McKettricks of Texas: Austin

by Linda Lael Miller

  As she labored on toward the barn, she asked herself what the hell she thought she was doing. She didn’t have a sensible answer, just a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  Molly was out there, all by herself, since the other horses had been turned out into the pasture for the day.

  And Paige didn’t trust Reese.

  When she reached the doorway of the barn, she had to pause for a moment, wait for her eyes to adjust to the dimmer light.

  Reese stood with his back to her. As she watched, he struck a wooden match against one of the timbers supporting the roof.

  “There’s no smoking in the barn,” Paige said clearly, and firmly.

  The ranch hand spun around, shaking out the match as he turned. Paige hobbled forward, finding the sawdust on the floor of the breezeway even less receptive to her crutches than the gravel in the driveway had been.

  He must have pulled the cigarette from his mouth without her seeing, and as he walked toward her, he was smiling.

  Paige felt for the light switch, flipped it on.

  Reese was practically right in front of her when she stopped blinking away the dazzle of sudden illumination.

  His hair needed washing, and he smelled of smoke and sweat, but it was the glacial look in his eyes that made Paige’s heart bounce up into the back of her throat for a moment.

  “You givin’ orders around here now, ma’am?” Reese asked. He took off his hat, in a parody of good country manners, and looked her up and down in a way that would have earned him a slap across the face if she hadn’t needed both hands to stay upright on those damn crutches.

  Paige simply repeated what she’d said before. “There’s no smoking in the barn.”

  He gave an edgy little chuckle and hooked his thumbs through the belt loops of his jeans. “It ain’t like some poor horse is going to keel over from breathing in a little secondhand smoke,” he said.

  Paige wanted to flee, but she stood her ground. Hitched her chin up a notch and tightened her fingers around the handles on her crutches. If Reese came any closer, she would either jab at his groin or swing at his head. “Secondhand smoke isn’t the problem,” she said mildly—and you damn well know it, you son of a bitch. “Fire is.”

  Reese made a production of looking all around, still smirking. “I guess you’ve got a point there, little lady. With all this hay and sawdust around, why, the place could go up—” he thrust his hand under her nose and snapped his fingers sharply “—like that.”

  Paige flinched, startled and, for the moment, speechless.

  Reese leaned in, and she felt his breath on her face, fetid and hot. “He killed my dog,” he said.

  By then, Paige was operating strictly on bravado. “What are you talking about?” she asked, stalling.

  “Austin McKettrick shot my dog,” Reese repeated.

  Paige cleared her throat. “The animal attacked,” she said.

  “So he says,” Reese argued, still way too close for Paige’s comfort. If she swung a crutch at him now, he’d be able to block the move easily. “You sleepin’ with him?” He raised his hand, ran his knuckles lightly down the side of her cheek. “A man’s got land and money, he can have his choice of the women, and you sure are that, little lady. Choice, I mean.”

  Adrenaline rushed through Paige’s system, and she managed to lever herself back a couple of steps. “You are way over the line, mister,” she warned. “Don’t touch me again.”

  Reese grinned, apparently amused, but his pleasure was short-lived.

  Behind her, Paige heard the distinctive sound of a rifle being cocked.

  “Touch my sister again,” Libby said, “and I’ll have to put you out of your misery.”

  The man spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Nobody has a sense of humor anymore,” he said to no one in particular.

  Libby was at Paige’s elbow by then, and she sure enough had a rifle in her hands. Furthermore, she looked like she knew what to do with the thing, which was more than Paige could have claimed.

  “Get out of here,” Libby told Reese. “If you’ve got any money coming to you, you can pick it up in town tomorrow.”

  “You’re firin’ me?” Reese asked. The grin was still in place, but his eyes had hardened and taken on a flinty glint. “You got the authority to do that, ma’am? Just because you’re sleepin’ with one of the high-and-mighty McKettricks?”

  “I’ve got the authority,” Libby replied evenly. She gestured toward the door with the barrel of the gun. “Go on,” she added, “get out.”

  “I came here in a ranch-owned vehicle,” Reese said, less cocky now but just as furious, “and I’ve still got personal belongings over at the bunkhouse. I’m not leavin’ here on foot.”

  It appeared to be a standoff. Until a rig pulled up outside the barn a few seconds later, that is.

  Ron Strivens walked in, stopped in his tracks when he saw Libby pointing the rifle at Reese. “What the—”

  “I forgot the rules and started to have myself a smoke,” Reese told the other man, his tone wheedling now. “The ladies here, took serious issue with that.”

  “So I see,” Strivens said.

  “He’s fired,” Libby put in. “Mr. Reese has some things to collect from the bunkhouse, then he’ll be needing a ride into town.”

  Strivens looked at the rifle, smiled slightly and swung his gaze to Reese’s furious face. “You heard the lady,” he said. “You’re through here. Go get your stuff—I’ll give you a lift to the bus station or wherever else you need to go, soon as you’re ready.”

  Reese hesitated, then stormed out of the barn, giving the three of them—mostly Libby—a wide berth as he passed.

  When he was gone, Strivens held out a hand, not speaking.

  Libby surrendered the rifle.

  “It’s probably none of my business what just happened here,” Strivens said, “but when there’s a gun involved, I’ll be asking just the same.”

  Libby sighed, ran her hands down the thighs of her blue jeans, glanced at Paige, then turned back to Strivens. “I happened to see my sister leave the house,” she said, “just after Reese drove up and went into the barn. When Paige didn’t come back right away, I got worried and came out here to make sure she was all right.”

  “With a gun?” Strivens asked.

  “Call it woman’s intuition,” Libby said.

  Strivens chuckled, shook his head. Deftly, he unloaded the rifle, dropped several shells into his coat pocket and handed the weapon back to Libby.

  “Will you be calling the boss to let him know what happened,” he asked her, his eyes full of friendly admiration, “or shall I do it?”

  “I’ll call Tate,” Libby answered. “Thanks, Ron.”

  He nodded and left the barn, and neither Libby nor Paige spoke or moved until he was gone.

  The moment they were alone, though, Libby turned to Paige with fire sparking in her eyes. “Paige Remington, what in the world were you thinking?”

  Paige looked pointedly at the gun. “I was about to ask you a similar question, Annie Oakley,” she replied, feeling a little shaky now that the rush of fight-or-flight chemicals was ebbing. “Since when do you pack heat?”

  “Since I moved in with Tate,” Libby responded, straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin up a notch. “He says anybody who lives on a ranch needs to know how to shoot.”

  Paige was fascinated. “Really? Why?”

  With a sigh, Libby gestured toward the door. The company truck Strivens drove started up outside, drove away. The bunkhouse was a good distance from the main house. “Because of snakes,” she explained, with exaggerated patience.

  “Reese certainly qualifies as one of those,” Paige observed, sort of flinging herself into motion. She was not going to miss those freakin’ crutches when it was time to hang them up for good. “Will you teach me?”

  They stepped into the cool sunlight of a November afternoon. A plume of dust rolled behind the ranch truck as Strivens and Reese dro
ve toward the bunkhouse. “Teach you what?” Libby asked.

  “To shoot,” Paige answered.

  Libby sighed. “Sure,” she said, going snarky now that it was all over but the shouting. “It’s at the top of my to-do list. ‘Teach Paige to fire a gun.’”

  “That man is dangerous,” Paige said, distracted. “Reese, I mean.”

  “What gave you your first clue, Sherlock?” Libby countered. Maybe it was the cold breeze, and maybe it was the high of being a gun-totin’ mama, but she looked flushed.

  “You don’t have to be snippy,” Paige told her.

  “Evidently, I do,” Libby replied, pausing to wait because Paige was necessarily moving at a much slower pace.

  “Does this mean you won’t teach me to fire a gun?”

  “I’m a novice myself,” Libby admitted after a deep sigh. “I have no business passing on my incompetency to somebody else.”

  It was a relief to reach the kitchen. It was warm there, and safe. Plus, Paige could sit down. Her knees felt like jelly. Wishing that the rocking chair hadn’t been moved to her room, she maneuvered herself around backward and plunked down onto one of the long benches at the table.

  Libby disappeared through the doorway to the dining room and came back unarmed, having stowed the rifle wherever such things were kept.

  “I’m impressed,” Paige said admiringly. For a moment, she was fourteen again, gawky and too smart for social approval, and Libby was seventeen, gorgeous and popular, with a place on the honor roll and Tate McKettrick’s class ring hanging from a chain around her neck. “If you won’t teach me to handle a gun, do you think Tate might?”

  Libby sighed, stomped over to the cupboard and brewed two cups of tea. Paige’s first batch had gone cold, of course, and she dumped that down the sink before approaching the table.

  “Speaking of Tate,” Libby said, completely ignoring a perfectly reasonable question, “I’d better call him right now, and tell him I just fired one of the ranch hands.”

  “You were magnificent,” Paige said with a teasing grin.

  “Be sure and tell Tate that, will you?” Libby answered, frowning as she walked over and picked up the receiver for the cordless phone. “Because he’s going to be five kinds of pissed off when he finds out about that rifle.”

  CLEARLY, THE SITUATION WAS NOT GOOD.

  Someone had tried to uncap one of the wells, and without the equipment required for pumping oil, there could only be one reason for that. They’d planned on setting a fire.

  “This happened the night I was shot?” Austin asked, looking from Garrett to Tate. Brogan and the deputy had already gone back to town, and the three of them were standing around by the well in question.

  Tate nodded. “Probably.”

  “Damn fool tried to use a crowbar,” Garrett observed.

  Austin gave a dry chuckle at that. Shep leaned into him, and he bent, carefully, to pat the dog on the head. “When are the security people going to get here?” he asked.

  Tate was about to answer, but his coat pocket rang.

  He extracted his cell phone, saw the caller’s number and rasped, “Libby?” instead of barking out his name, as was his custom.

  Her voice was a high, nervous vibration on the other end of the line. There was a definite charge in the air, too—from the look on Tate’s face as he listened, Libby hadn’t called to ask him to make a quick run to town for milk and bread before he came home, that was for sure. Both Garrett and Austin tensed, waiting to find out what was going on.

  “We’ll be right there,” Tate finally said when he could get a word in edgewise. She said something else and he answered, “No, just stay in the house for now. Garrett and Austin are with me—one of them can wait for the kids to get off the school bus and bring them up to the house.”

  He said goodbye, dropped the phone into his pocket and started for his truck at a sprint, offering a brief explanation as he went. Libby and Paige had had a run-in with one of the ranch hands out in the barn, and Libby had intervened, with a rifle. She’d fired the man on the spot, and asked Ron Strivens to take things from there.

  What the hell was Paige doing in the barn? Austin wondered. She had a broken ankle, for God’s sake. The last time he’d seen her, she hadn’t even been dressed.

  The three of them had a short conference just before Tate jumped behind the wheel of his truck and started the engine.

  It was decided that Garrett would take the Porsche and go to meet the school bus carrying Audrey, Ava and Calvin home to the ranch. Austin and Shep rode with Tate.

  When they reached the house, Tate slammed out of the truck and disappeared so fast that Austin had to scramble to catch up. By the time he got there, Tate was standing nose to nose with Libby, who was half furious, half terrified.

  He asked if she was all right and she nodded, wobbly-chinned, and her eyes brimmed with tears.

  Austin scanned the room, was relieved to see Paige sitting at the table. She’d tucked the crutches beneath the bench and, as far as he could tell, she was none the worse for wear. In fact, her eyes shone and her cheeks glowed pink; except for the bulky cast, she was the picture of well-being.

  Tate and Libby headed upstairs, arguing one moment, reassuring each other the next. Watching them go, Austin envied them a little. They might bicker with each other for a while, but then they’d make up.

  That would be the fun part.

  “Are you going to tell me what happened here,” Austin asked, filling a bowl with kibble and setting it down for Shep to gobble before joining Paige at the table, perching beside her on the bench, “or do I have to wait for the six o’clock news?”

  She smiled at him in a way that seemed wistful to Austin, watching the stairs where Tate and Libby had been until a few moments before.

  Paige told him how she’d been brewing herself a cup of tea an hour or so before, she’d glanced through the window above the sink and she’d seen Reese get out of a ranch pickup and head for the barn. She hadn’t been suspicious until she’d seen him turn his head, looking to see if anybody was watching him. Worried, she’d pulled on a jacket and headed out there to investigate, all by herself, on crutches, with one foot in a cast and the other in a bedroom slipper.

  From there, according to Paige’s account, things went downhill, fast.

  She and Reese had argued, and then Libby had showed up, armed with a rifle. They’d had hard words, Libby and Reese, and she’d told him to get his things and hit the road.

  Ron Strivens had gotten there just in time to defuse the situation, but it was clear from the look in Paige’s eyes, even before she went on, that she thought Reese still presented a threat.

  “He said you killed his dog,” she finished miserably, her voice small and fretful.

  Austin moved to touch her face, half expecting her to flinch away. Instead, she closed her eyes as he stroked her cheek, then her hair.

  I love you, Paige Remington, he thought with such conviction and clarity that, for one horrifying moment, he was sure he’d said the words right out loud.

  Paige probably wasn’t ready to hear them.

  “I was afraid to tell you what happened,” she said, surprising him again. That seemed to be happening on a regular basis.

  “Why?” he asked, puzzled and a little alarmed.

  “Your temper, maybe?” she reminded him, with another of those little smiles and a luminosity in her eyes that struck him as a sadder thing than tears.

  “Paige.” The name came out scratchy and hoarse. Austin hesitated, then took her hand, ran the pad of his thumb lightly over her knuckles. “You don’t think—I wouldn’t hurt you—”

  “Not physically,” Paige said. There was tension in her now, and her spine was very straight. “Austin, of course I know that. That isn’t what I meant.”

  He closed his eyes, let out his breath. Not physically, she’d said. She knew he wouldn’t lay a hand on her in anger, then, and that was a consolation. But he’d hurt her in other ways, and she w
as too honest to pretend that he hadn’t.

  He felt her fingertips come to rest on his arm.

  “Austin,” she said very softly. “Look at me.”

  He opened his eyes. Met her gaze as directly as he could. “I’m looking,” he said with an attempt at a grin when she didn’t say anything right away.

  “I was afraid you would go after Reese and get hurt again,” she finally blurted out. And when he started to protest that, damn it all to hell, he could take care of himself, she pressed an index finger to his mouth to prevent it. “That’s what I meant when I said I was worried about your temper.”

  Austin sighed. Shoved a hand through his hair. “Would you mind doing me just one little favor?” he asked.

  “Depends,” Paige responded, with a note of mischief in her tone. Her eyes were tired, though, and he’d have bet money her ankle was hurting.

  “I want your promise, Paige,” he said, serious as all get-out and determined to get that across to her. “Give me your word that, next time you think there’s trouble, you’ll tell me or Tate or Garrett, and not just go barreling straight into the middle of it, all by yourself.”

  Paige lifted an eyebrow. “Fair enough,” she said. “As long as you’re willing to promise me the same thing in return.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “There’s a difference,” he said.

  “What difference?”

  Austin leaned in until his forehead touched hers. “I’m a man,” he told her. “And you’re a little bit of a thing—on crutches. What if Libby hadn’t seen you follow Reese into the barn, Paige? What if she hadn’t gone out there to make sure you were all right?”

  “She did see me go into the barn and she did come out there, Austin,” Paige pointed out.

  “You could have been hurt,” Austin insisted, straightening so he could look into her eyes.

  “Anybody can be hurt,” Paige retorted. “It’s a chance we all take, every day of our lives.”

  “Give me your word, Paige,” Austin said darkly.

  “Give me yours first,” she countered.

  They were sitting there, staring each other down, neither one of them willing to give an inch, when the door leading into the garage swung open and Calvin, Audrey and Ava burst into the kitchen, followed by Garrett.