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The rain had rejuvenated more than just the land and its watercourses. With the long dry spell behind them, men walked with more spring to their step. The smell of winter was in the air, but no one minded now that the land was healthy and strong again.
For once, the road ahead looked smooth. An easy contentment was in the air. With the roundup over, autumn’s last chore was underway—the trailing of the horse remuda to its winter range.
Minutes after the flanking riders succeeded in getting the herd lined out and moving in the right direction, a helicopter swooped toward the airport’s landing pad, and all hell broke loose. Every man on the drive cursed the culprit by name as they raced after the spooked horses.
Not long after the helicopter landed, the front door opened and Tara swept into The Homestead, a sable coat flaring ab
out her legs. Anticipating her arrival, Cat was already on hand to greet her.
“This is a surprise, Tara. You rarely come to Montana at this time of year. What’s the occasion?” Cat wondered.
“Obviously it’s a special one,” Tara stated as she tugged off her gloves, one finger at a time, and regarded Cat with a glance dark with rebuke.
“Why? What have I done?” Cat said in all innocence.
“It’s what you didn’t do, and you know it.” Gloves in hand and head held high in offended dignity, Tara sailed past her into the living room. “I probably shouldn’t even be speaking to you.”
With a roll of her eyes and a despairing shake of her head, Cat followed after her. “Please spare me the theatrics, Tara. I swear you get more dramatic with each passing year,” she said with impatience. “Just tell me what it is that I am supposed to have done.”
“It’s what you didn’t do,” Tara corrected as she slipped off the sable, depositing it on the sofa with a graceful toss. “Honestly, Cat, you are the nearest thing I have to a little sister. But do I hear from you that Trey’s bride is carrying Ty’s first grandchild? No. Who knows when I would have been told if I hadn’t stopped to see Laura on my way back from Europe?”
“Wonderful news, isn’t it?” Cat deliberately refrained from offering any excuses for not contacting Tara.
“The best. And it’s going to be a boy, too. Just imagine a little Ty Junior running around here.”
“This old house is liable to become a lively place in the next few years,” Cat agreed.
“Where is the little mother?” Tara’s gaze made a curious circle of the living room and its exits.
“Upstairs, I think.”
Tara pressed a hand near her throat and made an attractive moue of sympathy. “Morning sickness, of course. The poor thing.”
“Actually, Sloan’s one of the lucky ones. She hasn’t had a single bout of nausea. About the only thing that makes her queasy is the smell of coffee.”
“Speaking of coffee, I’d love a cup.” Pausing, Tara looked toward the staircase. “But first I should go up and congratulate our mother-to-be. You go ahead and make some fresh coffee. I won’t be long.”
“My pleasure.”
The underlying tone of sarcasm in Cat’s voice was lost on Tara as she crossed to the oak stairway and began her ascent, one hand maintaining a graceful glide over the smooth banister.
When she arrived at the master suite, she rapped lightly on the door and turned its brass knob in advance of the voice within bidding her to enter. By then, Tara was halfway into the sitting room. Her eyes were quick to locate Sloan, seated on the edge of the sofa cushion, a multitude of photographs spread across the coffee table in front of her.
Rising, Sloan greeted her with a polite smile. “Hello, Tara. I thought I heard a helicopter a few minutes ago. Obviously it was you.”
“I flew in as soon as I heard the blessed news.” She walked straight to Sloan and kissed the air near both cheeks, then drew back to run a critically assessing eye over Sloan’s figure, finding only a small, betraying pooch of her stomach. “Look at how slim and trim you still are,” she marveled. “Why you barely show at all.”
“Not yet, anyway,” Sloan admitted.
“Losing your figure is just one of the curses that goes along with having a baby, I’m told.” Tara’s attention shifted pointedly to the array of photographs on the coffee table, a mix of broad vistas and artful nature vignettes. “What’s this?”
“Excuse the mess. I’m in the middle of updating my portfolio.”
A small laugh slipped from Tara, bell-like in its softness. “Here I thought you’d be engrossed in planning the nursery. So which of the spare rooms will you be using? You need to do a western decor. I saw the most darling mobile for the crib with cowboys on purple and green horses. It was absolutely precious and just perfect for a little boy. You can use that idea and do the entire room with variations on it.”
“We aren’t going to have a separate nursery, at least not until he’s older,” Sloan informed the older woman. “We’re going to have the crib in our bedroom.”
“Really.” Disdain was in Tara’s voice and expression.
