Big Sky Summer. Linda Miller LaelЧитать онлайн книгу.
steady, barely flickering. They slipped rings onto each other’s fingers, their faces shining.
Walker, a man in a daze, took it all in, like a dream, with Casey’s remarkable voice for a sound track.
The reverend pronounced them man and wife in a tone of rumbling jubilance, and Boone gently raised Tara’s veil, smoothed it back and kissed her with a tenderness that struck even Walker’s tough cowboy heart like the plucking of a fiddle string.
The organ erupted again, joyous thunder, startling Walker out of the spell Casey had cast over him, and Mr. and Mrs. Boone Taylor came down the aisle together, both of them beaming, cheers breaking out all around them.
Patiently, Walker waited for the guests to file out into the afternoon sunshine, scented with flowers and new-mown grass and fresh asphalt, glad the wedding was over and equally glad he’d put on scratchy duds and shown up.
Now all he had to do was put in an appearance at the reception, eat a little cake, shake Boone’s hand and kiss Tara’s cheek, nod to this person and that one, and make a subtle escape. The to-do, which would probably resemble a small circus, was to be held in Casey’s massive backyard, about the last place Walker wanted to hang out, but there was no avoiding it, since he was representing Brylee as well as himself. If he was lucky, he might manage to steal a moment or two with Clare and Shane while steering clear of their mother.
Clare and Shane. Casey’s children.
His children.
Finally reaching his truck, a big rig with an extended cab and plenty of horsepower for hauling trailers loaded with rodeo stock, Walker swung up into the driver’s seat and immediately dispensed with his tie, which was starting to feel like a noose.
The road in front of the church was plenty crowded, and it took a while to get into the flow of traffic, all headed toward Casey’s mansion on Rodeo Road.
Walker spotted the nuptial limo up ahead and smiled in spite of his increasing case of the jitters, because Boone’s and Tara’s heads and shoulders were sticking up through the open sunroof, and both of them glowed as if they’d had sunshine for breakfast. It was good to be reminded that that kind of happiness was possible, short of heaven itself. With one broken marriage behind him, besides his long and tempestuous relationship with Casey, Walker tended toward skepticism when it came to love and romance. The kind that lasted, anyhow.
A mild glumness overtook him as he drove at a parade pace, and he was tempted, more than once, to zip out of the procession onto a side street, head home to his horses and his bulls and his regular clothes, and skip the whole second act. If only he hadn’t been cursed with a single-minded—some would say cussed—nature, the kind that compelled a man to do what he thought was right, whether that happened to be his personal inclination at the time or not.
So he endured, pushing on until the line of cars and trucks finally snaked onto Rodeo Road, and Casey’s house loomed ahead, big as a mountain. He found a parking spot—no small feat in itself—and walked two blocks to the mouth of the long white-gravel driveway, blending in with the wedding guests and the throng of new arrivals who wouldn’t have fit inside the church.
Everybody was dressed up in their best, toting wrapped presents and covered casseroles and flowers cut from their gardens.
Walker felt a little self-conscious, showing up empty-handed, but that passed quickly. Brylee had taken care of the gift-giving end of things, signing his name and her own to the card, and whatever she’d sent was sure to be just right for the occasion.
Rounding the side of the house with the others, Walker was amused to see that he’d guessed right—Casey’s yard did indeed have a carnival-like atmosphere, with paper lanterns strung on every branch of every tree, a silver fountain flowing with chocolate instead of water, a massive canvas canopy arching above a couple of dozen tables. There was a bandstand, too, a temporary dance floor, an open bar and, incredibly, a genuine carousel for the little ones.
Obviously, this party would go on long after Boone and Tara had cut the cake, posed for the pictures, danced the customary waltz and lit out on their weeklong honeymoon. Rumors varied as to the destination—Vegas, Honolulu and Cabo were all in the running—but the bride and groom were keeping that information to themselves.
In a town where almost everybody knew everybody else’s business, folks kept what secrets they could.
Walker was taking in the Casey-like spectacle of the whole setup when Shane turned up, handsome in his slacks and white dress shirt, though he’d gotten rid of his tie and suit jacket at some point. At thirteen, the boy was growing up fast—every time Walker saw him, he was a little taller, or his feet were a size bigger, or both.
“Hey, Walker,” Shane greeted him, grinning. While his sister resembled Casey, with her auburn hair, milky complexion and green eyes, Shane looked pretty much the way Walker had at his age. Strange that nobody seemed to notice that and put two and two together.
“Hey,” Walker replied. “Looks like this is going to be quite a party.”
Shane nodded. “Mom’s going to sing later,” he said, “and the whole town could live for a year on the food the caterers are setting out.”
Walker’s throat tightened. He was tough, raised a ranch kid, no stranger to hard work or hard knocks, but hearing Casey sing at the wedding had nearly dropped him to his knees, figuratively, anyhow. Listening to her repertoire of greatest hits might just kill him.
“I can’t stick around too long,” he said, his voice coming out gruff. “I’ve got things to do out at the ranch—” He fell silent then, because of the way Shane’s face fell. Although the kid probably had no clue that Walker was his biological father—Casey had made sure of that—there had always been a bond between him and Shane just the same. Walker was the avuncular family friend, the guy who usually turned up for Thanksgiving dinners, birthdays and sometimes Christmas. Casey refused to accept child support, but Walker had been putting away money for his son and daughter for years just the same.
“Oh,” Shane said, looking bleak. Familiar with the operation, he knew what it took to run a spread the size of Timber Creek, where Walker raised cattle, along with bulls and broncos for the rodeo circuit.
He’d spent a week or two on the ranch most summers, along with Clare, and he knew there were plenty of capable ranch hands to take up the slack when Walker wasn’t around.
Walker, aching on the inside, grinned and laid a hand on Shane’s skinny shoulder. “I guess I can stay for a while,” he conceded. Clare and Shane had had tutors, growing up on the road as they had, and attending school in Parable for the past year had been a new experience for them. Adaptable and confident, used to traveling from place to place in a well-appointed tour bus or a private jet, they’d thrived, even before the move to Montana.
Shane lit up. “Good,” he said, and he stuck pretty close to Walker for the next fifteen minutes or so before he noticed the flock of giggling girls watching him from the sidelines. “My public,” he quipped, making Walker laugh.
“Go for it,” Walker told him.
He meandered toward the bar, stopping every few feet to speak with somebody he knew, and finally scored a cold beer. Boone and Tara and the rest of the wedding party were busy posing for pictures, both amateur and professional, and he watched for a while, envying his friends a little. Between them, the newlyweds had four children: a ready-made family. What would it be like if he could claim Shane and Clare publicly as his own? If they called him Dad?
Never gonna happen, cowboy, he reminded himself silently. So get over it.
Walker took another long pull on his beer. How, exactly, did a man “get over” not being able to acknowledge his own flesh and blood?
He felt a stab of annoyance at Casey for insisting that Shane and Clare were her children, and hers alone, as though she’d somehow managed not just one Virgin Birth, but two. Heat climbed his neck and made his collar feel tight, so he set the bottle of cold beer on a side table, half-finished. Maybe it was the alcohol that