The Complete Mackenzie Collection

by Linda Howard

  He blanched. Nick was a hellion. Nick had a good shot at turning the entire family gray-haired within another year. For a very short person with a limited vocabulary, their offspring could cause an unbelievable uproar in a remarkably short period of time.

  They reached the crest of the mountain, and Zane slowed the car as they neared the large, sprawling ranch house. A variety of vehicles were parked around the yard—Wolf’s truck, Mary’s car, Mike and Shea’s Suburban, Josh and Loren’s rental, Ambassador Lovejoy’s rental, Maris’s snazzy truck, Chance’s motorcycle. Joe and Caroline and their five hooligans had arrived by helicopter. Boys seemed to be everywhere, from Josh’s youngest, age five, to John, who was Joe’s oldest and was now in college and here with his current girlfriend.

  They were adding two more to the gang.

  They got out and walked up the steps to the porch. Zane put his arm around her and hugged her close, tilting her face up for a kiss that quickly grew heated. Barrie glowed with a special sexuality when she was pregnant, and the plain truth was he couldn’t resist her. Their love play was often extended these days, now that pregnancy had once again made her breasts as sensitive as they had been when she’d carried Nick.

  “Stop that!” Josh called cheerfully from inside the house. “That’s what got her in that condition in the first place!”

  Reluctantly Zane released his wife, and together they went into the house. “That isn’t exactly right,” he told Josh, who laughed.

  The big television was on, and Maris, Josh and Chance were watching some show-jumping event. Wolf and Joe were discussing cattle with Mike. Caroline was arguing politics with the ambassador. Mary and Shea were organizing a game for the younger kids. Loren, who was often an oasis of calm in the middle of the Mackenzie hurricane, gave Barrie’s rounded stomach a knowing look. “How did the checkup go?” she asked.

  “Twins,” Barrie said, still in that numb tone. She gave Zane a helpless, how-did-this-happen look.

  The whirlwind of activity came to a sudden stop. Heads lifted and turned. Her father gasped. Mary’s face suddenly glowed with radiance.

  “Both boys,” Zane announced, before anyone could ask.

  A sigh almost of relief went around the room. “Thank God,” Josh said weakly. “What if it was another one—or two—like Nick!”

  Barrie’s head swiveled around as she began searching for a particular little head. “Where is Nick?” she asked.

  Chance bolted upright from his sprawled position on the couch. The adults looked around with growing panic. “She was right here,” Chance said. “She was dragging one of Dad’s boots around.”

  Zane and Barrie both began a rapid search of the house. “How long ago?” Barrie called.

  “Two minutes, no more. Just before you drove up.” Maris was on her knees, peering under beds.

  “Two minutes!” Barrie almost moaned. In two minutes, Nick could almost single-handedly wreck the house. It was amazing how such a tiny little girl with such an angelic face could be such a demon. “Nick!” she called. “Mary Nicole, come out, come out, wherever you are!” Sometimes that worked. Most times it didn’t.

  Everyone joined in the search, but their black-haired little terror was nowhere to be found. The entire family had been ecstatic at her birth, and she had been utterly doted on, with even the rough-and-tumble cousins fascinated by the daintiness and beauty of the newest Mackenzie. She really did look angelic, like Pebbles on the old Flintstones cartoons. She was adorable. She had Zane’s black hair; slanted, deceptively innocent blue eyes; and dimples on each side of her rosebud mouth. She had sat up by herself at four months, crawled at six, walked at eight, and the entire family had been on guard ever since.

  They found Wolf’s boot beneath Mary’s glassed-in collection of angels. From the scuff marks on the wall, Zane deduced his little darling had been trying to knock the collection down by heaving the boot at it. Luckily the boot had been too heavy for her to handle. Her throwing arm wasn’t well developed yet, thank God.

  She had a frightful temper for such a little thing, and an outsize will, too. Keeping her from doing something she was determined to do was like trying to hold back the tide with a bucket. She had also inherited her father’s knack for planning, something that was eerie in a two-year-old. Nick was capable of plotting the downfall of anyone who crossed her.

  Once, when Alex, Joe’s second oldest, had seen her with a knife in her hand and swiftly snatched it away before she could harm anyone or anything, Nick had thrown a howling temper tantrum that had been halted only when Zane swatted her rear end. Discipline from her adored daddy made her sob so heartbrokenly that everyone else got a lump in their throats. That, and making her sit down in her punishment chair, were so far the only two things they’d discovered that could reduce her to tears.

  When she had stopped sobbing, she had pouted in a corner for a while, all the time giving Alex threatening looks over one tiny shoulder. Then she had gone to Barrie for comfort, crawling into her mother’s lap to be rocked. Her next stop had been Zane’s lap, to show him that she forgave him. She’d wound her little arms around his neck and rubbed her chubby little cheek against his rough one. She’d even taken a brief nap, lying limply against his broad shoulder. She’d woken, climbed down and darted off to the kitchen, where she’d implored Mary, whom she called Gamma, for a “dink.” She was allowed to have soft drinks without caffeine, so Mary had given her one of the green bottles they always kept in store especially for Nick. Zane and Barrie always shared a look of intimate amusement at their daughter’s love for Seven-Up, but there was nothing unusual about seeing her clutching the familiar bottle in her tiny hands. She would take a few sips, then with great concentration screw the top onto the bottle and lug it around with her until it was finally empty, which usually took a couple of hours.

  On this occasion, Zane had happened to be watching her, smiling at her blissful expression as her little hands closed on the bottle. She had strutted out of the kitchen without letting Mary open the bottle for her and stopped in the hallway, where she vigorously shook the bottle with so much vigor that her entire little body had been bouncing up and down. Then, with a meltingly sweet smile on her face, she had all but danced into the living room and handed the bottle to Alex with a flirtatious tilt of her head. “Ope’ it, pees,” she’d said in her adorable small voice…and then she’d backed up a few steps.

  “No!” Zane had yelled, leaping up from his chair, but it was too late. Alex had already twisted the cap and broken the seal. The bottle spewed and spurted, the sticky liquid spraying the wall, the floor, the chair. It hit Alex full blast in the face. By the time he’d managed to get the cap securely back on the bottle, he was soaked.

  Nick had clapped her hands and said, “Hee, hee, hee,” and Zane wasn’t certain if it was a laugh or a taunt. It didn’t matter. He had collapsed on the floor in laughter, and there was an unbreakable law written in stone somewhere that you couldn’t punish youngsters if you’d laughed at what they’d done.

  “Nick!” he called now. “Do you want a Popsicle?” Next to Seven-Ups, Popsicles were her favorite treat.

  There was no answer.

  Sam tore into the house. He was ten, Josh and Loren’s middle son. His blue eyes were wide. “Uncle Zane!” he cried. “Nick’s on top of the house!”

  “Oh, my God,” Barrie gasped, and rushed out of the house as fast as she could. Zane tore past her, his heart in his throat, every instinct screaming for him to get to his child as fast as possible.

  Everyone spilled into the yard, their faces pale with alarm, and looked up. Nick was sitting cross-legged on the edge of the roof, her little face blissful as she stared down at them. “Hi,” she chirped.

  Barrie’s knees wobbled, and Mary put a supporting, protective arm around her.

  It was no mystery how Nick had gotten on the roof—a ladder was leaning against the house, and Nick was as agile as a young goat. The ladder shouldn’t have been there; in fact, Zane would have s
worn it hadn’t been when he and Barrie had arrived, no more than five minutes earlier.

  He started up the ladder, his gaze glued on his daughter. A scowl screwed her small features together, and she scrambled to her feet, perilously close to the edge of the roof. “No!” she shrieked. “No, Daddy!”

  He froze in place. She didn’t want to come down, and she was absolutely fearless. She paid no more heed to her danger than if she’d been in her bed.

  “Zane,” Barrie whispered, her voice choked.

  He was shaking. Nick stomped one little foot and pointed a dimpled finger at him. “Daddy down,” she demanded.

  He couldn’t get to her in time. No matter how fast he moved, his baby was going to fall. There was only one thing to do. “Chance!” he barked.

  Chance knew immediately. He ambled forward, not making any swift movements that would startle her. When he was directly below her, he grinned at his cherubic niece, and she grinned at him. He was her favorite uncle.

  “Dance,” she crowed, showing all her tiny white teeth.

  “You little Antichrist,” he said fondly. “I’m really going to miss you when you’re in prison. I give you…oh, maybe to the age of six.”

  Benjy, Josh’s youngest, piped up behind them, “Why did Uncle Chance call her Dannychrist? Her name’s Nick.”

  Nick spread her arms wide, bouncing up and down on her tiptoes. Chance held up his arms. “Come on, cupcake,” he said, and laughed. “Jump!”

  She did.

  He deftly snagged her in midair, and hugged the precious little body to his chest. Barrie burst into tears of relief. Then Zane was there, taking his daughter in his arms, pressing his lips to her round little head, and Barrie rushed over to be enveloped in his embrace, too.

  Caroline looked at Joe. “I forgive you for not having any female sperm,” she announced, and Joe laughed.

  Josh was frowning sternly at Sam. “How did the ladder get there?” he demanded.

  Sam looked at his feet.

  Mike and Joe began to frown at their boys.

  “Whose bright idea was it to play on top of the house?” Mike asked of the seven boys who hadn’t been inside, and thus absolved of blame.

  Seven boys scuffed their shoes on the ground, unable to look up at the three fathers confronting them.

  Josh took down the ladder, which was supposed to be in the barn. He pointed to the structure in question. “March,” he said sternly, and two boys began their reluctant walk to the barn—and their retribution. Benjy clung to Loren’s leg, blinking at his two older brothers.

  Mike pointed to the barn. His two boys went.

  Joe raised an eyebrow at his three youngest. They went.

  The three tall, broad-shouldered brothers followed their sons to the barn.

  Nick patted Barrie’s face. “Mommy cwy?” she asked, and her lower lip quivered as she looked at Zane. “Fix, Daddy.”

  “I’ll fix, all right,” he muttered. “I’ll fix some glue to your little butt and stick you on a chair.”

  Barrie giggled through her tears. “Everyone wished for a girl,” she said, hiccuping as she laughed and cried at the same time. “Well, we got our wish!”

  Wolf reached out and plucked his only granddaughter from his son’s brawny arms. She beamed at him, and he said ruefully, “With luck, it’ll be thirty years before there’s another one. Unless…” His dark eyes narrowed as he looked at Chance.

  “No way,” Chance said firmly. “You can turn that look on Maris. I’m not getting married. I’m not reproducing. They’re starting to come by the bunches now, so it’s time to call a halt. I’m not getting into this daddy business.”

  Mary gave him her sweet smile. “We’ll see,” she said.

  A Game of Chance

  By Linda Howard

  Contents

  The Beginning

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Epilogue

  The Beginning

  Coming back to Wyoming—coming home—always evoked in Chance Mackenzie such an intense mixture of emotions that he could never decide which was strongest, the pleasure or the acute discomfort. He was, by nature and nurture—not that there had been any nurturing in the first fourteen or so years of his life—a man who was more comfortable alone. If he was alone, then he could operate without having to worry about anyone but himself, and, conversely, there was no one to make him uncomfortable with concern about his own well-being. The type of work he had chosen only reinforced his own inclinations, because covert operations and anti-terrorist activities predicated he be both secretive and wary, trusting no one, letting no one close to him.

  And yet…And yet, there was his family. Sprawling, brawling, ferociously overachieving, refusing to let him withdraw, not that he was at all certain he could even if they would allow it. It was always jolting, alarming, to step back into that all-enveloping embrace, to be teased and questioned—teased, him, whom some of the most deadly people on earth justifiably feared—hugged and kissed, fussed over and yelled at and…loved, just as if he were like everyone else. He knew he wasn’t; the knowledge was always there, in the back of his mind, that he was not like them. But he was drawn back, again and again, by something deep inside hungering for the very things that so alarmed him. Love was scary; he had learned early and hard how little he could depend on anyone but himself.

  The fact that he had survived at all was a testament to his toughness and intelligence. He didn’t know how old he was, or where he had been born, what he was named as a child, or if he even had a name—nothing. He had no memory of a mother, a father, anyone who had taken care of him. A lot of people simply didn’t remember their childhoods, but Chance couldn’t comfort himself with that possibility, that there had been someone who had loved him and taken care of him, because he remembered too damn many other details.

  He remembered stealing food when he was so small he had to stand on tiptoe to reach apples in a bin in a small-town supermarket. He had been around so many kids now that, by comparing what he remembered to the sizes they were at certain ages, he could estimate he had been no more than three years old at the time, perhaps not even that.

  He remembered sleeping in ditches when it was warm, hiding in barns, stores, sheds, whatever was handy, when it was cold or raining. He remembered stealing clothes to wear, sometimes by the simple means of catching a boy playing alone in a yard, overpowering him and taking the clothes off his back. Chance had always been much stronger physically than other boys his size, because of the sheer physical difficulty of staying alive—and he had known how to fight, for the same reason.

  He remembered a dog taking up with him once, a black-and-white mutt that tagged along and curled up next to him to sleep, and Chance remembered being grateful for the warmth. He also remembered that when he reached for a piece of steak he had stolen from the scraps in back of a restaurant, the dog bit him and stole the steak. Chance still had two scars on his left hand from the dog’s teeth. The dog had gotten the meat, and Chance had gone one more day without food. He didn’t blame the dog; it had been hungry, too. But Chance ran it off after that, because stealing enough food to keep himself alive was difficult enough, without having to steal for the dog, too. Besides, he had learned that when it came to survival, it was every dog for himself.

  He might have been five years old when he learned that particular lesson, but he had learned it well.

  Of course, learning how to survive in both rural and urban areas, in all conditions, was what made him so good at his job now, so he supposed his early childhood had its benefits. Even considering that, though, he wouldn’t wish his childhood on a dog, not even the dam
n mutt that had bitten him.

  His real life had begun the day Mary Mackenzie found him lying beside a road, deathly ill with a severe case of flu that had turned into pneumonia. He didn’t remember much of the next few days—he had been too ill—but he had known he was in a hospital, and he had been wild with fear, because that meant he had fallen into the hands of the system, and he was now, in effect, a prisoner. He was obviously a minor, without identification, and the circumstances would warrant the child welfare services being notified. He had spent his entire life avoiding just such an event, and he had tried to make plans to escape, but his thoughts were vague, hard to get ordered, and his body was too weak to respond to his demands.

  But through it all he could remember being soothed by an angel with soft blue-gray eyes and light, silvery brown hair, cool hands and a loving voice. There had also been a big, dark man, a half-breed, who calmly and repeatedly addressed his deepest fear. “We won’t let them take you,” the big man had said whenever Chance briefly surfaced from his fever-induced stupor.

  He didn’t trust them, didn’t believe the big half-breed’s reassurances. Chance had figured out that he himself was part American Indian, but big deal, that didn’t mean he could trust these people any more than he could trust that damn thieving, ungrateful mutt. But he was too sick, too weak, to escape or even struggle, and while he was so helpless Mary Mackenzie had somehow hog-tied him with devotion, and he had never managed to break free.

  He hated being touched; if someone was close enough to touch him, then they were close enough to attack him. He couldn’t fight off the nurses and doctors who poked and prodded and moved him around as if he were nothing more than a mindless piece of meat. He had endured it, gritting his teeth, struggling with both his own panic and the almost overpowering urge to fight, because he knew if he fought them he would be restrained. He had to stay free, so he could run when he recovered enough to move under his own power.