lugging card tables and two-page catalogs around the county, selling items she’d either imported or purchased wholesale, at a gift show. Now, she had over a thousand people signed up to sell and, except for the local discount store and the Native American casino just over the Idaho border, she employed more people than any other business owner in the area.
She’d expected this kind of success to be a lot more satisfying than it was, though. Not that she’d ever admitted as much to anybody, especially after she’d been so driven, worked so hard. Now, she had money enough to last for three lifetimes, never mind one.
She had a closet full of beautiful, custom-made clothes—which she never wore unless she was conducting management meetings or leading sales seminars. She could live anywhere she wanted, go anywhere she wanted. Over the past few years, she’d traveled to every continent on earth, staying in the best hotels and dining in the finest restaurants.
Perhaps more important, at least to her way of thinking, she’d helped put Three Trees, Montana, on the map. Her sales conventions brought hordes of people to the town—people with money to spend. She’d set up scholarships for high school seniors in both Parable and Three Trees, and, damn it, she’d made a real difference.
So why wasn’t she happier than she was?
Frowning, no nearer to answering that question than before, Brylee went online, scanned reports filed by her district and regional sales managers—the movers and shakers who headed up teams, drove company cars, took exotic all-expenses-paid vacations and, to a woman, earned at least twice as much money as the President of the United States, even in the current white-water economy. As usual, the managers were outdoing themselves, and doing their level best to outdo one another, too.
The result of all this constructive competition, which she actively encouraged? More money. Another record quarter. Why, if she chose to, she could take Décor Galore public, walk away and do whatever she wanted to for the rest of her life.
Unfortunately, she wasn’t entirely sure what that would look like. Would she still be herself, or some woman she didn’t know?
Once upon a time, engaged to Hutch Carmody, a rancher from over near the town of Parable, Brylee had thought she had it all figured out. A sort of romantic slam-dunk. She’d love Hutch, have his babies, content to be a wife and mother, albeit a very rich wife and mother, and grow old alongside her undeniably sexy man—that was the plan.
Of course, things hadn’t worked out that way. Hutch had called off their wedding, and not without fanfare, either. Not ahead of time, when she could have saved face, sent back the gifts, canceled the five-tier cake, uninvited the guests, talked to the photographer. No, she’d been standing in the church entryway in her wedding dress, her arm looped through her brother Walker’s, about to step into the next phase of her life, when her devastatingly handsome bridegroom had suddenly broken rank with his best man and the preacher, walked halfway down the aisle and said, “Hold it.”
Remembering, Brylee squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. Even now, the humiliation was vivid, visceral, an actual ache in her middle, like the aftermath of a hard punch.
Oh, but time heals most wounds, or at least desensitizes them a little. She’d eventually made peace with Hutch—he was now married to the former Kendra Shepherd, also of Parable, and they had two beautiful children, with another on the way. They were happy, and Brylee certainly didn’t begrudge them that.
Just the same, there were still times, like now, when she flashed back to the whole scene, and when that happened, it seemed the proverbial rug had been yanked out from under her feet all over again, leaving her breathless, figuratively wheeling her arms in a hopeless attempt to maintain her balance.
Once the internal roller-coastering stopped, she logged out of the program on her computer and rested her elbows on the edge of her desk, her face pressed into her palms. She wasn’t going to get any more work done today, might as well accept it.
Snidely gave a small, sympathetic whimper and rested his muzzle on her thigh, lending what comfort he could.
Brylee lifted her face, gave a broken chuckle and tousled the dog’s ears. “If I ever meet a man who’s half as loyal as you are,” she told Snidely, “I’d marry him in a heartbeat. Even if I have to hog-tie him first and then drag him to the altar.”
Snidely whined again, as if in agreement.
Brylee bent and planted a smacking kiss on the top of his sleek, hairy head and pushed back her desk chair carefully, so she wouldn’t run over one of Snidely’s paws. “Let’s go home,” she said, with gentle resignation.
Home was the family ranch, Timber Creek, and she and Walker owned it jointly, though Walker ran the place and did most of the work involved. Brylee and Snidely lived in a spacious apartment, an add-on behind the kitchen, and those quarters had always suited her just fine, since she spent most of her time at Décor Galore, anyway.
Now, though, Walker had married his singing-cowgirl sweetheart, Casey Elder, whom Brylee loved dearly, as she loved their two teenage children, Clare and Shane, and their new baby, three-month-old Preston. Casey and Walker were adding on to the house—they planned on having several more children—and happy chaos reigned.
As hard as her brother and sister-in-law tried to include her in things, though, Brylee felt like a third wheel, even an intruder. Walker and Casey were still on their honeymoon, even after a year of marriage, and the way those two loved each other, they’d probably be perpetual newlyweds.
They needed privacy, family time.
Besides, Brylee was beginning to feel like a spinster aunt, the legendary old maid hovering on the fringes of everybody else’s lives.
Was it wrong to want a home, a husband and children of her own? Or was she asking too much? After all, she had a fabulous business, one she’d built with her own two hands, and barring global financial catastrophe, money would never be a problem. Maybe it was just greedy to want more, especially when so many people didn’t have enough of anything, including the basic necessities of life.
She was still debating the subject when she arrived at the home-place, minutes later, in her trusty-dusty SUV. Casey sat in the porch swing, gently rocking the little bundle that was Preston in her arms.
Casey was a fiery redhead, beautiful and talented, but in that moment she resembled nothing so much as a Renaissance woman in a painting by one of the masters, a vision in shades of titian and green.
She smiled as Brylee and Snidely got out of Brylee’s rig.
“Come sit a minute,” she said, in her soft Texas drawl, patting the cushion beside her. “Preston is sleeping, and I’m just sitting here thinking about how I’m the luckiest woman in the world.”
Something of what she was feeling must have shown in Brylee’s face as she approached, because Casey’s expression changed for an instant, and there was a flicker of sadness in her eyes. “You know,” she said fretfully, “it’s a wonder I can walk right, what with one foot in my mouth at all times.”
Brylee smiled, climbed the porch steps, joined Casey and her sleeping nephew on the ancient swing. It had been there for as long as she could remember, that swing, the place where, as a little girl, she’d cried every time her mother left again. The place where she’d dreamed big dreams, and talked herself out of the blues a thousand times, especially after the breakup with Hutch.
Would she ever rock her own sleeping baby there, as Casey
