EPILOGUE
Concert Night
COME SATURDAY AFTERNOON, as he made a few rounds in his cruiser before turning his badge over to Slade Barlow for the night, Boone could have sworn he felt a sort of thrumming in the air, the pre-echo of music, heavy on the bass, even though Casey’s benefit concert wasn’t scheduled to start until 9:00 p.m. He supposed it was excitement and anticipation; Parable was already filling up with folks from out of town, including some news crews, and the stores and cafés were doing a lively business.
Pulling into the parking lot at the courthouse, with Scamp at his side, Boone met Treat McQuillan in his rattletrap interim patrol car, salvaged from a scrap outfit, by the looks of it.
They stopped, side by side, to nod curtly at each other.
McQuillan looked agitated, so Boone sighed and rolled down his window.
“You can’t deputize Hutch Carmody!” blurted the new chief of police, tiny eyes bulging. That nasty temper of his had to be hard on veins and arteries; one of these days, the man was going to blow a gasket. “He’s practically a suspect!”
In point of fact, Boone hadn’t deputized his old friend, but suspected, after a quick glance around the lot, where he spotted Hutch’s shiny truck, that Hutch had gone ahead and appointed himself to the position.
Which was fine with Boone—and even finer if it got under McQuillan’s lazy hide, as seemed to be the case.
“Hutch isn’t a suspect,” Boone replied reasonably. He’s definitely guilty. Saw him tear down that damnable water tower with my own eyes.
“I’m warning you, Boone—I’ll nail those guys. That water tower was an historical treasure.”
“It was a death trap,” Boone countered, rolling up his window again. This conversation was over.
McQuillan sped off, muffler rattling, probably on his way to bust choir-practice attendees on a charge of unlawful assembly.
Shaking his head, Boone parked in the usual spot, unbuckled his seat belt and got out of the cruiser, Scamp jumping out after him. These days, the critter went by the name Deputy Dog around Parable, riding shotgun most of the time and hanging out in the office with Boone.
Inside, Boone and the dog followed the corridor to his office door, which was slightly open. Stepping through, he spotted Slade right away, trying to work the new coffeemaker, a contraption Becky had purchased on QVC and expected to charge to the county. Boone had paid for the gadget himself.
“Afternoon,” Slade said in that laid-back drawl of his. “Feels weird to be back here—déjà vu all over again, to quote Yogi Berra.”
Boone answered with a nod of acknowledgment and swung his gaze toward Becky’s desk. Sure enough, Hutch was sitting behind it, with his booted feet propped on the surface, old-West style. Looked like a scene out of that 1950s movie Rio Bravo.
“Make yourself at home,” Boone said drily.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Hutch replied with a grin. He settled back in his chair, cupped his hands behind his blond head. “Tough job,” he added as a good-natured gibe.
Boone batted the proverbial ball right back over the net. “Compared to what you normally do,” he quipped, “I suppose it is.”
Although Hutch worked Whisper Creek Ranch, his home-place, and could cowboy with the best of them, he had a lot of hired help and a net worth sizable enough to bail out the banking sector all over again.
“My brother here,” Hutch drawled, gesturing toward Slade, “is acting sheriff. And he’s already signed me on to help keep the peace.”
“Right,” Boone said, finally letting loose with a chuckle; he was wound up tight, not because of the concert, though he was looking forward to hearing Casey sing and watching one of her legendary performances, but because afterward he and Tara were spending the night together, alone. All the kids would be at Casey’s place for the minishow and the sleepover.
“Patsy McCullough’s back home,” Slade commented, finally extracting a cup of coffee from the machine. “She and the girl, anyhow. Dawson’s still in the hospital, of course, but he’s doing real well, already getting in some physical therapy and grousing because he can’t attend the concert tonight.”
Boone grinned. He’d gotten the news earlier, and driven by Patsy’s place to have a look at the brand-new wheelchair ramp in front of her small house. “I love this town,” he said.
“Me, too,” Hutch agreed wryly. “Except when I hate it.”
Slade chuckled at that, and so did Boone.
The regular deputies arrived, and Slade took charge with no trouble at all.
Boone headed for the community center with Scamp, leaving the squad car for Slade and taking his old beater of a truck, and picked up Griffin and Fletcher. In a few hours, Opal would collect them and take them, along with Elle and Erin, to Casey’s place. Along with her churchgoing posse, Opal would serve as a chaperone.
She’s the one I should have deputized, Boone thought with another grin.
“You’re not taking this truck on your date with Ms. Kendall, are you?” Griffin immediately asked, once he and his brother were planted on the bench seat, cheek by jowl. There was no backseat, like in Hutch’s and Slade’s fancy extended-cab rigs, so the boosters were wedged in, and the dog had to ride on the floorboard.
“She said we could call her Tara,” Fletcher interjected. They’d spent a lot of time together over the past few days, since James Lennox’s dramatic departure for New York, and Tara had won his sons’ hearts as surely as she had his.
Griffin gave his brother an impatient glance. “This thing might fall apart before you even get to the fairgrounds,” he complained to Boone.
Boone smiled, ran his knuckles lightly over the kid’s crew cut. “Don’t worry about it, Romeo,” he replied. “We’ll probably take her car.”
“Who’s Romeo?” Fletcher wanted to know.
“Never mind,” Boone answered.
And so it went.
At home, the boys rushed to gather up their new sleeping bags and other overnight gear, piling it all carefully next to the kitchen door as though they might have to make a break for it. Once the collecting was done, Griffin went outside with Scamp, and Boone had a rare moment alone with his younger son.
“Hey, buddy,” he said. “You gonna be all right away from home for a whole night and everything?”
Fletcher squared his shoulders. “I’m not a baby, Dad,” he reminded Boone. “I even stopped wetting the bed.”
“You sure did,” Boone agreed. He hadn’t had to throw sheets into the washer and dryer for a while now. “I’m proud of you.”
“Can we go see Aunt Molly and Uncle Bob?”
Boone crouched, so he and the boy were eye to eye. “Sure,” he said gently. “As soon as they’re ready for company. Uncle Bob’s still in rehab right now, so he’s pretty busy.”
Fletcher nodded solemnly, and Boone ached for him, wondering if he was still homesick for Molly and her family.
“Are you going to marry Tara?”
The question, earnest and hopeful, knocked Boone back on his figurative heels. “I hope so,” he answered. “It’ll be a while, though.”
Fletcher broke into a grin. “Can we live in her house, instead of this one?”
Boone laughed and squeezed the boy’s shoulder as he stood up straight again. “We’re still figuring that out,” he replied. In fact, he and Tara had discussed future living arrangements and agreed that building a whole separate house didn’t make sense, since they had a perfectly good one already.
Full circle, Boone had thought. He’d begun his life in Tara’s farmhouse, he and Molly growing up there with their mom and dad, and it looked as though he’d live out the rest of his days under the same roof.
Once, not so long ago, the idea, while appealing, would have chafed his pride. Now, if it meant being with Tara, he’d have set up housekeeping in her chicken coop.
Anyway, instead of a house, they planned on putting up a good barn, getting horses and riding gear for the whole crew.
Outside, a car horn tooted, and Fletcher practically vibrated with excitement.
Boone went out, hauling some of the boys’ gear, and grinned at Opal, who was just getting out of her station wagon. There was something different about her, he thought, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Same straitlaced dress, practical shoes, outdated hairdo.
It was the glow, he realized suddenly. The woman was lit up from the inside, as if she’d swallowed a harvest moon whole.
Griffin and Fletcher got busy loading their stuff into the back of the station wagon while Boone stood in the tall grass, facing Opal, and tilted his head to one side, grinning.
“What’s different about you?” he asked forthrightly.
Opal seemed to preen for a moment, her smile full of mischief and spirit, and then she simply lifted her left hand, showing off the respectable diamond glittering on her ring finger.
“The Reverend proposed,” she said, and then she actually blushed.
Boone was pleased. “When’s the wedding?” he asked.
Opal executed a mock glare that failed to lessen the twinkle in her dark eyes. Leaning in a little, her voice low so the boys wouldn’t overhear, she replied, “After I’ve got you and Tara married up proper, that’s when.”
He laughed. “Your mission in life, I presume?” he teased.
“Joslyn and Slade and Hutch and Kendra finally got it right,” Opal declared, as though still winded by her matchmaking efforts. “Once you and Tara tie the knot, I can retire and just be a minister’s wife.”
“What about all the other loners in Parable County?” Boone asked, touched as well as amused. “Don’t you have to fix up a few other couples?”
Opal looked thoughtful. “Well,” she said, in all seriousness, “I might have to step in with Casey Elder and Walker Parrish, so maybe I’ll just be semiretired. But everybody else is on their own, ’cause I’m going to be real busy lovin’ my husband.”
Boone kissed her forehead. “Congratulations,” he said. “The Reverend Dr. Walter Beaumont is one lucky man.”
“And he sure can catch fish,” Opal confirmed, turning to make sure the boys were ready to roll and leaving Boone standing there baffled. He sure can catch fish?
They drove off then, the boys waving, Opal honking and Scamp barking a farewell.
Boone watched them until they turned onto the county road, then went back into the double-wide, Scamp keeping spritely pace, to get ready for his hot date.
* * *
TARA FELT AS GIDDY as a high school girl about to attend her first prom, and she changed clothes three times before settling on black jeans, a blue silk shirt and boots.
By the time Boone knocked at her front door, she was downright jittery and very glad Opal had already picked up Elle and Erin for the big night at Casey’s since they would surely have teased her.
Tara almost tripped coming down the stairs, and when she opened the door, her heart swelled with love. Boone looked cowboy-handsome, standing there in his crisply pressed white Western shirt, creased jeans and shiny boots. He held his hat in one hand and regarded her almost shyly.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Ready,” she managed to say.
He’d brought Scamp over to keep Lucy company while they were out, and the two dogs sniffed noses and went amiably off toward the kitchen, their owners forgotten.
“You look beautiful,” Boone said with gruff sincerity.
So do you, Tara wanted to say. She let her eyes make the statement and said, “Thank you,” instead.
She got her purse and stepped onto the porch, locking up the house behind her. “I hope I’m not underdressed,” she fretted, as Boone took her arm in a gentlemanly hold, escorting her toward the front gate.
“I actually prefer you underdressed,” Boone said. “Make that undressed, but you look way beyond good right now, lady.”
* * *
THE RUSTED-OUT TRUCK, parked where the chickens normally roamed, looked especially bad sitting forlornly in the gathering dusk. Like the double-wide, it seemed to be disintegrating before his eyes.
Boone felt a twinge of embarrassment. I’ll get a new rig, he promised himself. Tomorrow, damn it.
“I guess we could take your SUV,” he said, glancing down at Tara. She sparkled brighter than Opal’s new engagement ring.
And she looked up at him, smiled. “Let’s take yours. I’m trying to live down my city-slicker reputation.”
Boone laughed, loving her even more than he had a minute before, and helped her into the old wreck, glad he’d wiped down the seats and vacuumed the floorboards. “If word gets out that your chickens are practically house pets,” he joked, once he was behind the wheel, “you might be stuck with the label for life.”
She reached over, patted his blue-jeaned thigh. “Surely my secret is safe with you,” she said, smiling conspiratorially.
“I don’t know,” Boone replied. “I am fond of fried chicken.”
She made a face, but it was obvious she knew he was teasing.
The parking lot out at the fairgrounds, where the rodeo was held every summer, was jammed with cars and pickups, news vans and even a few semitrucks. Casey’s fans came from all walks of life, and judging by the varying license plates, some of them were willing to go the distance.
Boone parked the truck and helped Tara out. He bought tickets, even though Casey had offered him free seats, because the cause was a good one. They made their way through the excited crowds and managed to find seats.
The special stage set up in the middle of the arena flashed with colored lights, but only the instruments were visible, which added to the excitement of the many, many waiting fans.
High school kids hawked souvenir T-shirts and glossy programs—all profits going to the fund for the McCullough family, like the ticket sales—and Boone bought two of each. It was goofy, he supposed, but he liked the idea of him and Tara going around town in matching T-shirts. Going steady, he thought, amused.
Finally, the band members took the stage, and the lights went crazy, as did the audience. The keyboard man sounded a familiar chord, everything went dark, and when the lights came up again, Casey stood front and center, resplendent in a rhinestone-studded white pantsuit and matching boots, a guitar slung over her shoulder. Lighters flickered all over the bleachers, and the foot-stomping and shouting was deafening.
Once the audience settled down a little, Casey made a little speech about how welcome she and her family felt in Parable, and how glad they were to be a part of such a fine community, a place with a heart. She reminded them that every nickel raised that night would go to Dawson McCullough, his mom and his sister—Patsy and her daughter had seats near the stage, and she asked them to stand—and cheers erupted again. Tears ran down Patsy’s smiling face, while Casey acknowledged the applause humbly, and the lead guitar player launched into a familiar refrain.
The concert was on.
Casey Elder rocked the Parable County Fairgrounds that night, performing for nearly two hours before bringing everybody to their feet with a stirring rendition of “God Bless America.”
Hokey, maybe, Boone thought. But he sang along loudly, like everybody else in the bleachers.
Wrapping it up, Casey thanked everybody for coming and promised to autograph programs over at the Boot Scoot Tavern later on, where there would be lots of dancing and more opportunities to contribute to the fund.
Boone turned to Tara as people streamed past all around them, racing for the exits. He sure hoped Slade and the deputies were ready for the onslaught.
“Feel like dancing?” he asked.
Tara leaned forward, touching her lips to his chin. “No,” she said. “I feel like making love.”
Boone felt a rush of joy and no small anticipation. He’d carry his hat to the truck, he decided, instead of wearing it on his head.
“Then let’s get out of here,” he said, squeezing her hand.
* * *
TARA WAS HIGH ON MUSIC, high on love, and when Boone carried her up the front steps and over her threshold like a bride, she reveled in it.
Lucy and Scamp barely greeted them, there in the darkened entryway, before wandering away again, patently disinterested in the oddity of human beings already kicking off boots and peeling off their clothes.
“I can’t wait,” Tara said, “not even until we’re upstairs—”
Boone arched his eyebrows comically, closed his hands over her bare breasts, right there in the foyer, and eased her back against the wall.
He kissed her endlessly, it seemed to her, taking his time before moving on to her neck, her shoulders, her collarbones, her belly, then going back to her mouth again, all the while plying her gently with his fingers.
After what seemed like an eternity, he knelt, running his lips over her thighs, even her knees, and finally—finally—he took her into his mouth.
Tara cried out softly, already in an anguish of welcoming pleasure, and perspiration broke out all over her body. She writhed as he enjoyed her, bringing her to the brink, withdrawing, taking her to new heights but not quite there.
She whimpered, wanting Boone to hurry and, conversely, praying that he’d take his time, prolong the almost unbearably delicious sensation of climbing, climbing toward ecstasy.
Boone enjoyed her at his leisure, brought her to several knee-melting climaxes before he finally stood up again, holding her upright, his hands at her waist, and pressed against her.
“No condom this time,” he warned, nibbling at her right earlobe even as he prepared her for more loving with his fingers. “If there’s a baby, there’s a baby. Agreed?”
“No condom,” she moaned, nodding, jubilant with need, every nerve singing under her skin, her heart skittering, her breath so rapid and so shallow that she was afraid she might hyperventilate.
Boone lifted Tara off her bare feet, and she wrapped her legs tightly around his waist. He looked deep into her eyes, paused for a long moment, and then he entered her, hard and fast, and she welcomed him with a low, frantic croon, her back pressed against the wall. The ferocity of it, the boldness of making love in her entryway, for pity’s sake, took away her breath.
Her body seized with one climax and then another. She moaned Boone’s name, groped for his mouth with her own, flying higher and then higher still.
She waited for his control to break, but it was a long time before he came, with a thrust so hard it sent her spinning into yet another release, sent her spiraling into a vortex of sensations, not just between her legs, but in her mind and spirit, too.
Boone had not just taken Tara; he’d laid permanent claim to her. She was his woman, now and forever, fused to him in ways that seemed almost sacred. Boone’s eruption was a magnificent hardening of his entire body, and he groaned her name as he flexed against her, over and over.
Exhausted, murmuring, they sank to their knees and then lay on the hooked rug, legs entwined, fighting to breathe, as if they were shipwreck survivors, clinging together on a flimsy raft.
Gradually, they recovered, though they remained where they were.
“I can’t believe you just had me against a wall,” Tara said, very glad that he had, as small aftershocks moved through her like a festive trail of descending fireworks against a dark sky. It was so deliciously decadent.
“I can be pretty inventive,” Boone told her, nibbling at her neck.
And he proceeded to prove it by having her again, this time on the floor.
* * *
EVENTUALLY, THEY’D made it as far as Tara’s bed.
She lay sleeping now, her lashes like dark feathers against her cheeks, her breathing slow and deep and even, her lips forming a little smile as she dreamed.
Boone was content just to look at her, for the time being, anyhow. Physically, and in a lot of other ways, too, he couldn’t get enough of Tara Kendall.
She was so beautiful. So smart and so strong and so passionate.
Why in hell had it taken him so long to realize she was the woman for him?
Because he’d been holding on to a memory, that was why. Holding on to Corrie, and everything they were supposed to have had, as though by resisting he could bring her back.
It struck him now that Corrie would be happy for him, happy that her boys were going to have a mother again. Had he been holding her back somehow, mourning so hard for so long?
In that moment, he let go, once and for all, and in the next, he felt a strange, soft parting, and he knew Corrie had finally been set free, and moved on.
Tears burned the backs of his eyes. Goodbye, he said silently.
Tara stirred a little.
Miracle of miracles, she loved him. And that was the greatest gift she could have given him, even if they lived and loved into their old age, surrounded by children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
And he loved her, no doubt about it, more with every passing day, every beat of his heart, every drawn breath.
Presently, she opened her eyes, all fluttery and disoriented for a moment.
“Yep,” Boone said, grinning. “It’s true. You’ve been making love to a redneck sheriff with a double-wide for most of the night. And in some mighty scandalous places, too.”
She grinned back, purring a little in sultry contentment, and punched him lightly in one shoulder, and her eyes glowed, warming him through and through. “It just so happens that I love my ‘redneck sheriff’ with all my heart,” she told him. “And when it comes to scandalous places to have sex, I have a few ideas of my own.”
“That’s good,” Boone said in a voice rumbly with emotions he couldn’t quite contain. Didn’t need to contain, because he could tell this woman anything, let her see into his very soul. “Because I’m pretty crazy about a certain pseudo chicken rancher myself.”
She touched a finger to the tip of his nose, sending a thrill through him as easily as that. “Remember your promise,” she said.
“You can take it to the bank,” Boone told her. “Along with every other promise I ever make.” A pause, during which they both choked up. Then, “When are we getting married?” he asked. “Only being able to make love when none of the kids are around is going to be tough.”
That was part of the agreement, until they were husband and wife.
“You’ll just have to improvise, Boone Taylor. It would be absolutely indecent to have a wedding in less than six months.” She smiled a sexy smile. “In the meantime, I think we ought to get in as much practice as we can.”
Boone sighed. “All right,” he agreed. “Six months.”
She kissed him, snuggling close. “I’ll make it up to you,” she promised.
* * * * *
Look for THE MAN FROM STONE CREEK, coming
from Harlequin HQN in March, as well as Linda Lael Miller’s next original
novel, BIG SKY SUMMER, on sale in June at your favorite retail
outlet.
Keep reading for an excerpt from BIG SKY COUNTRY and BIG
SKY MOUNTAIN by Linda Lael Miller!