Frustration tore at him at the sight of his friend in pain. He wanted to solve the problem, to fix things for Vaughn. What a useless desire, considering his own life was screwed six ways to Sunday. Vaughn was right about Kellan’s choices, but knowing logically what he needed to do and hearing firsthand how the same situation had torn his friend’s relationship apart were different animals entirely. Mostly, though, it hurt that Vaughn hadn’t confided in him sooner.
“When you were going through all that, you should have let me know. I would’ve been there for you.”
He propped an arm on the rail and raised an eyebrow at Kellan. “Would you have been? I’m not so sure. You’re like a brother to me, K, but I’m sorry, I don’t think you would’ve handled it well.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look, a big part of my job is reading people—their motivations, their emotions. All that criminal psychology bullshit really works. Best weapon I have for solving a case, so I know what I’m talking about. I know you better than anyone and I can tell you that you judge other people and yourself by this impossible standard of perfection.”
Kellan opened his mouth to protest, but Vaughn cut him off.
“No, listen—you know it’s true. And I didn’t want you judging me. I was going through too much already. You would’ve pulled the I told you so card.”
Kellan reeled, too angry and surprised to speak. Vaughn’s comment cut him to the bone. Any way he looked at it, the people he cared about held themselves apart from him. His best friend hadn’t trusted him with his biggest secret. His brother thought he’d abandoned him. And Amy . . . It was too upsetting to consider how she felt about him now. He wondered about Chris and Lisa, if they’d agree with Vaughn’s assessment. “Am I really so bad?”
“Not bad. I think, with the way you grew up, you can’t help it. You’re protecting yourself. I get it.”
“I’m sorry . . . I don’t know what else to say.”
He slugged Kellan’s shoulder, flashing his characteristic Vaughn smile. “Don’t sweat it. You and I are cool. I’m here, aren’t I? Fixing Remington’s shoe, solving your Amarex problems, and giving you advice about your love life. I gotta say, I wish you hadn’t blown up my smokes.”
“I’m not sorry about that.”
“Nah, me neither. I don’t want to get started again.” Gradually, the pain that had gripped Vaughn’s features melted away. Kellan was relieved to see his old friend again. “I’m going to grab my tools and hit the road.” He waggled his finger at Kellan and pulled a face. “Some of us need our beauty sleep more than others.”
Kellan gave him a playful shove as he walked inside. “You talking to me, ugly?”
“Aw, now, that hurts. You better watch it or I’ll send you a bill for my farrier services.”
“That would be a first. How about I pay you in steaks?” He stuck his hand out.
Vaughn shook it with an exaggerated up and down. “Man, you’re getting the short end of the stick with that deal.”
He grabbed his tool bag and the CD Kellan had burned for him of his conversations with Morton. “I’ll be in touch about the Amarex plan once I’ve lined all the pieces up with the FBI. Do me a favor and sit tight until then. Don’t contact Morton until I give you the green light. And for the love of God, don’t tell Amy what you’re up to.”
“Thanks for your help on this.”
They shook again, more genuinely this time, and thumped shoulders. “You and I are family, K. And I don’t take that lightly. Someone messes with my family, they mess with me.”
He watched as Vaughn let himself out, marveling at how he’d inadvertently echoed Rachel’s words from the night before at the hospital. He tried to visualize the two of them together, on Kellan’s sofa, drinking beer and eating steak, but he couldn’t see it. For his friend’s peace of mind, he hoped the two of them found a path through their heartache, back to each other.
He caught sight of his desk in his periphery and moved toward it. After more than a week of mostly sleepless nights, he should’ve been ready to collapse from exhaustion, but too many dark thoughts left him restless. Tired, yes, but not the least bit sleepy. Time to bite the bullet and make the phone call he’d put off for too long.
It took him the better part of an hour to locate Jake’s number, scribbled on the back of a Slipping Rock business card. As he dialed, he prayed the number was current. His brother could’ve easily moved or gotten a new phone in the two years since they’d last spoken.
That call had been brutal. Jake had phoned to let him know he’d gotten married the week before to his girlfriend of three years. Kellan vividly recalled his initial shock, and the indignation that replaced it. His only sibling had gotten married and he hadn’t been invited. He hadn’t even known Jake had a live-in girlfriend.
When Chris and Lisa got engaged, Chris sat Kellan down and explained that he was obliged to make his younger brother, Nathan, the best man at his wedding to Lisa. It was a family thing, he said. And Kellan understood, no problem. He accepted Chris’s invitation to be a groomsman along with Vaughn and Chris’s older brother, Tom, and a couple cousins. Kellan felt honored to be included even that much, given Chris’s expansive family ties.
He’d sent his brother a gift, a deluxe espresso machine from their Internet registry, but four months later, the machine arrived on Kellan’s doorstep with a brief note. Apparently, Jake and his new bride had already divorced. Looking back, Kellan should have called Jake to offer support and condolences, but he was sore about being excluded from the wedding. And anyhow, what would he have said? The rift separating them was too vast to bridge.
The ringing of the phone stopped. Then, “Kellan?” Jake’s deep baritone was groggy. He cleared his throat. “Something wrong?”
“Jake, sorry to bug you in the middle of the night. Nothing’s wrong.” He couldn’t bring himself to update Jake about their parents. Not yet. That part of the conversation would be tense, loaded with the weight of their shared nightmare. For the moment, he just wanted to talk with his brother. “How are you?”
“Uh . . . fine.” Jake’s unspoken question radiated through the phone. What do you want? “And you?”
“Things are good. Business-wise, I mean. Beef prices rose 2 percent this last quarter. Er . . . you know, that’s always good. Weather’s been cold. Two separate storms rolled through this week. Looks like it might be a white Christmas if the storm track stays put.” Kellan cringed. Why was it so awkward to talk to his own flesh and blood? “So, where are you living now?”
Another long pause, then a sigh. Disapproving. Kellan shook his head and stood. He wanted to shove something. Like maybe his fist through the nearest wall. Instead he prowled through his dark house and onto the porch. Max trailed behind. The cold soothed his nerves and gave him something to focus on besides impotent frustration.
“It’s two A.M., Kellan. I’ve got to be at work in four hours. What do you say we get to the real reason for your call?”
Didn’t that say it all? “Mom contacted Bruce. Told him Dad was out of jail. She hasn’t called me yet, but it’s only a matter of time. I thought you should know, in case they call you too.”
“Thanks, but I already knew from a contact of mine in Florida.”
And you couldn’t extend me the same courtesy of a heads-up call? “Okay, good.” What else could he say? He wracked his brain, his anxiety mounting. He didn’t want the call to end. If he hung up the phone, what reason would they ever have to speak again? “Tell you what, I’m going to send you some beef, all right? I’ve got a surplus of the good stuff. You’ll like it. Grills up tender.”
“Nice. Thanks.” At least Jake didn’t hesitate to accept his offer. Kellan took a measure of solace in that.
“Are you still at the same address?”
“No. I moved into a condo in Burbank last year. You have a pen and paper handy?”
“Just a sec.” Kellan strode inside and dug around his desk for scrap paper and pen. “
Yep, ready.” He scribbled the address. Now what did he say? “Guess I’ll let you get to sleep.”
“Thanks for the call. And the beef.”
“Wait, Jake. One more thing. Have you ever heard of Terra Bistro? It’s in L.A.”
“What? Uh . . . I think so, if it’s the one I’m thinking of, near the Strip. Driven by it a few times. Never been in. Too fancy for my taste. Why?”
“I know a chef who used to work there. My neighbor. Just curious, is all.”
“Good night, Kellan.”
Okay, I give up. “’Night, Jake.”
Wandering back outside to settle in a porch chair, he fingered the paper with Jake’s address. Birthing a calf with his bare hands would’ve been more enjoyable than that phone call. Then again, what had he expected—a surprise declaration of brotherly love?
This time, as opposed to after all their other failed attempts at communication, Kellan didn’t vow to punish Jake with silence. He was still angry, but he knew he’d reach out to his brother again soon. He’d mail Jake a nice pack of steaks, along with a Christmas card. Maybe he’d sign him up for a regular monthly delivery, free of charge. The idea of sharing that part of himself with Jake, the part he was most proud of, felt right.
It was easy to pinpoint what tipped the scales in his head and heart, and made him want to try harder with Jake. He’d spent years amidst Chris’s perfect, functional family, and made numerous trips with Vaughn to his parents’ house. But neither clan had flipped the switch like Amy and her sisters had with their messy, dysfunctional love and loyalty to each other, with their willingness to fight for their family’s survival despite the odds stacked against them.
And then there was Tommy, sleeping and drooling on Kellan’s chest for hours in the hospital, dripping pie and juice on his shirt, cuddling his sweet moon face under Kellan’s chin. He’d never been loved as fiercely as this little boy had been since the moment of his conception and would continue to be for the whole of his life. Amy gave up a big-city career to help salvage Tommy’s future, and Rachel, with unmitigated fury in her eyes, stormed into his house that night, ready to protect her clan at all costs.
Sitting on his porch, holding Jake’s address and stewing over his envy of the hand Tommy had been dealt in life, the truth hit Kellan like a sucker punch. He’d been wrong about so many things, but mostly this—he’d thought he could build a better family than the one he’d been given. He thought he could choose the elements that created a perfect life like he might choose a bull for breeding. He thought an ideal family involved tranquillity and constancy, not drama and strife and pain.
But his parameters had been too rigid. Love involved constancy, yes, but so much more. Love was not so much about harmony, but about the fight to hold on to it, no matter what. Even when it hurt. Amy and her sisters had taught him that what mattered most about love was its ferocity.
Brisk knocking sounded at the front door.
Amy looked up from the papers spread before her on the dining room table. The clock read eleven A.M. If Kellan was at her doorstep, she wasn’t sure what she’d do. Two hours ago, she would have sent him packing. After tossing a bowl of diced celery at him along with a slew of obscenities and insults.
Now, though, she wasn’t so sure. Because she’d spent the morning studying the dried papers from his briefcase, all of which painted a startlingly complicated, albeit confusing, picture of Kellan’s motives with his family business.
In a desperate bid to make sense of it all, she’d snagged Jenna’s laptop and entered Kellan’s name into an online database. Before long, she’d found information on his parents’ crimes and jail sentences. A search on Amarex’s CEO, Bruce Morton, revealed his family tie to Kellan. She kicked herself for not taking this simple step before their date last Friday.
If she’d bothered to research Brock McKenna at any point during Ultimate Chef ’s filming, she would have spared herself from heartbreak and public ridicule, and probably stayed in the running to be crowned the winner of Ultimate Chef. From now on, rule number six was to research her prospective dates.
The knock sounded at the door again.
Mr. Dixon poked his head into the dining room, drying his hands on a dish towel. “Would you like me to get that, Amy?”
Sigh. “I don’t know. I’m thinking.”
He slung the towel over his shoulder. “You’re afraid it’s Kellan Reed?”
“You bet.”
“I’ve got a pot of dirty water soaking from last night’s enchilada sauce. If you want, I can toss it on him.”
They shared an impish grin. “No, no. Whoever’s here, you can show them in.”
He crossed through the room and disappeared.
Amy strained to listen, praying it wasn’t Kellan despite the fact her pulse quickened in anticipation. The door opened and a female voice echoed through the house. Heels clip-clopped over the floor behind Mr. Dixon’s rubber-soled gait. Amy couldn’t decide if she were disappointed or relieved.
Sloane Delgado materialized in the doorway, dressed in what could only be described as a two-piece sailor skirt suit, with a backpack dangling from her hand. “Hi, Amy.”
“Hey there. Don’t you have school this week?”
With a weary roll of her head, she clomped across the room and hefted her backpack onto the table. “It’s finals week, so the schedule’s different. I studied all weekend at home, but Grandma’s off work this week and she’s babysitting my sister’s brats.”
“Brats, huh? You’re not a fan of your nieces and nephews?”
“I love them. I just don’t like them. All that shouting and running. Biting.” Shuddering, she unzipped her bag and emptied the contents on the table. “I couldn’t take it anymore. So I thought, it’s quiet here and you have a lot of extra space. Can I study here this week?”
Amy eyed the stack of books. Her first instinct was to send the girl to the library. She and her sisters had planned a meeting about the lawsuit in an hour, then she’d drive to the hospital that afternoon. With her family’s future in limbo, she didn’t have time to run a charity home for the town’s misfits and stragglers. She could barely manage her own life, for Pete’s sake.
Mr. Dixon patted the top book on the stack, a huge statistics tome. “Of course you can stay, honey. I’m making biscuits and gravy for lunch. There’s more than enough for everyone.”
Sloane’s shoulders relaxed and she flopped onto the bench. “Thank you.”
Well, that settled it.
She gathered the dried Amarex papers to make room for Sloane. Something small fluttered to the ground. A blue and white business card. She retrieved it. Scrawled on the back in sloppy, male writing were the words: He works pro bono and is expecting your call.
She flipped it to the front. MATT ROENICK, ATTORNEY AT LAW. SPECIALIZING IN OIL AND MINERAL RIGHTS LEASING LAW. Beneath his title was a Santa Fe address. Why would Kellan, the Amarex heir, offer her an attorney recommendation? That was the thing about all these papers. They didn’t add up to an easy conclusion. Kellan had a copy of Amarex’s lawsuit, but he’d also brought a spreadsheet detailing past suits that Amarex lost to other New Mexico home owners.
She glanced at Sloane, whose nose was already deep into a book, and nearly gasped. The sailor blouse was backless. Go figure. It looked as if a piece of fabric had accidentally dropped off. Beneath the wide, white polyester collar, her bared spine curved over the table, her muscles working as she scribbled notes on index cards.
Clattering pots and running water sounded from the kitchen as Mr. Dixon puttered through his day. It was an unexpected comfort, hearing those familiar noises from her childhood kitchen. If her mom had the energy to work in the kitchen, it meant she was having a good day and Amy and her sisters could breathe easy. Closing her eyes, she could see her mom at the sink, washing dishes and staring at the fields through the window. Her expression distant, much like it had been this year.
Maybe instead of seeing vivid colors through her nursing hom
e window, Mom saw their farm in its glory days, back when high school junior Bethany Davis was courted by Gerald Sorentino, one of the most popular boys in town. In pictures taken of the family land around that time, the fields surrounding the big house teemed with life. Amy’s grandparents bred cattle and hogs, and supported a long list of employees and farmhands. With her eyes still closed, she said a prayer that her mom was at peace.
With Mr. Dixon’s soothing kitchen noises as her background music, Amy dove into the papers again, looking for anything that might allow her family to keep their farm. When she looked up again, it was because Jenna’s, Tommy’s, and Rachel’s voices had broken the silence. She glanced at her watch. Time for their lunch meeting. Sloane raised her head and frowned, looking thoroughly put off by the interruption.
“Sorry, Sloane. Jenna, Rachel, and I have to talk business. You’re welcome to move to the desk in the front room.”
“Thanks,” she muttered around the pen she was holding in her lips. Scooping her book and stack of index cards into her arms, she sidestepped Tommy, who was running at turbo speed into the room, making airplane noises.
“Tommy, watch where you’re going,” Jenna hollered, trotting after him. “Oh, hey, Sloane.”
“Mmm,” Sloane answered, and kept moving.
Jenna did a double take at the back of Sloane’s blouse and looked to Amy for an explanation.
“Future fashion designer,” Amy whispered.
Jenna shot her an okay sign with her fingers. “How did the Internet research go?” she asked, taking a seat on the bench across from Amy. Rachel took the seat next to her.
“Bruce Morton, Amarex’s CEO, is definitely Kellan’s uncle. I couldn’t find anything naming Kellan as Morton’s heir, but it makes sense because Morton has no children of his own and only one sibling, Kellan’s mom, Tina.”
Rachel picked through a bowl of oranges on the table before selecting one. “I didn’t think modern companies worked like that, naming an heir and whatnot. Seems pretty archaic.”
“It’s probably not so much about inheriting the company as inheriting stock interest, would be my guess,” Jenna said.
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