McKettricks Bundle

by Linda Lael Miller

Jesse stepped up behind her, wrapped her loosely in his arms.

  She turned to look up into his eyes.

  “I love you, Cheyenne,” he said, very quietly.

  “I love you,” she replied.

  “Good,” he told her, “because that guy is outside, asking for you. Nigel.”

  Cheyenne frowned. “Nigel is here?”

  Jesse took her hand, led her out of the church hall, into the sunshine.

  Sure enough, Nigel was waiting on the sidewalk, looking winsomely apologetic. He wore a sports shirt and slacks, and Cheyenne saw his passport peeking out of one shirt pocket.

  “If you came to serve papers on me,” Cheyenne told him, in an angry whisper, “you picked a really lousy time to do it!”

  Nigel glanced at Jesse, then looked back at Cheyenne. “I’m not going to sue you,” he said.

  Cheyenne, who had advanced like a storm trooper, backpedaled a little. “You’re not?”

  “Of course I’m not,” Nigel said. “I was only trying to scare you into doing what I wanted.”

  “And you’re here—in the middle of our friends’ wedding celebration because—?”

  “Because I didn’t know there was a wedding until I got here,” Nigel said. “I came to apologize. Wipe the slate clean.”

  “Did the company collapse?”

  Nigel sighed, nodded. “My grandmother is waiting in England to welcome me back to the fold with open arms.” He paused, smiled sadly. “And a meat cleaver.”

  Jesse’s grip tightened on Cheyenne’s hand.

  “Forgive me?” Nigel wheedled.

  “I forgive you,” Cheyenne replied. “Which does not mean I ever want to lay eyes on you again, as long as I live.”

  Nigel grinned. “So long, Pocahontas,” he said. Then he leaned forward, kissed Cheyenne’s cheek lightly and turned to walk away.

  Jesse and Cheyenne stood on the church steps, watching him go.

  “Should I be jealous of that guy?” Jesse asked speculatively, after a long moment.

  “No,” Cheyenne replied, turning from her past and looking up into the face of her future.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Nigel is gay. And that’s just one of the reasons.”

  Jesse laughed. Then he pulled Cheyenne against him. Kissed her thoroughly—as thoroughly as if they were playing strip poker in his bedroom instead of standing in front of a church.

  “What was that for?” she asked, once she caught her breath.

  “Practice,” Jesse said.

  “Practice?”

  “Kissing. Churches. I’m kind of getting into the spirit of the thing.” He looked down at her, his eyes serious and soft. “Will you marry me, Cheyenne?”

  She swallowed. “M-Marry you?”

  He nodded.

  “When?”

  “When you’re ready. I don’t care how long it takes. I’ll wait.”

  She smiled, slipped her arms around his neck.

  The night before, she’d moved in with him.

  She’d hoped for a proposal, but she hadn’t expected it to come this soon. “My mother was right,” she said.

  Jesse looked puzzled. “About what?”

  “There is such a thing as a happy ending. That’s what she said. Inside, a few minutes ago, when Travis and Sierra were exchanging vows.”

  Jesse’s mouth turned up at the corner, in the way she loved. “Is this one of them? A happy ending, I mean?”

  “More like a happy beginning,” Cheyenne said. “And happy beginnings always start with a yes.”

  “Yes?” Jesse echoed.

  Cheyenne kissed him again.

  “Yes.”

  McKettrick’s Pride

  By Linda Lael Miller

  Contents

  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

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  THE DOG, FUR SOAKED, MATTED and muddy, sat forlornly on the rain-slicked pavement, next to Echo Wells’s custom-painted hot-pink Volkswagen bug. Echo, rushing from the truck-stop restaurant with the remains of her supper in a takeout box, in hopes of not getting too wet before she reached her car, stopped cold.

  “I do not need a dog,” she told the universe, tilting back her head and letting the drizzle wash away the last tired traces of her makeup.

  The dog whimpered. It was a large creature, of indeterminate color and breed. A slight indentation around its neck revealed that it had once worn a collar, and its ribs showed. One forepaw bore the brownish stain of old blood.

  “Oh, hell,” Echo said. She glanced around the parking lot, empty except for a few semitrucks and an ancient RV, but there was no one in sight, no one conveniently searching for a missing pet.

  The dog had obviously been on its own for days, if not weeks—or even months.

  Just imagining the loneliness, fear and deprivation the poor thing must have experienced made Echo shudder and opened a gaping chasm of sympathy within her.

  The canine wayfarer had either been dropped off—there was a special place in hell, in Echo’s opinion, for people who abandoned helpless animals—or it had gotten away somehow, while its owners were gassing up at the pumps or inside the restaurant having a meal.

  “I just had this car detailed,” Echo told the dog. The bug was her only vanity, a reckless indulgence with psychological implications she didn’t care to examine too closely.

  The animal whimpered again, and looked up at her with such sad hope in its soulful brown eyes that Echo’s heart melted all over again.

  Resigned, she rounded the car and opened the passenger door with one hand, balancing the takeout box in the other. The dog slunk along with her, half crouched, limping a little.

  “Go ahead,” she said gently. “Get in.”

  The dog hesitated, then made the leap into the seat—mud, rainwater and all.

  Echo sighed, opened the takeout box and stood in the rain, hand-feeding the animal the last of her meat loaf special. So much for staying within her travel budget by stretching every meal into at least two more.

  Ravenous, the poor critter gulped down its supper and looked up at Echo with such pathetic gratitude that tears came into her eyes.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, to herself as much as the dog. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

  She closed the car door, let the rain wash her hands clean, holding them out palms up as if in supplication, and rubbed them semidry on her ancient tan Burberry coat before settling behind the wheel once more.

  The dog, dripping onto Echo’s formerly clean leather seat, eyed her with weary adoration.

  Echo started the car, and the combination of wet dog and her own soggy raincoat instantly fogged up the windows.

  “This is Arizona,” she complained to her new traveling companion. “It’s supposed to be dry.”

  The dog sighed, as if to concur that nothing was as it should be.

  “You really are wet,” Echo remarked matter-of-factly. She switched on the defroster, pulled the lever to open the trunk and braved the elements again to get out the quilt she’d carried around with her since childhood. After bundling the dog, she peeled off her raincoat and tossed it over the seat before getting back in the car and buckling up.

  Cocooned in faded colors, the dog sighed again, lay down as best it could given the disparity between its size and that of the seat, and was snoring by the time Echo pulled out onto Highway 10.

  Two and a half hours later, on the outskirts of Phoenix, she turned into the lot of a medium-priced chain hotel. The rain had sto
pped, and there was a muggy warmth in the night air.

  The dog sat up, yawning, the quilt falling away in damp folds.

  Echo assessed the creature again. “I was hoping to make it to Indian Rock tonight,” she told her bedraggled passenger, “but I’m tired and, frankly, you stink. So I’m going to spring for a room, and we’ll hit the road again in the morning. Wait here.”

  The dog looked alarmed at the prospect of her departure, and made a low, whining sound in its throat.

  Echo patted its filthy head. “Not to worry, Muttzo,” she said. “It’s you and me until we find your people.”

  Grabbing her hobo bag, she got out of the car slowly, leaving a window cracked, and headed for the main entrance, hoping she didn’t smell like the dog.

  “Good news,” she said when she returned after fifteen minutes, clutching a key card in hand. “We’re in.” The dog was so glad to see her that it leaned across and laved her face with its rough, meatloaf-scented tongue. “Of course, I did tell them you were a toy poodle.”

  Echo drove around to the back and parked under a light. The dog politely paused to do its business in the shrubbery while Echo wrestled one of her suitcases out of the Volks. Inside, they slogged along a carpeted hallway to room 117 and entered.

  “You get the first bath,” Echo told her canine friend, leading the way to the bathroom. As soon as she turned on the faucet in the tub, the dog leaped over the side and lapped thirstily at the flow.

  The showerhead was on a long metal tube, one of those detachable jobs, so Echo took it down from its hook and knelt beside the tub. Finished slurping, the dog sat down, watching her, its eyes luminous with trust.

  “What do you know?” Echo asked, after considerable spraying. Ten pounds of dirt rolled down to the bottom of the tub and swirled around the drain. “You’re a white Lab. And female, too.”

  The dog gazed at her soulfully, enduring. One more trial in a long sequence of them.

  Echo opened a tiny packet of soap and lathered the dog’s coat. Rinsed. Lathered again. The soap bar wore away to a nubbin, so she fetched a bottle of shampoo from her cosmetic bag.

  More lathering. More rinsing.

  “You need a name,” Echo said as she towel-dried the dog. “Since there’s something faintly mystical and Lady-of-the-Lakeish about you—it’s the eyes, I think—” She paused, pondered and decided. “I hereby dub you Avalon.”

  Avalon, apparently understanding that the bath was over, leaped out of the tub and stood uncertainly on the mat for a few moments, as though awaiting a cue. When Echo didn’t issue any orders, the animal shook herself gloriously, dousing her human companion, and padded out into the main part of the hotel room.

  Echo laughed, found the blow-dryer and plugged it into a wall socket. Avalon’s snow-white fur curled endearingly under the onslaught of heat. Once the dog was thoroughly dry, Echo filled the ice bucket with water, set it on the floor and dodged into the bathroom for a badly needed shower of her own.

  When she came out, bundled in a robe, with her curly, shoulder-length blond hair standing out around her head like an aureole, Avalon had curled up on the floor, at the foot of the bed. The dog opened one brown eye and lifted her head slightly, and there was a certain stalwart wariness in her manner now, as if she expected to be chased away.

  Echo’s throat tightened. She knew what it was like to feel that way, to hover on the fringes of things, hoping not to be noticed and, at the same time, yearning desperately to belong.

  Her old life, in Chicago, had been all about waiting on the sidelines.

  “Hey,” she said, crouching to stroke Avalon’s soft, gleaming coat. “I’m a woman of my word. We’ll stick together, as long as necessary. Share and share alike.” She put out her hand and, to her surprise, Avalon placed a paw in her palm. They shook on the deal.

  After blow-drying her hair and winding it into a French braid to keep it from frizzing out, Echo pulled on a cotton nightshirt, brushed her teeth and climbed into bed, leaning to switch off the bedside lamp.

  Avalon gave a soft, pitiful whine, as though she were crying.

  Echo’s eyes burned again. “Come on, then,” she said. “There’s room enough up here for both of us.”

  Avalon jumped onto the bed, nested at Echo’s feet and fell asleep.

  Echo, exhausted after days on the road, wasn’t far behind.

  CORA TELLINGTON GREETED HER granddaughters, Rianna and Maeve, with exuberant hugs, on the sidewalk in front of Cora’s Curl and Twirl. The day was new-penny bright, and the only cloud on the horizon was the scowl on her son-in-law’s face as he got out of the gigantic SUV he drove whenever he came back to Indian Rock.

  Rance McKettrick eyed the storefront next to Cora’s combination beauty salon and baton-twirling school, apparently noting that the For Sale sign was gone from the dusty display window.

  “Finally unloaded the place, did you?” he asked. “Who’s the sucker?”

  Cora took in her late daughter’s handsome husband with a patient sigh. He stood six feet tall, and even in that expensive suit he was wearing, he managed to look like a rugged cowboy, just off the range. His hair was dark—Cora’s fingers itched to give it a trim—and his blue eyes were dusky with his private sorrow. Since Julie’s death, nearly five years ago now, though it didn’t seem possible she’d been gone that long, Rance had been living a half life, going through the motions. Phoning it in.

  Cora missed Julie as much as he did, if not more, because there are few losses more poignantly painful than burying one’s only child, but she’d come to terms with the grief for the sake of her granddaughters. They were so young, only six and ten, and they needed her. Of course, they needed Rance, too, and he loved them, in his own harried, distracted way, but he seemed to be able to push them onto an emotional back burner whenever he went away on business—which was all too often.

  “It’s going to be a bookstore,” Cora said of the storefront, as the girls rushed into her shop to raid the candy jar on the counter and be greeted by Cora’s three employees, who always fawned over them. “This town needs one of those.”

  Rance assessed the place, looking skeptical. “It’s going to take a lot of work,” he warned. “And things are tough for independent bookstores these days. Everybody shops at big-box chains or online.”

  Cora ignored that. “I got a decent price,” she said, studying him, with her hands on her still-slender hips. Thanks to years of baton twirling, Cora was still petite, even in her sixties, and she liked to dress flashy; hence her stylish jeans, silk blouse and rhinestone-trimmed denim vest. She changed the color of her hair often; that week, it was auburn, and pinned up into a do reminiscent of a Gibson girl’s. “What’s going on, Rance? You look like a thunderhead, rolling over the horizon and fixing to drop a shitload of rain.”

  Rance sighed, continuing to stand on the sidewalk, and for a moment, Cora felt sorry for him, even though she wanted to snatch him bald-headed most of the time, out of pure frustration.

  “I was wondering if you could keep Rianna and Maeve for a few days,” he said, having a hard time meeting her eyes. “There’s a big meeting in San Antonio, at the head office. Even Jesse’s going, which ought to tell you that it’s critical.”

  McKettrickCo, the conglomerate that had made Rance’s family rich, along with the largesse from their legendary Triple M Ranch, was on the verge of going public. There was a lot of dissension among the McKettricks over the move, and if they were converging on San Antonio, Cora realized, the meeting was indeed big. Jesse, Rance’s cousin, was notoriously indifferent to company operations, but maybe now that he was planning to marry up with that Bridges girl, he’d decided to become more responsible.

  To Cora’s way of thinking, Rance and his other cousin, Keegan, would have been better off to adopt Jesse’s original attitude—cash the dividend checks and celebrate every new sunrise.

  “Rance,” Cora said carefully, “Rianna’s birthday is coming up on Saturday. She was counting on a party. An
d Maeve’s getting her braces on bright and early Monday morning, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “Cora,” Rance replied, looking grave and a little guilty, “this is important.”

  “Rianna and Maeve,” Cora countered, “are more important.”

  “We’re talking about their future,” Rance argued, keeping his tone low. Folks were passing on the street, so he spared a rigid smile or two, but his overall expression went from grave to grim.

  “Come on,” Cora jibed. “They’ve already got trust funds that would choke a mule.” She leaned in a little, to make her point. “What they need is a father.”

  Rance bristled, as Cora could have predicted he’d do. “They’ve got one,” he growled.

  “Do they?” Cora asked. “Jesse pays more attention to them than you do. He’s the one who came to their baton recital last week, when you were in Hong Kong or Paris or wherever the hell you were.”

  “Do we have to have this conversation on the goddamned sidewalk?” Rance demanded, in a furious undertone.

  “We’re not having it inside, where your daughters can hear.”

  Rance spread his hands. “Rianna and Maeve are okay with this,” he insisted. “We can reschedule the orthodontic thing, and Sierra’s going to throw a little do for Rianna’s birthday, on the ranch.”

  Cora folded her arms. She didn’t like playing her trump card, but she was about to, because Rance McKettrick needed to wake the heck up and get it through his hard head that his girls were growing up. He couldn’t keep on treating them like appointments to be shifted around to suit his crazy schedule. “What do you think Julie would say if she could see what’s happened to her children, Rance? And to you?”

  For a moment, he looked as though she’d struck him. Then he shoved one of his big rancher’s hands through his hair and huffed out an exasperated breath. “Damn it, Cora, that was below the belt!”

  “Call it whatever you want,” Cora replied, hurting for him and determined not to let it show. “You and those little girls meant more to Julie than anyone or anything on earth. She gave up a career to make a home for all of you, out there on the Triple M, and now you treat the place like a hotel with express checkout!”