"It describes you to perfection."

He laughed and then, because he couldn't help it, because he could already feel her slipping away into that other life, where he was a foreigner, he kissed her.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

CASEY TOOK A COMMERCIAL FLIGHT out of Missoula the next morning, changed planes in Seattle and landed in Los Angeles after several delays, to be met outside security by a smiling Mitch, the guys in her band, her technical crew and other important members of the entourage.

While they waited for her luggage near one of the baggage carousels, autograph seekers and a few representatives of the tabloid press crowded in close.

Casey had always thrived on this kind of attention-h.e.l.l, she'd loved it, would have felt invisible without it, even just a few months before-but something had changed. All she could think about was Walker and the kids and the peaceful grandeur of Timber Creek Ranch, with its canopy of sky and miles of open s.p.a.ce, that sacred sense of being tucked into the heart of G.o.d.

Nothing if not professional, though, she smiled and signed her name and posed for cell-phone snapshots, even answered a few questions from the "reporters," but part of her simply wasn't present.

Mike Reynolds, her lead guitar player and longtime friend, must have seen through the act, because once they'd collected her bags, made their way to one of several waiting limos and ducked inside, he looked her straight in the eye and said, "I've seen sadder brides, but I can't remember when."

Mitch and two a.s.sistants rode with them, but, mercifully, they had their heads together, busily conferring over various schedules-rehearsals, radio and TV interviews, a few public appearances in random places like shopping malls, and photo ops with politicians and other celebrities.

Casey tried to smile at Mike, but she'd used up most of her wattage back there in the baggage area. Her comeback-"How many of those sad brides were yours?"-fell a little flat.

Mike merely grinned, used to being kidded about his overactive love life, but his eyes were solemn as he looked at her, seeing too much. "Case," he said patiently, "this is me. Mike. Next best thing to a brother. Please don't tell me things are going wrong between you and the cowboy already."

"'The cowboy,'" she reminded him gently, "has a name. It's Walker. And, no, it isn't that. I'm just a little-"

I'm just a little pregnant.

Maybe.

Please, G.o.d.

"Worn-out?" Sweet Mike, prodding for answers and then trying to throw her a conversational lifeline.

She shook her head. I'm not sure I even want this crazy, wonderful gypsy life anymore, she thought to herself. And if I'm not Casey Elder, country-music hotshot, then who am I?

This was an ident.i.ty crisis.

"I miss Clare and Shane, and Walker, of course," she replied. That was purest truth, but it wasn't the whole truth. Not that she owed an explanation to Mike or anybody else. Would have been nice to understand it herself, though. "It's been great, spending so much time together. Not being on the road, rushing from place to place, setting up gear and taking it down again."

As if she'd set up or taken down equipment since the earliest days of her career, but still.

Mike ducked his s.h.a.ggy head slightly and looked at her even more closely than before. "Really? You really don't miss the road? Because I've been climbing the walls-itching to hit the concert circuit and soak up some bright lights and unbridled adoration."

Casey chuckled, but deep down, she felt an ache of guilt. She couldn't expect Mike or the others in the group to cool their vocational heels indefinitely, waiting for her to take up where she'd left off. They were talented musicians-some of the best in the business-and they were still in the prime of their lives, working and otherwise.

They had plans and dreams of their own, naturally, and even though money wasn't an issue for any of them, the occasional recording and video session at her house in Parable, Montana, wasn't going to be enough to satisfy their creative drive, not forever, anyhow.

"You getting restless, Mike?" she asked finally.

Beyond the tinted windows of the limo, palm trees and looping tangles of freeway zipped by. Cars were everywhere, taking people somewhere else, always somewhere else. Why wasn't it okay to just be in one place, even for a little while?

Mike took her hand and patted the back of it. "It's not that," he said. "I just miss the music we made together. So do the other guys."

"Me, too," she said. "Sometimes."

Mike smiled. "And other times?"

"Other times, I just want to learn to cook comfort food, ride horses and sit in the porch swing, watching that big Montana sky change. The kids are growing up so fast it makes my head spin-I can't stop thinking about the way time slips by." She paused for a deep, slow breath, knowing her talk of home and family probably sounded pretty prosaic to Mike, a man used to traveling in the fast lane, always at full throttle. "I like my life." And I love Walker Parrish, even if I am scared to tell him so.

"Okay," Mike said, musing, gazing out the car window now.

Clearly the conversation was over, for the time being at least, and if nothing had been settled, well, Casey was getting used to that. She'd always been so certain, so focused. Now, she was totally uncertain.

Clare was still angry and confused, and Shane, though he put a good face on things, surely had some issues of his own.

And then there was Walker, the man she loved. The man she'd basically cheated out of his son's and daughter's childhoods. At times, she could almost believe that Walker cared for her, cared deeply, especially when they made love. Other times, like now, she wondered if he'd ever be able to forgive her completely, as hard as he might try.

Battling despair, she settled deeper into the cushy seat of that limo and silently reminded herself that, problems or no problems, the Casey Elder show must go on. She knew all her lines, and why wouldn't she? She'd had years of practice, built herself a successful persona. But was there a real person behind the polished image?

Hard to say.

BRYLEE COULDN'T HELP with the kids while Casey was away because she had her annual "motivational retreat" scheduled for that week, and several hundred of her salespeople would be converging on the campgrounds near her company headquarters to stay in cabins, sit around campfires, receive awards and be inundated with workshops and speeches.

She was taking Snidely with her, and she'd invited Clare to go along, but it seemed to Walker that the girl had developed mildly antisocial tendencies since Casey's departure for L.A. She mostly hid out in her room, where, according to Shane Parrish, Master Spy, she kept company with her cats, changed the polish on her fingernails and toes roughly every ten minutes, read books, surfed the internet and picked out mournful ballads on an old guitar.

Once or twice, Walker got as far as her closed door, fist raised to knock companionably, but each time, something had stopped him. She'd been singing, and her voice was so like Casey's that it haunted him, as did the few lyrics he could make out. The theme was clear enough, though-loneliness, deception, betrayal.

Was this regulation teen angst, Walker wondered helplessly, or genuine sorrow?

Back in the day, when he'd been the guy who came to dinner now and then, he'd have known how to reach Clare. Ironically, now that he'd a.s.sumed the role of father, he didn't seem to have a clue.

No, what he had, apparently, was a gift for saying the wrong thing.

Relating to Shane was easier, since they had more in common, both being male for starters. They shared a love of horses and wide-open s.p.a.ces and rodeo, too, and their outlooks and basic thought processes were remarkably similar. Though the boy did show flashes of resentment now and then, he also tried hard to make the best of whatever came his way.

The same could not be said of Clare, though, and it worried Walker, not just because her att.i.tude hurt Casey, but because she seemed to be drifting away from all of them, becoming someone else, closing the book on their efforts to forge the framework of a family.

Life went on, though, and there were ch.o.r.es to be done, meals to be cooked and eaten, plans to be made, with the rodeo coming up so soon. Walker put one foot in front of the other, mostly, missing Casey with an ache that ground inside him 24/7.

"I forgot to ask Mom if I could enter the rodeo," Shane said on the third night Casey had been gone, after they'd eaten supper and done the dishes. The two of them were alone in the kitchen, except for the dogs; Clare had eaten a few bites and helped clear the table after the meal, but she hadn't said more than two words the whole time, and she'd retreated to her room at the first opportunity.

Walker refrained from pointing out that the boy had had plenty of chances to make his pitch, since Casey called regularly and texted even more often than she dialed the home number.

"So text her," he said.

"She's rehearsing," Shane reminded him. "And then she's having dinner with a bunch of VIPs. The vice president is going to be there."

Walker knew all that-he'd spoken often with Casey, though always briefly and in a sort of awkward, out-of-step way. "She'll read the text and answer when she gets a chance," he told his son. "As she always does."

Shane rolled his eyes. "She'll say no," he said. "Without even thinking about it. Because that's what she does when she's busy, which is all the time. She just says no and goes right on doing whatever she's doing."

"That being the reason you haven't asked her," Walker observed mildly.

"All I want to do is enter one stupid rodeo event," Shane persisted. "What's the big, huge, hairy deal?"

Walker, sitting at the table now, with one last cup of coffee going cold in front of him, stifled a smile. "Which 'stupid event' do you have in mind?" he asked, in his own good time.

Shane's whole face lit up. "Bareback riding," he answered. "Broncs."

Oh, h.e.l.l, Walker thought. He knew what bucking horses could do, because he bred them to do it. "That's a rugged game," he said. "Even in the junior category."

"They're all rugged," Shane argued spiritedly. "That's the whole point. It's rodeo."

"Have you ever been bucked off a horse?" Walker asked calmly.

Color flared in the boy's earnest face. Tanned and freckled from all the time he'd been spending outdoors, helping Walker and the hands with ranch work, he was beginning to look more like a real, rough-and-tumble country kid than the sheltered son of a famous singer. Casey had done a good job raising him, and his sister, too, despite the present rocky road they were all traveling, but she wasn't big on letting either one of her children take chances.

It went without saying that taking foolish ones, like hitchhiking or messing with drugs or alcohol, would never lead to anything but trouble and heartache. But calculated risks? That was another thing, an important part of growing up and learning to hold your own in a tough world.

"Did you enter the junior rodeo when you were a kid?" Shane wanted to know.

He'd make a d.a.m.n good lawyer, Walker thought, or even a politician, though he sincerely hoped the boy wouldn't take that route. Most politicians ranked pretty low on Walker's list.

"Yes," Walker replied wearily. "But I'd ridden horses all my life, Shane, and my dad believed a few hard knocks were good for a person." My mother, on the other hand, far from being overprotective like yours, just didn't give a d.a.m.n what I did, one way or the other.

"How am I supposed to grow up to be just like you if you won't let me do anything?" Shane pressed.

Walker, ridiculously pleased that the boy even wanted to be like him, now or at any time in the future, thought the kid had a point. Risk was part of life, and not much could be accomplished without it.

"Here's the deal," he said at some length. "I'll ask your mother if you can ride in the rodeo-do my best to talk her into it, too-but if she says no, then no it is. Agreed?"

Shane put out his hand to shake on the agreement, beaming again. "Agreed," he said.

Obviously, the boy had more faith in his dad's influence over Casey than history justified, but there was no harm in trying.

Shane took the dogs outside, Doolittle included, waited while they did what dogs do outside and then merrily retreated to his room to play video games on his computer, his feet barely touching the floor as he walked out of the kitchen, trailed by a trio of loyal canines.

Doolittle stayed behind, resting his muzzle on Walker's knee and gazing soulfully up into his eyes.

Walker laughed and patted the mutt's head. "You're a good old dog," he said.

He sat there a while, wondering if he'd be interrupting something important if he called Casey on her cell, then took the advice he'd given Shane and texted her instead. Call me when you get a chance, he wrote. Nothing to worry about on this end, but I've got a question to ask.

Five minutes later, his phone rang, and he felt a little leap of antic.i.p.ation when he saw Casey's number in the caller ID panel.

"Hey," she said, sounding shy and slightly breathless.

"Hey," he said back.

"So what's the question?" she prompted after waiting a few beats.

When are you coming home? was certainly a contender, and so was Do teenage girls speak a language all their own and, if so, can you clue me in on some of the basic vocabulary?

Walker cleared his throat. Best stick to the point. "Shane wants to enter the rodeo."

"No way," Casey said immediately.

"Not the regular rodeo-the one for kids."

A silence.

"Are you still there?" Walker prodded.

"Riding sheep or something like that?" Casey asked. He could practically feel the wheels and gears turning in her head.

"Not exactly."

"Then, what?"

"Bronc busting," Walker said, feeling much as he had as a kid, when the river froze over and he took the first, cautious step onto the ice, hoping it would hold his weight.

"Bronc busting?" Casey echoed. "Not just no, but h.e.l.l, no."

"Casey, this isn't bull riding at the National Finals. It's kid rodeo, in Parable, Montana. I provide the horses myself and, trust me, the ones for the junior events are not the kind you're probably picturing right now."

"Shane is thirteen," Casey reminded him. "The only time he's done any horseback riding at all was when he visited you on the ranch. Walker, he could get killed."

"Or he could just get a mouthful of dirt, feel real good because he tried and be ready the next time he faces a challenge."

"You want to let him ride," Casey accused. She might have used the same tone to say, You told him to jump off a bridge.

"Yes," Walker said. "He's good on a horse, Case-a natural."

He didn't need to see her face to know she was biting her lower lip, torn between the knowledge that Walker was right about Shane's abilities and the rigors of growing up and a natural desire to protect her child from unnecessary dangers.

"I'm his mother," Casey said, rhetorically, of course. "It's my job to make sure my son doesn't break his neck in some rodeo arena."

"And I'm his father," Walker pointed out quietly. "So he's our son."

"Is this some kind of macho thing?" Casey asked after another silence. "Is it some rite of pa.s.sage?"

Walker chuckled. "Neither," he said. "Shane doesn't have to prove himself to me or anybody else, Casey, but he wants this. A lot."