McKettricks of Texas: Garrett

by Linda Lael Miller

  Garrett taxied to a stop outside the ramshackle hangar that had once housed his dad’s plane and shut off the engines. The blur of the props slowed until the paddles were visible.

  He climbed down, shut the door behind him and walked toward his brother.

  They met midway between the Cessna and Tate’s truck.

  Obviously, Tate had heard about the scandal in Austin by then, and Garrett figured he was there to say, “I told you so.”

  Instead, Tate reached out, rested a hand on Garrett’s shoulder. “You okay?”

  Garrett didn’t know what to say then. Flying back from the capital, he’d rehearsed another scenario entirely—and that one hadn’t involved the sympathy and concern he saw in his brother’s eyes.

  He nodded, though he couldn’t resist qualifying that with “I’ve been better.”

  Tate let his hand fall back to his side. Folded his arms. “I caught the press conference on TV,” he said. “Cox isn’t planning to resign?”

  Garrett sighed, shoved a hand through his hair. “He will,” he said sadly. “Right now, he’s still trying to convince himself that the hullabaloo will blow over and everything will get back to normal.”

  “How’s Nan taking all this?”

  “She’s holding up okay,” Garrett said. “As far as I can tell, anyway.”

  Tate took that in. His expression was thoughtful. “Now what?” he asked, after a few moments had passed. “For you, I mean?”

  “I catch my breath and look for another job,” Garrett replied.

  “You quit?” Tate asked, sounding surprised. If there was one thing a McKettrick didn’t do, it was desert a sinking ship. Unless, of course, that ship had been commandeered by one of the rats.

  Garrett grinned wanly. Spread his hands at his side. “I was fired,” he said.

  Now there, he thought, was a first. In living memory, he knew of no McKettrick who had ever been fired from a job. On the other hand, most of them worked for themselves, and that had been the case for generations.

  The look on Tate’s face would have been satisfying, under any other circumstances. “What?”

  Garrett chuckled. Okay, so his brother’s surprise was sort of satisfying, circumstances notwithstanding. It made up for Garrett’s skinned pride, at least a little. “The senator and I had words,” he said. “He wanted to go on as if nothing had happened. I told him that wouldn’t work—he needed to fess up, stand by his wife and his kids, if he wanted to come out of this with any credibility at all, never mind holding on to his seat in the Senate. I agreed to handle the press conference because Nan practically begged me, but when it was over, the senator informed me that my services were no longer needed.” Still enjoying Tate’s bewilderment, Garrett started toward the Cessna he’d just climbed out of, intending to roll it into the hangar. He stopped, looked back over one shoulder. “You wouldn’t be in the market for a ranch hand, would you?”

  Tate smiled, but there was a tinge of sadness to it. “Permanent or temporary?”

  “Temporary,” Garrett said, after a moment of recovery. “I still want to work in government. And I’ve already had a couple of offers.”

  Tate’s disappointment was visible in his face, though he was a good sport about it. “Okay,” he said. “How long is ‘temporary’?”

  Garrett wasn’t sure how to answer that. He needed time—thinking time. Horse time. “As long as it takes,” he offered.

  Tate put out a hand so they could shake on the agreement, nebulous as it was. “Fair enough,” he said.

  Garrett nodded, watched as Tate turned to walk away, open the door of his truck and step up on the running board to climb behind the wheel.

  “See you in the morning,” Tate called.

  Garrett grinned, feeling strangely hopeful, as if he were on the brink of something he’d been born to do.

  But that was crazy, of course.

  He was a born politician. He belonged in Austin, if not Washington. He wanted to be a mover and a shaker, part of the solution. Working on the Silver Spur was only a stopgap measure, just as he’d told Tate.

  “What time?” he called back, standing next to the Cessna.

  Tate’s grin flashed. “We’ve got five hundred head of cattle to move tomorrow,” he said. “We’re starting at dawn, so be saddled up and ready to ride.”

  Garrett didn’t let his own grin falter, though on the inside he groaned. He nodded, waved and turned away.

  IF RON STRIVENS, RACHEL’S FATHER, carried a cell phone, the number wasn’t on record in the school office, and since Strivens did odd jobs, he didn’t work in the same place every day, like most of her students’ parents. In the end, Julie drove to the trailer he rented just across the dirt road from Chudley and Minnie Wilkes’s junkyard, and found him there, chopping firewood in the twilight.

  Seeing Julie, the tall, rangy man lodged the blade of his ax in the chopping block and started toward her.

  Julie sized him up as he approached. He wore old jeans, beat-up work boots and a plaid flannel shirt, unbuttoned to reveal a faded T-shirt beneath. His reddish-brown hair was too long and thinning above his forehead, and the expression in his eyes was one of weary resignation.

  “I’m Julie Remington,” Julie told him, after rolling down the car window. “Rachel is in my English class.”

  Strivens nodded, keeping his distance. Behind him loomed the battered trailer. Smoke curled from a rusty stovepipe, gray against a darkening sky, and Julie thought she saw Rachel’s face appear briefly at one of the windows.

  “What can I do for you, Ms. Remington?” he asked, shyly polite.

  Julie felt her throat tighten. Money had certainly been in short supply while she was growing up, and the family home was nothing fancy, but she and her sisters had never done without anything they really needed.

  “I was hoping we could talk about Rachel,” she said.

  Strivens glanced back toward the trailer. The metal was rusting, and even curling away from the frame in places, and the chimney rose from the roof of a ramshackle add-on, more like a lean-to than a room. “I’d ask you in,” he told her, “but the kids are about to have their supper, and I don’t think the soup will stretch far enough to feed another person.”

  Julie ached for Rachel, for her brothers, for all of them. “I’m in sort of a hurry anyway,” she said, and that was true. She still had to pick Calvin up at Libby and Tate’s place, and then there would be supper and his bath and a bedtime story. “Rachel tells me she’s taking on an after-school job.”

  Strivens reddened a little, nodded once, abruptly. He’d been stooping to look in at Julie through the window, but now he took a couple of steps back and straightened. “I’m right sorry she has to do that,” he said, “but the fact is, we’re having a hard time making ends meet around here. The boys are always needing something, and there’s rent and food and all the rest.”

  Julie’s heart sank. What had she expected—that Rachel’s father would say it was all a big misunderstanding and what had he been thinking, asking a mere child to help support the family?

  “Rachel is a very special young woman, Mr. Strivens. She’s definitely college material. Her grades aren’t terrific, though, and she’s going to have even less time to study once she’s working.”

  Pain flashed in his eyes, temper climbed, red, up his neck to pulse in the stubble covering his cheeks and chin. “You think I don’t know that, Miss Remington? You think I wouldn’t like for my daughter, for all three of my kids, to have a nice place to live and clothes that didn’t come from somebody’s ragbag and a chance to go on to college?”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  Strivens glanced toward the trailer again. Softened slightly. “I know,” he said, sounding so tired and sad that the backs of Julie’s eyes scalded. “I know your intentions are good. We’ve come on some hard times, my family and me, but we’re still—” he choked up, swallowed and went on “—we’re still a family. We’ll get by somehow, but only if we all do our pa
rt.”

  Avoiding Strivens’s eyes, Julie opened the little memo book with its miniature pencil looped through the top and scrawled her cell and school numbers onto a page, then handed it out the window. “If there’s anything I can do to help,” she said, “please call me.”

  Strivens took the piece of paper, stared down at it for a long moment, then turned away from Julie, shoving it into his coat pocket as he did so. Prying the ax out of the chopping block, he silently went back to work.

  Half an hour later, when Julie pulled into one of the bays of the McKettricks’ multicar garage, it was already dark. The door had barely rolled down behind her before Calvin was scrambling out of his car seat to dash inside the house.

  It would have been impossible not to note the contrasts between the mansion on the Silver Spur and the single-wide trailer where Rachel lived with her father and brothers.

  Feeling twice her real age, Julie got out, reached into the backseat for her purse and the quilted tote bag she used as a briefcase. Harry, the beagle, could be heard barking a joyous welcome inside the house, and that made her smile.

  The kitchen was warm and brightly lit, and fragrant with something savory Esperanza was making for supper.

  Hungry and tired, Julie felt a rush of gratitude, smiling her thanks at the other woman as she stepped around Calvin and the dog to carry her things into the guest quarters in back.

  After getting out of her skirt and sweater and putting on jeans and a long-sleeved royal-blue T-shirt, Julie washed her face and hands in the guest bath and returned to the kitchen to help Esperanza.

  “How many places shall I set?” Julie asked, pausing in front of a set of glass-fronted cupboards. The number varied—sometimes, it was just Esperanza, Calvin and herself, but Tate and Libby and the twins often joined them for supper, even on weeknights, and it wasn’t uncommon for a couple of ranch hands to share in the meal as well.

  Esperanza turned from the stove, where she was stirring red sauce in a giant copper skillet. “Four of us tonight,” she answered. “Garrett’s back, you know.”

  Julie smiled. “Yes,” she said, knowing how Esperanza loved it when any of her “boys” were around to cook for, fuss over and generally spoil.

  Calvin, meanwhile, continued to wrestle with Harry.

  “Go wash up,” Julie told her son. “And don’t leave your coat and your backpack lying around, either.”

  Calvin gave her a long-suffering look, sighed and got to his feet. He and Harry disappeared into the guest quarters.

  Julie had just finished setting the table when she felt the prickle of a thrill at her nape and turned to see Garrett standing in the kitchen. He looked more like a cowboy than a politician, Julie thought, wearing jeans and old boots and a cotton shirt the color of his eyes.

  Grinning, he rolled up his sleeves, revealing a pair of muscular forearms.

  “Well,” he said, in that soft, slow drawl of his, “howdy all over again.”

  Julie, oddly stricken, blinked. “Howdy,” she croaked, froglike.

  Esperanza, about to set a platter of enchiladas on the table, chuckled.

  “Where is el niño?” she asked, looking around for Calvin.

  “I’ll get him,” Julie said, too quickly, dashing out of the room.

  When she got back, Calvin in tow, Esperanza was at the table, in her usual place, while Garrett stood leaning against one of the counters, evidently waiting.

  Only when Julie was seated, Calvin on the bench beside her, did Garrett pull back the chair at the head of the table and sit.

  Everybody bowed their heads, and Esperanza offered thanks.

  Calvin had probably been peeking at Garrett through his eyelashes throughout the brief prayer, though Julie could only speculate. Grace seemed particularly appropriate that night.

  The Strivens family was having soup. And not enough of it, apparently.

  “Aunt Libby had the news on when Audrey and Ava and I got home from school today,” Calvin told Garrett. “I saw you on TV!”

  Garrett grinned at that, though Julie caught the briefest glimpse of weariness in his eyes. “All in a day’s work,” he replied easily.

  Esperanza gave him a sympathetic glance.

  “Tate says the senator ought to be lynched,” Calvin went on cheerfully, his chin and one cheek already smudged with enchilada sauce.

  Julie handed him a paper napkin, watched as he bunched it into a wad, dabbed at his face and wiped away only part of the sauce.

  Garrett’s grin slipped a little, Julie thought, and a glance at Esperanza revealed the other woman’s quiet concern.

  “Is that right?” Garrett responded, very slowly. “Tate said that?”

  Calvin nodded, thrilled to be carrying tales. “He didn’t know I heard what he said,” the little boy explained, “but when Aunt Libby poked him with her elbow, he almost choked on his coffee.” A pause. “That was funny.”

  Garrett chuckled. “I suppose it was,” he agreed.

  “What’s ‘lynched’?” Calvin persisted, gazing up at Julie. “Aunt Libby wouldn’t tell me when I asked her. She said I’d have to ask you, Mom.”

  Thanks a lot, sis, Julie thought wryly. “Never mind,” she said. “We’re eating.”

  “Is it something yucky, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will it give me bad dreams?”

  “Maybe,” Julie said.

  Again, Garrett chuckled. “How old are you, buddy?” he asked, watching the child.

  “Almost five,” Calvin answered, proudly. “That’s how come they finally let me into kindergarten. Because I’m almost five.”

  Garrett gave a low, exclamatory whistle. “I’d have sworn you were fifty-two,” he said, “and short for your age.”

  Calvin laughed, delighted by the joke—and the masculine attention.

  Julie felt a pang, barely resisted an urge to ruffle her son’s hair in a fit of unrestrained affection. He would have been embarrassed, she thought, and the pang struck again, deeper this time.

  Eventually Calvin finished eating, and excused himself to feed Harry and then take him outside. Julie knew he’d ask about lynching again, but she hoped she could put him off until morning.

  Esperanza began clearing the table, and waved Julie away when she moved to help.

  Calvin and the dog came back inside.

  “Time for your bath, big guy,” Julie said.

  For once, Calvin didn’t argue. Maybe he wanted to look good in front of Garrett McKettrick; she couldn’t be sure.

  Once the boy and his dog had vanished into the guest suite, and Esperanza had served the coffee, started the dishwasher and gone as well, Julie was alone with Garrett.

  The realization was deliciously unsettling.

  She cleared her throat diplomatically, but when she opened her mouth, intending to make some kind of pitch concerning the foundation’s funding the new computers in full, not a sound came out.

  Garrett watched her, amusement flickering in his eyes. He could have thrown her a lifeline, tossed out some conversational tidbit to get things started, but he didn’t. He simply waited for her to make another attempt.

  That was when Calvin reappeared, tugging at Julie’s shirtsleeve and startling her half out of her skin. “Do I have to take a bath tonight? I had one last night and I hardly even got dirty today.”

  Garrett’s smile set Julie back on her figurative heels.

  Flustered, she turned to her son. “Yes, Calvin,” she said firmly, “you do have to take your bath.”

  “But Esperanza and I were going to watch TV,” Calvin protested, his usual sunny-sky nature clouding over. “Our favorite show is on, and somebody’s sure to get voted off and sent home.”

  Julie turned back to Garrett. “Excuse me,” she said, rising.

  Garrett merely nodded.

  She took Calvin to their bathroom, where Esperanza was filling the tub. The older woman smiled at Julie—she’d already gotten out the little boy’s pajamas, and they were neatl
y folded and waiting on the lid of the clothes hamper.

  Bless the woman, she went out of her way to be helpful.

  Julie felt yet another rush of gratitude.

  Harry sat on a hooked rug in the middle of the bathroom, panting and watching the proceedings.

  “I’ll make sure young Mr. Calvin is bathed and in his pajamas in time to watch our program,” Esperanza said. Then she made a shooing motion with the backs of her fingers. “You go back to the kitchen.”

  Was Esperanza playing matchmaker?

  Julie made a little snorting sound as she left the bathroom. Herself and Garrett McKettrick?

  Fat chance.

  The man was a politician, for cripes’ sake.

  Anyway, he had probably lit out for his part of the house by then, either because he’d already forgotten their encounter or because he’d guessed that she was about to ask for something—with all the pride-swallowing that would entail—and wanted to avoid her.

  Garrett was still at the table, though, drinking coffee and frowning at the newspaper spread out in front of him. He’d recently topped off his cup—the brew steamed at his right elbow—and when he looked up, Julie saw that he was wearing wire-rimmed glasses.

  For some reason, that struck her in a tender place.

  Seeing her, he stood.

  “I guess you must have heard about Senator Cox,” Garrett said, with a nod toward the paper, his voice deep and solemn and very quiet.

  Julie nodded. “I’m sorry,” she told Garrett, and then she felt foolish. “If that’s the appropriate sentiment, I mean,” she stumbled on. “Being sorry, that is.”

  She closed her eyes, sighed and squeezed the bridge of her nose.

  When she looked at Garrett again, he smiled, took off his glasses and folded down the stems, tucked them into the pocket of his shirt.

  His eyes were the heart-bruising blue of a September sky.

  His expression, unreadable.

  “Did I read you wrong, or did you want to speak to me about something earlier, before the interruption?”

  Oh, but there was a slight edge to his tone—or was she imagining that?

  Totally confused, Julie raised her chin a notch. “Sit down,” she said. “Please.”