My Montana Home

Cassie gazed at the flowers that had been laid fresh on her mother’s grave. Daisies and violets with a few sprigs of sweet william. They had been Helen’s favorites. She’d always liked to say that the Maxwells had gotten too far above themselves, with their taste for roses and orchids. She would stick with the simple blooms…violets and daisies. It seemed that her husband, Robert Maxwell Sr., had not forgotten.

“Sometimes,” Cassie said in a low voice, “he can really get to you.”

“Talking about me behind my back?” came Robert’s gruff tone.

Cassie gave a start. Robert Sr. had appeared at her elbow, young Zak in tow. That would teach her not to get lost in her own thoughts.

“Hello, Dad,” Jolie said, apparently unperturbed. “Now and then we do admire your better nature.”

“Surprised you even think I have one,” Robert grumbled. “I know Cassandra doubts it.”

Cassie was starting to get that claustrophobic feeling, the one she got around her family.

“Dad, this is hardly the place for Zak,” she muttered. She took her son’s hand. “We’re going back to the ranch—”

“Running away,” Robert said disapprovingly. “Just as always, Cassandra. And this is a fine place for my grandson.” He took Zak’s other hand. The little boy went willingly with him, slipping away from Cassie. “It’s too bad,” Robert said to Zak, “that you never knew your grandma. She would have thought you were the best thing since glazed doughnuts.”

“Doughnuts,” Zak echoed with a quick, shy grin. “Really?”

Something twisted inside Cassie—a love for her son so boundless that it hurt. But there were other, less admirable emotions, too: jealousy and resentment. Worry that she could all too easily lose Zak to her father’s power and charm. Sadness at the fact that her father had never lavished on her the love and approval he gave to Zak. She glanced back at the gate, automatically judging the distance of her escape. A few strides, and she could be out of here, away from everything. Away from her father…

But then she saw Bobby. Her brother had stepped just inside the gate. He, too, was watching Robert and Zak. The expression on his face was shuttered, as if he was doing everything he could not to feel—not to care. Cassie could guess what he was thinking. Once upon a time, he had been the much-indulged Maxwell heir. In their father’s eyes, he had been unable to do any wrong. All expectations had been high. Until, of course, Bobby had started rebelling against the expectations. After that, his fall from grace had been swift, indeed.

Now Cassie gazed at her brother, and could imagine his own jealousy and pain. Robert Sr. had a new heir in whom to place his hopes, it seemed: William Zachary Warren, a Maxwell in everything but name…

“Zak,” Cassie said more sharply than she’d intended. “Come along. We’re leaving.”

“I don’t want to go,” Zak answered solemnly.

That earned him a glimmer of a smile from Robert. Cassie’s fingers clenched again.

“We’re not going back to the ranch, after all,” she said as calmly as possible. “We’ll head straight back to Billings.”

“I thought you were going to stay all day,” Thea said, drawing her eyebrows together. “I’ve planned a big family dinner for us.”

“That’s wonderful of you, but—”

“I was counting on it myself,” Jolie said. “Seems like we never get the chance to be together.”

“Next time,” Cassie said in a light tone. “We’ll plan on it then.”

“You’re always telling me that,” Thea said, the slightest hint of exasperation in her voice. “We’ll plan on it…we’ll do it later. Dad’s right, Cassie. You’re always running away. But I wish you wouldn’t anymore. I want…I’d like it if we could be a real family for once.”

Cassie stared at her younger sister. “A real family,” she echoed, not as steadily as she would have liked. “Oh, we’re that, all right. We have all the requirements—wounds that won’t heal, pain that won’t be forgiven…”

Thea gazed back, her own expression tight. “Are you implying, Cassie, that I haven’t forgiven?”

“You’d have every right to be angry at me still. Because you’re right, aren’t you? I did run away all those years ago. I left you with…with everything.” Cassie made a wide gesture. Only then did she collect herself, stopping before she could say too much. Her son was glancing with far too much interest from one sister to the other.

“Come on, Zak,” she said, holding out her hand.

“Wait,” said Jolie. “Just stay, Cassie. We need time together—all of us. Isn’t that true, Dad?”

He didn’t say anything, just stood there holding Zak’s hand and regarding Cassie with a look of disapproval. And that was when she knew she could not possibly stay—not for another minute. Not for another second.

“Zak, come here. We’re leaving.”

“I don’t want to go. I want to be with Grandpa.” And her young son burst into tears.

Robert shook his head, still gazing at Cassie with that look of utter disappointment. Now she felt truly desperate. Maybe she was a terrible mother, but she couldn’t seem to help what she did next. She grabbed her son’s hand and hurried him away from his grandfather. Zak cried the entire time.

She felt like crying, too.

IT HAD TAKEN less than twenty-four hours for Andrew Morris to become completely fed up with the splint on his right hand. The thing made even the most rudimentary of activities damn near impossible, so that tying a shoelace, starting the car, even eating a submarine sandwich became near feats of heroism. It also seemed to fascinate everyone who saw it. Andrew couldn’t count the number of times he’d been compelled to explain the tree-house incident—until, finally, he’d had enough of the sly winks and knowing nods he’d receive when the “redhead falling from a tree” reference was revealed.

So it was with absolute calm and resolve that he untaped the blasted splint and tossed it into the garbage. So what if his finger still hurt like blazes. He was through being a spectacle. Without the splint, running his new table saw was a glorious experience. It had been nearly twelve years since Andrew had had time to work with his hands. After finding that Hannah’s lawyer had unexpectedly been called out of town for most of the next week, Andrew had done some serious soul-searching about what to do with the hole in his schedule. Of course, he could fly back to Dallas to catch up on the Connell casework. But somehow, jumping back into his workaday grind hadn’t seemed so compelling. What had seemed compelling was the cupped and twisted decking on his grandmother’s back porch. Couldn’t let that go untended, if he wanted to help the resale value of the house.

Sunday afternoon, then, and he was having a fine time chalking lines and surveying and measuring those water-damaged boards. Time stretched out in front of him. The shadows of the past had receded, even here in Montana. He felt the late-summer sun warm on his back as he knelt on the porch.

The sound of a car turning into the driveway disturbed his reverie about wood screws and planking. He looked up, surprised to see Cassie Warren’s little hatchback. She climbed from the driver’s seat, and her son bolted out the passenger side. He was dashing away from her when she called his name in a warning tone.

“Zak!”

He skidded to a halt. She went over and talked to him in a low, intent voice. Mother and son faced each other. Both had their arms crossed, and both wore stubborn expressions. After a moment, the kid gave a shrug, followed by a reluctant nod. He whirled and sprinted to the oak at the back of the yard. In a matter of seconds he’d clambered up the now-replaced rope ladder and disappeared into the tree house.

Cassie shook her head wearily. Head bowed, she walked toward the guest house. But then she happened to glance up, and saw Andrew. She stiffened, the look on her face revealing that she’d much rather avoid him. He couldn’t say he liked having that effect on a woman.

After a moment she came toward him. “Hello,” she said too politely.

“Hello.”

She studied his right hand. “Amazing,” she commented. “Your finger healed overnight. Why, you don’t even need that splint anymore.”

The sarcasm wasn’t lost on him. “Miracles do happen,” he said agreeably. He sat back and took a long, enjoyable look at her. She was wearing a sleeveless blouse, a skirt that swirled pleasingly around her legs and sandals that showed she’d painted her toenails a bright cherry red. Her toes made him smile.

She crossed her arms and gave him a severe look in return. “I really wish you wouldn’t do that,” she said.

“Do what?” he asked.

She flushed. “Check me out,” she said. “You seem to be…considering possibilities.”

He thought about the kiss they’d started last night. That was what it had been—the merest of beginnings. Too bad he’d be in Montana only another week or so…

Once again the flush was making her freckles stand out in a very alluring manner. “Andrew,” she said in a repressive tone, glancing toward the tree house at the end of the yard.

“He can’t hear us from all the way up there,” Andrew said helpfully.

“Nonetheless…” She took a step away, as if about to leave. He didn’t want her to go. But something told him he shouldn’t feel this way. Something told him to put some distance between them, as he always did with women.

“Didn’t expect you back so soon,” he said, straightening.

Her face got a closed look. “Let’s just say that things didn’t go as expected with my family.” She stopped, as if thinking over her statement. “Actually, things did go as expected—only more so.”

“Sounds mysterious,” he commented.

“Oh, there’s nothing mysterious about the almighty Maxwells,” she said a bit grimly. “They have a long history of thinking they own the world, and everything in it.”

“Interesting,” he said. “You talk about them as if you don’t belong to them at all, as if you’re not a Maxwell yourself.”

She looked disconcerted, but then recovered. “I suppose that’s one of the hazards of being a lawyer,” she said dryly. “You pick up on the subtleties other people miss. Well, I’ll let you get on with whatever you’re doing.”

He definitely didn’t want her to go.

“Those are some pretty comfortable deck chairs over there,” he said. “And I’ll even make you some of my grandmother’s famous lemonade.”

She almost smiled at that. “Right. You’ll open a can of the frozen stuff, add some water and stir. Hannah always made her cookies from scratch, but not her lemonade.”

“So, are you game?”

She hesitated, glancing once again toward the tree house.

“Who knows,” Andrew said, “maybe some lemonade will lure him down.”

That seemed to do the trick. “All right,” she said. “I’ll stay…for a little while.”

A little while was fine.

CHAPTER FIVE

THE LEMONADE WAS COLD and tart. Cassie cradled her glass in both hands, telling herself she’d already spent enough time here on the porch with Andrew. Five minutes, to be exact. She glanced at her watch again.

“Relax,” said Andrew.

Relax…that was the one thing she didn’t seem able to do. Not with her family, not with her job, not with her son—and certainly not with Andrew Morris.

All she had to do was look at him to find her heart rate quickening, her skin heating up. If being calm was her goal, she’d chosen the wrong company. But that didn’t stop her from looking. He sat in the chair across from her, legs stretched out casually, the Montana breeze once again playing with his thick dark hair. Faded jeans suited him. So did his Texas Rangers T-shirt.