Big Sky River. Linda Miller Lael

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СКАЧАТЬ Elle plugged a pair of earbuds into her phone and settled back to listen to music.

      Eventually, both girls fell asleep—they’d gotten up early to catch their flight and changed planes not once but twice along the way, after all, and who knew how much rest they’d gotten the night before. They would have been excited about the trip ahead then, but now they didn’t have to rush.

      It wasn’t until Tara had driven through Parable proper and turned onto the bumpy dirt road that led to her farm that Elle and Erin awakened, blinking and sleepy and curious.

      Chickens scattered everywhere as Tara parked the SUV, and even over the squawking and flapping of wings she could hear Lucy barking a welcome from just inside the front door.

      She smiled.

      “Let’s get the bags later,” she said as the girls leaped out of the vehicle and turned in circles, looking around them, taking in everything in great, visual gulps. “Lucy might turn inside out if she has to stay shut up alone for another minute.”

      Erin hurried through the gate in the white picket fence surrounding Tara’s front yard, partly to get away from the chickens, Tara figured, and Elle followed.

      Reaching the porch, Tara opened the screen door, turned her key in the lock and cautiously stepped back, grinning a warning at the twins, who were still on the walk.

      “Heads up,” she warned. “Here comes Lucy!”

      Lucy shot through the opening like a fur-covered missile, paused only briefly to nuzzle Tara in one knee, and bounded toward the girls before Tara could catch hold of her collar and gently restrain her.

      “She won’t hurt you,” she said, but the assurance proved unnecessary, because Elle and Erin were as pleased to make Lucy’s acquaintance as she was theirs. The three of them went into a rollicking huddle, like long-lost friends finally reunited.

      Lucy yipped and yelped exuberantly and broke away to run in circles around the now-crouching twins, her ears tucked back in that funny way, simply unable to contain herself in the face of such joy.

      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.” СКАЧАТЬ