Upstairs, he entered Ashley’s room, sat down on the edge of the bed, and watched her for a few luxurious moments, moments he knew he would cherish until he died, whether that was in a day, or several decades.
Ashley opened her eyes, blinked. Said his name.
For a lot of years, Jack had claimed he didn’t have a heart. For all his money, love was something he simply couldn’t afford.
Now he knew he’d lied—to himself and everyone else.
He had a heart, all right, and it was breaking.
“I love you,” he said. “Always have, always will.”
She sat up, threw her arms around his neck, clung to him for a few seconds. “I love you, too,” she murmured, trembling against him. Then she drew back, looked deep into his eyes. “Thanks,” she said.
“For—?” Jack ground out the word.
“The time we had. For not leaving without saying goodbye.”
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak just then.
“If you can come back—”
Jack drew out of her embrace, stood. In the cold light of day, returning to Stone Creek, to Ashley, seemed unlikely, a golden dream he’d used to get through the night.
He nodded again. Swallowed hard.
And then he left.
* * *
He was boarding a plane in Flagstaff, nearly two hours later, before he remembered that he hadn’t closed the email he’d drafted on Ashley’s computer, spilling his guts to his father.
Ashley wasn’t exactly a techno-whiz, he thought, with a sad smile, but if she stumbled upon the message somehow, she’d know most of his secrets.
She might even send the thing, on some do-gooder impulse, though Jack doubted that. In any case, she’d know about the damage the toxin was doing to his bone marrow and be privy to his deepest regrets as far as his family was concerned.
She’d know he’d loved her, too. Wanted to spend his life with her.
That shining dream could still come true, he supposed, but a lot of chips would have to fall first, and land in just the right places. The odds, he knew, were against him.
Nothing new there.
He took his seat on the small commuter plane, fastened his seat belt, and shut off his cell phone.
Tanner had been right there when he’d bought his ticket—he’d chosen Phoenix, said he’d probably head for South America from there, and gone through all the proper steps, checking his gear bag and filling out a form declaring that there was a firearm inside, properly secured.
What he didn’t tell his friend was that he planned to charter a flight to Tombstone as soon as he reached Phoenix and have it out with Chad Lombard, once and for all.
Takeoff was briefly delayed, due to some mechanical issue.
During the wait, Jack switched his phone on again, placed a short call that drew an alarmed stare from the woman sitting next to him and smiled as he put the cell away.
“Air marshal,” he explained, in an affable undertone.
The woman didn’t look reassured. In fact, she moved to an empty seat three rows forward. A word to the flight attendants about the man in 7-B and he’d be off the plane, tangled in a snarl with a pack of TSA agents until three weeks after forever.
For some reason, she didn’t report him. Maybe she didn’t watch the news a lot, or fly much.
Jack settled back, closed his eyes, and tried not to think about Ashley and the baby they might have conceived together, the future they might have shared.
That proved impossible, of course, like the old game of trying not to think about a pink elephant.
The plane lifted off, bucked through some turbulence and streaked toward his destiny—and Chad Lombard’s.
* * *
Carly McKettrick O’Ballivan watched her aunt with concern, while Meg, who was both Carly’s sister and her adoptive mother—how weird was that?—puttered around the big kitchen, trying to distract Ashley.
Meg was expecting a baby, and the news might have cheered Ashley up, but Carly and her mother-sister had agreed on the way into town to wait until Brad-dad was back from wherever he’d gone.
Unable to bear Ashley’s pale face and sorrowful eyes any longer, Carly excused herself and wandered toward the study. She’d set up the computer, she decided. Use this strange morning constructively.
School was closed on account of megasnow, but nothing stopped members of the McKettrick clan when they wanted to get somewhere. Meg had told Carly they were going to town, fired up her new Land Rover right after breakfast, acting all mysterious and sad, buckled a squirmy Mac into his car seat, and off they’d gone.
Carly, a sucker for adventure, had enjoyed the ride into town, over roads buried under a foot of snow. Once, Meg had even taken an overland route, causing Mac to giggle and Carly to shout, “Yee-haw!”
Even the plows weren’t out yet—that’s how deep the stuff was.
To Carly’s surprise, someone had beaten her to the computer gig. The monitor was dark, but the machine was on, whirring quietly away in the otherwise silent room.
She sat down in the swivel chair, touched the mouse.
An email message popped up on the monitor screen.
Since Brad and Meg were big on personal privacy, Carly didn’t actually read the email, but she couldn’t help noticing that it was signed, “Love, Jack.”
She barely knew Jack McCall, but she’d liked him. Which was more than could be said for Brad and Meg.
They clearly thought the man was bad news.
Carly bit her lower lip. If Jack had gone to all the trouble of writing that long email, she reasoned, her heart thumping a little, surely he’d intended to send it.
With so much going on—Carly had no idea what any of it actually was, except that it had obviously done a real number on Ashley, so it must be pretty heavy stuff—he’d probably just forgotten.
Carly took a deep breath, moved the cursor, and hit Send.
“Carly!” Meg called, clearly approaching.
Carly closed the message panel. “What?”
Meg appeared in the doorway of the study. “School’s open after all,” she said. “I just heard it on the kitchen radio.”
Carly sighed. “Awesome,” she said, meaning exactly the opposite.
Meg chuckled. “Get a move on, kiddo,” she ordered.
“Are there snowshoes around here someplace?” Carly countered. “Maybe a dogsled and a team, so I can mush to school?”
“Hugely funny,” Meg said, grinning. Like all the other grown-ups, she looked tired. “I’d drive you to school in the Land Rover, but I don’t think I should leave Ashley just yet.”
Carly agreed, with the teenage reluctance that was surely expected of her, and resigned herself to the loss of that greatest of all occasions, a snow day.
Trudging toward the high school minutes later, she wondered briefly if she should have left that email in the outbox, maybe told Meg or Ashley about it.
But her friends were converging up ahead, laughing and hurling snowballs at each other, and she hurried to join them.
* * *
Ashley both hoped for and dreaded a call from Jack, but none came.
Not while Meg was there, and not when she left.
A ranch hand from Starcross brought Mrs. Wiggins back home, and Ashley was glad and grateful, but still wrung out. She felt dazed, disjointed, as though she were truly beside herself.
She slept.
She cooked.
She slept some more, and then cooked some more.
At four o’clock that afternoon, Brad showed up.
“He’s gone,” she said, meaning Jack, meeting her taciturn-looking brother at the back door. “Are you happy now?”
“You know I’m not,” Brad said, moving p
ast her to enter the house when she would have blocked his way. He helped himself to coffee and, out of spite, Ashley didn’t tell him it was decaf. If he expected a buzz from the stuff, something to jump-start the remainder of his day, he was in for a disappointment.
“Are Ardith and Rachel safe?” she asked.
“Yes,” Brad answered, leaning back against the counter to sip his no-octane coffee and study her. “You all right?”
“Oh, I’m just fabulous, thank you.”
“Ashley, give it up, will you? You know Jack couldn’t stay.”
“I also know the decision was mine to make, Brad—not yours.”
Her brother gave a heavy sigh. She could see how drained he was, but she wouldn’t allow herself to feel sorry for him. Much. “You’ll get over this,” he told her, after a long time.
“Gee, thanks,” she said, wiping furiously at her already-clean counters, keeping as far from Brad as she could. “That makes it all better.”
“Meg’s going to have a baby,” Brad said, out of the blue, a few uncomfortable moments later. “In the spring.”
Ashley froze.
Olivia had twins.
Now Meg and Brad were adding to their family, something she should have been glad about, considering that Meg had suffered a devastating miscarriage a year after Mac was born and there had been some question as to whether or not she could have more children.
“Congratulations,” Ashley said stiffly, unable to look at him.
“You’ll get your chance, Ash. The right man will come along and—”
“The right man came along, Brad,” Ashley snapped, “and now he’s gone.”
But at least, this time, Jack had said goodbye.
This time, he hadn’t wanted to go.
Small consolations, but something.
Brad set his mug aside, crossed to Ashley, took her shoulders in his hands. “I’d have done anything,” he said hoarsely, “to make this situation turn out differently.”
Ashley believed him, but it didn’t ease her pain.
She let herself cry, and Brad pulled her close and held her, big brother-style, his chin propped on top of her head.
“O’Ballivan tough,” he reminded her. It was their version of something Meg’s family, the McKettricks, said to each other when things got rocky.
“O’Ballivan tough,” she agreed.
But her voice quavered when she said it.
She felt anything but tough.
She’d go on, just the same, because she had no other choice.
* * *
Jack arrived in Earp-country at eleven forty-five that morning and, after paying the pilot of the two-seat Cessna he’d chartered in Phoenix, climbed into a waiting taxi. Fortunately, Tombstone wasn’t a big town, so he wouldn’t be late for his meeting with Chad Lombard.
Anyway, he was used to cutting it close.
There were a lot of tourists around, as Jack had feared. He’d hoped the local police would be notified, find some low-key way to clear the streets before the shootout took place.
Some of them might be Lombard’s men.
And some of them might be Feds.
Because of the innocent bystanders and because both the DEA and the FBI had valid business of their own with Lombard, Jack had taken a chance and tipped them off while waiting for the commuter jet to take off from Flagstaff.
He stashed his gear bag behind a toilet in a gas station restroom, tucked his Glock into his pants, covered it with his shirt and stepped out onto the windy street.
If he hadn’t been in imminent danger of being picked off by Lombard or one of the creeps who worked for the bastard, he might have found the whole thing pretty funny.
He even amused himself by wishing he’d bought a round black hat and a gunslinger’s coat, so he’d look the part.
Wyatt Earp, on the way to the OK Corral.
He was strolling down a wooden sidewalk, pretending to take in the famous sights, when the cell phone rang in the pocket of his jean jacket.
“Yo,” he answered.
“You called in the Feds!” Lombard snarled.
“Yeah,” Jack answered. “You’re outnumbered, bucko.”
“I’m going to take you out last,” Lombard said. “Just so you can watch all these mommies and daddies and little kiddies in cowboy hats bite the freaking dust!”
Jack’s blood ran cold. He’d known this was a very real possibility, of course—that was the main reason he’d called in reinforcements—but he’d hoped, against all reason, that even Lombard wouldn’t sink that low.
After all, the man had a daughter of his own.
“Where are you?” Jack asked, with a calmness he sure as hell didn’t feel. Worse yet, the weakness was rising inside him again, threatening to drop him to the ground.
Lombard laughed then, an eerie, brittle sound. “Look up,” he said.
Jack lifted his eyes.
Lombard stood on a balcony overlooking the main street, opposite Jack. And he was wearing an Earp hat and a long coat, holding a rifle in one hand.
“Gun!” Jack yelled. “Everybody out of the street!”
The crowd panicked and scattered every which way, bumping into each other, screaming. Scrambling to shield children and old ladies and little dogs wearing neckerchiefs.
Lombard raised the rifle as Jack drew the Glock.
But neither of them got a chance to fire.
Another shot ripped through the shining January day, struck Lombard, and sent him toppling, in what seemed like slow motion, over the balcony railing, which gave way picturesquely behind him, like a bit from an old movie.
People shrieked in rising terror, as vulnerable to any gunmen Lombard might have brought along as backup as a bunch of ducks in a pond.
Feds rushed into the street, hustling the tourists into restaurants and hotel lobbies and souvenir shops, crowd control at its finest, if a little late.
Government firepower seemed to come out of the woodwork.
Somebody was taking pictures—Jack was aware of a series of flashes at the periphery of his vision.
He walked slowly toward the spot where Chad Lombard lay, either dead or dying, oblivious to the pandemonium he would have enjoyed so much.
Lombard stared blindly up at the blue, blue sky, a crimson patch spreading over the front of his collarless white shirt. Damned if he hadn’t pinned a star-shaped badge to his coat, just to complete the outfit.
The Feds closed in, the sniper who had taken Lombard out surely among them. A hand came to rest on Jack’s shoulder.
More pictures were snapped.
“Thanks, McCall,” a voice said, through a buzzing haze.
He didn’t look up at the agent, the longtime acquaintance he’d called from the plane in Flagstaff. Taking the cell phone out of his pocket, he turned it slowly in one hand, still studying Lombard.
Lombard didn’t look like a killer, a drug runner. Jack could see traces of Rachel in the man’s altar-boy features.
“We had trouble spotting him until he climbed out onto that balcony,” Special Agent Fletcher said. “By our best guess, he stole the gunslinger getup from one of those old-time picture places—”
“Why didn’t you clear the streets earlier?” Jack demanded.
“Because we got here about five seconds before you did,” Fletcher answered. “Are you all right, McCall?”
Jack nodded, then shook his head.
Fletcher helped Jack to his feet. “Which is it?” he rasped. “Yes or no?”
Jack swayed.
His vision shrank to a pinpoint, then disappeared entirely.
“I guess it’s no,” he answered, just before he lost consciousness.
CHAPTER 9
The
first sound Jack recognized was a steady beep-beep-beep. He was in a hospital bed, then, God knew where. Probably going about the business of dying.
“Jack?”
He struggled to open his eyes. Saw his father looming over him, a pretty woman standing wearily at the old man’s side. If it hadn’t been for her, Jack would have thought he was hallucinating.
Dr. William “Bill” McKenzie smiled, switched on the requisite lamp on the wall above Jack’s head.
The spill of light made him wince.
“I see you’ve still got all your hair,” Jack said, very slowly and in a dry-throated rasp. “Either that, or that’s one fine rug perched on top of your head.”
Bill laughed, though his eyes glistened with tears. Maybe they were goodbye tears. “You always were a smart-ass,” he said. “This is my real hair. And speaking of hair, yours is too long. You look like a hippie.”
People still used the word hippie?
Obviously, his dad’s generation did. For all he knew, Bill McKenzie had been a hippie, once upon a time. There was so much they didn’t know about each other.
“How did you find me?” Jack asked. The things he felt were too deep to leap right into—there had to be a transition here, a gradual shift.
“It wasn’t too hard to track you down. You were all over the Internet, the TV and the newspapers after that incident in Tombstone. You were treated in Phoenix, and then some congressman’s aide got in touch with me—soon as you were strong enough, I had you brought home, where you belong.”
Home, Jack thought. To die?
Jack’s gaze slid to the woman, who looked uncomfortable. My stepmother, he thought, and felt a fresh pang of loss because his mom should have been standing there beside his dad, not this stranger.
“Abigail,” Bill explained hoarsely. “My wife.”
“If you’ll excuse me,” Abigail said, after a nod of greeting, and headed for the nearest exit.
Bill sighed, trailed her with his eyes.
Jack glimpsed tenderness in those eyes, and peace. “How long have I been here?” he asked, after a long time.
“Just a few days,” Bill answered. He cleared his throat, looking for a moment as though he might make a run for the corridor, just as Abigail had done. “You’re in serious condition, Jack. Not out of the woods by any means.”
A Stone Creek Collection, Volume 2 Page 62