McKettricks Bundle

by Linda Lael Miller

  There was a silence.

  Molly tried again. “I mean, I do.”

  “Do you, Keegan, take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife?”

  Lawful wedded wife, Molly thought. Yikes.

  “I do,” Keegan answered in a deep, quiet voice. For a man basically being forced into marriage, he was remarkably calm. Or was he simply resigned?

  “Then by the power vested in me,” the minister said, “I now pronounce you man and wife. Keegan, you may kiss your bride.”

  Gently Keegan turned Molly to face him. Curled the fingers of one hand under her chin, and bent to touch his mouth to hers.

  Considering his swollen lips, he did an outstanding job.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the minister said, “may I present to you Mr. and Mrs. Keegan McKettrick.”

  Devon began to jump up and down, unable to contain her exuberance.

  And Molly was fiercely grateful, in that moment, that the child was willing to make her welcome. It was no small blessing.

  When Keegan reluctantly released Molly, Jesse stepped forward and kissed her cheek, and so did Rance, both of them grinning out of faces as battered as Keegan’s own. Emma and Cheyenne hugged her, and finally Joanie.

  Molly accepted their congratulations, then sought out Psyche, sitting small and fragile and brave in her wheelchair, under the generous, sheltering branches of the tree.

  “Take good care of him,” Psyche said solemnly, her eyes shining with a mixture of joy and sorrow.

  “I’ll be a good mother to Lucas,” Molly replied.

  “I know,” Psyche said, looking up at her with clear, resigned eyes. “I was talking about Keegan. There’s a lot he probably hasn’t told you, Molly. About the way his parents died, and about Devon’s mother—please, give him every chance to find his way to you.”

  Molly’s throat tightened. Gently she laid her bridal bouquet in Psyche’s lap. “Thank you, Psyche. Thank you for forgiving me, and thank you for Lucas—and for…”

  “Keegan?” Psyche smiled, raised the bouquet to breathe in its fragrance. “He’s not an easy man to deal with, but he’s easy to love—isn’t he?”

  Molly swallowed, glanced back over her shoulder. Keegan was in a huddle with Jesse, Rance and Travis Reid. When she turned back to face Psyche, she whispered. “Yes. Yes, he is.”

  Tears stood in Psyche’s eyes. “Love him, Molly. Love Keegan not just for yourself, but for me, too.”

  Molly couldn’t speak. She could only nod.

  Psyche handed back the bouquet. “This belongs to you,” she said. “So does Keegan. And Lucas? He was really yours all along. I just borrowed him for a while.”

  Molly’s vision blurred, and by the time she’d blinked the tears away, Florence had arrived, standing behind Psyche, taking hold of the wheelchair handles.

  She rolled Psyche toward the house.

  Molly watched, stricken by the same emotions she’d seen in Psyche’s eyes moments before, as Keegan broke away from Jesse, Rance and Travis to take over for Florence. He gripped the handles of Psyche’s chair in strong, competent hands, bent to whisper something in her ear.

  She giggled and wiped her eyes.

  “Somebody wants to congratulate you,” a feminine voice said, and Molly turned to see Emma and Cheyenne standing close behind her, Emma holding Lucas. He strained toward Molly, and when she took him into her arms, he immediately reached for the floral wreath on top of her head.

  She loosened the pins and let him have the circlet of flowers.

  “Welcome to the family, Molly,” Cheyenne said gently. “You’re a McKettrick now.”

  Molly had chosen to take Keegan’s name. She told herself it was because Lucas would be a McKettrick as soon as the papers were filed and recorded.

  “Thanks,” Molly managed, but even with Lucas safely in her arms, legally her child, she couldn’t help looking toward the sunporch. Psyche’s wheelchair stood abandoned at the bottom of the steps; Keegan must have carried Psyche inside to her hospital bed.

  Cheyenne touched her shoulder. “Molly?”

  She turned back to meet Cheyenne’s steady gaze. “We’ll be here for you. Emma and me. We just—we just want you to know that we understand.”

  Emma nodded, her eyes bright, and sniffled.

  The sound of a door shutting drew Molly’s attention back to Keegan. He’d just left Psyche, and his poor, bruised face was a bleak mask.

  Cheyenne took Lucas.

  Emma gave Molly a little shove in Keegan’s direction. “Go to him,” she whispered.

  And Molly went.

  Keegan barely seemed to see her, at least at first. In fact, they nearly collided. At the last second he caught her shoulders in his hands, steadied her.

  Molly forced herself to look directly into his eyes.

  Neither of them said anything.

  Then Keegan kissed her forehead. “It’ll be all right,” he said.

  And Molly wondered if he was trying to convince her of that—or himself.

  HE WAS MARRIED.

  Married.

  Propping his chin on top of Molly’s head, there in the middle of Psyche’s backyard, Keegan looked up at the sky. The day had been beautiful, but now the wind was picking up, and dark clouds were rolling in from the west, dimming the sunlight.

  Instinctively he held Molly a little tighter.

  Here comes the rain, he thought.

  Molly pulled back a little way, offered him a tentative smile. “I guess we’d better take this party inside,” she said as the first drops of water began to fall.

  He nodded. There would be no honeymoon—there wasn’t time for that. Travis had faxed an agreement to Shelley’s lawyer earlier that day, and all hell was bound to break loose any minute. He had to be ready to deal with that, and to shelter Devon from the fallout as best he could.

  And Psyche was dying.

  He and Molly would spend the first night of their marriage alone, at the ranch house. Devon was going home with Jesse and Cheyenne. Lucas would stay with Florence and Psyche—days, hours, even minutes with the child had become a precious commodity.

  Keegan gazed down at his bride.

  Molly deserved so much more than he could give her.

  So much more.

  He took her hand, tugged her toward the house.

  The wedding party swelled around them, a laughing horde, running ahead of the rain.

  After that, there was cake.

  Pictures were taken.

  Keegan wasn’t tracking very well; he just wanted it all to be over.

  He wanted to be alone with Molly.

  His wife.

  Other guests arrived, alone and in groups, to share in the celebration. Wyatt and his mother, Myrna. Cora Tellington and Doc Swann. Rianna and Maeve.

  Hadn’t Rance’s girls been at the wedding?

  Keegan couldn’t remember. The whole thing had been a blur to him, something to be navigated, gotten through, like a blinding blizzard or a sandstorm.

  At a tug on his sleeve, he looked down.

  Devon smiled up at him. “Molly said you fell down in the barn,” she said. “That’s how your face got so messed up.” She paused, frowned. “Did Uncle Jesse and Uncle Rance fall down, too?”

  Keegan laughed, and it helped. Released some of the tension that had plagued him since—when? Since Molly had erupted into his life? Since he’d learned that Psyche was sick, and there would be no saving her? Since he’d sensed the demise of McKettrickCo as he knew it?

  Since the day Jesse’s and Rance’s dads had broken the news that his folks were dead.

  “No, shortstop,” he told her, his voice husky. “Molly was just trying to spare your delicate sensibilities. Your uncles and I got into it behind the barn, day before yesterday.”

  Devon’s eyes widened. “Why?”

  “Why did we fight?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Because we’re stupid sometimes,” Keegan said. “And because we’re McKettricks.”


  Travis, one ear to his cell phone, beckoned to Keegan.

  Keegan bent to kiss the top of his daughter’s head. “Get some cake,” he said. And then he left her.

  Travis snapped the phone shut, acknowledged Keegan with a nod that told him nothing, led the way into Psyche’s father’s study and closed the door behind them.

  “Shelley doesn’t like the adoption angle,” Travis said.

  The bottom of Keegan’s stomach fell open.

  “But for five million up front, with the rest payable after the adoption is final, she’ll sign.”

  “She’ll do it?”

  “Keegan, we’re talking about five million dollars here. And it might be a trick.”

  “No,” Keegan said. “We’re not talking about five million dollars. We’re talking about Devon.”

  “All I’m trying to say is you’re taking a very big chance here. Not just with your own peace of mind, but with Devon’s, too.”

  “What would you do in my place, Travis? No lawyer bullshit. Tell me the truth.”

  Travis sighed. Shoved a hand through his hair. “I’d give Shelley the money and hope to God she wants the rest enough to play ball.”

  Keegan swallowed. “Tell Shelley’s lawyer we’ll transfer the funds as soon as we have a signed, notarized document.”

  “You’re sure?” Travis asked.

  “I’m sure,” Keegan said.

  “When do you plan to tell Devon?”

  “Tomorrow,” Keegan answered. “When she gets home from Jesse and Cheyenne’s.”

  Travis nodded. “The sooner the better, buddy,” he said. Then he slapped Keegan’s shoulder. “And one more thing. Congratulations.” He grinned. “You got married today, remember?”

  “I remember,” Keegan said.

  “Go get your bride,” Travis urged. “Take her home.”

  Take her home.

  Would the Triple M ever be Molly’s real home? Or would she want to go back to L.A. when the obligatory year of living together was over? She had a life there, a home, friends, a business.

  And she’d take Lucas with her, if she went.

  Keegan felt sick at the thought. For all his big talk, there wouldn’t be much he could do to stop her.

  “Keeg?” Travis said.

  Keegan focused on his friend’s face.

  Travis tapped Keegan’s forehead with one finger. “Stop spending so much time up here,” he said before lowering his hand to thump once at his heart, “and think from here once in a while.”

  Keegan frowned. What the hell did that mean?

  Travis chuckled. “Think about it,” he said. And then he was gone.

  IT WAS RAINING HARD by the time Molly and Keegan reached the ranch house. Keegan parked the Jag as close to the back door as he could, lifted Molly into his arms and ran. And they both got drenched.

  Inside, breathing hard, he set Molly on her feet. Rainwater glistened in his hair and along his eyelashes, like tears.

  Molly’s heart ached with happiness as she looked up at him.

  I love you, she wanted to say. But she didn’t dare. She wouldn’t be able to bear seeing pity in his eyes, or regret.

  “You’d better get into some dry clothes,” he said practically.

  Her suitcases were upstairs, in the bedroom they would share; Rance had delivered them earlier that day.

  “Put on some jeans,” Keegan added when Molly didn’t speak right away.

  So much for her plan to slip into the slinky negligee Joanie had given her for a wedding present.

  “Jeans?” she said.

  “And a flannel shirt, if you have one,” Keegan said, starting for the door.

  Unlike Molly, he’d changed into ordinary clothes before leaving Psyche’s place. “Where are you going?” she managed, after swallowing.

  “To the barn,” he answered, as though surprised by the question. “I have to feed Spud and the horses.”

  “Okay,” Molly said, mystified and profoundly disappointed.

  It was her wedding day. And even though she knew Keegan didn’t love her, she’d expected to come before the livestock.

  Keegan went out.

  Molly stood there for a few moments, then went upstairs and opened doors until she found the master bedroom. She swapped her wedding dress, panty hose and fancy shoes for a pair of jeans, heavy socks and one of Keegan’s flannel shirts, since she didn’t own one herself. Wedged her grateful feet into running shoes—the high heels were new, and they pinched.

  Avoiding looking at the bed, she turned to the bureau. Gazed at herself in the antique mirror above it.

  Who was this woman?

  Molly McKettrick.

  Ranch wife.

  Lucas’s mother, Devon’s stepmother.

  Owner of many, many pairs of shoes.

  Tears threatened, but Molly was tired of tears. She sucked it in, turned and marched downstairs again.

  When Keegan got back from the barn she had the wood cookstove going, radiating warmth, and the kitchen was only a little smoky. She stood on tiptoe to turn the knob to open the damper.

  Keegan stopped, soaked, on the threshold.

  “Horses all right?” Molly asked, just to break the silence.

  He stepped inside. Closed the door.

  Stared at her, almost as if she were a stranger, making herself at home in his kitchen.

  “Keegan,” Molly said.

  “What?” He ground out the word.

  “Come over here and stand by the stove while I get you a change of clothes. You’re wet to the skin.”

  He paused, then dripped his way over to stand within the almost palpable heat emanating from the ancient stove. “You built a fire,” he said, and he sounded flummoxed.

  “Well, duh,” Molly said, smiling determinedly. “It’s not so hard, you know. A little crumpled newspaper, some kindling, a match and—voilà!—a lovely, crackling blaze. I’ve seen people do it a hundred times on the late-late show.”

  Something softened in Keegan’s eyes.

  “Stay right here,” Molly told him, and dashed away.

  A few minutes later she was back with towels, a pair of old jeans and a sweatshirt.

  Keegan had recovered enough to start a pot of coffee brewing on the cookstove, forswearing the modern coffeemaker on the counter, perhaps getting into the spirit of the thing, and splashing mud and rainwater all over the kitchen floor in the process.

  Molly set the clothes and all but one towel down on the end of a small table next to the wall and dabbed tentatively at Keegan’s face. Then she got bolder and toweled his hair so that it stood out around his head, and they both laughed.

  He laid his hands on the sides of her waist, and was about to pull her close—she knew he was—when the telephone rang.

  Psyche, Molly thought. Then, Oh, please—not tonight.

  The second ring seemed more insistent than the first.

  Keegan released Molly, visibly steeled himself and went to grab up the receiver. “Keegan,” he said instead of “hello.” His voice was ragged.

  Molly watched his face and bearing change as he listened.

  She took a step toward him, stopped at the stay-back look that rose instantly in his eyes.

  “No,” he said into the phone. “No, there’s no point in that. But you shouldn’t be alone right now, Florence.”

  Molly closed her eyes.

  “All right,” Keegan went on after listening again. “Okay, if you’re sure. Yes. I’ll be there first thing tomorrow morning. In the meantime—” He stopped, nodded. “All right,” he said again. “Thanks.” After a hoarse goodbye, he thumbed the button on the phone, ending the call. Set the receiver down slowly.

  “Psyche?” Molly asked when she could bear it no longer.

  “Yes,” Keegan said, avoiding her eyes. “Half an hour ago.”

  Molly had expected Keegan to fall apart. Instead, she was the one who caved in. She put a hand over her mouth, but she couldn’t stifle the ragged sob that came out.


  Keegan looked as though he might come to her, but in the end, he didn’t. He turned, opened the back door to the wind-driven rain and just stood there, neither in nor out, his broad shoulders rigidly straight.

  Molly whispered his name, but if he heard her, he didn’t respond.

  He walked right out into the driving rain, leaving the door open.

  Molly hesitated, then followed. Saw him walking, not toward the barn, where he might have had some shelter and the comfort the animals might have lent him just by their presence, but in the direction of the bridge.

  Was he going to Rance’s place, across the creek?

  Molly moved out into the downpour herself, barely feeling the unseasonable chill as it soaked her clothes and pounded at her hair.

  It was dark over at Rance’s.

  “Keegan!” She ran after him, splashing through puddles, slipping in mud. “Keegan!”

  He stopped, turned around. There was so little light—just what came from the house and the barn—but she could see his face clearly, etched with shadows and pain.

  “Keegan,” she repeated, knowing she sounded desperate and not caring.

  She stopped. Waited.

  He stood still, as heedless of the torrent as Molly had been. She was feeling the cold more acutely now; it reached deep into her bones, and it had, she realized, little if anything to do with the weather.

  She held out one hand.

  Keegan hesitated. But then he clasped the hand she offered, interlaced his fingers with hers. Tightened his grip.

  Molly could never remember, afterward, whether he’d led her back to the house or she’d led him.

  They walked slowly inside.

  Stood by the stove, both of them sodden.

  Molly did remember that she was the one to unbutton Keegan’s cotton shirt, the one he’d changed into at Psyche’s, and slide it off his shoulders. She remembered trying to dry him with the towels, and how he’d clasped her wrist in one hand and stopped her.

  How he’d stared down into her eyes, then pulled her hard against him and kissed her—not tenderly, but with a ferocity, a demand, that had nothing to do with her and everything to do with Psyche Ryan.

  She did not recall their going upstairs, except in the dimmest way. She simply found herself with Keegan, in his room.

  He undressed her—not roughly, but not gently, either.