Linda Miller - Big Sky Secrets

“Meredith,” she said calmly, after drawing a deep, preparatory breath, “please tell me you haven’t done anything illegal.”

She did care what happened to her sister; it was just that she didn’t feel responsible for smoothing Meredith’s way.

Meredith immediately bristled, insulted by the very suggestion. “Of course I haven’t done anything illegal!”

“But you want me to break the law?” Ria asked, keeping her voice mild.

“I didn’t say that,” Meredith protested, snappish now, and unable to hide the fact.

“You didn’t have to, Meredith,” Ria said. “You want me to go to the Seattle office and ‘straighten things out’—isn’t that the gist of it? In other words, I’m supposed to cover someone’s tracks—maybe even doctor the books—wave some fiscal wand and make the whole thing go away.”

Meredith was even more affronted than before; Ria didn’t have to see her sister’s cameo-perfect face to know that. “So you’re not going to help?” she asked, after a very long time. “You’re really not going to help?”

“Meredith,” Ria responded, “I can’t help. What’s done is done—from what you’ve told me, there’s nothing to do now but deal with the fallout.” She paused, bit her lower lip, then tentatively added, “Besides, I have a life here.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Meredith sniped, obviously still smarting over Ria’s refusal to do what she wanted. People generally did what Meredith wanted—it was easier that way.

Indignation rose into the back of Ria’s throat and tightened there, like a tiny ball of rusted barbed wire. Normally, she would have allowed the gibe to pass—after all, it had been implied, rather than stated outright—but something had changed. Ria, always ready to lend a hand before, even when she shouldn’t have, wasn’t the same person she’d been when she’d woken up that morning, the woman she’d been before—before—

Before Landry Sutton kissed you.

“Look,” Ria said firmly, “I’m proud of who I am and what I do for a living. Maybe I’m not setting the financial world on fire, like you, but my flowers are beautiful, and they brighten people’s lives.”

Meredith waited a beat before replying. “Of course, dear,” she said, her tone acidly sweet and, therefore, completely condescending. “You brighten people’s lives. But does your little business even begin to pay the bills? Where would you be without Frank’s life-insurance money bringing in quarterly dividends? And what about that big salary Whittingford International paid you, after college? If you hadn’t socked away most of that—”

Ria sucked in a breath, rubbed at one temple with the fingers of her right hand, trying to forestall a tension headache. Whittingford International, her father’s company, and now Meredith’s, had indeed paid her well, but she’d worked twelve-and sixteen-hour days to earn that paycheck, too. It was only after she’d married Frank, a firefighter, that she’d cut back on her time at the office. “You know what, Meredith?” she shot back. “None of that is any of your business. I’ve earned what I have, such as it is. And in approximately one second, I’m going to hang up, so, not to be rude, goodbye.”

Meredith started to say something more, but the allotted second had passed by then, so Ria put the phone receiver back on the hook.

The ringing began again as she walked rigidly to the other side of the kitchen, took a water glass from one of the cupboards, filled it and drank every drop. She would have liked to ask about her seventeen-year-old niece, Quinn, the only loving relative, now that her mother was gone, that Ria had left. She was close to Meredith’s daughter and they usually stayed in touch, via email and texts, but she hadn’t heard from the girl in over a week. Was something wrong?

Unfortunately, Ria and Meredith didn’t have that kind of relationship. They didn’t talk about family, or anything else that was purely personal. The bristly exchange just past was all too typical.

For a moment, Ria considered calling Quinn directly; she knew her niece’s cell number by heart, but she decided to wait awhile, until she’d weeded and watered and fertilized a few rows of zinnias. That way, she could work off some of her irritation and not have it spilling over into her conversation with Quinn.

She headed for the field, worked until she was sweating and her nose was surely peeling from too much direct sunlight—she’d forgotten to put on the blue baseball cap she usually wore when she spent more than a few minutes outside—and was on her way back to the house to clean up and have a light lunch when she heard the jaunty honk of a car horn and looked up to see Brylee Sutton’s SUV rolling along the driveway.

Ria smiled, made for the edge of the lawn and waited.

Brylee stopped the rig and got out, smiling that warm, wide smile of hers. As always, her dog, Snidely, was riding shotgun, and he leaped across the seats and down to the ground to stand benignly at his mistress’s side.

Brylee, her beautiful brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, held out a cloth-covered basket, the contents exuding a marvelous butter/cinnamon/sugar smell.

“Hope we’re not interrupting or anything,” she said, meaning herself and Snidely. “It’s just that I’ve been on another of my baking jags.”

Ria was genuinely glad to see her friend, though she suspected there was more to this visit than an overabundance of baked goods.

“Come on inside,” she said.

* * *

LANDRY CAUGHT UP to Zane over at his place, where he was standing just outside the barn, next to Blackjack, his gelding. Bent at the waist, Zane was in the process of checking the animal’s right rear hoof for pebbles or burrs, and while he didn’t stop what he was doing or straighten his back, his eyes blazed at Landry.

“Say what?” he growled, in response to Landry’s opening statement.

Landry sighed, rubbed his beard-stubbled chin. The jangly state of his insides had nothing to do with the five thousand he’d sent to their dad, via the internet, or with Zane’s clear disapproval—and everything to do with the lingering scent of Ria Manning and the crazy effects of just one kiss.

“I’m not here to confess my sins and get your absolution, bro,” he said. “I just thought you ought to know the old man is up to something again, that’s all. In case he turns up in person with a plan to cause trouble.”

Young Nash, their half brother, nowhere to be seen at the moment, was settling in at Hangman’s Bend just fine, but, like any kid, he wanted to believe, against all evidence to the contrary, that his father loved him. And that meant the boy was susceptible to Jess’s influence, easily manipulated. Vulnerable.

Jess wouldn’t hesitate to promise the boy everything there was to promise, use him to achieve some purpose of his own—most likely gouging one or both his older sons for more money—and then abandon the kid all over again.

Slowly, Zane let go of Blackjack’s shin, walked away from the horse and set the hoof pick on top of a nearby fence post. “Did Jess say he was headed here?” he asked, his tone as taut as his expression. “To Montana?”

“Not exactly,” Landry answered, simultaneously shaking his head no. “But he’s been gambling, and I think he’s in deep—probably deeper than he admitted to me. Even if he settles up with the badasses he told me about over the phone last night, that doesn’t mean the heat is off.” He paused, sighed. “I think his life is in danger, Zane.”

“And I think you’re a world-class sucker,” Zane answered, but some of the tension drained from his face and the stiffness in his shoulders eased a little. Lightly, he slapped Landry on the back. “Let’s go inside and talk awhile.”