Big Sky River

Boone nodded and followed his sister up the porch steps and on into the house. While it wasn’t a mansion, the colonial was impressive in size and furnished with a kind of casual elegance that would be impossible to pull off in a thirdhand double-wide.

“I imagine they’ll have plenty of questions,” he said as they passed beneath the glittering crystal droplets dangling from the chandelier in the entryway. An antique grandfather clock ticked ponderously against one wall, measuring out what time remained to any of them, like a heartbeat. Life was fragile, anything could happen.

Molly glanced back at him over one shoulder, nodded. “I told them they’d be coming back here in a couple of months,” she replied. “After their uncle Bob has some time to heal.”

Boone didn’t comment. Despite his trepidation—he definitely considered himself parentally challenged—a part of him, long ignored but intractable, remained stone-certain that Griffin and Fletcher belonged with him, their father, on the little spread beside the river. Home, be it ever so humble.

This wasn’t the time to discuss that, though. Molly loved her nephews like they were her own, and with so many things to cope with, she didn’t need anything more to worry about.

And worry she would. With all that roiling in Boone’s mind, he and Molly passed along the wide hallway that opened onto a big dining room with floor-to-ceiling windows on one side overlooking the side yard, where a small stone fountain stood spilling rainbow-colored water and surrounded by thriving rosebushes. The scene resembled a clip from HGTV.

They’d reached the sunlit kitchen when Molly spoke again, employing her being-brave voice, the one she’d used during the hard days after their parents had died. She’d been just nineteen then, to Boone’s fifteen, but she’d managed to step up and take charge of the household.

“Griff is excited—already has his bags packed,” she told Boone, as she opened the refrigerator door and reached in for the pitcher of tea. Bright yellow lemon slices floated among the tinkling ice cubes, and there were probably a few sprigs of mint in there, too. Molly believed in small gracious touches like that. “Fletcher, though—” She stopped, shook her head. “He’s less enthusiastic.”

Boone suppressed a sigh, baseball cap in hand, looking around him. The kitchen was almost as big as his whole double-wide, with granite surfaces everywhere, real wood cabinets with gleaming glass doors, top-of-the-line appliances that, unlike the hodgepodge at his place, actually matched each other. There was even a real brick fireplace, and the table, with its intricately mosaicked top, looked long enough to accommodate a serious crowd.

Back at the double-wide, more than three people at a meal meant someone had to eat in the yard, or on the back steps, balancing a throwaway plate on their lap.

Molly smiled somewhat wistfully, as if she’d guessed what he was thinking, and gestured for Boone to sit down. Then she poured two tall glasses of iced tea and joined him, placing the pitcher in the middle of the table. Sure enough, there were little green leaves floating in the brew.

“Fletcher will adjust,” Molly went on gently. Her perception was nothing new; she’d always been able to read him, even when he put on a poker face. She was the big sister, and she’d been a rock after the motorcycle wreck that killed their mom and dad. Somehow, she’d seen to it that they could stay in the farmhouse they’d grown up in, putting off going to college herself until Boone had finished high school. She’d waitressed at the Butter Biscuit Café and clipped coupons and generally made do, all to prevent the state or the county from stepping in and separating them, shuffling Boone into foster care.

In the aftermath of the tragedy, the whole community of Parable had helped, the way small towns do, with folks sharing produce from their gardens, eggs from their chicken coops, milk from their cows, clothes from their closets, all without any hint of charity. Boone had done odd jobs after school and on weekends, but the main burden of responsibility had always been Molly’s.

Oh, there’d been some life insurance money, which she’d hoarded carefully, determined that they would both get an education, and the farm, never a big moneymaker even in the best of times, had at least been paid for. Their mom had been a checker at the supermarket, and their dad had worked at the now-closed sawmill, and somehow, latter-day hippies though they were, they’d whittled down the mortgage over the years.

The motorcycle had been their only extravagance—they’d both loved the thing.

When Boone was ready for college, he and Molly had divided the old place down the middle, with the house on Molly’s share, at Boone’s insistence. She’d sold her portion to distant cousins right away and, later on, those cousins had sold the property to Tara Kendall, the lady chicken rancher. Thus freed, Molly had studied business in college and eventually met and married Bob and given birth to three great kids.

And if all that hadn’t been enough, she’d stepped up when Corrie got sick, too, making regular visits to Parable to help with the kids, just babies then, cook meals, keep the double-wide fit for human habitation, and even drive her sister-in-law back and forth for medical treatments. Boone, young and working long hours as a sheriff’s deputy for next-to-no money, had been among the walking wounded, mostly just putting one foot in front of the other and bargaining with God.

Take me, not her.

But God hadn’t listened. It was as if He’d stopped taking Boone’s calls, putting him on hold.

Now, poignantly mindful of all that had gone before, Boone felt his eyes start to burn. He took a long drink of iced tea, swallowed and said, “Where were we?”

Molly’s smile was fragile but totally genuine. She looked exhausted. “I was telling you that your younger son isn’t as excited about going home with you as his older brother is.”

A car pulled up outside, doors slammed. Youthful voices came in through the open windows that made the curtains dance against the sills.

“Yeah,” Boone said. “I’ll deal with that. You just think about yourself, and Bob, and your own kids.”

Right on cue, Molly’s trio of offspring, two girls and a boy, rattled into the house. Ted, the oldest, had a driver’s license, and he carried a stack of pizza boxes in his big, basketball-player’s hands, while the girls, Jessica and Catherine, twelve and thirteen respectively, shambled in after him, bickering between themselves.

Griffin and Fletcher, who had accompanied them, were still outside.

When Jessica and Cate spotted Boone, their faces lit up and their braces gleamed as they smiled wide. They were pretty, like their mother, while Ted looked like a younger version of Bob, a boy growing into a man.

“Uncle Boone!” Jessica crowed.

He stood up, and just in time, too, because his nieces promptly flung themselves into his arms. He kissed them both on top of the head, an arm around each one, and nodded to his more reserved nephew.

Ted nodded back, and set aside the pizza boxes on one of the granite countertops. “I guess Mom told you about Dad being injured,” he said, with such an effort at manly self-possession that Boone ached for him.

“She told me,” Boone confirmed.

His nieces clung to him, and suddenly there were tears in their eyes.

“It’s awful, what happened to Dad,” said Jessica. “It must hurt like crazy.”

“He’s being taken care of,” Molly put in quietly.

Boone again squeezed both girls, released them. After a pause, he asked, “What’s keeping those boys of mine?”

“They’re admiring your truck,” Ted put in, grinning now.

Boone didn’t explain that he’d borrowed the rig from his best friend; it just didn’t matter. He wondered, though, if Griff and Fletch were avoiding him, putting off the unexpected reunion as long as they could.

Then the screen door creaked on its hinges and Boone braced himself.

Molly cleared her throat. “Kids,” she said quietly, addressing her brood. “Wash up and we’ll have pizza.”

“We’re still going to visit Dad tonight, right?” Cate asked worriedly.

“Yes,” Molly answered, as Boone’s young sons crossed the threshold and let the screen door slam behind them.

Ted, Jessica and Cate all left the room. Boone wondered if they were always so obedient and, if so, what was the magic formula so he could try it out on his own kids?

Meanwhile, Griff, the older of the pair, straightened his spine and offered a tentative smile. “Hello, Dad,” he said.

Fletcher, the little one, huddled close to his brother, their scrawny shoulders touching. “I don’t want to go to stupid Parable,” the boy said. He looked scared and sad and obstinate all at once, and his resemblance to his late mother made Boone’s breath snag painfully in the back of his throat. “I want to stay here!”

Boone walked over to them but left a foot or two of personal space.

“Uncle Bob broke his knee,” Griffin said, in case word hadn’t gotten around. “Ted says they’re going to give him a plastic one.”

Boone nodded solemnly, waiting. He didn’t want to crowd these kids, or rush them, either, but he was chafing to load up whatever stuff they wanted to take along and head for Parable.

“I’m ready to go anytime,” Griff announced.

“Not me,” Fletch glowered, folding his skinny arms and digging in the heels of his sneakers.

Boone crouched so he could look both boys in the eye. “It’s important to everybody, including your Uncle Bob, that you guys go along with the plan. That shouldn’t be too hard for a couple of tough Montana cowboys, right?”

Griff nodded, ready to roll, prepared to be as tough as necessary.

Fletcher, on the other hand, rolled out his lower lip, his eyes stormy, and warned, “I wet the bed almost every night.”

Boone recognized the tactic and maintained a serious expression. “Is that so?” he asked. “Guess that’s something we’ll have to work on.”

Fletcher nodded vigorously, but he kept right on scowling. He had Boone’s dark hair and eyes, as Griffin did, but he was Corrie’s boy, all right.

“He smells like pee every morning,” Griffin commented helpfully.

In a sidelong glance at Molly, who was getting out plates and silverware and unboxing the pizza, Boone saw her smile, though she didn’t say anything.

“Shut up, Griff,” Fletcher said, reaching out to give his brother an angry shove.

“Whoa, now,” Boone said, still sitting on his haunches, putting a hand to each of their small chests to prevent a brawl. “We’re all riding for the same outfit, and that means we ought to get along.”

His sons glared at each other, and Fletcher stuck out his tongue.

They were probably too young to catch the cowboy reference.

Boone sighed and rose to his full height, knees popping a little.

“Pizza time!” Molly announced, as Ted, Jessica and Cate reappeared, traveling in a ragtag little herd.

For a family in what amounted to a crisis, if not a calamity, they all put away plenty of pizza, but the talk was light. Every once in a while, somebody spoke up to remind everybody else that Bob would be fine, at least in the long run. New knee, good to go.

It was dark outside by the time the meal was over.

Boone did the cleanup, since Molly refused to let him reimburse her for the pizza.

Fletcher had been cajoled into letting Jessica and Cate help him pack, and Ted had loaded the suitcases in the back of Hutch’s truck.

Both boys needed booster seats, being under the requisite height of four foot nine dictated by law, and transferring those from Bob and Molly’s car and rigging them up just right took a few minutes with Molly helping and Fletcher sobbing on the sidewalk, periodically wailing that he didn’t want to go, couldn’t he please say, he wouldn’t wet the bed anymore, he promised. He swore he’d be good.

Boone’s heart cracked down the middle and fell apart. He hugged Molly goodbye—knowing she and the kids were anxious to get over to the hospital and visit Bob—shook his nephew’s hand and nodded farewell to his nieces.

“Tell Bob I’m thinking about him,” Boone said.

Molly briefly bit her lower lip, then replied, “I will.” Her gaze was on Griffin and Fletcher now, as if drinking them in, memorizing them. Her eyes filled with tears, though she quickly blinked them away.

Boone lifted a hand to say goodbye and got into the truck.

Molly stepped onto the running board before he could pull away, and spoke softly to the silent little boys in the backseat. “You guys be good, okay?” she said, in a choked, faint voice. “I’m counting on you.”

Turning his head, Boone saw both boys nod in response to their aunt’s parting words. They looked nervous, like miniature prisoners headed for the clink.

Molly smiled over at Boone, giving him the all-too-familiar you can do this look she’d always used when she thought he needed motivation or encouragement. “We’ll keep you posted,” she promised. And then she stepped down off the running board and stood on the sidewalk, chin up, shoulders straight.

Boone, who’d already used his quota of words for the day, nodded again and buzzed up the windows, bracing himself for the drive home.

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

TARA CALLED JOSLYN from the front seat of her previously owned but spacious SUV, watching as one of the car-lot people drove her cherished convertible around a corner and out of sight. She felt a pang when it disappeared, headed for wherever trade-ins went to await a new owner.

“I just wanted to let you know that I won’t be needing to borrow the station wagon, after all,” she said into the phone, studying the unfamiliar dashboard now. Lucy was in back, buckled up and ready to cruise.

“Okay,” Joslyn said, her tone thoughtful. “Mind telling me what’s going on?”

Still parked in the dealer’s lot, with hundreds of plastic pennants snapping overhead, Tara bit her lip. “It’s a long story,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. “Short version—Elle and Erin, my ex-husband’s twelve-year-old twins, are arriving tomorrow. Since we couldn’t all fit in the Mercedes—”

“Elle and Erin,” Joslyn repeated. She and Kendra Carmody were Tara’s best friends, and yet she’d never told either of them about the twins, mostly because talking about Elle and Erin would have been too painful. All Kendra and Joslyn knew was that there had been an ugly divorce.

“I’ll tell you the whole story later,” Tara said, eyeing the passing traffic and hoping she wouldn’t feel as though she were driving an army tank all the way back to Parable. “It’s time to get home and feed the chickens.”

“Right,” Joslyn said. “Exactly when is ‘later’ going to be?”

“Tonight?” Tara suggested. “You and Kendra could stop by my place for lemonade or tea or something?”

Once, she would have offered white wine instead, but Kendra was expecting, and Joslyn, the mother of a one-year-old son, was making noises about getting pregnant again, soon.

“I can make it,” Joslyn replied, clearly intrigued. “I’ll give Kendra a call—what time would be good?”

“Six?” Tara said, uncertain. She lived alone, while both her friends had husbands, and, in Joslyn’s case, kids, as well. They’d have to take family matters, like supper, into consideration.

“Make it seven and we’re good,” Joslyn said. “See you then.”

They ended the call with lighthearted goodbyes, and Tara turned in the driver’s seat to look back at Lucy. The dog wore a blue bandanna and her sunglasses dangled from a loose cord around her neck. “Hold on,” she said. “One test-drive doesn’t make me an expert at handling the big rigs.”

Lucy yawned and relaxed visibly, though she couldn’t lie down with the seat belt fastened around her. As always, she was ready to go with the flow.

They drove back to Parable and then home to the farm, blessedly without incident. There, Tara was met by a flock of testy chickens, probably suffering from low blood sugar. She rushed inside and up the stairs, Lucy right behind her, and exchanged her sundress and sandals for coveralls and ugly boots, the proper attire for feeding poultry and other such chores, and returned to the yard.

Lucy, who was alternately curious about the birds and terrified of their squawking, kept her distance, waiting patiently in the shade of the overgrown lilac bush that had once disguised a privy.

“Dog,” Tara said, gathering handfuls of chicken feed from a dented basin and flinging the kernels in every direction, “we are definitely not in New York anymore.”

CHAPTER THREE

BOTH THE BOYS were sound asleep in their safety seats when Boone finally pulled up in his own rutted driveway around eight that night, shut off the truck engine and gazed bleakly into his immediate future. A concrete plan for the long term would have been good, a to-do list of specific actions guaranteed to carry Griffin and Fletcher from where they were right now—confused and scared—right on through to healthy, productive manhood.

Boone sighed. One step at a time, he reminded himself silently. Just put one foot in front of the other and keep on keeping on. For now, he only had to think about getting his sons inside and bedded down for the night. After that, he’d take a quick shower and call to let Molly know that he and the kids had arrived home safely. Then, if it wasn’t too late, he’d give Hutch a ring, too, and tell him his truck was still in one piece, offer to drop it off at Whisper Creek before he went on to work in the morning.

Work. Inconvenient as it was, Boone was still sheriff, with a whole county full of good people depending on him, and a few bad apples to keep an eye on, too, and that meant he’d be in his office first thing tomorrow, with his boys tagging along, since he had yet to make any kind of child-care arrangements.

Just then, things seemed patently overwhelming. One step, he reiterated to himself, and then another.

Glad to be out of a moving vehicle and standing on his own two feet, Boone opened one of the rear doors and woke Griffin first with a gentle prod to the shoulder. The boy yawned and blinked his eyes and then grinned at Boone in the dim glow of the interior lights. “Are we there?” the kid asked, sounding hopeful.

Boone’s heart caught. “We’re there,” he confirmed with a nod, then unfastened Fletcher from the safety seat. Griffin scrambled out of the truck on his own, but the little guy didn’t even wake up. He just stirred slightly, his arms loose around Boone’s neck, his head resting on his shoulder.

For all Boone’s trepidation about getting the dad thing right, it felt good to be holding that boy. Real good.

They started toward the double-wide, slogging through tall grass. The trailer was pretty sorry-looking in broad daylight, and darkness made it look even worse, like a gloomy hulk, lurking and waiting to pounce. Why hadn’t he thought to leave a light burning before he took off for Missoula in such an all-fired hurry?

“I bet Fletch peed his pants,” Griffin said sagely, trekking along beside Boone with his small suitcase in one hand. “He stinks.”

Sure enough, the seat of Fletcher’s impossibly small Wranglers felt soggy against Boone’s forearm, and there was a smell, but it wasn’t a big deal to a man who’d spent whole nights guarding some drunken miscreant at the county jail.

Boone spoke quietly to Griffin, man-to-man. “Let’s not rag on him about that, okay? He’s still pretty little, and there’s a lot to get used to—for both of you.”

Griffin nodded. “Okay,” he agreed solemnly.

They climbed the steps to the rickety porch, Boone going first, and once he’d gotten the door open and stepped inside, he flipped the light switch.

They were in the kitchen, but in that first moment Boone almost didn’t recognize the room. The dishes he’d left piled in the sink had been done up and put away. The linoleum floor didn’t exactly shine, being so worn, with the tar showing through in some places, but it glowed a little, just the same.

The effect was almost homey.

“Do we sleep where we did when we visited before?” Griffin asked. He sounded like a very small man, visiting a foreign country and eager to fit into the culture without breaking any taboos.

Still carrying Fletcher, who was beginning to wriggle around a bit now, Boone nodded a distracted yes and, having spotted the note propped between the sugar shaker and the jar of powdered coffee creamer in the middle of the table, zeroed in on it.

Griffin marched off to inspect the cubbyhole he and Fletcher would be staying in while Boone picked up the note. It was written in Opal Dennison’s distinctive, loopy handwriting, and he smiled as he read it. Although she kept house for Slade and Joslyn Barlow, Opal was definitely a free agent, working where she wanted to work, when she wanted to work.

Hutch called and said your boys were coming home for a spell, and you’d all probably get in tonight, so I let myself in and spruced the place up a mite. There’s food in the refrigerator and I put clean sheets on the beds and some fresh towels in the bathroom. I’ll be over first thing tomorrow morning to look after those kids while you’re working, and don’t even think about telling me you can manage on your own, Boone Taylor, because I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck.

She’d signed the message with a large O.

Boone set the slip of paper back on the table and carried a now-wakeful Fletch into the one and only bathroom. He set the boy on the lid of the toilet seat and started water running into the tub, which, thanks to Opal, was well scrubbed. Boone always showered, and that seemed like a self-cleaning type of operation, so he rarely bothered with the tub.

Fletch, realizing where he was, and with whom, rubbed both eyes with small grubby fists and immediately started to cry again.

“Hey,” Boone said quietly, turning to crouch in front of him the way he’d done earlier, in Molly’s kitchen. “Everything’s going to be all right, Fletcher. After a bath and a good night’s sleep, you’ll feel a whole lot better about stuff, I promise.”

He’d told the boys, during the first part of the drive back from Missoula, that their uncle Bob, hurt the way he was, would need lots of care from their aunt Molly and the cousins, so that was why they were going back to Parable to bunk in with him for a while. It was the best way they could help, he’d explained.

Griff hadn’t said anything at all in response to his father’s short and halting discourse. He’d just looked out the window and kept his thoughts to himself, which, in some ways, concerned Boone more than Fletcher’s intermittent outbursts. The littlest boy had exclaimed fiercely that he wanted to go back and help take care of Uncle Bob for real, and would Boone just turn around the truck right now, because Missoula was home, not Parable. When Boone had replied that he couldn’t do that, Fletch had cried as if his heart had been broken—and maybe it had.

After quite a while, during which Boone felt three kinds of useless and just kept driving because he knew the kid would have resisted any kind of fatherly move, like stopping the truck and taking him into his arms for a few minutes, Fletcher’s sobs gradually turned to hiccups. That went on for a long time, too, like the crying, before he finally fell into a fitful sleep, exhausted by the singular despair of being five years old with no control over his own fate.

Now, in this run-down bathroom, with the finish peeling away from the sides of a tub hardly big enough to accommodate a garden gnome, and the door off the cupboard under the sink letting the goosenecked pipe and bedraggled cleaning supplies show, Boone waited, still sitting on his haunches, for Fletcher’s response to the tentative promise he’d made moments before.

It wasn’t long in coming. “Everything won’t be all right,” Fletcher argued. “You’re not my dad—I don’t care what Griff says—Uncle Bob is my dad—and I’m not staying here, because I hate you!”

This was a scared kid talking, Boone reflected, but the words hurt just the same, like a hard punch to the gut.