Linda Miller - Big Sky Wedding

Casey grinned. “Whatever you say,” she replied, with a note of slyness in her tone that unnerved Brylee a little. “But Zane is an old friend of mine, like I said. So don’t be surprised if he turns up at our supper table one night real soon.”

“Give me advance notice,” Brylee responded, “and I’ll make other plans.”

Casey laughed. “You’re as stubborn as your brother, you know that? Maybe even more so, if such a thing is possible. Do I really need to point out how many women there are in this world who would fall all over themselves for a chance to spend just one evening with Zane?”

“Invite one of them,” Brylee suggested briskly, as Snidely curled up at her feet.

Casey handed over the baby, a warm little armful that filled Brylee’s heart with love and a bittersweet yearning. “Hold your nephew for a few minutes,” she said. “I’ve had to pee for the past half hour.”

With that pithy—and typical—announcement, Casey disappeared into the house, headed for the nearest bathroom.

Brylee gathered her nephew close, lightly kissed the downy top of the baby’s head and whispered, “Your mama is right. She is the luckiest woman in the world.”

* * *

ZANE STOOD AT the edge of the woods for a few moments, solemnly surveying his “new” home—the long one-story stone house, with its big porch and many chimneys. The windows were tall and set deeply into their casings, the inside sills wide enough to sit on, and the place had a quietness about it that had charmed him, even when he’d only seen pictures on a real estate website. In person, the effect was even stronger.

Those were the things he liked about the place.

The things he didn’t like were more numerous: as he’d told Brylee out there in the woods, the structure needed a lot of work. The grass in the yard was seriously overgrown, of course, after being neglected for so long, and speckled with dandelions and other less comely weeds. As for the picket fence, weathered and falling over here and there, well, a coat of paint wasn’t going to do the trick.

Slim, spotting him, rose and ambled on over to offer a greeting.

“We’ve got our work cut out for us, boy,” Zane said, shifting his gaze to the barn. It was large and, like the house, made of stone. Unlike the house, it was in remarkably good shape. Maybe he and Slim ought to move into one of the stalls, or the tack room, while the renovations were going on.

Just then, he heard an engine, and turned to see a van pulling in down by the teetering mailbox, sides emblazoned with the electric company’s logo.

“Let there be light,” Zane said dryly, but his mind was still on Brylee Parrish, and her blatant belief that he’d change this ranch into some kind of flashy showplace.

Tennis courts? Indoor swimming pools? Media rooms?

He hadn’t even had those things in Tinseltown.

A nice condo? Sure. An expensive car that could almost fly? You got it.

By Hollywood standards, though, he’d lived modestly, and all he really wanted, even now, was a place to keep his horse—he’d missed being able to ride Blackjack whenever the mood struck him, back there in California, gotten downright lonesome for the animal’s company, in fact. The barn, four sturdy walls to keep out the wind and a solid roof over his head completed his current aspirations, as far as living arrangements went.

The van pulled to a stop in what passed for a driveway, dust billowing up around the vehicle in a cloud, and a balding man with a belly and a clipboard got out, grinning from ear to ear.

Zane drummed up a grin of his own. Put out his hand, because that was what people did in the country whenever they met up, and he’d missed the ritual.

The new arrival—the stitching on the pocket of his work shirt said his name was Albie—shook Zane’s hand enthusiastically. “When I told my wife I’d be turning on the juice for none other than Zane Sutton himself today,” Albie beamed, “she made me promise to get your autograph and tell you she loved all your movies.”

Zane’s expression, though friendly, might have seemed a touch forced, to anyone more observant than Albie. “Thanks,” he said, and left it at that.

CHAPTER TWO

ALONE IN HER apartment, except for Snidely, of course, Brylee did weekend things. She washed and dried her hair, gave herself a pedicure as well as a manicure, and then a facial to round out the routine. She chose a red-and-white polka dot sundress to wear to church in the morning, gave it a few quick licks with the iron and hung it carefully from the hook on the inside of her closet door. She selected white sandals and a red handbag to complete the ensemble, setting those on the cushioned window seat in her bedroom, where they would be in plain sight.

Brylee liked to make her preparations well in advance, wherever preparation was humanly possible, which was most of the time. In her considered opinion, there were enough surprises in life, careening out of nowhere, blindsiding her just when she thought she had everything covered, so she preferred not to leave herself open to the unexpected, if given the smallest option.

She would have described herself as “organized,” but she knew there were other definitions that might apply, like “obsessive” or even “anal.”

Okay, so she was something of a control freak, she thought, leaving her shabby-chic bedroom, with its distinctly female decor, for the living room.

Here, she’d chosen pegged wood floors instead of carpeting, and the fireplace was a wonder of blue and white, burgundy and gold, pale green and soft pink tiles, each one hand-painted. She’d colored and fired them all herself, using the kiln at her friend Doreen’s ceramics studio in Three Trees, and just looking at them made her feel good. Some had tiny stars, swirls or checks, while others were plain, at least to Brylee, and the result was a kind of quasi-Moroccan magic.

She’d hooked the big scatter rugs, too, mostly on lonely winter nights, while a blaze flickered on the hearth, managing to pick up many of the colors from the tiles. The couch, love seat and two big armchairs were clad for spring and summer in beige cotton slipcovers with just the faintest impression of a small floral print; when fall rolled around, she’d switch them out, for either chocolate-brown or burgundy corduroy. Most everything else in the room rotated with the seasons, too—the art on the walls, the vases and the few figurines, even the picture frames on the mantelpiece, though the photos inside remained the same: Casey and Walker, beaming on their wedding day, Clare and Shane goofing off up at the lake, Snidely sporting a stars-and-stripes bandana in honor of Independence Day. Now, of course, she’d added a few prized shots of little Preston, as well.

Brylee believed change was a good thing—as long as it was carefully planned and coordinated, of course.

She was aware of the irony of this viewpoint, naturally, but she’d built a thriving business on the concept of fresh decor, geared to the seasons, to the prevailing mood or to some favorite period in history. Hadn’t Marie Antoinette had her spectacular bedroom at Versailles redecorated from floor to ceiling in honor of spring, summer, fall and winter?

Yeah, but look how she ended up, Brylee thought, making a rueful face.

Snidely stood in the kitchen doorway, looking back at her, tail wagging, his mouth stretched into a doggy grin. Fluent in Snidelyese, Brylee understood that he wanted his food bowl filled, or a treat, or both, if all his lucky stars were in the right places.

Brylee chuckled and slipped past him, executing a slight bow in the process. “Your wish is my command,” she said, her royal mood, no doubt spawned by the brief reflection on the French court, lingering.