Free Big Sky Wedding by Linda Lael Miller

dog’s ribs show,” she said lamely, after too many moments had passed. “Anyone would think—”
    “He’d been going hungry for a while,” Zane finished, when her words fell away in midstream. “As it happens, he wound up in a good shelter in L.A. just a few days before I adopted him. I’ve been giving old Slim as much kibble as he can handle, Ms. Parrish, but it’s a slow process, requiring patience and understanding.”
    Brylee longed to melt into a puddle, like the Wicked Witch of the West in The Wizard of Oz. She wanted to say she was sorry, too, that she’d jumped to conclusions, but her throat had constricted like the top of a drawstring bag, pulled tight.
    Damn her Parrish pride, anyway. It would be her downfall for sure.
    Idly, Zane stepped back, collected his shirt from a nearby fence post and shrugged into it.
    For Brylee, this was both a relief and a crying shame. All that spectacular man-muscle, covered up, hidden from view. Thank heaven. Or darn it. Whichever.
    He turned his attention to Snidely then, bending to favor the dog with a few pats on the head and a grin that left no doubt of his love for four-legged furry people.
    On that score, at least, Brylee had misjudged Zane Sutton, no doubt about it, but she still couldn’t bring herself to apologize. It wasn’t just her pride, either—she had a vague and very disturbing sense that she’d be opening a door to a whole slew of unpredictable developments if she dared let down her guard, even for a moment.
    “Come inside,” he finally said. “I can’t offer you iced tea or a mint julep, but we do have sodas and ice, and I could probably rustle up some coffee, if you’d rather have that.”
    Oddly, it never occurred to Brylee to refuse the invitation. She simply followed Zane toward the house, shamelessly enjoying the rear view, while Snidely trotted along at her side, oblivious to the fact that the planet had just shifted off its axis and Ecuador could suddenly become the new north pole at any given moment.
    By then, the boy, Nash, was in the kitchen, trying to look busy. He’d pulled on a T-shirt, and Slim, the slat-ribbed dog, was crunching away on a recently replenished supply of kibble.
    Brylee looked around, remembering, and remembering eased some of her tension, made her smile.
    Her friend Karrie’s mom, Donna, had taught both her daughter and Brylee to cook in this kitchen, imparted simple sewing skills, listened benevolently to the ceaseless girl-chatter about boys and cheerleading tryouts and prom dresses, driven them to and from school events and the movies.
    “You’ve been here before,” Zane observed quietly, watching her.
    His words startled Brylee out of her reverie. “Yes,” she said. “My best friend, Karrie, used to live in this house.” There was so much more to the story, of course—Donna, recognizing Brylee as what she was, basically a motherless child, had made room for her in this house, and in her heart. The Jacksons had been her second family.
    Nash and Slim were both staring at Brylee now. Did she have something in her teeth? Stuck to the heel of her shoe?
    Zane moved to the refrigerator—the same one that had always been in that spot, unless Brylee was mistaken—and opened the door. “What’ll it be?” he asked. “Soda? Water?”
    “Nothing for me, thanks,” Brylee said, feeling a little like one of the birds who occasionally flew into her warehouse and got trapped there, wheeling and swooping in increasing desperation as it searched for a way out. “I really can’t stay— I just—”
    Nash moved to the card table in the center of the room, drew back a chair with a manly flourish. “You can’t leave yet,” he said with a grin, gesturing for her to have a seat. “You’re the only person I know in this godforsaken place, except for my brother, and he’s practically a stranger.”
    Brylee sat down, slightly mystified. Nash had charm, and he’d exhibited good manners by offering her a chair, but