McKettricks Bundle

by Linda Lael Miller

  “There’s a note from Doc Swann,” she called, waving a sheet of yellow legal paper, ripped from a nail in the barn wall. “He gave Spud a shot for mange and said to get his feet trimmed.” She grinned. “Spud’s feet, I mean. Not Doc’s.”

  Molly laughed, still carrying Lucas, but that fragility Keegan had glimpsed in her earlier was there again. She was about to lose a child she’d only recently found, and for all his disapproval and distrust of her motives, Keegan wasn’t unsympathetic.

  Devon, meanwhile, had moved on. “It’s a good thing Uncle Rance and Uncle Jesse have a lot of horses,” she remarked, now inside Spud’s stall. “This is a piss-poor excuse for a barn, with only one donkey in it.”

  “Devon,” Keegan said. “Language.”

  “You say ‘piss-poor’ all the time,” she retorted.

  Molly gave him a wobbly, let’s-see-you-get-out-of-this-one kind of grin.

  “I say a lot of things I’d better not hear you saying,” Keegan told his daughter.

  They all admired Spud for a little while, then Devon decided they ought to go into the house. She was going on a trail ride, and she had preparations to make. Keegan wondered distractedly if she’d want to lug the pink teddy bear along.

  Molly, Lucas and Keegan went as far as the kitchen, while Devon pounded up the back stairs.

  Molly set Lucas down on the floor and gravitated to the cookstove. Ran a hand over the black surface. Turned to Keegan.

  “Do you still use it?” she asked.

  “Sometimes,” he said, oddly pleased that she’d asked. “When it snows, nothing beats a wood-burning stove for atmosphere.”

  “It’s wonderful,” Molly said, and she sounded as though she meant it.

  Keegan’s mind flashed to Shelley. When they were married she’d spent as little time as possible on the ranch. Seeing the stove the first time, she’d shaken her head and asked why it hadn’t been hauled off to the nearest junkyard.

  “This is quite a house,” Molly said.

  Suddenly Keegan wanted to show her every room in the place.

  And one in particular.

  “Thanks,” he croaked, unnerved. “I like it.”

  Devon began hurling jeans, Tshirts and boots down the stairs.

  Keegan shook his head.

  Molly grinned. “How old is she?” she asked.

  “Almost eleven, going on fifty-three,” Keegan answered. He let his gaze slide down Molly’s slight, toned figure to her feet. “Those shoes are never going to do,” he told her. “You need boots.”

  “Who’s going to feed Spud while we’re on this pack trip, or whatever it is?” she asked, having acknowledged the boot issue with a slight nod.

  Keegan, already on his way toward the long hallway where the boot-stash closet was, stopped. It wasn’t the question she’d asked that gave him pause, but the undercurrent of cheerful nervousness.

  Damn. She hadn’t ridden a horse since she was nine.

  She was probably scared.

  Keegan beckoned for her to follow him.

  She picked Lucas up, set him on her hip and moved toward Keegan. To watch her, he’d have thought she’d been schlepping little kids around for years.

  “Rance has a couple of cowboys working for him,” he said, answering her question about feeding Spud. “I’ll ask them to come across the creek and make sure the donkey’s got food and water.”

  She watched as he opened the closet door and began inspecting boots. Tossed them out, one at a time and in pairs, much as Devon had hurled her camping clothes down the back stairs.

  “There’s a lot to this ranching thing, I guess,” she said.

  “A lot to it,” Keegan agreed, coming up with a pair of black boots embossed with blue stitching. He thought he remembered Meg wearing them, when she was twelve or so. She’d spent that year on the Triple M, with Keegan and his folks.

  “Trouble at home,” his mother had told him once when he asked why Meg wasn’t going back to San Antonio to start school that fall.

  Now, of course, he knew the story. For all her strength, Eve McKettrick, Meg’s mother, had been dealing with a lot back in those days—recovering from an accident that had nearly killed her and had left an addiction to painkillers and alcohol in its wake. Agonizing over Sierra, who had been snatched, at around Lucas’s age, by Eve’s ex-husband. In fact, Eve and Meg’s reunion with Sierra had happened only recently.

  “Try these,” he said, offering Molly the boots. “They look as though they might fit.”

  She took the boots with her free hand.

  Keegan began chucking the discards back into the closet. The next time a greenhorn came along, he thought, dusting his hands together, he’d be ready.

  Not that there was ever likely to be another greenhorn quite like Molly Shields.

  She carried the boots back to the kitchen, set Lucas on the floor and sat down on the bench alongside the table. Kicked off her sneakers and gamely pulled on a boot.

  Keegan crouched, pressed the toe with his thumb, like a shoe salesman with a customer.

  It struck him as funny, and he laughed out loud.

  “What?” Molly asked a little warily, pulling her foot free.

  “I was just considering my career options,” he said.

  She frowned, puzzled.

  He told her, to his everlasting surprise, about McKettrickCo going public, without trying to hide how he felt about it. If he’d thought about it in advance, he wouldn’t have said anything, wouldn’t have opened that particular can of worms. It was too private, too personal and way too sore to the touch.

  “I know what you mean,” she said, watching sadly as Lucas played on the floor at her feet.

  Still on his haunches, he looked up into her face.

  “I would have missed my work, too,” she told him. “If Psyche hadn’t changed her mind about the adoption, I mean. All the challenge and the excitement.” She swallowed. “Of course, none of it can compare to raising Lucas myself. I was even starting to like Indian Rock.”

  Keegan shifted, sat beside her on the bench. Draped one arm loosely around her shoulders. Why was he sympathizing? he wondered. He should have been glad she was leaving. True, he wanted to be part of Lucas’s life almost as much as Molly did, but he knew Sierra and Travis would love the child like their own. They were good people; Lucas would be safe and happy with them.

  “Do yourself a favor, Molly,” he said. “Don’t think about this right now. Let the trail ride occupy your mind.”

  She blinked. Swallowed again. “How can I not think about it?” she whispered miserably. “I just found Lucas—and now I’m going to lose him again.”

  “Psyche might change her mind.”

  “You know she won’t,” Molly said.

  “She’s trying to manipulate us into doing what she wants,” Keegan said. “Once she realizes it won’t work, she may give in.”

  Molly’s eyes filled with tears. She shook her head. “She’s dying, Keegan. People don’t play games when they’ve practically got one foot in the grave. Especially not where their child’s welfare is concerned.” She paused, bit down on her lower lip. Glanced toward the back stairs, turned to look at him again. “What would you do, Keegan? If you were about to die—if you had to give Devon up?”

  “She’d live with her mother,” Keegan answered. “Just like she does now.”

  “What if that weren’t an option? What if you were in exactly the same situation Psyche is? What would you do?”

  He sighed. “I’d want her to have a mother and father,” he said. “I do the best I can, and so does Shelley, all things considered. But it’s still damn tough on Devon.”

  Molly nodded. “I know what it’s like to grow up in a single-parent household,” she said. “But my dad and I were a family, even with my mom gone. Millions of good people out there are raising kids alone, and they’re doing a great job, too.”

  “I wouldn’t argue with that,” Keegan said. “But it isn’t ideal.”

&n
bsp; Molly pondered that a while, then nodded again, but not with much conviction as far as Keegan could tell.

  “I know Florence raised Psyche, for the most part,” Molly said. “What were her parents like?”

  Keegan set his back teeth, consciously relaxed his jaw. “Rich,” he said. “Well educated. Her dad wrote books about Greek and Roman mythology—hence her name—and gave lectures all over the world. Her mother traveled with him, and mostly made sure their cocktails were always fresh.”

  Molly closed her eyes. “Alcoholics.”

  Keegan nodded grimly.

  “She’s trying to give Lucas what she never had,” Molly mused.

  “Bingo,” Keegan said.

  “My dad—” Molly began, but before she could finish the sentence, Devon was back, clattering down the stairs, bursting with excitement.

  “Everybody’s over at Uncle Rance’s place!” she cried. “I saw all kinds of trucks and horses from my bedroom window. What are we waiting for? Let’s go!”

  CHAPTER 10

  MOLLY, STANDING in her borrowed boots, did her best to take Keegan’s advice and think about the trail ride instead of the imminent loss of Lucas, but it was hard going.

  Keegan had exchanged his slacks and sports shirt for worn jeans and a blue cotton work shirt before feeding the donkey one last time, and that took some getting over, too.

  Something Psyche had said popped into Molly’s mind as they drove across the creek bridge, toward the gathering of McKettricks.

  Wait till you see him on a horse.

  Molly’s stomach tightened at the prospect.

  She tried to reason with herself. Keegan was Keegan, in a suit or in jeans and boots. Standing on the ground, or in the saddle.

  He parked the Jag in an out-of-the-way place, which wasn’t easy, given the collection of trucks, horse trailers and cars already taking up much of the area surrounding the barn.

  Devon shot out of the car and raced to join the two little girls Molly had met at the bookshop, glimpsed later at the Fourth of July celebration in the park.

  Molly got out slowly, took her time freeing a squirming Lucas from the car seat in back. Keegan, meanwhile, transferred all the stuff in the trunk to a nearby pickup truck, tacitly designated, apparently, to haul extras.

  Jesse McKettrick approached, grinning and leading a beautiful paint horse behind him. Molly remembered him, too, of course—he’d been at the picnic with his new bride, and she’d seen him again at the clinic when Psyche had taken a turn for the worse.

  He grinned at Molly in a way that made her feel slightly less nervous and much less an outsider, and turned his gaze on Keegan, who had just returned from the truck.

  “Let’s see if you remember how to ride,” Jesse said to Keegan.

  Thus challenged, Keegan stepped up beside the paint, gripped the saddle horn with one hand, simultaneously putting a foot in the stirrup, and swung himself up with an easy grace that shouldn’t have taken Molly’s breath away—but did.

  He sat with the westward sun for a backdrop.

  Keegan on a horse.

  Imagination hadn’t done it justice.

  “Satisfied?” he asked Jesse.

  “Maybe,” Jesse allowed. “It’s a fair distance up to the ridge, and we’re taking the long way. Could be, by the time we get to camp you’ll be whining for a hot tub.”

  Keegan chuckled at that. Then he eased the horse closer to Molly and leaned down, reaching for Lucas.

  She gripped her son tightly for a moment or two, then gave him up.

  Lucas crowed with delight as Keegan set him gently in the saddle in front of him, waving his little arms and kicking his feet.

  Keegan smiled down at Molly. “He won’t be sore by the end of this ride,” he said. “He’s got lots of padding.”

  Molly was busy branding the sight of Keegan and Lucas, together on the back of a horse, into her memory. When she was back in Los Angeles living her old life, it might be—though painful—of some paradoxical comfort, too.

  Jesse, meanwhile, produced another horse. A bay, already saddled, and a lot smaller than the one Keegan was riding.

  He waited while Molly assessed the animal, unable to hide her misgivings. She was aware, too, of Keegan watching her, one strong arm locked around Lucas.

  “I don’t know how to get on,” Molly admitted.

  “I’ll help,” Jesse assured her. And he did.

  After she was up, he deftly adjusted the stirrups on both sides, and Keegan, his horse bumping against hers, showed her how to hold the reins.

  Devon trotted over on a buckskin, and Maeve—it must have been Maeve, because Devon had said the other girl was an excellent rider—was with her, mounted on a white mare.

  Devon favored Molly with an encouraging grin. “Lookin’ good,” she said, raising one hand for a high five.

  Molly released one side of her two-fisted death grip on the reins to comply.

  All around them, other people were mounting up, in a sort of organized confusion. There was a lot of laughter, the tension-relieving kind.

  Keegan, meanwhile, watched Molly in silence, with something that could have been—but surely wasn’t—admiration. Lucas remained within the easy protection of Keegan’s arm, a little quieter now, but still eager. He seemed to know he was safe, and that brought a yearning ache to Molly’s throat.

  Within a few minutes they were off, a great horde of horses and riders, it seemed to Molly, raising a lot of dust. There were probably no more than a couple of dozen people altogether, but they all knew each other.

  Molly was reminded, by the hardness of the saddle and the long distance to the ground, that she was a greenhorn. A city girl, as Keegan had said back in Psyche’s house, when he’d issued a teasing challenge.

  Are you chicken?

  Molly tried to adjust herself to the saddle, and to the situation.

  Cluck-cluck, she thought.

  Keegan stayed close as they rode, at a blessedly slow pace, in the midst of the pack—maybe out of kindness, and maybe just because he wanted to keep her in Lucas’s sight.

  She began to relax—a little. Spotted Emma, the woman who ran the bookshop in town, riding alongside a dark-haired, powerfully built man—Rance, undoubtedly. And there was Jesse up ahead with his new bride, both of them looking as comfortable on horseback as if they’d been born there. A young man, probably around twenty, rode with them beaming, his withered legs dangling uselessly on either side of the saddle.

  Keegan must have seen Molly looking—my God, had she been staring?—because he leaned closer and said, “That’s Mitch. He’s Cheyenne’s younger brother.”

  Molly felt ashamed of her own trepidation. If Mitch could ride, with his wasted legs, so could she. “He looks pretty happy,” she said.

  Keegan nodded.

  “What if he falls?”

  “Jesse won’t let that happen,” Keegan replied. “See how he stays close to Mitch, without letting on that he’s keeping an eye on him?”

  Molly looked more closely. Jesse was engaged in a lively conversation with Cheyenne, but there was a readiness about him, subtle but plainly visible in the set of his shoulders and the way he kept his right arm free, the hand resting lightly on his hip.

  “What happened to Mitch?” she asked, prepared to be told it was none of her business.

  “He was in an accident when he was younger,” Keegan said, and Molly saw his jawline tighten, almost imperceptibly. “He’s been working at McKettrickCo—part of a training program Cheyenne set up. Now that the company’s going public, he may be unemployed—along with a lot of other people.”

  Molly studied Keegan. “They’ll need employees, won’t they? The new board of directors?”

  Keegan nodded, but he still looked grim.

  “You really hate it, don’t you?” Molly asked, and then wished she hadn’t, because Keegan’s face darkened for a moment and she saw the familiar ruthlessness in his eyes.

  “Letting go of the company? Yeah, I
hate it.”

  “You could stay on, couldn’t you?” Molly said, knowing she was digging herself in deeper, but unable to stop.

  His blue eyes glittered with ferocity. “No,” he said flatly.

  “Why not?” Just give me another shovel, Molly thought ruefully. China’s bound to be here somewhere.

  “It wouldn’t be the same.” Keegan bit the words off, one at a time.

  “And that’s necessarily a bad thing?” Shut up, Molly. Shut up, shut up, shut up.

  “You sound like Jesse and Rance,” Keegan said.

  Up ahead, Mitch’s horse spooked a little, and Jesse had a hand on the bridle strap in the next moment. Clearly, he could have been out of his own saddle and behind Mitch, reaching around him to take the reins, almost that fast.

  Molly wondered what it would be like to be protected that way. To be a member of a clan like the McKettricks, with a long, colorful history and that bone-deep confidence that seemed so inherently theirs—right down to Devon and the other kids.

  Right down to Lucas, if Psyche had gotten her way. He’d have grown up to be like Keegan and Jesse and Rance—competent, comfortable in his skin and probably cocky as hell.

  Molly bit her lower lip, trying to stem a longing that threatened to rush out of her in a stream. “Are Sierra and Travis here?” she asked after a long time.

  “Over there,” Keegan said, pointing out a blond man and a tall woman with short chestnut hair. A little boy rode between their two horses, a black and a bay, on a squat pony.

  Molly focused on the child. Liam, that was his name.

  Would he be a good brother to Lucas?

  Tears clogged her sinuses, turned the horses and their riders into a blur of color and movement.

  She started a little when Keegan’s hand came to rest briefly on her shoulder.

  And the ride went on, the trail winding ever upward, between stands of cottonwood trees, across another creek—or maybe the same one, Molly couldn’t be sure—into the pines jutting beyond, green against an achingly blue sky.

  Finally they reached the ridge, and Molly saw that others had come ahead in trucks and set up a camp of sorts. She caught the scent of wood burning, and food cooking, savory in the fresh air. A few tents had been erected, too, though not nearly enough to accommodate everyone.