McKettricks Bundle

by Linda Lael Miller

  With that, they went their separate ways.

  IT WAS AFTER MIDNIGHT when Molly maneuvered Lucas into his pajamas and laid him in his crib.

  “Isn’t he beautiful?”

  Molly hadn’t realized Psyche was in the room, and she started slightly before turning to face the other woman. “He is,” she whispered.

  Psyche crossed to Lucas’s crib, touched his sweat-curled hair with a tremulous hand. Her eyes glistened in the semidarkness. “Dear God,” she murmured. “What I’d give to see him grow up.”

  Had Psyche been anyone but who she was, Molly might have put an arm around her in an effort to lend comfort. But Psyche was the wronged wife, and Molly had played a major part in that betrayal.

  “Let’s go downstairs,” Psyche said very softly, tucking Lucas’s favorite blanket around him. “I could really use a glass of wine.”

  “Me, too,” Molly admitted.

  They rode down in the elevator, neither one speaking.

  The kitchen was dark and extra-empty without Florence there, peeling potatoes, warming milk for Lucas or muttering while she listened to the commentators she loved to hate on the countertop radio.

  Psyche got out a Napa red while directing Molly to the wineglasses.

  Enervated by the day, Psyche soon collapsed into a chair at the table.

  Molly wielded the corkscrew and poured.

  “It’s a hard thing, dying,” Psyche said.

  “I suppose you tried all the treatments,” Molly replied after swallowing hard. She’d been doing that a lot since coming to Indian Rock.

  Psyche hoisted her glass in a wry salute. “Everything,” she said. “Trust me, the ‘cure’ definitely is worse than the disease.”

  They each sipped their wine.

  Then, out of the blue, Psyche said, “Keegan is a good man, Molly.”

  “He’s a—well, never mind what he is.”

  Psyche smiled, but there was a lot of sadness in her eyes. “I’ve known him since kindergarten,” she mused. “He always fought my battles for me. That’s one of Keegan’s problems, you know. He’s an Old West kind of man, trapped in a modern world.”

  “I saw his Jag,” Molly said moderately. “His clothes are expensive. I don’t get the Old West connection.”

  Psyche sighed. “Wait till you see him on a horse.”

  The image came to Molly’s mind, in living color. Once again she felt an inner shift, painful and sweet.

  “You will, you know,” Psyche went on. “See Keegan on a horse, I mean. Because I want Lucas to learn to ride, and there’s no one better to teach him.”

  Molly looked into the future, saw it stretching out before her, filled with Lucas growing up through the stages of a typical boyhood. Days, weeks, months and years filled with Keegan McKettrick and his unrelenting contempt for her. She’d tried to establish a truce; he’d thrown it back in her face.

  “You could marry him,” Psyche said.

  Molly almost choked on her wine, and she was still trying to catch her breath when Psyche went on.

  “I bet the sex would be apocalyptic,” she said.

  Sex with Keegan McKettrick.

  Don’t go there.

  “I’m just guessing, mind you,” Psyche continued between sips of merlot. “Keegan and I never slept together. More’s the pity.”

  Please, Molly begged silently, uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was taking, don’t ask me how it was between Thayer and me.

  “Frankly,” Psyche said, “I didn’t think Thayer was all that great in bed.”

  Molly filled her mouth with wine, practically making her cheeks bulge. In the next instant she had to jump up and dash to the sink to spit it out, because she was laughing.

  Laughing.

  “What?” Psyche asked.

  Molly gripped the edge of the sink, her back to Psyche, her shoulders shaking.

  “What?”

  Molly turned to face the woman whose husband she’d—as Keegan had so inelegantly put it—boinked. Her cheeks were burning, and her eyes hurt.

  “Good Lord,” Psyche said. “Are you crying?”

  “No,” Molly managed. “I’m laughing.”

  “Why?”

  “Because this conversation is bizarre, and because you’re right.”

  “About Thayer?”

  Molly nodded.

  Psyche broke up. She held her sides and giggled until Florence, cinched up in a pink chenille bathrobe, stuck her head out of her room adjoining the kitchen and scowled.

  “Do you two know what time it is?” she asked. She had one of those little blue breathing strips stretched across her nose, which only increased the hilarity.

  “It’s time to laugh,” Psyche said, recovering a little.

  Florence’s face softened.

  “And laugh and laugh and laugh,” Psyche added. Now there was something frantic in her tone.

  And then she began to cry.

  Florence went to her, drew a chair up close and took Psyche in her arms. “There, now, baby,” Florence said, holding her tightly and rocking her slightly back and forth. “You just let those tears out. God knows, you got the right.”

  Molly stood stricken, and over Psyche’s head her gaze collided with Florence’s. And what Molly saw in Florence’s eyes made Keegan’s disdain seem like unbridled praise.

  “I guess I’ll go to bed,” she said, as if anybody gave a damn whether she turned in for the night or jumped off the roof.

  “You do that,” Florence said.

  “I could help Psyche upstairs—”

  “I’ll take care of Psyche,” Florence interrupted.

  Molly fled, avoiding the elevator to bound up all three flights of stairs, hoping to exhaust herself.

  Nothing doing.

  She looked in on Lucas, left the door open between his room and her own. Took a shower. Went to her laptop and checked her e-mail.

  Major mistake. At the moment she wasn’t any more popular in New York and Los Angeles than she was in Indian Rock.

  She paced.

  The elevator ground its way up to the top floor.

  Molly peeked out into the hall, and was surprised to see Florence there, without Psyche.

  “She’s in a bad way,” Florence said. “Hurting something awful. You’ve got to take her to the clinic. I done called the doctor, and he’ll meet you there.”

  Molly didn’t hesitate. She dashed back into her room, exchanged her shorty pajamas for jeans and a tank top, shoved her feet into a pair of sandals and grabbed her purse.

  “You’ll look after Lucas?” she asked, in the hallway again.

  “Of course I will,” Florence retorted. “You can take the station wagon. Psyche’ll never be able to get into that big SUV of hers. You call me soon as you know anything. Anything at all.”

  “I will,” Molly promised. She stole one last peek at Lucas and raced to the elevator, nearly shutting the door in Florence’s face as the housekeeper joined her.

  Still in the kitchen, Psyche was bent double and groaning.

  Molly realized she didn’t know where the clinic was.

  Florence gave her directions, and between the two of them they managed to get Psyche into the garage, then into the car. If Florence hadn’t raised the rolling door from a switch, Molly probably would have backed right through it.

  “It hurts,” Psyche moaned. “Oh, God—it hurts—”

  Molly’s heart seized. “Hang on,” she said, zooming backward along the driveway and shooting out onto the road.

  “What if this is it?” Psyche fretted between groans. “I didn’t get to say goodbye to Lucas….”

  “Don’t even think like that,” Molly snapped, spinning the steering wheel of the big station wagon. It was like driving a tank. “And isn’t there an ambulance in this chickenshit town?”

  Psyche laughed, despite what must have been almost incomprehensible pain. “It would have to come from Flagstaff,” she said. And then she doubled over again and gave a k
eening cry that chilled Molly’s blood.

  When they screeched to a stop in front of the clinic, there were people with stethoscopes hanging around their necks waiting, thank God. And they had a gurney.

  Two nurses and a doctor who looked older than dirt.

  Molly’s panic escalated.

  The doctor had gray hair and a Hal Holbrook kind of face, kindly and full of character. Gently, with a strength Molly wouldn’t have guessed he had, he lifted Psyche out of the station wagon and single-handedly laid her on the gurney.

  “Easy now, sweetheart,” he said to Psyche. “Remember when you were thirteen, and your appendix ruptured? I took care of you then, didn’t I?”

  Molly froze, right there on the pavement outside the entrance to the clinic, suddenly unable to move.

  In fact, she was still standing in the same place minutes later when the black Jaguar zipped in, passing so close it nearly crushed her toes.

  Keegan got out, wearing hastily buttoned jeans and a white T-shirt, partially tucked in. “What happened?” he demanded, as though he thought Molly might have given Psyche a dash of drain cleaner as a nightcap.

  Florence must have called him, Molly thought distractedly.

  But she did manage an answer. “She’s—Psyche’s in a lot of pain. A lot of pain.”

  “And you’re standing out here because—?”

  A ferocious anger rose up within Molly, along with something else, some emotion she wasn’t ready to acknowledge, let alone analyze. “Well, because it’s such a nice night!” she yelled, flinging her arms out from her sides.

  “Oh, shut up,” Keegan said, starting for the clinic’s entrance.

  Molly had to scramble to keep pace. “What if she dies?” she pleaded.

  Keegan stopped just inside the double glass doors and looked down into her face, frowning. “Keep up. Psyche has terminal cancer. There isn’t going to be a Hallmark moment.”

  “Do you have to be such a prick?” Molly whispered, not even trying to keep back her tears.

  From somewhere in the rear of the clinic, Psyche screamed.

  Keegan bolted in that direction.

  Molly paced.

  Her phone rang.

  She ferreted it out of her purse, flipped it open and barked an anxious hello.

  “You’re fired,” Denby said. Though he’d uttered only two words, it was obvious that he was roaring drunk.

  “Denby?” Molly replied. “Screw off.”

  Having made that professional and dignified remark, she snapped the phone shut.

  The woman behind the reception desk gave her a disapproving look.

  Molly homed in on her. “Tell me something about Psyche,” she said.

  “She has terminal cancer,” the woman replied. She was about thirty, a little overweight and distinctly homegrown.

  “Thanks for the news flash,” Molly said. “I just heard her scream. I want to know what the hell is going on back there!”

  “Are you a member of the family?”

  “No. I’m a—friend.”

  “Then I can’t give you any information without Mrs. Ryan’s permission.”

  “Keegan McKettrick is with her. How come he didn’t need permission?”

  “Because he’s Keegan McKettrick.”

  Molly drew a deep breath, huffed it out, sucked in more air. “Look, let’s start over here, okay?”

  “Okay,” the woman said placidly.

  “There’s a woman back at Psyche’s place, waiting to hear what’s going on. I need to tell her something.”

  “That would be Florence?”

  “That would be Florence.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “That would be fabulous of you.”

  The woman disappeared into the bowels of the clinic.

  Before she returned, a good-looking blond man rushed in, as sleep rumpled as Keegan had been.

  The receptionist returned. “Doc’s called for an ambulance,” she told Molly and the blond man. “They’re taking her to Flagstaff.”

  “Christ,” the blond man muttered.

  And then he disappeared, just as Keegan had.

  “I suppose he’s a McKettrick, too,” Molly said tersely, digging for her phone again.

  “You suppose right,” said the receptionist.

  Molly punched in Psyche’s home number. Florence answered on the first ring.

  “Tell me what’s happening to my baby,” she demanded.

  “They’re taking her to Flagstaff.”

  “Dear God,” Florence said.

  Keegan stormed out of the back.

  The blond man followed.

  Keegan banged out through the front doors, practically springing the hinges.

  “Damn it,” said the receptionist. “If they’re going to fight, we might be here until next week patching them up.”

  Molly headed for the doors.

  Under the outside lights she saw Keegan shove the blond man. The blond man shoved back.

  “Molly?” Florence said from the cell phone.

  “I’ll keep you updated,” Molly replied, and hung up.

  The receptionist shouldered past her. “Keegan!” she yelled. “Jesse! Behave yourselves, or I swear to God, I’ll call Wyatt Terp and have both your asses thrown in the clink!”

  CHAPTER 6

  JESSE, HIS SHOULDERS HEAVING with exertion under his white T-shirt, slanted a grin at Keegan and sagged back against the side of his truck in the clinic parking lot. “She’ll do it, you know,” he warned, cocking a thumb toward the entrance, where Carrie Johnson, the night receptionist, loomed, glowering obstinately at the pair of them, hands propped on her wide hips.

  Keegan knew Jesse was right. Carrie was a woman of her word. Moreover, even though Terp was a family friend, blessed with a high tolerance for McKettrick shenanigans, the lawman would most likely be in a piss-poor mood after pulling a double shift to keep local Independence Day revelers on the straight and narrow.

  “You’re damn right I’ll do it,” Carrie vowed, stomping over to them. “What’s the matter with you two, anyhow? We got a real sick woman in there, and you’re out here carrying on like you did back in high school!”

  Keegan reddened, painfully aware that Molly Shields had been standing in the background all along, watching him make a fool of himself. He was ashamed to the core—and still spoiling for a fight.

  Jesse played the diplomat, lifting both hands, palms out, in a conciliatory gesture. “Look,” Jesse said to Carrie, throwing the charm switch. “Keeg’s just a little stressed out, that’s all. We’re cool, I promise.”

  “Your promise and a quarter will buy me a phone call,” replied Carrie, who had dated Jesse while they were all seniors at Indian Rock High and therefore had good cause to doubt his word. Some of the huff went out of her, though—that was the magic of being Jesse McKettrick. When he flipped that internal switch, there was juice behind it.

  “You know I was never good enough for you,” Jesse told Carrie sweetly, all big eyed and earnest.

  Just hang the halo on one of his horns, Keegan thought, fighting a rueful smile. He was still furious with Jesse for siding with the Texas McKettricks and not telling him about it, but at the same time he couldn’t help admiring the bastard for his nerve.

  “You’re so full of bull-crap,” Carrie answered, fondly skeptical. “And you make me come out here again, either of you, you’ll regret it.” With that, she turned and flounced back inside, with no idea she’d just been hoodwinked by the master.

  Molly hesitated a moment, in a pool of light near the entrance to Indian Rock’s only medical facility, then squared her slight shoulders and marched toward them. Stood at a little distance, looking as though she wanted to say something but couldn’t quite work up the gumption to do it.

  Keegan was desperate to ignore her. “Who called you?” he asked Jesse.

  “Devon,” Jesse answered. “After you dropped her off at Rance’s tonight and laid rubber down the drivew
ay in a big hurry to get here, she got scared. Figured you might get killed on the way to town.”

  Keegan remained aware of Molly, though he didn’t let on, wishing she’d take the hint and make herself scarce, hoping she’d stay right where she was. “You can go home anytime now,” he told Jesse.

  “I’m not going anyplace until I know how Psyche is,” Jesse said, leaning back against the side of his truck now, his arms folded.

  “She’s dying,” Keegan said flatly. “Now you know.”

  Jesse set his jaw, McKettrick-style. Waited.

  “I was just wondering—” Molly began. The sentence fell apart in the middle, though, and she just stood there under the cold stare Keegan turned on her, looking miserably determined to hold her ground.

  “What were you ‘just wondering,’ Ms. Shields?” he asked.

  Jesse stiffened a little, no doubt in gentlemanly objection, but he had the good sense to keep his mouth shut.

  Temporarily, anyway.

  Molly stiffened her spine, raised her chin a notch. “I was—I was wondering if you’re planning on going to the hospital with Psyche,” she said bravely. “She shouldn’t be alone, and Lucas and Florence are at home, so I ought to get back….”

  Jesse thrust himself away from the side of the truck and approached. After skewering Keegan with a glance, he told Molly, “You go on back to the house. Florence and the boy might need you. Keegan and I will follow the ambulance up to Flag and make sure Psyche gets settled in okay. If anything happens, I’ll let you know right away.”

  To Keegan’s private shame, Molly’s eyes brimmed with tears. “Thanks,” she told Jesse.

  Her gratitude made Keegan want to shove Jesse again. Hard.

  She gave Keegan one unreadable look, then got into Florence’s old station wagon, fired up all eight cylinders and drove off.

  “You’re a piece of work, you know that?” Jesse rasped, watching her go.

  Keegan was half-again too proud to do the same, but he wanted to. Lord, he wanted to. He wanted to fill his eyes with Molly Shields, fill his heart, fill the lonely, barren places in his soul.

  Fat chance.

  Keegan merely scowled. He’d have trusted Jesse with his life—right up to tonight, in the park, when Cheyenne had told him Jesse was throwing in with the Texas bunch. Voting to let McKettrickCo pass into the hands of strangers.