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Big Sky Country
Linda Lael Miller
No one writes Western romance better than #1 New York Times bestselling author Linda Lael Miller!Let her take you to the town of Parable, Montana…The illegitimate son of a wealthy rancher, Sheriff Slade Barlow grew up in a trailer hitched to the Curly-Burly hair salon his mother runs. He was never acknowledged by his father…until now. Suddenly, Slade has inherited half of Whisper Creek Ranch, one of the most prosperous in Parable County. That doesn't sit well with his half brother, Hutch, who grew up with all the rights of a Carmody, including the affections of Joslyn Kirk, homecoming queen, rodeo queen, beauty queen–and the girl Slade's never forgotten.But Joslyn has come home to Parable under difficult circumstances. Resented by many of the townspeople cheated by her crooked stepfather, she's trying to rebuild her life and repay everyone who lost money because of his schemes. With a town to protect, plus a rebellious teenage stepdaughter, Slade already has his hands full. But someone has to convince Joslyn that she's responsible only for her own actions–and that someone is Sheriff Barlow!
No one writes Western romance better than #1 New York Times bestselling author Linda Lael Miller!
Let her take you to the town of Parable, Montana…
The illegitimate son of a wealthy rancher, Sheriff Slade Barlow grew up in a trailer hitched to the Curly-Burly hair salon his mother runs. He was never acknowledged by his father…until now. Suddenly, Slade has inherited half of Whisper Creek Ranch, one of the most prosperous in Parable County. That doesn’t sit well with his half brother, Hutch, who grew up with all the rights of a Carmody, including the affections of Joslyn Kirk, homecoming queen, rodeo queen, beauty queen—and the girl Slade’s never forgotten.
But Joslyn has come home to Parable under difficult circumstances. Resented by many of the townspeople cheated by her crooked stepfather, she’s trying to rebuild her life and repay everyone who lost money because of his schemes. With a town to protect, plus a rebellious teenage stepdaughter, Slade already has his hands full. But someone has to convince Joslyn that she’s responsible only for her own actions—and that someone is Sheriff Barlow!
Praise for #1 New York Times bestselling author (#u2ed6b015-80f9-5c3a-9e5f-6d99827029b3)
LINDA LAEL MILLER (#u2ed6b015-80f9-5c3a-9e5f-6d99827029b3)
“Miller tugs at the heartstrings as few authors can.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Fans of Linda Lael Miller will fall in love with The Marriage Pact and without a doubt be waiting for the next installments, which will feature Hadleigh’s friends.… [Miller’s] ranch-based westerns have always entertained and stay with me long after reading them.”
—Idaho Statesman
“All three titles should appeal to readers who like their contemporary romances Western, slightly dangerous and graced with enlightened (more or less) bad-boy heroes.”
—Library Journal on the Montana Creeds series
“Miller enthralls, once again, in the second entry of her new McKettrick Men series (following McKettrick’s Luck), an engrossing, contemporary western romance… Miller’s masterful ability to create living, breathing characters never flags, even in the case of Echo’s dog, Avalon; combined with a taut story line and vivid prose, Miller’s romance won’t disappoint.”
—Publishers Weekly on McKettrick’s Pride (starred review)
“Miller has found a perfect niche with charming western romances and cowboys who will set readers hearts aflutter. Funny and heartwarming, The Marriage Pact will intrigue readers by the first few pages. Unforgettable characters with endless spunk and desire make this a must-read.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Miller treads familiar ground with her detailing of close-knit small town life, developed characters, sweet romance, and a hint of cowboy excitement.”
—Publishers Weekly on The Marriage Pact
“[Miller] is one of the finest American writers in the genre.”
—RT Book Reviews
Big Sky Country
Linda Lael
Miller
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Dear Reader (#u2ed6b015-80f9-5c3a-9e5f-6d99827029b3),
I can’t think of a more spectacular backdrop for a romance—or a wedding—than the Big Sky country, with its snow-laced mountains, jewel-clear lakes, its shimmering cottonwoods and ancient pines, its vast, grass-rippled prairies, and, of course, that legendary sky. To me, Montana is one of the most beautiful places on earth, part of the landscape of my soul, and writing about the place is always a pleasure.
For all its stunning scenery, though, the best thing about this loveliest of states is its people. They are straightforward—kind and cordial to friends and strangers alike, capable of hard work under the most difficult circumstances. In short, most of them still exhibit the pioneer spirit.
Several years ago, I went on a cattle drive in Montana, the kind of trip where you sleep in tents (okay, to real cowboys and cowgirls, tents represent luxury), ride after cattle all day and enjoy a cook wagon supper by a blazing campfire come evening. The stories told around that fire were funny, poignant and downright fascinating. My favorite involved a recent dude who’d brought his pillow out with him one morning and asked if somebody would mind strapping it to his saddle. Naturally, the wranglers got a major kick out of that, and so did the rest of us.
One day, we watched in sheer admiration while several cowboys and their horses rescued a cow who’d managed to get herself good and stuck in a cattle guard. She’d fallen between the wooden slats and she was bawling something fierce. I was horrified, figuring she’d have to be shot, since she must surely have broken at least one leg, but I’ll never forget watching real cowboys and very skilled horses in action. Using ropes and a strategically placed slab of wood, in a cooperative effort of man and horse that resembled a graceful dance, they managed to get that critter out of the hole and onto flat ground—unhurt, thank heaven. She ran to rejoin the herd, bellowing like crazy and wheeling her tail, and the rest of us greenhorns cheered. The cowboys calmly rewound their ropes, gave their horses an appreciative pat on the neck, then tipped their hats to us and rode off. After all, they had work to do.
Those are the kinds of experiences and memories that I brought to my Parable series. I hope that this story will leave you wanting to visit Montana (if you don’t live there, of course!) or revisit in the near future. You won’t be sorry.
If you’re from Montana, or if you do go there, check out my website, lindalaelmiller.com (http://lindalaelmiller.com), to tell me about your time in the Big Sky state!
With love,
In loving memory of my beloved beagle, Sadie.
I’m grateful for every moment of the 11 years we shared.
Contents
Cover (#u6cdb03ea-7d1c-54a7-876c-b3be3f2ef4b7)
Back Cover Text (#u4bcd2b3a-4760-54bb-872c-beaf5b2a2e4d)
Praise
Title Page (#ufad80437-055f-58b7-969f-8b995b3743a7)
Dear Reader
Dedication (#ub4e0e4e3-adb6-59d8-a889-c1d4bc1d670c)
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
An Interview with Linda Lael Miller
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#u2ed6b015-80f9-5c3a-9e5f-6d99827029b3)
Parable, Montana
“YOU WEREN’T AT THE funeral,” Slade Barlow’s half brother, Hutch Carmody, accused, the words rasping against the underside of a long, slow exhale.
Slade didn’t look at Hutch, though he could still see him out of the corner of one eye. The both of them were sitting side by side in a pair of uncomfortable chairs, facing what seemed like an acre of desk. Maggie Landers, their father’s lawyer, who had summoned them there, had yet to put in an appearance.
“I went to the graveside service,” Slade replied evenly, and after a considerable length. It was the truth, though he’d stood at some distance from the crowd, not wanting to be numbered among the admitted mourners but unable to stay away entirely.
“Why bother at all?” Hutch challenged. “Unless you just wanted to make sure the old man was really in the box?”
Slade was not a quick-tempered man—by nature, he tended to think before he spoke and offer whatever response he might make with quiet deliberation, traits that had served him well over the several years since he’d been elected sheriff—but the edge in his half brother’s tone brought heat surging up his neck to pound behind his ears.
“Maybe that was it,” he drawled with quiet contempt as the office door whispered open behind them.
Hutch, who had just shoved back his chair as if to leap to his feet, ready to fight, thrust a hand hard through his shock of brownish-blond hair instead, probably to discharge that rush of adrenaline, and stayed put. He all but buzzed, like an electric fence line short-circuiting in a thunderstorm.
Slade, though still confounded by his own invitation to this particular shindig, took a certain grim satisfaction in Hutch’s reaction. There was, as the old saying went, no love lost between the two of them.
“Good to see you haven’t killed each other,” Maggie observed brightly, rounding the shining expanse of the desk to take the leather chair behind it. Still gorgeous at fifty-plus, with short, expertly dyed brown hair and round green eyes, usually alight with mischievous intelligence, the lawyer turned slightly to boot up her computer.
“Not just yet, anyhow,” Hutch replied finally.
Maggie’s profile was all he could see of her, but Slade registered the slight smile that tilted up one corner of her mouth. Her fingers, perfectly manicured every Saturday morning at his mother’s beauty shop for the last quarter of a century, flicked busily over the keyboard, and the monitor threw a wash of pale blue light onto her face and the lightweight jacket of her custom-made off-white pantsuit.
“How’s your mother, Slade?” she asked mildly without glancing his way.
Maggie and his mom, Callie, were around the same age, and they’d been friends for as long as Slade could remember. Given that he’d run into Maggie at his mom’s Curly-Burly Hair Salon just the day before, where she’d been having a trim and a touch-up, he figured the question was a rhetorical one, a sort of conversational filler.
“She’s fine,” Slade said. By then, he’d gotten over the urge to commit fratricide and gone back to mulling the thing that had been bothering him ever since the formidable Ms. Landers had called him at home that morning and asked him to stop by her office on his way to work.
The meeting had to be about the old man’s last will and testament, though Maggie hadn’t said so over the phone. All she’d been willing to give up was, “This won’t take long, Slade, and believe me, it’s in your best interests to be there.”
Hutch’s presence made sense, since he was the legitimate son, the golden boy, groomed since birth to become the master of all he surveyed even as, motherless from the age of twelve, he ran wild. Slade himself, on the other hand, was the outsider—born on the proverbial wrong side of the blanket.
John Carmody had never once acknowledged him, in all Slade’s thirty-five years of life, and it wasn’t likely that he’d had a deathbed change of heart and altered his will to include the product of his long-ago affair with Callie.
No, Slade thought, Carmody hadn’t had a heart, not where he and his mother were concerned, anyway. He’d never so much as spoken to Slade in all those years; looked right through him, when they did come into contact, as if he was invisible. If that stiff-necked son of a bitch had instructed Maggie to make sure Slade was there for the reading of the will, it was probably so he’d know what he was missing out on, when all that land and money went to Hutch.
You can stick it all where the sun never shines, old man, Slade thought angrily. He’d never expected—or wanted—to inherit a damn thing from John Carmody—bad enough that he’d gotten the bastard’s looks, his dark hair, lean and muscular build, and blue eyes—and it galled him that Maggie, his mother’s friend, would be a party to wasting his time like this.
Maggie clicked the mouse, and her printer began spewing sheets of paper as she turned to face Hutch and Slade head-on.
“I’ll spare you all the legal jargon,” she said, gathering the papers from the printer tray, separating them into two piles and shoving these across the top of her desk, one set for each of them. “All the facts are there—you can read the wills over at your leisure.”
Slade barely glanced at the documents and made no move to pick them up.
“And what facts are those?” Hutch snapped, peevish.
Pecker-head, Slade thought.
Maggie interlaced her fingers and smiled benignly. It took more than a smart-ass cowboy to get under her hide. “The estate is to be divided equally between the two of you,” she announced.
Stunned, Slade simply sat there, as breathless as if he’d just taken a sucker punch to the gut. A single thought hummed in his head, like a trapped moth trying to find a way out.
What the hell?
Hutch, no doubt just as shocked as Slade was, if not more so, leaned forward and growled, “What did you say?”
“You heard me the first time, Hutch,” Maggie said, unruffled. She might have looked like a gracefully aging pixie, but she regularly chewed up the best prosecutors in the state and spit them out like husks of sunflower seeds.
Slade said nothing. He was still trying to process the news.
“Bullshit,” Hutch muttered. “This is bullshit.”
Maggie sighed. “Nevertheless,” she said, “it’s what Mr. Carmody wanted. He was my client, and it’s my job to see that his final wishes are honored to the letter. After all, Whisper Creek belonged to him, and he had every right to dispose of his estate however he saw fit.”
Slade finally recovered enough equanimity to speak, though his voice came out sounding hoarse. “What if I told you I didn’t want anything?” he demanded.
