Big Sky Summer. Linda Miller Lael

other out of the way, good-naturedly for once. The dogs, clueless but wild with delight, only increased the mayhem.

      “This is giving me a headache,” Mitch said, quickly retreating to the guesthouse.

      On the one hand, Casey was glad he’d gone, because it was hard enough to think with Walker sitting there looking so unspeakably good, the dogs barking, the kids carrying on. On the other, though, she was, however briefly, alone with Walker.

      And that sparked a kind of delicious terror inside her.

      “You and I need to talk,” he told her quietly, in a tone that held regret as well as finality. “Soon.”

      Casey’s heart had shimmied up into the back of her throat and lodged itself there, beating so hard that she felt submerged in the sound of blood pumping in her ears. She merely nodded, unable to speak.

      Walker’s expression was not unkind, but it was obvious, from his tone of voice, that he wasn’t going to give an inch of ground, either. He’d reached critical mass, the proverbial hundredth monkey, and this time there would be no going back, no reasoning with him, no changing his mind.

      He meant to claim Clare and Shane as his own, once and for all, and publicly, whether she wanted him to or not.

      Once the children and the dogs had all been loaded into Walker’s pickup truck, the figurative floodwaters slowly subsided, and Casey could, at last, hear herself think.

      She brewed a cup of tea and went downstairs to the soundstage, turning on a single lamp, the only light in the huge room besides the green, blue, yellow and red LEDs blinking back at her from various pieces of high-tech equipment.

      Casey opened the battered guitar case she’d first glimpsed under a glittering Christmas tree when she was still a child herself, reverently lifted out the instrument on which she’d played her first, stumbling chords, picked out the initial uncertain notes, made her earliest attempts at composing songs. Eventually, after many incarnations, some of those tunes had become hits, catapulting her to fame.

      Remarkable.

      The guitar fit comfortably in her arms, and she smiled sadly as she looked down at the open case—both Clare and Shane had taken backstage naps in that unlikely cradle, as tiny babies, bundled in denim jackets on loan from the band or the roadies, nestled among rolled-up souvenir T-shirts or blankets brought in from the bus.

      Remembering, Casey’s heart turned over again.

      She began to play softly, feeling her way into the sweet flow of music that had always been her solace, her hiding place. Even before she’d learned to play the guitar or any other instrument, she’d sung along with the radio or her grandparents’ stereo system. According to family lore, she’d tackled singing first, and talking later on.

      There, in the music, her private refuge, if only for a little while, she lost her fears and her worries and her doubts, and her everyday self with them.

      * * *

      THE TRUCK WAS a rolling uproar—both kids talking at once, the dogs scrambling to change places every few minutes, like some canine version of the Keystone Cops—the wind whipping past open windows and swirling inside to jumble it all into primordial chaos.

      Walker loved it, but his delight in Shane and Clare’s company was bittersweet, too. In a few hours, it would be time to say goodbye and take them back to their mother and her world, the one they knew so well—and he had no place in.

      It was something of a relief to see Brylee’s rig parked in the driveway when they pulled in at the ranch house—Walker, grimly independent all his life, suddenly felt the need for his sister’s moral support.

      She stood on the steps of the side porch, blue-jeaned and wearing a flannel shirt over a T-shirt, battered boots on her feet, her smile as wide as the Big Sky River that flowed through Parable, through the middle of Three Trees, and rolled on by Timber Creek Ranch, in a hurry to reach the distant coast. Her dog sat obediently at her side, tilting his large head to the right, ears perked in curiosity as he took a silent roll call and found himself up two kids and three dogs from the norm.

      Walker had no more than stopped the truck when Shane and Clare both tumbled out, hitting the ground running like just-thrown riders racing for the fence at the rodeo, with a pissed-off bull hot on their heels. The Labs, quieter now, followed, probably trying to gauge Snidely as friend or foe.

      Brylee met the kids halfway, and the three of them ended up in a huddle hug, laughing and jumping around like happy fools on a trampoline.

      Walker hung back, taking it all in. It was a scene he wanted to remember, etch into his heart and mind, so he could come back to it when he felt the need, and savor the sight and the sounds.

      Snidely greeted the Labs with some sniffing and some cautious tail wagging and, as quickly as that, the dogs were all friends. They dashed off to explore the wonders of a genuine barnyard on a genuine ranch, Brylee’s faithful German shepherd leading the pack.

      Brylee’s eyes were gleaming with happy tears when the hugging and jumping finally subsided long enough for everybody to catch their breath.

      “What a terrific surprise!” She beamed, apparently crediting Walker with the working of this particular miracle.

      Brylee loved Clare and Shane; she considered them her honorary niece and nephew—if only she knew—kept their most recent pictures taped to the refrigerator in her apartment kitchen, was forever sending them texts or emails or small gifts.

      “Opal said to thank you for all that bread,” Walker told his glowing sister, oddly uncomfortable in the face of all that joy.

      “Every single bit of it got sold!” Clare put in. “Mom said the bake sale took in a small fortune.”

      “Good,” Brylee said, slipping one arm around Clare’s shoulders and one around Shane’s and giving them each a squeeze. Her eyes were full of questions, though, as she studied Walker’s face.

      “We’re going riding,” Shane said to Brylee. “Will you come with us?”

      Brylee, still looking at Walker, raised one eyebrow in silent question.

      “Absolutely,” Walker said. When, he wondered, was the last time he’d seen Brylee looking so happy?

      Anyhow, they all ended up in the barn, choosing which horses they wanted to ride—Walker steered the kids toward the gentler ones—saddling up, leading the animals out into the penny-bright sunshine of a Sunday afternoon in summer.

      Brylee, like Walker, had been riding since before she could walk or talk, but as far as he knew, she hadn’t done more than groom her trusty black-and-white pinto gelding, Toby, in months. She’d told Walker once, in a weak moment, that some things, like certain kinds of music and the company of her horse, touched places so raw inside her that she had to back away.

      Recalling this, Walker was heartened to watch his sister instructing Clare and Shane, who were fair riders but lacking in experience, as easy in the saddle as if she’d been born there. This was the old, spirited, devil-take-the-hindmost Brylee, the one Walker knew best and loved without reservation.

      With Brylee leading the way, Clare alongside on Tessie, the four of them headed for the foothills rippling at the base of Big Sky Mountain like ruffles on a fancy skirt. Walker followed on Mack, while Shane bounced cheerfully beside him, riding chubby, mild-mannered Smokey.

      The four dogs brought up the rear, behaving themselves and sticking close to the band of horses and riders, though not so close they were in danger of being kicked or trampled.

      “This is great!” Shane said enthusiastically, his backside slapping hard against the saddle as Brylee eased Toby into a slow trot and the other horses followed suit.

      Walker laughed. “You’re going to be mighty sore tomorrow if you don’t get in rhythm with that horse,” he told his son.

      His son. He wanted to shout it from the mountaintop: my daughter, my son, my children.