McKettrick's Heart

by Linda Lael Miller

  By the time they caught up with Keegan, he’d found the box of diapers, along with a folded blanket Molly didn’t recognize, some wipes and a bottle of hand sanitizer.

  Molly might have laughed at the incongruity of it if little chunks of her heart hadn’t been breaking off and falling away.

  Keegan spread the blanket in a warm but shady place, out of the general flow of traffic, and Molly knelt to lay Lucas on his back and change his diaper. Keegan went back to the truck and returned with a baby bottle, filled with milk.

  He was a miracle worker, Molly thought.

  Or maybe just a father.

  Gratefully she accepted the bottle, gave it to Lucas, who took it hungrily in both hands, bit down on the nipple and drank. Watching him, Molly forgot all about Sierra and Liam and even Keegan—until he sat down beside her, watching her watch Lucas.

  “You really love him,” he said.

  “Of course I do,” Molly whispered, near tears. This time with Lucas, it was so precious. So brief. “He’s my son.”

  Sierra and Liam had gone, she realized. She and Lucas and Keegan were alone, despite the size of the gathering. The laughter, the tired horses drinking from the stream and munching hay, the campfire and the sizzling food—all of it seemed oddly removed.

  Keegan got to his feet, said something about checking on Devon and walked away into that other dimension, so near and yet so far away.

  Lucas let his bottle fall, fighting sleep.

  Molly lay down beside him and promptly dozed off.

  DEVON AND A TRIBE of other kids were wading in the creek a few hundred yards west of the camp—by nightfall, they’d be covered in mosquito bites and dog tired, sitting sleepily around the bonfire and roasting marshmallows over the flames. Keegan smiled, remembering similar episodes from his own childhood, when he and Rance and Jesse had ranged all over the Triple M, wild as any critter in the high country.

  Heading back, he paused to get another blanket from the supply in the back of one of the pickups, then went to cover Molly and Lucas with it, careful not to wake them.

  When he turned to leave again, he practically collided with Meg.

  She put her finger to her lips, then crooked her arm through Keegan’s and tugged him away.

  Under the shade of a cottonwood tree Jesse had a poker game going with Rance and Travis and a few Texas McKettricks. Cheyenne, Emma and Sierra were setting out food on the long folding tables brought along for the purpose, chatting with an ease that reminded Keegan poignantly of other such occasions, long ago.

  Meg finally perched on a large flat rock overlooking the valley below, and Keegan sat down beside her.

  “You looked like somebody gut-punched you, at the meeting this morning,” she said, drawing her booted feet up and wrapping both arms around her knees. She wore jeans and a long-sleeved blue T-shirt, and her blond hair was artfully cut to look mussed.

  “I had a feeling it would turn out the way it did,” Keegan said. “I guess I just hoped I was wrong.”

  Meg studied him. “Mom says the new board is probably going to offer you a pretty attractive package to stay on.”

  Keegan didn’t say anything. He’d heard rumors to that effect ever since the talk about going public had begun, but he’d never been interested.

  Meg grinned, elbowed him playfully. “Speaking of pretty attractive packages,” she said, “the lady you just covered with that blanket certainly qualifies. What’s her name?”

  “Molly Shields,” Keegan answered dryly. “As if you didn’t already know.”

  Meg’s eyes twinkled, but they were still filled with solemn secrets, just like always. “Rance and Jesse are taking bets,” she said, “that she’s the one.”

  “The one what?” Keegan asked, stalling.

  She elbowed him again, a little harder this time. “The One.”

  “Well,” Keegan said, “I hope you didn’t put any money on it.”

  Meg shifted. “I was sorry to hear about Psyche, Keeg,” she told him. “Seems like things are just piling up on you these days.”

  He nodded. “Shelley’s in Paris, looking for an apartment. She wants to move there with the boyfriend and put Devon in some boarding school.”

  “You’re not going to let her, are you? Take Devon to France, I mean?”

  “I’m not sure I can stop her,” Keegan said after a long time. “She’s Devon’s mother, after all.”

  “And you’re her father.” She paused, and an awkward pause followed as Keegan looked back over his shoulder to make sure Devon wasn’t nearby.

  “As far as I’m concerned, yes,” he said. “I’m Devon’s father. But Shelley’s up to something, Meg. She’s tried to tap Devon’s trust fund a couple of times already, and once word is out about McKettrickCo and the IPO, she’s going to want a piece of it. Even if she has to use her own daughter.”

  “Have you talked to Travis about this?”

  Keegan shook his head. “Not specifically. We discussed suing Shelley for full custody once or twice, but you know what will happen if I do that. All hell will break loose, and Devon will take the brunt of it. And there’s no assurance that I’ll win.”

  “You could always offer Shelley what she loves best,” Meg suggested, rubbing her fingers together in the age-old sign for money.

  “Dad!” Devon called anxiously, and both Meg and Keegan turned to see her running toward them. “Mr. Terp’s here! He drove all the way out from town because—because—” She stopped, gasping.

  Keegan bolted off the rock to intercept Devon, took her gently but firmly by the shoulders. “Because of Psyche?” he asked, sick with dread.

  Devon nodded her head. “But it’s not—what you—think!” Finally she caught her breath. “A man broke in to her house and it scared Mrs. Washington so much, she had to go to the clinic to get her heart checked, and he’s in jail, the man, I mean, and he says he knows Molly—Mrs. Terp is there, with Psyche, but she can’t stay—”

  Keegan left Devon with Meg and headed back toward the center of camp. Molly was already sitting in the front seat of Wyatt Terp’s personal vehicle, an old Suburban, Lucas fidgeting in her lap. Wyatt stood at a little distance, talking to Rance and Jesse.

  When he saw Keegan, he came out to meet him. “I’m sorry for interrupting a family shindig,” Wyatt said, “but I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “It’s all right, Wyatt,” Keegan replied, turning back to look for Devon, who was practically on his heels, with Meg a little way behind. “Do you want to stay, Dev, or go to town with me?” he asked.

  Devon looked torn. Of course she wanted to stay—she was a kid and this was a campout, complete with horses, cousins and marshmallows waiting to be roasted—but she was willing to throw all that over at his say-so.

  “I’ll watch out for Devon,” Meg said.

  Keegan kissed his daughter’s forehead. “Give me an answer, shortstop,” he said.

  “I’d rather stay,” she told him.

  Keegan kissed her again. “No worrying,” he said. And then he got into the back of Wyatt’s rig.

  The trip back down to lower ground was a rough one, since there was no real road, and by the time they reached Rance’s place, where Keegan had left the Jag, Molly looked as though she’d been dragged behind the Suburban the whole way.

  She fumbled so much trying to hook Lucas into his car seat that Keegan finally had to ease her aside and take over the job himself. Wyatt, having done his duty, was already on his way back to town.

  Molly plopped into the passenger seat and sat limply, staring through the windshield.

  Keegan got behind the wheel, started the engine and ate Wyatt’s dust all the way to the city limits.

  Molly didn’t speak the whole way, and neither did Keegan—at least, not to her. He called the clinic, was told that Florence had been given some medication and one of the nurses had driven her home. She’d had a shock, though, and she was to rest. Taking care of Psyche was out of the question.

  Whe
n they passed the police station, Keegan slowed.

  “Don’t stop,” Molly said.

  Wyatt had kept up a running commentary on the situation all the way from Jesse’s ridge to Rance’s place. She hadn’t commented once, even when her name had come up in connection with the yahoo cooling his heels in jail on charges of breaking and entering.

  “You want to tell me who this guy is?” Keegan finally asked. He tried to speak calmly, but inside, he was seething. For a while there he’d actually felt sorry for Molly, even thought she might be on the level.

  “No,” she said. “I don’t. Not right now, anyway.”

  Keegan set his jaw. When they pulled up outside Psyche’s place, he went around for Lucas again. Molly reached for the little boy, but Keegan held him away.

  She followed Keegan up the walk.

  He tried the door, found it locked.

  Molly gave him a triumphant look, fished a key out of her jeans pocket and used it.

  He stormed through the house, set Lucas in his playpen in the kitchen.

  Psyche was in her hospital bed on the sunporch. Seeing Keegan, she held out her arms. “Thank God you’re here,” she said.

  He allowed her to cling to him until she was ready to let go, and sagged back onto her pillows.

  “Where’s Florence?” Molly asked.

  “In her room,” Psyche answered, “resting. She’s had a terrible turn.”

  “What happened?” Keegan asked. He’d heard Wyatt’s version, but he wanted Psyche’s.

  “Florence was up on the third floor, vacuuming the carpets,” Psyche said. “She heard something and thought it came from Molly’s room, so she went to investigate.” Psyche stopped, laid a hand to her chest, took several shaky breaths. “There was a man in there, wearing a ski mask and ransacking the bureau drawers. Florence screamed and hurried down all three flights of stairs, burst through the doorway and told me what was happening—and then she collapsed. Thank God I’d been talking on the phone earlier, and I still had the receiver. I called 911, and Wyatt came, but I thought he’d never get here, and there was Florence moaning on the floor, and that awful prowler somewhere in the house—”

  Keegan poured water from the carafe at Psyche’s bedside and held the cup to her mouth so she could take a few sips.

  “According to Wyatt’s deputy,” Psyche went on when she’d finished the water, “the prowler said Molly would explain everything….”

  Keegan shot a glare in Molly’s direction.

  She blushed, squared her shoulders.

  “Molly?” Psyche urged, looking confused and fearful.

  “His name is Davis Jerritt,” Molly said. “And he’s a famous writer.”

  “DAVE,” MOLLY SAID an hour later when she stood in front of her client’s cell, “this time you’ve really gone over the line.”

  Keegan stared at the outlaw with apparent fascination.

  A tall, skinny man with a thatch of red hair now standing out from his head in all directions, Dave paced the narrow space behind the bars. He was clearly manic. “I’ve come up with a whole new character,” he enthused. “Now that I’ve been in stir—”

  “Dave,” Molly interrupted, “you are not in ‘stir.’ You are in a municipal jail in Indian Rock, Arizona. Try to stay with me here. You’ve been arrested, and it’s not a scene in one of your books. This is real, Dave. You broke in to someone’s house and, believe me, you are in big trouble.”

  Dave rolled his unimpressive shoulders, and finally noticed Keegan looming beside Molly like a storm cloud. She’d expected him to stay with Psyche, but when Florence had rallied enough to take charge again, he’d insisted on driving her to the jail.

  “Who’s this?” Dave asked with interest.

  “Keegan McKettrick,” Molly said, resenting the distraction.

  “A fan, I suppose,” Dave said, pleased.

  “Not really,” Molly clarified. “If it weren’t for these bars, he’d probably reach down your throat and grab your gizzard.”

  “Things like that happen in stir,” Dave said knowingly.

  Molly rolled her eyes. “When did you last take your medication?” she asked.

  “There aren’t enough drugs on the planet to pull this guy back through the ozone,” Keegan said.

  “Shut up,” Molly told him. Then she remembered he wasn’t a client.

  “Tuesday,” Dave answered. He turned an imploring gaze on Keegan. “It was research,” he said. “For my new book. The hero is a psychotic stalker, and I had to know how he felt.”

  “Holy shit,” Keegan marveled.

  Molly turned on her heel, went out into the office, looking for Wyatt. She found him standing by the water cooler, staring into a cup.

  “Dave needs to go to the hospital,” she said. “Now.”

  “The hospital?” Wyatt asked, befuddled.

  “He’s bipolar to the power of ten, and he hasn’t taken his medication since Tuesday. Which Tuesday is anybody’s guess.”

  “You do this for a living?” Keegan wanted to know.

  “It’s complicated,” Molly said. “Shouldn’t you get back to Psyche?”

  “She’s all right,” Keegan replied. “Florence is with her. I can’t believe you do this for ten percent of any amount of money.”

  “Fifteen percent,” Molly corrected. “I get fifteen percent, and fifteen percent of what Davis Jerritt can command is a lot.”

  “I’ll call an ambulance,” Wyatt said.

  “Good idea,” Molly replied, checking her watch. “Tell them to strap him down.”

  “Will you be riding up to Flagstaff with him?” the lawman asked.

  “No,” Molly said. “He is so fired.”

  With that, she headed for the front door, stormed out into the night.

  Keegan kept up. “I thought my job was crazy,” he said.

  Molly drew herself up. “Most of my clients,” she replied coolly, “are sane professionals.”

  “Right,” Keegan said. Damn him, he was loving this. “Florence told me about the old guy who came all the way to Indian Rock to fire you for about the tenth time. I think she’s got a crush on his chauffeur.”

  Molly started to laugh. It was, she figured, an hysterical reaction.

  “Come on,” Keegan said, shuffling her toward his Jag, which was parked by the curb. “I’ll take you home.”

  “Where would that be?” she asked.

  Keegan eased her into the front seat of his car and even went so far as to lean in and fasten her seat belt for her. “Since Los Angeles is out of the question, I guess I’ll take you back to Psyche’s.”

  It was remarkable, Molly thought, how a person could be laughing one minute and crying the next.

  Keegan thrust out a sigh. “Okay,” he said.

  “Okay?” Molly asked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He went around the car, opened the door on the driver’s side, got in. “It means ‘okay,’” he said. “And stop trying to pretend you’re not crying.”

  She sniffled. “I’m not crying,” she said.

  “Bullshit,” Keegan answered charitably.

  Molly expected him to head straight for Psyche’s house, but he didn’t. He turned the wrong way on the highway and pulled into the lot of a place called the Roadhouse.

  “You’re hungry,” he said when Molly gave him a questioning look.

  “I am not,” she lied.

  “Well,” Keegan answered, “I am.” He shut off the car, got out and came around to open Molly’s door. “You can sit here and starve if you want to,” he told her when she didn’t move. “But it would be stupid and, believe me, it won’t keep me from enjoying a double cheeseburger deluxe with everything.”

  “Lucas—”

  “Lucas is fine,” he said.

  Molly unsnapped her seat belt and got out of the car. Keegan rested a hand on the small of her back and steered her toward the entrance of the restaurant.

  “I’m sorry, Keegan,” she said, without intendi
ng to say anything of the kind. She had to stop ambushing herself like this.

  A hostess led them to a corner booth. Keegan didn’t take his hand off Molly’s back. He didn’t answer, either.

  “About Dave,” she clarified. “Florence got a terrible scare, and so did Psyche. And you had to leave your family up on the mountain.”

  Keegan opened a menu and studied it as though he hadn’t already decided on a double cheeseburger deluxe with everything.

  For some reason, Molly found his silence almost impossible to bear.

  “Say something,” she said.

  “You really need to look into other career opportunities,” he replied.

  Suddenly her sinuses clogged up again, and her eyes burned. “I thought I had a whole new career lined up,” she told him. “I was going to be my son’s mother.”

  Keegan closed the menu.

  The waitress came back and, without taking his eyes off Molly, he ordered for both of them.

  “I’m staying at Psyche’s place tonight,” he announced when the food-service professional had gone. “Just in case another of your clients shows up to do research.”

  CHAPTER

  11

  PSYCHE, LUCAS AND FLORENCE were all sound asleep on the sunporch when Keegan and Molly returned to the house—Psyche in her hospital bed, Florence in a chair pulled back from the table, and Lucas in his playpen.

  The sight had a curious effect on Keegan; they were a brave little band of three, lost in some strange and uncertain place and huddled together for safety.

  Molly moved to approach Lucas, probably intending to carry him upstairs and put him to bed in his crib, but Keegan reached out, stopped her. Shook his head when she gave him a curious, somewhat wary look.

  He put a finger to his lips when she would have spoken and stepped back into the kitchen. Molly followed, and he reached past her to pull the sliding door shut, careful to make as little noise as possible.

  “Sit down,” he said when Molly began to look rebellious.

  She balked, then shrugged stiffly, went to the table and sat. “What?” she asked in a testy whisper. Evidently the salutary effects of a double cheeseburger with everything were already wearing off.