***
"Who's the old man?" Carly asked, startling Meg, who had been running more searches on Josiah McKettrick on the computer in the study, for more reasons than one.
"What old man?" Meg retorted pleasantly, turning in the chair to see her half sister standing in the big double doorway, looking much younger than twelve in a faded and somewhat frayed sleep shirt with a cartoon bear on the front.
"This house," Carly said implacably, "is haunted."
"It's been around a long time," Meg hedged, still smiling. "Lots of history here. Are you hungry?"
"Only if you've got the stuff to make grilled-cheese sandwiches," Carly said. She was in the gawky stage, but one day, she'd be gorgeous. Meg didn't see the resemblance Eve had commented on earlier, but if there was one, it was cause to feel flattered.
"I've got the stuff," Meg assured her, rising from her chair.
"I can do it myself," Carly said.
"Maybe we could talk a little," Meg replied.
"Or not," Carly answered, with a note of dismissal that sounded false.
Meg followed the woman-child to the kitchen, earning herself a few scathing backward glances in the process.
Efficiently, Carly opened the fridge, helped herself to a package of cheese and proceeded to the counter. Meg supplied bread and a butter dish and a skillet, but that was all the assistance Carly was willing to accept.
"Can you cook?" Meg asked, hoping to get some kind of dialogue going.
Carly shrugged one thin shoulder. Her feet were bare and a tiny tattoo of some kind of flower blossomed just above one ankle bone. "Dad's hopeless at it, so I learned."
"I see," Meg said, wondering what could have possessed her father to let a child get a tattoo, and if it had hurt much, getting poked with all those needles.
"You don't see," Carly said, skillfully preparing her sandwich, everything in her bearing warning Meg to keep her distance.
"What makes you say that?"
Another shrug.
"Carly?"
The girl's back, turned to Meg as she laid the sandwich in the skillet and adjusted the gas stove burner beneath, stiffened. "Don't ask me a bunch of questions, okay? Don't ask how it was, living on the road, or if I miss my mother, or what it's like knowing my dad is going to die. Just leave me be, and we'll get along all right."
"There's one question I have to ask," Meg said.
Carly tossed her another short, over-the-shoulder glower. "What?"
"Did it hurt a lot, getting that tattoo?"
Suddenly, a smile broke over Carly's face, and it changed everything about her. "Yes."
"Why did you do it?"
"That's two questions," Carly pointed out. "You said one."
"Was it because your friends got tattoos?"
Carly's smile faded, and she averted her attention again, spatula in hand, ready to turn her grilled-cheese sandwich when it was just right. "I don't have any friends," she said. "We moved around too much. And I didn't need them anyhow. Me and Dad—that was enough."
Meg's eyes burned.
"I got the tattoo," Carly said, catching Meg off-guard, "because my mom had one just like it, in the same place. It's a yellow rose—because Dad always called her his yellow rose of Texas."
Meg's throat went tight. How was she going to help this child face the loss of not one parent, but two? Sister or not, she was a stranger to Carly.
The phone rang.
Carly, being closest, picked up the receiver, peered at the caller ID panel, and went wide-eyed. "Brad O 'Ballivan ? " she whispered reverently, padding across the kitchen to give Meg the phone. "The Brad O'Ballivan?"
Meg choked out a laugh. Well, well, well. Carly was a fan. Just the opening Meg needed to establish some kind of bond, however tenuous, with her newly discovered kid sister. "The Brad O'Ballivan," she said before thumbing the talk button. "Hello?"
Brad's answer was an expansive yawn. Evidently, he'd either just awakened or he'd gone to bed early. Either way, the images playing in Meg's mind were scintillating ones, and they soon rippled into other parts of her anatomy, like tiny tsunamis boiling under her skin.
"Willie's home," he said finally.
Carly was staring at Meg. "I have all his CDs," she said.
"That's good," Meg answered.
"We ought to celebrate," Brad went on. "I grill a mean steak. Six-thirty, my place?"
"Only if you have a couple of spares," Meg said. "1 have company."
The smell of scorching sandwich billowed from the stove.
Carly didn't move.
"Company?" Brad asked sleepily, with another yawn.
Meg pictured him scantily clothed, if he was wearing anything at all, with an attractive case of bed head. And she blushed to catch herself thinking lascivious thoughts with a twelve-year-old in the same room. "It's a lot to explain over the phone," she said diplomatically, gesturing to Carly to rescue the sandwich, which she finally did.
"The more the merrier," Brad said. "Whoever they are, bring them."
"We'll be there," Meg said.
Carly pushed the skillet off the burner and waved ineffectually at the smoke.
Meg said goodbye to Brad and hung up the phone.
"We're going to Brad O'Ballivan's house?" Carly blurted. "For real?"
"For real," Meg said. "If your dad feels up to it."
"He's your dad, too," Carly allowed. "And he likes Brad's music. We listen to it in the car all the time."
Meg let the part about Ted Ledger being her dad pass. He'd been her sire, not her father. "Let's let him rest," she said, taking over the grilled cheese operation and feeling glad when Carly didn't protest, or try to elbow her aside.
"How long have you known him?" Carly demanded, almost breathless.
It was a moment before Meg realized the girl was talking about Brad, not Ted, so muddled were her thoughts. "Since junior high," she said.
"What's he like?"
"He's nice," Meg said carefully, slicing cheese, reaching for the butter dish and then the bread bag.
"'Nice'?" Carly looked not only skeptical, but a little disappointed. "He trashes hotel rooms. He pushed a famous actress into a swimming pool at a big Hollywood party—"
"I think that's mostly hype," Meg said, hoping the kid hadn't heard the notches-in-the-bedpost stuff. She started the new sandwich in a fresh skillet and carried the first one to the sink. When she glanced Carly's way, she was surprised and touched to see she'd taken a seat on the bench next to the table.
"Do you think he'd autograph my CDs?"
"I'd say there was a fairly good chance he will, yes." She turned the sandwich, got out a china plate, poured a glass of milk.
Carly glowed with anticipation. "If I had any friends," she said, "I'd call them all and tell them I get to meet Brad O'Ballivan in the flesh."
And what flesh it was, Meg thought, and blushed again. "Once you start school," she said, "you'll have all kinds of friends. Plus, there are some kids in the family around your age."
"It's not my family," Carly said, stiffening again.
"Of course it is," Meg argued, but cautiously, scooping a letter-perfect grilled-cheese sandwich onto a plate and presenting it to Carly with a flourish, along with the milk. She wished Angus had been there, to see her cooking. "You and I are sisters. I'm a McKettrick. So that means you're related to them, too, if only by association."
"I hate milk," Carly said.
"Brad drinks it," Meg replied lightly.
Carly reached for the glass, took a sip. Pondered the taste, and then took another. "You see him, too," the child observed. "The old man, I mean."
Before Meg could come up with an answer, Angus reappeared.
"I'm not that old," he protested.
"Yes, you are," Carly argued, looking right at him. "You must be a hundred, and that's old."
Meg's mouth fell open.
"I told you I could see him," Carly said with a touch of smugness.
Angus laughed. "I'll be d
amned," he marveled.
Carly's brow furrowed. "Are you a ghost?"
"Not really," Angus said.
"What are you, then?"
"Just a person, like you. I'm from another time, that's all."
No big deal. I just step from one century to another at will. Anybody could do it.
Meg watched the exchange in amazement, speechless. Ever since she'd started seeing Angus, way back in her nursery days, she'd wished for one other person—just one— who could see him, too. Being different from other people was a lonely thing.
"When my dad dies, will he still be around?"
Angus approached the table, drew back Holt's chair, and sat down. His manner was gruff and gentle, at the same time, and Meg's throat tightened again, recalling all the times he'd comforted her, in his grave, deep-voiced way. "That's a question I can't rightly answer," he said solemnly. "But I can tell you that folks don't really die, in the way you probably think of it. They're just in another place, that's all."
Carly blinked, obviously trying hard not to cry. "I'm going to miss him something awful," she said very softly.
Angus covered the child's small hand with one of his big, work-worn paws. There was such a rough tenderness in the gesture that Meg's throat closed up even more, and her eyes scalded.
"It's a fact of life, missing folks when they go away," Angus said. "You've got Meg, here, though." He nodded his head slightly, in her direction, but didn't look away from Carly's face. "She'll do right by you. It's the McKettrick way, taking care of your own."
"But I'm not a McKettrick," Carly said.
"You could be if you wanted to," Angus reasoned. "You're not a Ledger, either, are you?"
"We've changed our name so many times," the child admitted, her eyes round and sad and a little hungry as she studied Angus, "I don't remember who I am."
"Then you might as well be a McKettrick as not," Angus said.
Carry's gaze slid to Meg, swung away again. "I'm not going to forget my dad," she said.
"Nobody expects you to do that," Angus replied. "Thing is, you've got a long life ahead of you, and it'll be a lot easier with a family to take your part when the trail gets rugged."
Upstairs, a door opened, then closed again.
"Your pa," Angus told Carly, lowering his voice a little, "is real worried about you being all right, once he's gone. You could put his mind at ease a bit, if you'd give Meg a chance to act like a big sister."
Carly bit her lower lip, then nodded. "I wish you wouidn't go away," she said. "But I know you're going to." She paused, and Meg grappled with the sudden knowledge that it was true—one day soon, Angus would vanish, for good. "If you see my mom—her name is Rose—will you tell her I've got a tattoo just like hers?"
"I surely will," Angus promised. "And you'll look out for my dad, too?" Angus nodded, his eyes misty. It was a phenomenon Meg had never seen before, even at family funerals. Then he ruffled Carly's hair and vanished just as Ted came down the stairs, moving slowly, holding tightly to the rail. It was all Meg could do not to rush to his aid. "Hungry?" she asked moderately.
"I could eat," Ted volunteered, looking at Carly. His whole face softened as he gazed at his younger child.
It made Meg wonder if he'd ever missed her, during all those years away.
As if he'd heard her thoughts, her father turned to her. "You turned out real well," he said after clearing his throat. "Your mom did a good job, raising you. But, then, Eve was always competent."
"We're going to meet Brad O'Ballivan," Carly said. "Get out," Ted teased, a faint twinkle shining in his eyes. "We're not, either."
"Yes, we are," Carly insisted, "Meg knows him. He just called here. Meg says he might autograph my CDs."
Ted grinned, made his way to the table and sank into the chair Angus had occupied until moments before. Spent a few moments recovering from the exertion of descending the stairs and crossing the room.
Meg served up the extra sandwiches she'd made earlier, struggling all the while with a lot of tangled emotions. Carly could see Angus. Ted Ledger might be a total stranger, but he was Meg's father, and he was dying.
Last but certainly not least, Brad was back in her life, and there were bound to be complications.
A strange combination of grief, joy and anticipation pushed at the inside walls of Meg's heart.
***
They arrived right on time, Meg and a young girl and a man who put Brad in mind of a faster-aging Paul Newman. Willie, who'd been resting on the soft grass bordering the flagstone patio off the kitchen, keeping an eye on his new master while he prepared the barbeque grill for action, gave a soft little woof.
Brad watched as Meg approached, thinking how delicious she looked in her jeans and lightweight, close-fitting sweater. She hadn't explained who her company was, but looking at them, Brad saw the girl's resemblance to Meg, and guessed the man to be the father she hadn't seen since she was a toddler.
He smiled.
The girl blushed and stared at him.
"Hey," he said, putting out a hand. "My name's Brad O'Ballivan."
"I know," the girl said.
"My sister, Carly," Meg told him. "And this is my—this is Ted Ledger."
Shyly, Carly slipped off her backpack, reached inside, took out a couple of beat-up CDs. "Meg said I could maybe get your autograph."
"No maybe about it," Brad answered. "I don't happen to have a pen on me at the moment, though."
Carly swallowed visibly. "That's okay," she said, her gaze straying to Willie, who was thumping his tail against the ground and grinning a goofy dog grin at her, hoping for friendship. "What happened to him?"
"He had a run-in with a pack of coyotes," Brad said. "He'll be all right, though. Just needs a little time to mend."
The girl crouched next to the dog, stroked him gently. "Hi," she said.
Meanwhile, Meg's father took a seat at the patio table. He looked bushed.
"I had to have stitches once," Carly told Willie. "Not as many as you've got, though."
"Brad's sister is a veterinarian," Meg said, finally finding her voice. "She fixed him right up."
"I'd like to be a veterinarian," Carly said. "No reason you can't," Brad replied, turning his attention to Ted Ledger. "Can I get you a drink, Mr. Ledger?"
Ledger shook his head. "No, thanks," he said quietly. His gaze moved fondly between Meg and Carly, resting on one, then the other. "Good of you to have us over. I appreciate it. And I'd rather you called me Ted."
"Is there anything I can do to help?" Meg asked.
"I've got it under control," Brad told her. "Just relax."
Great advice, O'Ballivan, he thought. Maybe you ought to take it.
Meg went to greet Willie, who gave a whine of greeting and tried to lick her face. She laughed, and Brad felt something open up inside him, at the sound. When he'd conceived the supper idea, he'd intended to ply her with good wine and a thick steak, then take her to bed. The extra guests precluded that plan, of course, but he didn't regret it. When it finally registered that his and Meg's child might have looked a lot like Carly, though, he felt bruised all over again.
"Any news about Ransom?" Meg asked, stepping up beside him when he turned his back to lay steaks on the grill, along with foil-wrapped baked potatoes that had been cooking for a while.
Brad shook his head, suddenly unable to look at her. If he did, she'd see all the things he felt, and he wasn't ready for that.
"According to the radio," Meg persisted, "the blizzard's passed, and the snow's melted."
Brad sighed. "I guess that means I'd better ride up and look lor that stallion before Livie decides to do it by herself."
"I'd like to go with you," Meg said, sounding almost shy.
Brad thought about the baby who'd never had a chance to grow up. The baby Meg hadn't seen fit to tell him about. "We'll see," he answered noncommittally. "How do you like your steak?"
Chapter Ten
After the meal had been served and enjoyed
, with Willie getting the occasional scrap, Brad signed the astounding suc-cession of CDs Carly fished out of her backpack. Ted, who had eaten little, seemed content to watch the scene from a patio chair, and Meg insisted on cleaning up; since she'd had no part in the preparations, it only seemed fair.
As she carried in plates and glasses and silverware, rinsed them and put them into the oversize dishwasher, she reflected on Brad's mood change. He'd been warm to Ted, and chatted and joked with Carly, but when she'd mentioned that she'd like to accompany him when he went looking for Ransom again, it was as if a wall had slammed down between them.
She was just shutting the dishwasher and looking for the appropriate button to push when the screen door creaked open behind her. She turned, saw Brad hesitating on the threshold. It was past dusk—outside, the patio lights were hunting brightly—but Meg hadn't bothered to flip a switch when she came in, so the kitchen was almost dark.
"Kid wants a T-shirt," he said, his face in shadow so she couldn't read his expression. "I think I have a few around here someplace"
Meg nodded, oddly stricken.
Brad didn't move right away, but simply stood there for a lew long moments; she knew by the tilt of his head that he was watching her.
"You've gone out of your way to be kind to Carly," Meg managed, because the silence was unbearable. "Thank you."
He still didn't speak, or move.
Meg swallowed hard. "Well, it's getting late," she said awkwardly. "I guess we'd better be heading for home soon."
Brad reached out for a switch, and the overhead lights came on, seeming harsh after the previous cozy twilight in the room. His face looked bleak to Meg, his broad shoulders seemed to stoop a little.
"Seeing her—Carly, I mean—"
"I know," Meg said very softly. Of course Brad saw what she had, when he looked at Carly—the child who might have been.
"She's her own person," Brad said with an almost inaudible sigh. "It wouldn't be right to think of her in any other way. But it gave me a start, seeing her. She looks so much like you. So much like—"
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