Linda Miller - Big Sky River

Elle and Erin laughed at her antics, rising back to their feet, dusting bits of lawn grass off their jeans. Glancing warily back, in tandem, to make sure the chickens were still on the far side of the picket fence.

“I think it’s safe to say Lucy likes you,” Tara observed.

“Silly dog,” Erin said, with such fondness that Tara’s throat constricted. “Silly, wonderful dog.”

Inside, Tara gave the twins a quick tour of the downstairs, Lucy following everywhere they went, panting with the lingering excitement of having guests—these humans were just full of delightful surprises, she seemed to be thinking—and then they all trooped up the back stairs, along the hallway and into their room.

Tara had worked hard renovating that old house, and she was proud of it, but she knew a moment’s trepidation while she waited for the girls’ reactions to their very modest quarters.

They lived in a very pricey penthouse, after all, with ten rooms and a spectacular view of the most exciting city in the world.

“This is cool,” Elle finally said, one hand resting on Lucy’s golden head as she looked around.

“Like being at camp,” Erin added cheerfully, tossing her backpack onto one of the twin beds. “Except fewer bunks.”

“Goon-face,” Elle said benevolently, “it’s not like camp at all. The look is called ‘shabby chic,’ for your information.”

Tara pretended she hadn’t heard the term “goon-face,” pointed out the door to the guest bathroom, and suggested the girls get themselves settled in while she went downstairs and made a pitcher of lemonade.

They were flipping a coin for the first shower, evidently their go-to way of making minor decisions, Lucy watching them in fascinated adoration, when Tara left the room and returned to the kitchen, humming under her breath. Fifteen minutes later, she was sitting on the front porch, contentedly rocking in her favorite wicker chair and waiting to serve the lemonade, when Opal drove up in her tanklike station wagon, causing the previously calm chickens to squawk wildly and kick up clouds of fresh dust.

Lucy, probably still enthralled with the goings-on upstairs, wasn’t there to bark a greeting.

“Hello, there!” Opal sang, waving as she got out of the car.

Two small boys scrambled from booster seats in the back, and Tara, who had seen the children a few times, usually at a distance, thought she would have recognized them even without previous encounters. Both of them looked like Boone in miniature, which meant they’d be heartbreakers for sure when they got older, though hopefully not arrogant ones, like their father.

“Ms. Kendall,” Opal said, as the boys came to stand on either side of her, looking warily at the mob of clucking, pecking chickens surrounding them, “this is Griffin.” She laid a hand on the older boy’s shoulder, then did the same with the younger one. “And this is Fletcher.”

Fletcher frowned at the chickens and moved closer to Opal. “Do those things bite?” he asked.

“No,” Opal assured him. “They just make a lot of noise.”

“Chickens don’t even have teeth,” Griffin informed his brother scornfully. “So how could they bite?”

Tara met the visitors at the front gate, swinging it open, hugging Opal and then solemnly shaking hands with each of the boys in turn. “I’m very glad to meet you both,” she said. “And I know Elle and Erin will be, too.”

“Who’s that?” Fletcher said, wrinkling his nose.

“Thought we’d just stop by and say hello,” Opal explained, overriding the question. “We won’t stay long.”

“Nonsense,” Tara answered. “I’m glad you’re here. I just made lemonade, and I think I could rustle up a few cookies if I tried.” She smiled at the boys, wanting them to feel welcome. Lord knew, they must have had problems enough, being Boone Taylor’s sons. “Elle and Erin are my stepdaughters. They’re visiting from New York.”

“Oh,” said Fletcher, mildly disgusted. Girls, his expression said.

“Cookies?” Griffin asked hopefully.

Fletcher made a face. “I don’t like lemonade,” he said. “It’s too sour.”

“Hush, now,” Opal told him. “Don’t you be rude, Fletcher Taylor.”

“Yeah,” Griffin agreed. “Don’t be so rude, poop-head.”

“That will be enough of that ornery talk,” Opal decreed good-naturedly. Nothing seemed to fluster the woman—she was the eye of the hurricane, the port in the storm, generous competence personified.

Without comment, Tara led them all inside, through the house to the kitchen, Opal checking everything out as they went and making approving noises.

“You have sure done wonders with this old house,” she said as they reached their destination. “Back when Boone’s folks lived here, it was a sight, let me tell you.” Both the boys looked up at her curiously, and she was quick to add, “Not that it wasn’t clean, mind you. Polly Taylor kept it up real nice, but Leroy used to park his motorcycle in the living room when the weather was bad, to protect the paint job, he said. Leroy didn’t trust that old barn not to fall right in on top of his pride and joy once the snow came and made the roof sag.”

Tara smiled to herself, thinking that the proverbial apple didn’t fall far from the tree, given the shape Boone’s own place was in, but of course she wouldn’t have said it out loud with Griffin and Fletcher right there to hear.

Opal had just taken a seat at the table, with a somewhat weary sigh, when Lucy came racing down the back stairway, barking her brains out, having finally clued in that, wonder of wonders, there was more company. Elle, freshly showered and barefoot, wearing white shorts and a yellow top, was right behind her.

Griffin and Fletcher glanced at her, then immediately gave themselves up, laughing, to Lucy’s face-licking hello.

Tara made introductions, over the tumult, and Elle nodded to the boys and extended a hand to Opal. “How do you do?” she said, sounding very grown-up.

Opal beamed a smile at the child. “I do just fine,” she replied. “How about you?”

“I’m good,” Elle said, sounding unusually shy.

“Boys,” Opal said, “quiet down a little now. I declare, I can’t hear myself think over the racket.”

“The dog’s the one making all the noise,” Fletcher protested.

Opal sighed again. “Well, take her outside, then,” she said, the soul of patience.

“Let’s check out the yard,” Elle suggested, leading the mass exodus through the back door, Lucy bringing up the tail-wagging rear.

“Phew,” Opal said when she and Tara were alone in the newly quiet kitchen. “I’m not used to kids that age anymore. Joslyn and Slade’s little one, Trace, being just a baby and all.” She leaned forward a tad and added confidentially, “Poor little fellas. They’re missing their aunt and uncle something fierce.”

Absorbing that, Tara washed her hands at the sink, took glasses from the cupboard and lined them up on the counter, added ice to two of them, then got the lemonade pitcher from the fridge and poured for Opal and herself. “Will they be visiting long?” she asked, remembering yesterday’s interlude with Boone by the ATM at Cattleman’s Bank.

“I do believe they’re here to stay this time,” Opal said quietly. There was a still a glint of sympathy in her eyes, but something else, too, something Tara couldn’t quite read. “Griffin—that’s the bigger boy, you know—he’s just thrilled to be back with his daddy, though he tries not to let on too much. Fletcher, on the other hand, well, he’s likely to try hitchhiking back to Missoula first chance he gets if we don’t keep an eye on him right along.”

Tara felt a twinge of sadness, for the children and maybe even for Boone. A little.