Big Sky Country. Linda Miller Lael

sometimes how much of that was an act.

      “Once or twice, when you were growing up,” she recalled now, her tone musing and a little distant, “John slipped me a few dollars for groceries or light bills or something you needed for school—things like that—but I never thought he’d do this. Not for one moment.”

      “He was full of surprises, I guess,” Slade said with a touch of irony.

      “He was full of himself,” Callie said. “He was so afraid I’d up and name you after him and make the scandal worse than it already was, but when I called you ‘Slade,’ he said I’d been watching too many TV Westerns. I never bothered to tell him that I got your name from a story I read in Ranch Romances.”

      Slade smiled. She’d told him about the magazines she’d loved to lose herself in back in the day, and how she’d named him after one of her favorite heroes.

      She hadn’t gone to Carmody’s funeral, hadn’t even mentioned the man’s name in recent memory, and only then did it occur to Slade that she might be grieving his loss just the same. She must have loved John Carmody once.

      “You all right?” he asked.

      She nodded. Swallowed. “Are you going to take Hutch up on his offer?” she finally inquired.

      He sighed again. “Damned if I know,” he said. “On the one hand, I could see myself accepting, buying that land I’ve had my eye on all this time—building a house and putting up a barn. But on the other...well, there’s a part of me that wants to claim my birthright and have the whole world know it.”

      Callie patted his hand, rose from the dryer chair and crossed to the coffeepot, a gleaming metal monstrosity that sounded like an old-fashioned steam boiler when it was plugged in.

      “I guess that’s understandable,” she said, keeping her back to him as she filled a good-sized foam cup and popped a lid onto the top. “Wanting folks to know the truth, I mean.”

      Slade was on his feet, retrieving his hat from the counter, turning the brim slowly in his hands. “I don’t reckon it will surprise anybody,” he reminded her, recalling the gossip that had started so many schoolyard brawls while he was growing up.

      Callie had been barely twenty years old when she’d taken up with Carmody; naive and alone in the world, and fresh out of some fly-by-night beauty school in Missoula with nothing but her license to cut hair, the old trailer she’d grown up in and the two hardscrabble acres sloping down to Buffalo Creek behind it. Her beloved “granddad” had been dead two years by then.

      “I’m sorry, Slade,” she said now. “For all you had to go through on my account, I mean. Practically everybody I knew said I ought to put you up for adoption, once I knew John had intended to marry someone else all along, but I just couldn’t do it. I guess it was selfish of me, but you were my boy and I wanted to see you grow up.”

      “I know,” Slade said, as he stooped to kiss her forehead. He’d heard all of it before, after all, and while he understood Callie’s personal regrets, the fact of the matter was, he was glad she’d kept him. She’d sacrificed a lot, working long hours to build the business that had supported them both, though just barely sometimes, passing up more than one chance to get married, move away from Parable and finally enjoy a degree of respectability.

      Instead, she’d stuck it out, right there in the old hometown, where she believed she had every right to be, as did her son, whether John Carmody, his high-society bride or the snootier locals had liked it or not.

      Slade had tried to put it into words how grateful he was for the rock-solid courage she’d always shown, for the example she’d set by working hard, standing her ground and just plain showing up for life and doing what she could with what she had. Because of her, he’d grown up strong, sound-minded and at home in his body, with a quiet confidence in himself and in his own judgment that had never failed him, even during a tour of duty in Iraq and the rough patch when his marriage ended.

      He paused in the doorway, hat in hand, looking back at her. “You can retire now,” he said. “Maybe go on a trip or something.”

      Callie laughed, the sound almost musical. “That’ll be the day, Slade Barlow,” she replied. “If you think I’m going to accept a big check from you and spend the rest of my life eating bonbons and taking tours of other people’s gardens, you’d better think again. Why, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if I didn’t have this place—and what would all my clients do without me?”

      Slade shook his head, a grin quirking up one corner of his mouth. “Just give it some thought,” he said, full of a strange, sweet sadness. “There’s a whole world beyond the borders of this town, Mom.”

      Callie waved a dismissive hand and reached for the broom again. “Maybe so,” she said, “but I’m staying right here.”

      “You’re stubborn as hell, you know that?”

      “Where do you think you got it?” she countered.

      Like his looks and the framework of his bones, he’d always figured most of his pigheadedness had come down from John Carmody, but now he recognized the quality as the downside of his mother’s fierce persistence.

      He waved once, crossed to his truck, got in and drove away.

      He should have been at work half an hour ago.

      By this time, he reckoned, all his deputies and Becky, the longtime receptionist, were probably fixing to send out a search party, complete with cadaver dogs and a plan drawn out on a grid.

      The idea made him smile as he headed back toward the courthouse.

      * * *

      JOSLYN KIRK OVERSLEPT that morning, and when she opened her eyes, it took her a few seconds to recognize her surroundings and realize she was right back in the one place she’d sworn never to set foot in again—Parable, Montana.

      Joslyn sat up in her sleeping bag—she’d arrived late the night before and hadn’t bothered to put sheets on the antique brass bed—and looked around, taking in the cabbage-rose wallpaper, the worn planks in the floor and ornate woodwork, the heavy wardrobe that served as a closet.

      She was in the guesthouse behind the mansion that had been her home for most of her childhood. Memories swamped her—on the other side of the broad green lawn, her mother would have been sitting on the screened-in sunporch on a bright morning like this one, sipping coffee and reading the newspaper. The housekeeper, Opal, would have been busy in the huge kitchen, preparing breakfast.

      Now, her mom was in Santa Fe, living with husband number three, a successful artist. Husband number two, Elliott Rossiter, had died in prison of an embolism, and heaven only knew where Opal was by now. She and Joslyn had parted tearfully, with promises to stay in touch, but they’d lost each other’s trails years ago.

      Joslyn sighed, pushed back her long brown hair and wriggled out of the sleeping bag. There was no sense in moping about the past—she’d come back to Parable for a reason, and she needed to get on with the plan.

      So she could leave again.

      After a brief stop in the bathroom and a quick splash at the sink, she padded barefoot into the tiny kitchen and groped through various plastic shopping bags until she unearthed the cheap coffeepot she’d purchased the day before, along with a few other essentials, at the big discount store out on the highway.

      She fumbled with the pot, then the small can of ground coffee beans, then the old-fashioned water spigot.

      A rap at the door interrupted the process, but only briefly. She’d be useless without coffee, and, besides, she knew who the visitor was.

      “Come in!” she called.

      There was a metallic jiggle at the front door, and a moment or two later, Kendra Shepherd, Joslyn’s best friend since forever, stepped into the kitchen.

      Blonde and elegant like a ballet dancer,