a big deal out of it—maybe they’ll even say I can’t go on the trip at all,” Clare protested, temper rising. “Especially if they find out Luke’s a little older than I am.”

“How much older?” Brylee asked. Clare tended to be adventurous and impulsive, and she’d been in trouble for shoplifting at one point, too, so if Walker and Casey kept a closer watch on her than they might have otherwise, Brylee couldn’t blame them.

“Nineteen,” Clare replied in a small voice.

Oh, Lordy, Brylee thought, but she wouldn’t allow herself to overreact. After all, she didn’t want her niece to stop running things like this by her older and, presumably, wiser aunt.

“You like this Luke person a lot?” Brylee ventured.

“He’s awesome,” Clare said, softening visibly.

“And you met him at youth group?” Tread carefully here, Aunt Brylee. This is treacherous ground.

“I met him at a basketball game last fall,” Clare replied. “He was a senior then, and now he’s got a full-time job at the pulp mill. He joined the youth group just last week.”

“Isn’t nineteen a little old for youth group?”

“They let him in, didn’t they?” Clare reasoned, developing an edge. “It’s not as though he’s a pervert or something.”

Silently, Brylee counted to ten before asking, “What’s he like? Who are his parents?”

Clare looked fitful now, squirming in her chair, her glass of cola forgotten on the table in front of her. “Now you sound like them,” she complained. “It’s not like we’re going to a drive-in movie in his car, or anything like that.”

“Luke’s out of school, and he’s too old for you,” Brylee stated reasonably. Then she arched one eyebrow and added, “He has a car?”

“He has a driver’s license,” Clare said, defensive now.

Brylee sighed wearily. Nineteen, a job at the pulp mill and a driver’s license but, five will get you ten, no car. And what was this Luke yahoo doing in youth group? If he wanted to be part of the church community, there were certainly other options....

She paused, remembering how it felt to be very young, like Clare. Brylee’s own mother hadn’t been around much when she was growing up, but her dad had paid close attention to her activities, along with Walker’s. He’d been a real drag at times, wanting all the whys and wherefores, insisting on knowing all her friends, and she’d been rebellious, resentful—and very, very safe.

Now, she was getting a glimmer of what she must have put the poor man through, all because he wanted to protect her. She’d gone on to college, built a business and a good life for herself, while some of her friends, notably those whose parents were less vigilant, had fallen into all sorts of traps—unwanted pregnancies resulting in early and ill-fated marriages, lost scholarships, dead-end jobs.

In that moment, Brylee missed Barclay Parrish with a keen sharpness radiating from behind her breastbone, wished she’d thought to thank him for caring so much about her and Walker both before he’d died, over a decade before, of a heart attack, instead of now.

“What’s the hurry, Clare?” she asked softly. “You’re only sixteen, remember?”

Seeing a protest forming in Clare’s stormy eyes, Brylee held up both hands in a bid for silence so she could go on.

“I know you think you’re mature for your age, and you probably are, actually, but trust me, you don’t know as much about the world as you think you do.” Who does?

“You don’t trust me,” Clare accused quietly. “Or Luke, either.”

“I do trust you,” Brylee said. “You’re a very smart young lady with a good heart. But this Luke person? Maybe he’s nice and maybe he isn’t—I don’t claim to know.”

“He goes to youth group,” Clare reminded Brylee, her tone indicating that that one fact made him a saint. “At church.”

“Then why not tell your folks about him?” Brylee argued. She had to say what she thought here, but she was worried about alienating Clare. The girl had come to her in confidence, after all—would she clam up after this? Start keeping secrets that might be a lot more dangerous than plans to sit together on a bus and hold hands “and stuff” with a nineteen-year-old, whenever they weren’t being watched? Which, admittedly, with Opal on the job, would be never.

On the other hand, though, somebody had dropped the ball at some point. Was it possible that Opal and Walter didn’t know Luke’s age?

“Are you going to tell them?” Clare countered. “Mom and Dad, I mean?”

Brylee sighed. “No,” she said, wanting to strike a balance of some kind, keep the door of communication open between her and her brother’s child and do the right thing, too. What if something bad happened? She’d never be able to forget that she could have prevented whatever it was just by speaking up.

“You promise?” Clare was wheedling now. No doubt about it, the kid was a charmer and, besides, Brylee loved her.

She gave another sigh, this one heavier than the last. “I promise.”

“Good. Then I’m not telling Mom and Dad, either,” Clare said, pushing back her chair and standing up.

Snidely, finished with his kibble ration, sat nearby, watching the girl with concern.

Brylee felt a headache coming on. All her adult life she’d dreamed about being a mother, but she was learning pretty quickly that it was no job for wimps.

She remained at the table, stomach churning, for several minutes after Clare left by the back door without saying another word—not even goodbye.

Finally, Brylee left her chair, rummaged through her purse for her cell phone and scrolled through her contact list. Coming to a certain name, she thumbed the connect button and waited.

She’d given her word that she wouldn’t mention Clare and Luke’s plans for the youth group trip—which might be entirely innocent, on Clare’s side, but probably weren’t on the guy’s end—not to Walker and Casey, that is.

But she hadn’t promised not to tell Opal.

* * *

THE ELECTRICITY WAS ON—cause for celebration from Zane’s point of view. He and Slim made a quick trip to town in the truck, loaded up on grub and sundries, along with an inflatable mattress and some sheets, blankets and pillows, and promptly headed home again.

After doing some scrubbing, mostly focused on the kitchen, Zane boiled up half a package of hot dogs on the temperamental flat-top stove, and shared the meal with Slim. No sense in dirtying up a plate—he used a paper towel instead.

Easy cleanup, that was Zane’s modus operandi. He wasn’t an untidy person, especially when it came to personal grooming, but he’d depended on his California housekeeper, Cleopatra, for so long that he was spoiled.

Thinking of Cleo, Zane felt a pang of guilt. He’d given her a nice severance package—meaning he’d left her a hefty check and a note before he and Slim headed north—but otherwise, he’d basically left her high and dry. A cranky black woman with a gift for cooking that was positively cosmic in scope, she normally didn’t get along with “Hollywood types” to use her term. She’d made an exception for Zane, and now he’d gone off and left her to fend for herself in a crappy economy, in a place where integrity, like beauty, was often skin-deep.

Even in Glitzville, folks were feeling the pinch of tough times, cutting back on the luxuries. What would happen to Cleo, once she’d used up that last check, sizable though it had been?

Engaged in grim reflection, Zane was startled when his cell phone rang in the pocket of his shirt. Frowning—he was not a phone man—he checked the caller ID screen, saw his brother’s name there and grimaced even as he answered. “Hello, Landry.”

Landry, a year younger than Zane, gave credence to the changeling theory, since the two of them were so different that it was hard to believe they shared the same genetic makeup.

“We have a problem,” Landry announced.

Zane closed his eyes briefly, recovered enough to open them again and retort, “‘We’? It just so happens things are going pretty well at the moment, out here.”

“Congratulations,” Landry all but growled. “But we still have a problem, and his name is Nash.”

Nash. Their twelve-year-old half brother, the one neither of them really knew. Nash was the product of one of their feckless father’s many romantic liaisons—the boy’s mother, if Zane recalled correctly, was a former flight attendant named Barbara, who had a penchant for belly dancing, an overactive libido and a running start on a serious drinking problem. A creative baby-namer—“Zane,” for instance, and “Landry”—Jess Sutton had never been much for hands-on parenting. He liked to make kids, give them names and then move on, leaving their moms to raise them however they saw fit.

“I’m listening,” Zane said, after suppressing a sigh that seemed deeper than the well outside, the one rumbling up sluggish but clean supplies of water, now that the electricity was turned on and the pump actually worked.

“Dad just dropped him off here,” Landry said, in an exaggerated whisper that led Zane to believe the boy was within earshot and, therefore, might overhear. “I can’t take care of a kid, Zane. I’ve got a business meeting in Berlin tomorrow—get that? tomorrow—and Susan and I are on the outs. In fact, she’s leaving.” A pause. “Not that she’d be willing to help out, anyhow.”

Landry’s love life was only slightly less of a train wreck than Zane’s own had been, an uncomfortable indication that they’d inherited more from their old daddy than good teeth, fast reflexes and a passion for risk-taking. “Again?” he asked, letting a note of sarcasm slip into his voice. Susan and Landry had been married—and divorced—twice, at last count. Their marriage reminded Zane of a dizzying carnival ride; somebody was always getting on, or off.

Landry drew in a breath and let it out in a huff. Even though he was the younger of the two, he regarded himself as the responsible, reliable brother, considered Zane a loose cannon with more luck than sense. “I didn’t call so we could discuss my personal life,” Landry bit out. “The kid—Nash—needs somewhere to stay. Pronto. I was about to put him on the next flight to L.A. when it occurred to me that you might be on location someplace, pulling down ludicrous amounts of money for doing nothing special. Where are you?”

“I’m not in L.A.,” Zane said evenly. “I’m on the ranch in Montana—you know, the one we bought together a few years back, pretty much just for the hell of it?”

“What the devil are you doing there?” Landry demanded. It didn’t seem to bother him that he was pushing the envelope, given that he obviously planned on asking a favor.

A greenhorn through and through, Landry wore custom-made three-piece suits, lived in a massive penthouse condo in Chicago, employed a chauffeur and even a butler, which was just plain embarrassing, if you asked Zane, which, of course, nobody had. A complete stranger to horses and every other aspect of country life, Landry ponied up the money to pay for his half of the ranch as some kind of tax maneuver.

“I got tired of, well, just about everything,” Zane admitted, suddenly weary. The inflatable bed hadn’t held out much appeal earlier, especially since it was womanless, but by then, he’d started to think he could sleep for days, if not decades. “So I left.”

“Whatever.” Landry sighed. Dealing with Zane was an ordeal for him, what with his blatant superiority and all. “You have to take Nash,” he said. “Dad dumped him on me—evidently our dear father has to lay low for a few months until his poker buddies calm down enough to change their minds about having his knees broken. It’s you or foster care, and I think the poor kid’s had his fill of that already.”

“What about Barbara?” Zane asked moderately. “You remember her? Nash’s mother?”

“She’s out of the picture,” Landry said. His tone was flat, matter-of-fact.

Their own mother, an early casualty of Jess Sutton’s incomprehensible charm, had died a few years before of a lingering illness. Disagreements about how to care for Maddie Rose at the end remained a major sore spot between the two brothers.

“How so? Is Barbara sick? Dead?”

“She’s somewhere in India or Pakistan—one of those third-world countries—on some kind of spiritual quest,” Landry replied with disdain. “That’s Dad’s story, anyway. Suffice it to say, Barbara isn’t exactly a contender for Mother of the Year.”

“And this is my problem because...?” Zane asked, stalling. He couldn’t turn his back on his own flesh and blood and Landry knew that, damn him. Still, it was an imposition, a responsibility he wasn’t prepared to take on at this juncture, when his whole life was in transition.

“Because Nash is your brother,” Landry said, with extreme patience.

“He’s also yours,” Zane pointed out. He was already wondering what a person said to a twelve-year-old kid who’d probably been shuffled between the homes of strangers, their dad’s distant relations, the girlfriend du jour and then back through the whole cycle again. Repeatedly.

“If I don’t make this meeting in Berlin,” Landry replied, “I could lose one of my most important accounts.”

“Sucks to be you,” Zane responded mildly. “Who’s been raising this child all this time, anyway?”

“My understanding,” Landry supplied stiffly, “is that he’s been knocking around the country with Dad. Recently, that is.” His voice softened a little. “He’s not a bad kid, Zane. And he didn’t have the kind of mom who would go to bat for him, like ours did for us.”

In that moment, Zane could see his late mother—an inveterate optimist, their Maddie Rose—in such vivid detail that she might as well have been standing right there in his kitchen. She’d waited tables for a living, and the three of them had lived out of her beat-up old station wagon more than once, when she was between waitressing gigs, but life had been good with her, despite all the Salvation Army Christmases and secondhand school clothes and food-bank vittles. She’d had a way of “reframing” a situation—her word—so that moving on, when a job ended or a romance went sour, always seemed like an exciting adventure instead of the grinding hardship it usually was. Even when it involved considerable sacrifice on her part, Maddie Rose always made sure they stayed put when school was in session, come hell or high water, and she’d checked their homework and encouraged them to read library books and made them say grace, too.

As always, he wished Maddie Rose had lived to see her elder son become something more than a rodeo bum, wished he could have set her up in a good house and made sure she never lacked for anything again, but, too often, life didn’t work that way.

She’d died in a hospital somewhere in rural South Dakota, a charity case, suffering from an advanced case of leukemia, before Zane could so much as cash his first Hollywood paycheck, let alone provide for her the way he would have done, given the chance.

Although he and Landry usually avoided the whole topic of Maddie Rose’s death, it lay raw between them, all right, like a wound deep enough to rub the skin away, and, even now, it hurt.

“Send Nash to Missoula,” Zane heard himself say. “Let me know when he’s getting in, and I’ll be there to pick him up.”

“Good.” Landry almost murmured the word. “Good.”

It wasn’t a thank-you, but it would have to do.

Zane didn’t ring off with a goodbye. He simply hit the end call button and sent his phone skittering across the tabletop, causing Slim to perk up his mismatched ears and straighten his knobby spine.

Zane grinned, then ruffled the hide on the dog’s back to reassure him. “You’re not in any kind of trouble, boy,” he told Slim. Then, with a philosophical sigh, he added, “And that makes one of us.”

* * *

THE NEXT AFTERNOON, Zane was late getting to the airport in Missoula, and it was easy to spot Nash, since the kid was standing all by himself, next to the luggage carousel, a battered green duffel bag at his feet. Earbuds piped music into his head, and his blondish-brown hair stood up in spikes, as though he’d been accidentally electrified. Seeing Zane, he scowled in recognition and dispensed with whatever tunes he’d been listening to while he waited.

“Montana sucks,” Nash said sullenly, and without preamble. “I thought I was going to Hollywood, and now I find out I’m stuck here.”

“Life is hard,” Zane replied, smoothly casual, “and then you die.”

Nash rolled cornflower-blue eyes. His clothes were a sorry collection of too-big jeans, cut off at the knees and showing a good bit of his boxers, sneakers with no laces, a ragged T-shirt of indeterminate color and a pilled hoodie enlivened by a skull-and-crossbones pattern in neon green. “Thanks for the 411,” he drawled, making it plain he’d already mastered contempt, even before hitting his teens. “I probably couldn’t have figured that out on my own.”

Zane sighed inwardly and reminded himself to be patient. Maddie Rose had seen that he and Landry had it good, in comparison with most poor kids, but Nash had been through the proverbial wringer.

“You hungry?” he asked the boy, stooping to pick up the duffel bag by its frayed and grubby handle.

“I’m always hungry,” Nash replied, without a shred of humor. “Just ask Dad. I’m a royal pain in the ass, wanting to eat at least once a day, no matter what. Too bad the kind of motels he could afford didn’t have room service.” A beat passed. “I was lucky to get a bed.”

Zane felt a clenching sensation—sympathy—but he didn’t let it show. He remembered all too well how poverty ground away at a person’s pride, how he’d hated it when people felt sorry for him and Landry. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “We’ll find you some food once we’ve left the airport.”

Nash said nothing. He simply put his earbuds back in and rocked to some private serenade, ambling alongside Zane as they left the terminal and made their way to the outdoor parking area, where the truck waited.

Slim was there, pressing his nose against a partially lowered window as they approached. He gave a happy yelp of welcome and scrabbled to and fro across the backseat, unable to contain his excitement.

“You have a dog?” Nash asked, opening up his ears again and almost, but not quite, smiling.

“His name is Slim.” Zane confirmed the obvious with a nod, as he opened the truck’s tailgate and tossed the duffel bag inside. “Knows a thing or two about hard luck, I guess.”

“Then we ought to get along,” Nash replied, sounding far too world-weary for a twelve-year-old. “The dog and me, that is.”


CHAPTER THREE

NASH LOOKED AROUND the ranch house kitchen with a discerning eye—surprisingly discerning, in fact, for somebody in a skull-and-crossbones hoodie, with six inches of underwear showing above his belt line.

“Man,” he said, quickly evaluating the long-neglected space surrounding them. “This place is seriously underwhelming.”

“Kind of like your manners,” Zane retorted lightly, but without rancor. In the few hours he’d spent with this young half brother of his, he’d begun to understand the kid a little better. Nash probably thought he was doing a good job of hiding what he felt, but he was scared all right, jumpy as a cat in a room full of cleated boots. Ready to be shunted off at a moment’s notice to the next place where he wouldn’t fit in, and determined not to let anybody know he gave a damn when it happened. He’d consumed three cheeseburgers, a double order of curly fries and a milk shake when they stopped for lunch on the outskirts of Missoula, prompting Zane to wonder if Landry had fed him a meal or two before hustling him on board the first westbound plane with an available seat.

And then there were those god-awful clothes. Going by appearances, his duds being rumpled, worn-out and not recently washed, the kid might have made the whole trip in the cargo hold instead of the main cabin. Landry, the multimillionaire investment whiz, couldn’t have sprung for a few pairs of jeans and some T-shirts?

Most likely, Zane thought, with a stifled sigh, his brother hadn’t wanted to be bothered with anything so mundane as taking the boy to the nearest mall and outfitting him with the basics. After all, he had to get to Berlin, where he had an Important Meeting.

The message in that was obvious: the meeting was important, but Nash wasn’t. Susan, the soon-to-be ex-wife—again—had probably come to the same conclusion about her own place in Landry’s high-octane life.

Zane seethed a little, feeling self-righteous—until he recalled that, up until Landry’s phone call, he couldn’t have said where Nash was, what he was doing, who he was with. He hadn’t kept any better track of his kid brother than Landry had.

The boy was blood. How had he been able to ignore that fact for so long?

“Where do I put my stuff?” Nash asked, breaking into Zane’s rueful thoughts, having reclaimed the duffel bag when they got out of the truck a few minutes before. “By the back door, maybe?”

“You plan on making a quick getaway?” Zane countered evenly, as he refilled Slim’s water bowl and set it on the floor so the thirsty dog could drink.

Nash responded with a mocking grin. “You never know,” he said. He made a hitchhiking motion with one thumb. “I’m a travelin’ man.”

“You’re a kid,” Zane pointed out, after taking a few seconds to rule out the snarky answers that came to mind ahead of that one. Leaning back against the sink, he folded his arms while Slim lapped loudly from the bowl of water. “And you ought to know, better than most, how mean the big world out there can really be.”

Nash didn’t bat an eyelash; he was already a hard case—at twelve, for God’s sake. “But I’m safe now, right?” he drawled, dripping sarcasm. “No worries. You’re going to give me a home, right here on the range.”

A familiar desire to find Jess Sutton and throttle the man with his bare hands washed over Zane, but it was quickly displaced by a flash of admiration for Nash. The kid might be a smart-ass, but he had a quicksilver brain.

“Where, as it happens,” Zane responded, playing along, “the buffalo don’t roam.”

Nash rolled his eyes, then his shoulders. He was on the small side, and skinny and raw-boned, but he’d match Zane’s six-foot height one day in the not-too-distant future, maybe even exceed it.

“Can I take a look around?” the boy asked, sounding glum. Obviously, he wasn’t expecting much.

“Be my guest,” Zane answered. “Pick out a bedroom while you’re at it. There are plenty to choose from.”

Offering no comment, Nash wandered off to explore the premises. He was gone for a while, Slim trailing faithfully after him, which gave Zane a chance to assess the grub situation, peering into the fridge, opening and closing cupboard doors. Despite yesterday’s shopping trip in Three Trees, it wasn’t a pretty picture.

“Don’t you have any furniture?” Nash asked, upon his return.

Zane shook his head. His household goods were still in L.A., in his condo, and he already knew there was no point in having all that expensive junk trucked to Montana. None of it would look right here—especially his bed. It was a gigantic, mirrored thing, a monument to unbridled hedonism, lacking only notches on one of the pillar-size posts to tally his conquests.

He would miss the water-filled mattress, though.

All the other pieces—chairs and couches, a dining room set, a TV so big it took up a whole wall—were decorator-approved and half again too fancy for a run-down stone ranch house. Like the bed, they’d be so ostentatious as to be an embarrassment.

Not that he’d be showing off his sleeping quarters anytime soon, of course.

When an image of Brylee Parrish seeped into his mind like smoke, he nearly laughed out loud. As if, he thought. She’d probably already written him off as a hedonistic, interfering movie star, but even if she hadn’t, she would once she checked all the online gossip sites and found his name on practically every one of them.

“Just moved here myself,” he finally replied, feeling a distinct lack of nostalgia for the old place back in L.A., and the fast-paced life that went with it. “I haven’t had time to make a plan, let alone shop for a houseful of stuff.” By then, he was sitting at the card table in the center of the kitchen, with his laptop open. It was time to do a little research on child-rearing. “Anyway, there’s a lot to be done around the place, as you’ve probably noticed.”

Nash dragged back the second folding chair, which completed the dining ensemble, and fell to the seat with a sigh. “It’s not so bad,” he said, taking Zane by surprise. Had the kid actually said something civil? “Anyway, beggars can’t be choosers. That’s what my mom always tells me. When I can find her, that is.”

“You’re not a beggar, Nash,” Zane said, looking up from the computer screen, which indicated that he had a shitload of emails waiting for him. A daunting prospect, since at least eight of them were from his ex-wife, Tiffany. Tiffany. What had he been thinking, marrying that woman-child? Maybe he’d give her the monumental water bed; God knew, she’d get plenty of use out of it, and maybe even sleep once in a while. “You’ve had a run of hard luck, that’s all. It happens to the best of us.”

“With me, it’s a lifestyle,” Nash said, leaning back indolently, though his eyes were alert for any sign that trouble might be about to land on him like a cougar dropping out of a tree.

“You could look at it that way,” Zane replied, “if you were inclined to feel sorry for yourself. You’ve had it tough, but so have lots of other people. What matters is where you go from here, what you do next. When you get right down to it, it seems to me, almost everything hinges on what attitude you decide to take.”

Nash widened his eyes, and his mouth had a scornful set to it. “What are you—some kind of rah-rah motivational speaker now?”

“I’m your brother. You can keep up the act for as long as you want, but it’s basically a waste of energy, because, trust me, I can outlast you.” Zane paused, letting his words sink in. “Also, I know a thing or two about having a no-account for a father myself, as it happens. And that means I understand you better than you think I do.”

Nash’s face, so like his own and, for that matter, like Landry’s, too, hardened in all its planes and angles. Once the boy grew into himself, he’d be a man to be reckoned with.

“Dad’s not a no-account,” he retorted coldly.

“You have a right to your opinion,” Zane answered. “And I have a right to mine.”

Nash slammed one palm down hard on top of the rickety table, causing the dog to jump in alarm. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded.

“Exactly what it sounded like it meant—you have a right to your opinion. Mine happens to differ a little, it would seem. And don’t scare the dog again—he’s been through enough as it is.”

“Dad’s made a few mistakes, but he’s not a bum,” Nash said, but he lacked conviction. The sidelong look he gave Slim was genuinely remorseful. “Sorry, boy,” he muttered, under his breath.

“He is what he is.” Zane spoke in a moderate tone, but no power on earth could have gotten him to make Jess Sutton out to be more than he was. The man was good-looking, charming to the max and absolutely useless in the real world, an overage Peter Pan.

“You sound just like Landry,” Nash accused, flaring up again. “Both of you are full of yourselves, the high and mighty movie star and Mr. Moneybags. I couldn’t believe the things Landry said, right to Dad’s face!”

“Guess that’s better than saying them behind his back,” Zane observed diplomatically. “Maybe you had a different experience with the old man than Landry and I did, growing up. We saw him every few years, when he needed a couch to sleep on between wives and girlfriends. When he did have a few bucks in his pocket, it was only because one of his scams had finally panned out, and he sure as hell never shared it with Mom.”

Nash sat stony-faced and still. They were at a standoff, obviously, neither one of them willing to take back anything they’d said, though Zane, for his part, was beginning to wish that he’d kept his opinions to himself. If it comforted the kid to make-believe the old man had his best interests at heart, well, where was the harm in that?

Nash scowled on, two bright patches burning on his otherwise pale cheeks. Zane didn’t look away, nor did he speak.

“He could have changed,” Nash finally said. “Dad, I mean.”

“Yeah,” Zane agreed, after unlocking his jawbones so he could open his mouth at all. “Or not.”

Nash leaned forward, both hands flat on the tabletop now, fingers splayed. At least he didn’t make a loud noise or a fast move and scare the dog again.

“Look,” the kid ground out, eyes narrowed, breath quick and shallow, “I didn’t ask to come here, to Butthole Creek or whatever this place is called, all right? I didn’t ask to be dumped off on Landry’s doorstep, either. So don’t go thinking I’m some poor orphan who needs to be preached at, okay?”

“Far be it from me to preach,” Zane said calmly.

Nash glared even harder. “In the movies, you always play an easygoing cowboy with a slow grin and a fast draw. Now, all of a sudden, you’re talking like some college professor or something.”

“That first part,” Zane responded, “is called ‘acting.’ It was my job.”

“Did you go to college?” From Nash’s tone, he might have been asking, Did you rob a bank—mug an old lady—kick a helpless animal?

“Now and then,” Zane replied. “Mostly, though, I just read a lot.”

There was another pause. Then, “You think you’re better than Dad—better than me.” Nash Sutton was obstinate to the core—just like both his older brothers.

“There’s only one man I try to be better than, and that’s the one I was last week, last month or last year. It’s a simple creed, but it serves me well, most of the time.” Privately, Zane wondered where those lofty words had come from and, at the same time, realized they were true. He wanted to be himself, not the movie cowboy with the smooth lines, too much money and the steady supply of silicone-enhanced women, Tiffany included.

It was time to get real, damn it.

Another long silence stretched between them, broken when Nash finally asked, “Am I going to have to sleep on the floor?”

Zane grinned, aware that the tension had eased up a little and thus felt relieved. Although he could be pretty hardheaded—bull-stubborn, his mom would have said—he wasn’t unreasonable. He liked people and preferred to get along with them when he could. Especially when they were kin—like Nash.

“No,” he said. “You won’t have to sleep on the floor. We’ll head into town and buy a couple of decent beds in a little while—with luck, we’ll be able to haul them home in the back of the truck and set them up right away. If that plan doesn’t work out for some reason, you can use the air mattress in the meantime.”

“Beds,” Nash ruminated. He seemed wistful now, but that might be an act. “With sheets and blankets and pillows and everything?”

Where in hell had this kid been sleeping? Zane wondered that and many other things. “With sheets and blankets and everything,” he confirmed, hoping the boy didn’t notice the slight catch in his voice.

Nash’s grin flashed, Landry-like. Zane-like.

There was certainly no question of his paternity. He was Jess Sutton’s kid, all right, full of bravado and brains and smart-ass attitudes. Were there other siblings out there? Zane wondered, as he often did. Did he and Landry and Nash have sisters and brothers they knew nothing about?

It seemed more than possible.

“Let’s go, then,” Nash said. He actually seemed eager now.

Zane, not at all sure he wasn’t being shined on, was unaccustomed to power-shopping—or any shopping at all, really, since Cleo or some assistant had done most of that for him.

Until now.

The furniture store in Three Trees agreed to deliver the beds, mattresses and box springs, dressers and bureaus later that same day, which was a good thing, because by the time he and Nash were done filling several carts at the big discount store out on the highway, there wasn’t an inch of space left in the back of Zane’s truck.

Even with the two of them working, it took twenty minutes just to carry all the bags and boxes inside and pile them in the far corner of the kitchen to be dispersed to other parts of the house later on.

Nash, evidently benefiting from the heavy dose of retail therapy, rustled through the loot until he found a towel, a bottle of liquid soap, new jeans, a long-sleeved gray sweatshirt, socks and underwear that actually fit him and, finally, boots.

He disappeared into a nearby bathroom—there were several in the house, but the others were in various states of rust and wreckage—and, soon after, Zane heard the shower running.

Nash was in there so long that Zane had time to log back on to his laptop and wade through his emails. He skipped over the ones from Tiffany, replied with regrets to half a dozen party invitations and deleted the obvious sales pitches. There were three missives from his agent, Sam Blake, each one more exasperated than the last. “Damn it,” Sam had written, with a lot of caps and punctuation marks, he had “the role of a lifetime” lined up for Zane. All he had to do was get off this stupid hick-kick he was on, whatever it was, hustle back to L.A. and sign on the bottom line.

Zane sighed, decided to reply later and opened the last of the lineup, a virtual ear-boxing from Cleopatra Livingston, his former housekeeper. Where the dickens did he think she was going to find another job, she demanded, at her age, and in a tanked economy, no less. And what in blazes gave him the idea that he could get by without her? Who was going to cook his meals and wash and iron his shirts? When she wasn’t around, she further declared, he tended to be careless about things like that.

Grinning slightly, Zane picked up his phone again. Keyed in Cleo’s number. She didn’t carry a cell, so he’d have to reach her at home. If she didn’t answer—a possibility that had its merits, given the mood she’d been in when she wrote that email—he’d leave a message.

And say what? That he was sorry? That he’d send more money? That she could go on living in his condo until he got around to selling it? Only if he wanted to piss her off all over again by making her feel like a charity project.

“It’s about damn time you called me!” Cleo boomed into her receiver, probably one of those bulky, old-fashioned ones, broad-jumping right over “howdy” and straight into giving him seven kinds of hell.

“I left a note,” Zane said. Now there was a half-assed explanation.

“Big fat deal,” Cleo scoffed furiously. “I work my fingers to the bone for you for almost four years, Zane Sutton, years I could have spent looking after somebody who appreciated me, mind you, and one fine day, you just go off on your merry way without a word of farewell?”

Reminding her about the note would be a mistake, so he didn’t. While the gears clicked away in his head, he focused on Slim, visible through the arched doorway opening onto the hall, waiting for Nash to come out of the bathroom. The dog’s patience was rewarded when the kid suddenly emerged, preceded by billows of steam.

Zane smiled. “Cleo,” he said, “I have missed your sweet and gentle ways.”

“I’ll sweet-and-gentle you,” Cleo shot back. “With a horsewhip!”

He laughed. “You know,” he teased, “you sound a little like a woman scorned.”

She made a disgruntled sound. “As if I’d ever throw in with the likes of you, cowboy, even if I wasn’t a good thirty years older than you are.” A pause. “Darn it, I’m not ready to retire. I’m unlucky at bingo and I don’t knit or crochet. And, anyways, I can’t sleep nights, for worrying that you’re living on fast food and wearing wrinkled shirts in public.”

Nash came through the archway and headed for the fridge, looking like a different kid in his jeans, boots and sweatshirt. Except for the hair, of course—it looked as though he’d been cutting it himself lately, with nail scissors. Or maybe hedge clippers.

“Are you listening to me, Zane Sutton?” Cleo demanded, when he failed to reply to her previous diatribe.

“I’m listening,” Zane said.

“Where are you?” Cleo wanted to know. Would know, by God, if she had to crawl through the telephone system and drag the answer out of him.

“I’m on my ranch,” he said. “Outside Three Trees, Montana.”

“Well, you get me a plane ticket for day after tomorrow,” Cleo commanded. “I need some time to pack and say goodbye to folks. Make it one way, this ticket, and I had better be sitting in first class, too, after all you put me through. And don’t you stick me in row one, neither. I need to be able to get to my purse when I want it, and in a bulkhead seat, they make you put it in the overhead.” She made another huffy sound. “My blood pressure is through the roof,” she added.

Importing Cleo wasn’t a bad idea, Zane thought. The lady might be prickly sometimes, but she could cook and clean, and she’d be the ideal person to oversee the forthcoming renovations, too.

Plus, he’d been telling the truth when he said he missed her.

“You’d do that?” he asked, moved. “Leave L.A. for Montana? It’s real rural out here, Cleo. And we’re roughing it—not much furniture to speak of and plenty of things in need of repair.” Or replacement.

“Sure I would,” Cleo answered briskly. “You might be used to living luxuriously, Mr. Movie Star, but I’m no stranger to doing without, let me tell you. Didn’t I raise four kids by the sweat of my brow, with no man to help out? And didn’t I do that in a part of the city a lot of folks would be afraid to set foot in, even in broad daylight?”

She was laying it on thick, Zane knew. The four kids she’d raised were all well-educated and prosperous professionals now, scattered all over the country and contributing generously to their mother’s bank account. And Cleo had been living in staff quarters in his condo since she came to work for him, so it wasn’t as though she took buses to and from the ghetto every day, dodging bullets as a matter of course.

“All right,” Zane heard himself say. “I’ll book your flight for the day after tomorrow and email you the itinerary.”

“Good.” Cleo huffed out the word. “Get me out of LAX bright and early. And there’s one other thing, too.”

“What’s that?” Zane asked, a grin quirking at one corner of his mouth. Nash, meanwhile, peeled a banana and stuck half of it into his mouth, so both cheeks bulged.

“Who’s ‘we’?” Cleo asked bluntly.

“Huh?”

“You said ‘we’re roughing it.’ Plural. Have you taken up with some pretty cowgirl? Is that what this is all about, you suddenly wanting your housekeeper back and all? Because there’s somebody you want to impress?”

Zane laughed. He hadn’t “taken up” with anybody, though he did want to get to know Brylee Parrish a little better. Okay, a lot better. “It’s just me, my kid brother and my dog, Slim,” he replied. “And I’m warning you, Cleo—we’re a motley crew.”

“You mean Landry’s there with you? Did he split up with that crazy wife of his again?”

“No,” Zane said, feeling no particular need to comment on Landry’s marital situation. “I mean Nash.”

“Who’s that?”

“You’re going to have to wait and find out for yourself,” Zane answered. “The situation defies description—over the phone at least.”

“You get me that ticket,” Cleo blustered, letting the Nash question go, for the time being, anyhow. “I’ve got my computer turned on, and I’ll be watching for new messages.”

Again, Zane chuckled. “I’m on it, Cleo,” he promised.

Nash gave the remaining half of his banana to Slim, who gobbled it up eagerly.

“First class,” Cleo reminded him.

“It’s as good as done,” Zane said, glaring at Nash and shaking his head. As in, don’t do that again. Human food wasn’t good for a dog, and that meant Slim wasn’t going to have it.

Fifteen minutes later, he’d gone online, purchased Cleo’s one-way, first-class ticket, in seat 3B, and zapped a copy to her in L.A.

“Who was that?” Nash asked conversationally. By then, he and Slim had been outside and then returned.

“That,” Zane answered, logging off and shutting the lid on his laptop, “was Super-Cleo. She can bend steel with her bare hands, leap over a tall building in a single bound—and she’s faster than a speeding bullet, too.”

No sense adding that she was as wide as she was tall, with ebony skin and gray hair that stood out around her head like a fright wig. A person had to meet Cleo to comprehend her, and even then, it took some time.

She yelled and flapped her apron when she wanted the kitchen to herself, and she had a tongue sharp enough to slice overripe tomatoes clean as the oft-mentioned whistle, but she also had a heart as expansive as the big Montana sky.

Nash’s brow furrowed. Now that he’d showered and put on clothes that wouldn’t get him beat up on the school grounds, he looked his age, which was an improvement over his former parody of a fortysomething homeless person in need of psychotropic drugs.

“This Cleo—is she your girlfriend?” he asked suspiciously, an indication that his previous experiences with girlfriends, probably his father’s, had been memorable for all the wrong reasons.

Zane laughed again, partly because he was amused at the idea of Cleo as his main squeeze, and partly to hide the stab of sympathy he felt for Nash in that moment. “Nope,” he said, with a shake of his head. “Cleo and I are definitely not romantically involved.”

Nash looked relieved, and a bit sullen. “I guess we’ll have to buy another bed, then,” he said. “Because from what I gathered, she doesn’t seem like somebody who’d want to sleep on an air mattress.”

“You’re right about that,” Zane confirmed, with a chuckle. “If we know what’s good for us, we’ll have all new appliances, including a washer and dryer, before she gets here.”

Something changed in Nash’s face, an indefinable shift that might have meant he was beginning to trust this hairpin turn in his life and luck—or simply that he was mentally reviewing some felonious plan B, like burning down the house in the dead of night or committing murder with an ax.

Or both.

“Do I really get to stay here?” the boy asked, very quietly.

Zane had to swallow before he answered. “Yep,” he said. “You really get to stay here.”

“Zane?”

“What?”

“Thanks for not calling me ‘Studebaker,’” Nash said. “Or Edsel.”

“No problem,” Zane replied, hiding a grin. “Do you run into a lot of that?”

* * *

“SOMEBODY TOLD MRS. BEAUMONT,” Clare accused, on Monday morning, standing in Brylee’s office at Décor Galore, hands on hips. “And she told my mom and dad, so now I not only don’t get to go on the bus trip, but Luke’s in trouble, too.”

Brylee, sitting behind her computer, straightened her spine. “Really?” she asked, pretending innocence.

Fat lot of good that would do.

“I thought the top of my dad’s head would blow off when he found out Luke was nineteen. He’s already tracked him down and told him to stay away from me if he doesn’t want to go to jail or become a candidate for reconstructive surgery. Or both.” She paused, but only to suck in a furious breath. “If that wasn’t humiliating enough, Luke told Walker he’d written a song that would be a sure hit if Mom recorded it. He wasn’t interested in me, he’s just starstruck, that’s all. He said straight out that he was just trying to meet Casey Elder and pitch his stupid ballad to her. All of which means, he was using me, the whole time!”

“I’m sorry, honey,” Brylee commiserated. “But isn’t it better to know the truth, painful though it may be?”

Tears sprang to Clare’s eyes. She bit her lip and nodded in reluctant agreement. “But what if nobody ever likes me because I’m me? What if all that ever matters to anyone is that I’m Casey Elder’s daughter?”

Brylee pushed back her desk chair, stood and went to put her arms around her niece’s shoulders. “Oh, baby,” she said, choked up. “Lots of guys will like you—even love you, I promise—and it will be because you’re you, Clare Elder Parrish, not because your mom is a superstar.”

Clare clung to her aunt, and a shuddering motion of her shoulders indicated that she was crying, even though she didn’t make a single sound.

And that broke Brylee’s heart, because Clare was so trusting. How long would that last, though?

“This hurts,” Clare said, face buried in Brylee’s shoulder. “I thought Luke liked me for myself,” she despaired. “I should have known this was really all about Mom, and what a legend she is, and not about me at all.”

“Of course it hurts,” Brylee responded, remembering how she’d felt after Hutch Carmody called off their wedding. She’d hurt plenty then, even knowing, on some level, that Hutch was right—they were all wrong for each other. She’d left that little church in Parable, a spurned bride in the wedding dress of her dreams, with her heart in pieces, her pride in tatters. “But things will get better, sweetheart. I promise.”

Clare sniffled. “That’s what Mom said,” she admitted.

“Your mom is one smart lady,” Brylee assured her niece. “When the right guy comes along, he won’t care who your mother is, or your dad, either. He’ll be interested in you, period. But don’t try to hurry things along, Clare—take time to grow up, to become the woman you want to be, to pursue your own goals. That way, when the time to fall in love for real comes, you’ll be ready.”

Clare drew back, gazed earnestly into Brylee’s eyes. “Do you really believe that?” she asked. Of course Clare knew about the Hutch disaster—everyone did.

Brylee was wounded, though she was fairly sure Clare hadn’t intended that. With one broken engagement behind her, though, was she any kind of authority on love and marriage? Hardly. Still, she was intelligent, and not entirely dysfunctional. “Yes,” she said honestly. “I believe there is someone for everybody—but we need to be open to the fact that this person might not be the one we’ve been expecting.”

It was impossible not to think of Zane in that moment, although Brylee would have preferred not to, for sure. She’d believed that Hutch Carmody was the man for her and, since he’d fallen head over heels in love with Kendra Shepherd, she, Brylee, was just plain out of luck. She’d missed the last bus, so to speak.

Now, she’d begun to wonder if the whole heartbreaking experience of being dumped at the altar hadn’t been a good thing. Hutch was happy with Kendra, and vice versa, and they were building a family together.

But was there a man out there for her—one she was meant to love with her whole heart, and share her life with?

Zane Sutton, perhaps?

Ridiculous. Of course not. She had nothing in common with the man. Nothing at all.

Except, of course, for an undeniable inclination to rip the man’s clothes off his perfect and very masculine body and have her way with him on the spot.

“Am I going to feel better anytime soon?” Clare asked plaintively.

Brylee smiled and kissed her niece smartly on the forehead. “Trust me,” she said. “You will definitely feel better, and sooner than you think.”

“Did you tell Mrs. Beaumont about Luke and me?”

Brylee sighed. She played a mean game of dodgeball, but she never lied. “Yes,” she admitted.

Clare smiled a shaky, watery smile. “Thanks,” she said.

Brylee laughed and hugged her niece again, hard. “You’re welcome,” she replied.

After Clare left the office, Brylee couldn’t seem to get back on board her former train of thought. So she logged off the computer and woke a slumbering Snidely with a soft whistle.

“How about a walk, big guy?” she asked.

Snidely stretched and got to his feet, panting eagerly. Like ride and car, he knew the word walk, and he was all for the idea.

They moved through the busy warehouse, woman and dog, and out into the woodsy area behind the building.

Brylee gazed at the tree line. The adjoining property had been vacant for so long that she and Snidely had developed a habit of wandering there.

To trespass or not to trespass, that was the question.

Brylee came down on the side of bending the law just a little.

She headed straight for Zane Sutton’s property line, her dog at her side, and made her way toward the creek.


CHAPTER FOUR

BRYLEE SAT ON the creek bank, with her bare feet dangling in the water, and soaked up the afternoon sunlight and the outrageously blue sky. Snidely was off in the woods somewhere, playing the great hunter, though in truth, that silly dog didn’t have an aggressive bone in his body. He was most definitely the diplomatic type—a lover, not a fighter.

When the other dog appeared, floppy-eared and thin, Snidely returned to Brylee’s side and sat vigilantly beside her, though he didn’t make a sound—not even a warning growl. His tail switched back and forth, just briefly, and Brylee knew he was hoping for friendship, though he’d do battle in her defense if he had to.

She stroked his sleek head and murmured, “It’s okay, buddy,” and if Snidely didn’t understand her words, he did comprehend her tone, because he relaxed.

The black dog, painfully skinny, with a dull coat, stood on the other side of the creek, watching Brylee and Snidely. He seemed calm and, at the same time, poised to flee if he sensed a threat of any kind.

Brylee was surprised when she spotted a collar around the newcomer’s neck, complete with tags. He looked like a stray, not somebody’s pet.

Anger surged inside her. What was up with the symptoms of starvation and the timid manner? Whoever this dog belonged to— And it was no great stretch to figure that one out, since she knew every cat and dog and horse within a twenty-mile radius of Three Trees and she’d never so much as glimpsed this fellow before.

The poor creature had the misfortune to belong to none other than Zane Sutton, knee-meltingly handsome movie star. Major land owner.

Arrogant, self-indulgent, shallow jerk.

Brylee pulled her feet out of the creek, tugged on her socks and shoes and stood up. “Hey, boy,” she said to the dog on the other side. “Are you lost?”

The dog eyed her, eyed Snidely and sat down in the tall grass to await his fate.

Brylee made her way to the line of flat rocks that bridged the creek—she’d been crossing that way for so long that she could have done it with her eyes closed—while Snidely plunged valiantly, if reluctantly, into the water and paddled across.

The black dog didn’t move, though it gave a little whimper of fretful submission as she drew near.

“Let’s get you home,” Brylee said, after crouching in front of the dog and taking a casual glance at its tags.

Sure enough, he belonged to Zane. And his name was Slim. Was that some kind of cruel joke? On a surge of righteous indignation, Brylee shot like a geyser to her full height.

Snidely climbed gamely out of the creek and shook himself off, sprinkling both her and Slim with shimmering diamonds of sun-infused water, pure as crystal and freezing cold.

The march through the woods was familiar to Brylee, of course—she’d visited often, when her friend Karrie had lived on Hangman’s Bend Ranch. Back then, of course, the place had been in good repair, a working cattle spread, with a larger house and barn than most of its neighbors boasted, to be sure, but Karrie and her family had been regular people, well-grounded country folks—not pearly teethed movie stars living out some weird fantasy of getting back to the land and all that other sentimental hogwash.

By the time she, Snidely and Slim emerged into the large clearing where the house, barn and corral stood, Brylee had worked up a powerful huff.

The illustrious Mr. Sutton was outside, shirtless, evidently repairing the corral fence. His jeans rode low on his lean hips, and his chest and back were muscular, probably honed by hours in some swanky gym. Seeing Brylee and the two dogs coming out of the trees, he paused, hammer in hand, a row of nails between his lips, and watched as they approached.

“Is this your dog?” Brylee demanded furiously, when she’d come within a dozen feet of the man and then suddenly stopped in her tracks. It was as though some kind of barrier or force field had slammed down between them.

“Yep,” Zane said, after taking the nails out of his mouth and dropping them into the pocket of his beat-up jeans. They certainly didn’t fit his image, those jeans—was he trying to look as if he belonged in Montana? “He’s mine, all right.”

Brylee sputtered for a few inglorious seconds. “Did it ever occur to you to feed him once in a while?”

Zane opened his mouth, closed it again. His grin was so insolent, and so damned sexy, that she would have slapped it right off his face, if her personal principles allowed—which, of course, they didn’t.

A boy came out of the house just then, also shirtless, and sprinted toward them. “Slim!” he called jubilantly. “I wondered where you’d wandered off to.”

Zane flicked a glance at the gangly child, a preteen actually, on the verge of a rapid growth spurt. “Brylee Parrish,” he said quietly, “meet my kid brother, Nash.”

Nash looked so pleased to make her acquaintance that what remained of Brylee’s animal rights lecture died in her throat.

“Hello, Nash,” she said, after swallowing.

The boy turned shy, blushing extravagantly. “Hello,” he murmured.

Zane seemed to find the exchange mildly amusing. “Take old Slim into the house,” he told Nash quietly, “and see if you can get him to chow down on some kibble.”

Nash hesitated, glanced at Brylee again, from under the thickest eyelashes she’d ever seen on any guy—except maybe Zane himself—and whistled low to summon the dog.

The two of them vanished inside, Nash reluctantly, Slim going with the flow.

“He’s a stray,” Zane said presently. “I haven’t had him long enough to fatten him up.”

Brylee was flummoxed. She’d steamed over here on a mission of justice and mercy, and now, suddenly, she was becalmed, a ship with no wind in its sails.

“The boy or the dog?” she asked.

Zane’s smile was affable, with a twinkle to it. “Both, I guess,” he said.

By then, Brylee felt like a complete fool. She’d assumed the worst—movie stars, that disruptive, now-you-see-them, now-you-don’t class of people, rarely proved her first impression of them wrong. This one had, though, and the realization left her tongue-tied and embarrassed, wishing she hadn’t come on like the storied gangbusters, full of accusations and spitting fire.

“Oh,” she said.

Zane’s smile eased off into a sexy grin. “Is that all you have to say?” he asked, obviously enjoying her discomfort. “‘Oh’?”

Heat burned her cheeks, and she knew her eyes were flashing again. “If you’re waiting for an apology,” she said, “don’t hold your breath.”

Zane leaned in a little—she hadn’t realized how close together they were standing, though one of them must have moved—and she felt his substance, his energy, in every cell and nerve, like some kind of biochemical riot. “Now why would I expect an apology?” he drawled, though he seemed more amused than angry. “Just because you rolled onto my land like an armored tank and flat-out accused me of animal cruelty?”

Brylee blinked. Swallowed. “The dog’s ribs show,” she said lamely, after too many moments had passed. “Anyone would think—”

“He’d been going hungry for a while,” Zane finished, when her words fell away in midstream. “As it happens, he wound up in a good shelter in L.A. just a few days before I adopted him. I’ve been giving old Slim as much kibble as he can handle, Ms. Parrish, but it’s a slow process, requiring patience and understanding.”

Brylee longed to melt into a puddle, like the Wicked Witch of the West in The Wizard of Oz. She wanted to say she was sorry, too, that she’d jumped to conclusions, but her throat had constricted like the top of a drawstring bag, pulled tight.

Damn her Parrish pride, anyway. It would be her downfall for sure.

Idly, Zane stepped back, collected his shirt from a nearby fence post and shrugged into it.

For Brylee, this was both a relief and a crying shame. All that spectacular man-muscle, covered up, hidden from view. Thank heaven. Or darn it. Whichever.

He turned his attention to Snidely then, bending to favor the dog with a few pats on the head and a grin that left no doubt of his love for four-legged furry people.

On that score, at least, Brylee had misjudged Zane Sutton, no doubt about it, but she still couldn’t bring herself to apologize. It wasn’t just her pride, either—she had a vague and very disturbing sense that she’d be opening a door to a whole slew of unpredictable developments if she dared let down her guard, even for a moment.

“Come inside,” he finally said. “I can’t offer you iced tea or a mint julep, but we do have sodas and ice, and I could probably rustle up some coffee, if you’d rather have that.”

Oddly, it never occurred to Brylee to refuse the invitation. She simply followed Zane toward the house, shamelessly enjoying the rear view, while Snidely trotted along at her side, oblivious to the fact that the planet had just shifted off its axis and Ecuador could suddenly become the new north pole at any given moment.

By then, the boy, Nash, was in the kitchen, trying to look busy. He’d pulled on a T-shirt, and Slim, the slat-ribbed dog, was crunching away on a recently replenished supply of kibble.

Brylee looked around, remembering, and remembering eased some of her tension, made her smile.

Her friend Karrie’s mom, Donna, had taught both her daughter and Brylee to cook in this kitchen, imparted simple sewing skills, listened benevolently to the ceaseless girl-chatter about boys and cheerleading tryouts and prom dresses, driven them to and from school events and the movies.

“You’ve been here before,” Zane observed quietly, watching her.

His words startled Brylee out of her reverie. “Yes,” she said. “My best friend, Karrie, used to live in this house.” There was so much more to the story, of course—Donna, recognizing Brylee as what she was, basically a motherless child, had made room for her in this house, and in her heart. The Jacksons had been her second family.

Nash and Slim were both staring at Brylee now. Did she have something in her teeth? Stuck to the heel of her shoe?

Zane moved to the refrigerator—the same one that had always been in that spot, unless Brylee was mistaken—and opened the door. “What’ll it be?” he asked. “Soda? Water?”

“Nothing for me, thanks,” Brylee said, feeling a little like one of the birds who occasionally flew into her warehouse and got trapped there, wheeling and swooping in increasing desperation as it searched for a way out. “I really can’t stay— I just—”

Nash moved to the card table in the center of the room, drew back a chair with a manly flourish. “You can’t leave yet,” he said with a grin, gesturing for her to have a seat. “You’re the only person I know in this godforsaken place, except for my brother, and he’s practically a stranger.”

Brylee sat down, slightly mystified. Nash had charm, and he’d exhibited good manners by offering her a chair, but what was up with calling Montana—the place she loved best in all the earth, her soul’s true home—“godforsaken”?

“Nash is used to finer digs than this old, neglected ranch,” Zane explained dryly, when Brylee proved to be at a loss for a reply. With a weary sigh, he sat down opposite her at the rickety folding table. “You know—homeless shelters, juvenile detention centers, maybe a bunk in a rusted-out camper in somebody’s backyard now and then.”

Brylee’s eyes widened. Where she came from—which was right there in Parable County, thank you very much—those were fighting words, yet Zane’s tone wasn’t unkind, merely matter-of-fact. And she’d thought her family relationships were complicated.

Nash, left to stand like the odd man out in a game of musical chairs, leaned casually back against a counter and folded his underdeveloped arms. There was something very reminiscent of Zane about the posture. The man-child smiled winningly and said, “As you can see by the way my brother treats me, I am in drastic need of a friend.”

Brylee smiled back at the boy, amused and at the same time concerned. “You’ve come to the right place, then,” she said. “Three Trees and Parable are both great towns, and I’d be glad to introduce you around, starting with my nephew, Shane—he’s about your age—and my niece, Clare, too.”

“Is your niece as beautiful as you are?” Nash asked smoothly.

Zane laughed and shook his head. “Next he’ll ask you what your sign is, or look puzzled and ask if you’ve met before.”

Brylee liked Nash, even though he was half-again too smart-alecky for his own good or anybody else’s, so she ignored Zane’s remark. “And you’re how old?” she countered lightly.

Nash reddened a little under her kindly scrutiny, and he seemed stuck for an answer. Brylee would have bet that didn’t happen very often.

“He’s twelve,” Zane supplied graciously.

Nash glared at his brother.

Twelve? Impossible, Brylee thought. “Going on forty-five,” she said.

A short silence followed, the air between the two brothers so charged that Brylee wouldn’t have been surprised to see thunderclouds forming beneath the ceiling.

“I could show you around,” Nash finally volunteered, effectively rendering his older brother invisible, at least as far as he was concerned. “I mean, since you haven’t been here in a while and everything...”

Zane sighed at that, but raised no objection. Was he ashamed of the place? It was pretty dilapidated, an unlikely abode for an established movie star, certainly.

“That’s a great idea,” Brylee said, pushing back her chair to stand. “I’d love to have a look at the place.” She glanced at Zane, who was standing now, too. “You don’t mind?”

“I don’t mind,” he confirmed. The twinkle in his eyes and the twitch at one corner of his mouth said he knew full well she didn’t really care whether he minded or not.

“We’re getting more furniture after the renovations are done,” Nash hastened to explain. “Right now, we’ve got a couple of beds and an air mattress, and that’s about it.”

Following Nash, with Snidely right behind her, Brylee suppressed a smile. “Things take time,” she said.

The house, though empty, was just as she remembered it—large and rambling, with spacious, raftered rooms and tall windows and a total of three natural rock fireplaces. There were four bedrooms and as many baths, along with a sizable dining area and a living room that not only ran the full width of the house, but offered a magnificent view of trees and mountains and that endless pageant of sky.

“Cleo gets here tomorrow,” Nash announced, when they’d come full circle, after about fifteen minutes, and returned to the kitchen. Zane and Slim were both gone, and Brylee caught the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of a hammer somewhere nearby. “She was my brother’s housekeeper, when he lived in L.A.”

Brylee offered no comment. She was just glad she hadn’t followed her first inclination and jumped in to ask who Cleo was before Nash got around to clarifying the matter for her.

So, Cleo wasn’t a girlfriend or, worse yet, a wife. Brylee felt like a damn fool for caring either way, but care she did.

“I guess she can really cook,” Nash went on conversationally, “but Zane says she’s a stickler for neatness and order, and she’ll raise hell when she gets a look at this place.” He paused, sucked in a breath and went right on talking. “We ordered a washer and dryer and another bed, but we’re holding off on all the other stuff because Cleo’s the type to want a say-so in just about everything.”

Brylee smiled, amused by this assessment of the unknown Cleo. She sounded like a SoCal version of Opal Dennison Beaumont, local force of nature. “That’s probably wise,” she said.

Suddenly, Nash looked wistful, and his gaze was fixed on something—or someone—very far away.

“You don’t have to tell Zane or anything,” he said, very quietly, “but I kind of like it here.”

Brylee rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder, touched to the core of her heart. “Why would you want to keep that from your brother?” she asked, searching his face. If she’d known Nash Sutton better, she’d have put her arms around him just then, the way Donna Jackson had so often done with her, and given him a squeeze, promised him everything would be all right. Since they’d just met, though, she knew that would be overstepping, and she’d done enough of that for one day, accusing Zane of neglecting, if not abusing, his dog.




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