Big Sky Country. Linda Miller Lael

bottles of wine from her handbag and set them on the counter.

      Joslyn found the corkscrew and broke into an Australian Shiraz. There weren’t any wineglasses, but jelly jars would do. “It was the strangest thing,” she answered, after a few moments of struggling with the cork. “Jasper and I were out in the yard—I figured the dog would be really glad to see a familiar face, after all he’s probably been through—but all of a sudden, he just bolted for the back wall. Jasper, I mean, not Hutch.”

      Kendra smiled weakly at the clarification, accepted a jelly glass brimming with wine and waited for Joslyn to go on.

      “You didn’t tell me Slade Barlow lived next door,” Joslyn said.

      “You didn’t ask,” Kendra pointed out. “What happened next?”

      “Jasper did some kind of instant-bonding thing with Slade. I called the dog. Hutch called the dog. And the crazy critter wouldn’t move an inch. It was as if he’d belonged to Slade all along.” She paused, frowned. “He’s married, right?”

      “Jasper?” Kendra said, with a sort of melancholy smile in her eyes.

      Joslyn made a face at her.

      “Oh,” Kendra chimed, as though having some sort of revelation. “You meant Slade.”

      “Duh,” Joslyn said, filling a jelly glass for herself.

      “Divorced,” Kendra said. “He was married to this gorgeous redhead with legs up to here and one of those smiles that knock men back on their heels. She was at his side while he campaigned for Sheriff, but once he got elected, she took the little girl and boogied for the big city and the bright lights.”

      Joslyn felt strangely diminished. She was moderately attractive, she knew, but no way did she qualify as “gorgeous,” and she wasn’t going to be knocking anybody back on their heels anytime soon.

      Not that it mattered. Much.

      “They had a child?” she asked, forgetting all about the toast she’d planned to make to her and Kendra’s lasting friendship, and taking a big gulp of wine.

      “She did. The smartest kid you’ve ever seen—Layne’s a few years older than Slade, which might be one of the reasons things didn’t work out.” Kendra sniffed appreciatively. “What smells so good?”

      “Supper,” Joslyn said, immediately going on a hunt for pot holders. “And if I don’t take it out of the oven, it’s going to burn for sure.”

      Minutes later, Joslyn and Kendra were settled at the table, sharing a meal and talking about everything but Slade Barlow and Hutch Carmody.

      * * *

      SLADE WAS ABOUT as still as the dog until several moments after Joslyn Kirk disappeared through the gate in the back wall; he had to fight down the damnedest urge to go after her.

      And then what?

      He sighed and looked down at the dog who looked back up at him, eyes luminous and full of peace.

      Slade knew he resembled John Carmody—it was something he couldn’t help—but surely this wasn’t a case of mistaken identity. Dogs recognized their masters, no matter what.

      “Want some water?” he asked the animal, moving toward the sliding glass door leading in from the patio.

      Jasper trotted after him, tags jingling merrily.

      Slade got out the bowl he used for cereal, filled it from the faucet in the kitchen sink and set it down on the floor.

      Jasper drank thirstily.

      “You’ll probably be happier out at Whisper Creek,” Slade said, wondering if he’d been alone too long. After all, here he was, talking to a dog, which was the next worst thing to talking to himself.

      “There’s room to run out there,” Slade went on. “A ranch is a good place for a dog.” Or for a man who’d rather be a rancher than a sheriff, he thought.

      Mercifully, the wall phone rang just then.

      Slade grabbed for the receiver, which was mustard-yellow with a twisted chord.

      “Slade Barlow,” he said.

      “Dad?”

      Slade closed his eyes for a moment, glad his stepdaughter couldn’t see him. The word Dad always lodged in the sorest part of his heart, sharp as a sliver. “Hello, Shea,” he replied, his voice a little hoarse.

      “She’s driving me crazy!” Shea wailed. She believed in jumping right in.

      Slade looked down at the dog, saw that he’d emptied the water bowl and was gazing up at him like Oliver Twist asking for more. “I guess by ‘she,’” he replied, with a note of irony as he bent to pick up the bowl, “you mean your mother?”

      “Whatever,” Shea said. She’d been seven years old when Slade and Layne got married, and eleven when they divorced. Now she was sixteen with a driver’s license, and the thought made the backs of his eyes sting. She was changing, moment by moment, and he wasn’t there to see her grow up.

      Or to protect her.

      Slade didn’t miss his ex-wife, and he was sure the feeling was mutual, but a day didn’t go by that he didn’t think of Shea and wish he and Layne had been able to hold the marriage together for the kid’s sake, if not their own. Maybe even given her a sister or a brother, or both.

      Slade refilled the water bowl and set it down for Jasper, who immediately started guzzling again. The Lab looked clean enough, but he was skinny as all get-out, and it was obvious that he was in the grip of a powerful thirst.

      “I want to come and live with you,” Shea said. Then, plaintively, “Please?”

      “We’ve talked about this before,” Slade answered, with an ease he didn’t feel. If he’d been Shea’s biological father, he’d have asked for joint custody, but he wasn’t. Where she was concerned, he had no legal rights at all. “Remember?”

      He could just see Shea rolling those wide lavender eyes of hers, dark bangs catching in her lashes. “You’re not my real dad,” Shea recited, singsong, because they had indeed had this discussion before—numerous times. “I know that. Mom’s my mom and dear old Dad is some sperm donor who doesn’t even care that I exist. So what does that make you? Huh? My stepdad—or just some guy who used to be married to my mother?”

      Slade’s heart cracked and quietly split right down the middle. In the few years they’d been a family, he’d come to love the girl as if she was his own. “I’ll always be your stepdad,” he said gently. Shea’s father hadn’t been a “sperm donor”—Layne had been married to the guy once upon a time—but there was no use in arguing the point. The kid wouldn’t hear him.

      Shea sniffled, and her voice got shaky. “She’s impossible.”

      Slade smiled. Whatever their differences, hers and his, Layne was a good mother and an all-around responsible person. She’d set herself up in business in L.A., staging houses for real-estate firms, and made a success of it. “And you’re a teenager.”

      “What’s that supposed to mean?”

      Slade ignored the question, since it had been rhetorical. “Shea,” he said. “You and I both know your mom loves you. What’s the real issue here?”

      “She’s sending me to boarding school next fall,” Shea announced.

      “What?” Slade thought for a moment that he hadn’t heard correctly.

      “Mom’s in a relationship,” Shea said, interspersing the words with a few more sniffles. “They’re getting married.”

      “All right,” Slade said, letting out his breath. Boarding school? What the hell was Layne thinking? “So what does your mom’s relationship