McKettricks of Texas: Garrett

by Linda Lael Miller

  The river and the creeks looked like black ribbons, snaking through the night, silvery with the moon’s glow.

  Tate’s place was dark, Garrett noticed.

  That gave him a lonely feeling.

  He automatically scanned the horizon, though he could have charted the course to Austin or any one of a dozen other places with his eyes shut. And that was when he spotted the snarl of headlights over near the dry riverbed he and Tate had checked out a day or two before.

  He banked in that direction, frowning, not wanting to take the time, knowing he wouldn’t be able to see much from the air, heading there anyway.

  He swung low over the trailer of a semi surrounded by a number of smaller rigs. Several sets of headlights—all but the semi’s—blinked out like fireflies going into hiding, but not before Garrett spotted the dark figures of men scattering to flee.

  He reached for the handset of the radio, but drew back without taking hold of it. Instead, he fumbled for his cell phone, jammed into his shirt pocket just before he left the house.

  He thumbed in Tate’s number, then reconsidered and cut off the call.

  The rigs below scattered, driving blind. Garrett made an executive decision and stuck to the semi, its trailer probably loaded down with McKettrick cattle.

  Tate called him back in two seconds, half-asleep and in no mood to be gracious. “What?” he growled. “You call, you let the phone ring once, and then you hang up?”

  “Sorry about that,” Garrett said. “Second thoughts.” If he mentioned the semi to Tate now, the damn fool would probably come running out here in the middle of the night, planning to chase the crooks to the farthest corner of hell if he had to—and maybe get hurt or killed in the process.

  Below, the semi driver jolted toward the main road, traveling fast, over rough ground.

  Garrett hoped the cattle jammed into the back were all right. At the same time, it gave him that old rodeo feeling, tailing that fleeing semi from the air. Even with all that was going on, he could barely hold back a whoop of pure yeehaw.

  “You’re not getting off that easy,” Tate said. “Why did you call me?”

  It was easy to tell that he was a man in love, because as pissed-off as he was, he still tried to keep his voice down so he wouldn’t wake Libby.

  “Garrett,” he demanded, in a loud whisper, “are you drunk or something?”

  Garrett laughed outright then. It was a broken sound, part tragedy. “No,” he said. “I’m not drunk.” He was going to have to give up something, he could see that; Tate wouldn’t leave him alone until he did. “I’m on my way to Austin,” he said. He told Tate what little he knew about the senator’s tragic mishap on an Oregon ski slope.

  “I’m really sorry,” Tate said, when Garrett had finished.

  Garrett didn’t answer.

  Below, the semi pulled onto the main road, heading south.

  “Gotta go,” Garrett said.

  “I could meet you at the hospital—”

  Garrett cut him off. “No,” he replied, his voice gruff. “Look, I’ll call you tomorrow. Bring you up to speed.”

  The brothers said their goodbyes, and rang off, and Garrett put through a quick call to Brent Brogan. Brent promised to send the state police after the semi, but without a license number or any identifying characteristics other than the direction the rig was headed in, there wasn’t much hope.

  Just then, there didn’t seem to be a whole hell of a lot of hope for much of anything.

  Garrett felt a raw and confounding sadness, brief in duration but carving deep, and it had little or nothing to do with the senator’s tragedy.

  Below, the semi lumbered right, onto a state highway.

  The driver could be headed anywhere—Arizona, Oklahoma, or even toward the Mexican border.

  Reluctantly, Garrett changed course.

  He was needed in Austin.

  IT WAS STILL DARK when he landed the plane. Troy, the senator’s driver, waited on the tarmac, beside the usual Town Car.

  The two men shook hands, and then Garrett sprinted around to the passenger side and slid into the front seat.

  “Has the senator arrived yet?” he asked, dreading the answer, as Troy settled behind the wheel.

  Troy nodded wearily. “He was holding on when I left the hospital, but as soon as they unhook all those machines—”

  Garrett’s voice was hoarse. “How’s Nan?”

  “Mrs. Cox is hanging in there.”

  “Have the kids been told?”

  “I don’t think so,” Troy answered, with a shake of his head. “Mandy, now, she’s been spilling her guts to the media. Telling them more than even they want to know, probably.” With a thin attempt at a grin, he added, “What happened to your face, man?”

  “I was kicked by a horse,” Garrett lied.

  Troy’s eyes rounded, then rolled. “You are so full of shit,” he said.

  “I missed you, too,” Garrett said, leaning to punch his friend in the shoulder. “How long’s it been since we’ve crossed paths, old buddy? Three days? A week?”

  Troy laughed, but there was a note of harsh grief in the sound. “Damn,” he muttered. “This is bad, Garrett.”

  “Yeah,” Garrett agreed, tilting his head back and closing his eyes.

  “The state police came to the house to tell Mrs. Cox the news in person,” Troy said. He lived in an apartment over Nan and Morgan’s garage, so he’d be available whenever a driver was needed. Technically, he was on call 24/7, but he had a lot of downtime, too. “I heard a ruckus, so I got out of bed and dressed and scrambled downstairs to find out what was going on.” Troy thrust out sigh. “He’s not going to make it, Garrett.”

  After that, there wasn’t much else to talk about.

  They arrived at the hospital within a few minutes, and Garrett noticed several news vans in the parking lot.

  He sighed inwardly.

  “You might as well go on home and get whatever rest you can manage,” Garrett told Troy quietly, bracing himself inwardly and pushing open the car door. He hadn’t missed dealing with reporters during his brief hiatus on the ranch. “However things come down, tomorrow is bound to be a real mother.”

  Troy hesitated, then nodded. “You tell Mrs. Cox to call if she needs me.”

  Garrett promised to pass the word, got out of the car, squared his shoulders and headed for the hospital entrance.

  As expected, reporters and cameramen were waiting in the lobby, and Mandy Chante, tragic in her black stretch ski pants and fluffy pink sweater, was holding court.

  Garrett shook his head, skirted the scene and headed for the elevators.

  “That’s some shiner, handsome,” purred Charlene Bishop, a freelancer who sold mainly to the tabloids, stepping directly into his path. He and Charlene had dated for a while, a few years back, nothing serious. Last he’d heard, she was married to a chiropractor and trying to get pregnant.

  Garrett smiled, took the woman lightly by the shoulders and eased her aside. “Nice to see you again, Charlene,” he said, moving on toward the elevators. “How’s the husband?”

  She kept pace, managed to slip into the elevator beside him, along with a guy wearing a backwards baseball cap and balancing a huge camera on one shoulder.

  “Turn that thing on,” Garrett warned him, “and I’ll shove it up your—nose.”

  The guy grinned. “I’ve been threatened with a lot worse than that in my time,” he retorted.

  “You want worse?” Garrett asked. “I can give you worse.”

  “Testy,” sniped Baseball Cap.

  “Shut up, Leroy,” Charlene said, elbowing the guy aside, shifting to stand toe-to-toe with Garrett, so her breasts pressed against his chest. “I need this story,” she confided, looking up at him with enormous powder-blue eyes.

  Garrett raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t notice Mandy Chante in the lobby?” he asked. “You’re slipping.”

  Charlene huffed in disgust. “All she’s doing is blowing smoke up e
verybody’s butt,” she said, dismissing the other woman with a slight wave of one hand. “Look, freelancing is a tough racket. You know that.” She stepped in close, so her breasts pressed into his chest, and wriggled slightly. “How about an exclusive, for old times’ sake?”

  Leroy crowed at that last part.

  Garrett stepped back, irritated, but being careful not to let that show.

  The elevator doors opened and he was the first one out.

  Troy must have called ahead to let Nan know they’d arrived, because she appeared immediately, slipped her arm through Garrett’s and rested her head against his upper arm for a moment.

  Her silver hair was pulled back and secured with a barrette, and instead of her trademark designer suit, she wore baggy brown corduroy pants and a heavy beige sweater.

  Leroy aimed the camera.

  Garrett glared him into retreat.

  And Charlene clicked alongside Garrett and Nan, the pointy heels of her shoes tap-tap-tapping on the corridor floor.

  “Mrs. Cox,” she said breathlessly, “is it true that the senator got a quickie divorce in Mexico and then turned right around and married Miss Chante? She—Miss Chante—says they were on their honeymoon when the accident happened—”

  “Charlene,” Garrett broke in.

  She blinked up at him. “What?”

  “Shut up.”

  “But—”

  “Beat it, Charlene. I’ll give you a statement later.”

  Charlene’s plump pink lower lip wobbled. “You promise?”

  “I promise,” Garrett replied tightly.

  A security guard was approaching, probably intending to eject Charlene and Leroy from the Intensive Care Unit.

  “Where? When?” Charlene pressed, walking backward.

  Garrett sighed, rattled off his cell number. “Call me in a couple of hours,” he said. “I won’t talk to anyone else first. You have my word.”

  Charlene scribbled down the number, rushed over in a last-minute burst of moxie and shoved a card at Garrett. “Here’s my number,” she said. “You call me.”

  Garrett nodded.

  The security guard arrived, taking Charlene’s elbow in one hand and the back of Leroy’s T-shirt in the other and propelling them both into the elevator.

  “Thank God you’re here,” Nan said wearily.

  “How’s Morgan?” Garrett asked.

  “He died five minutes ago,” Nan answered. “His…prospective bride wasn’t with him at the time. She was too busy enjoying her fifteen minutes of fame downstairs, it would seem.” Her gaze was faraway, and a faint smile, sadder than tears, tugged at the corner of her mouth. “I was with him, though. I held Morgan’s hand and I told him I understood, and he should just go if he was ready—the children and I would be all right.”

  Garrett had to sit down. He found a chair over by the wall and dropped into it. “My God, Nan,” he rasped out. “I’m sorry.”

  Nan’s eyes swam with tears, but she managed a brave smile. “Me, too,” she said, taking the chair beside Garrett’s. “The children will be devastated, of course.”

  Garrett could only nod.

  “He wouldn’t have wanted to live,” Nan went on quietly, resting her hands on her knees. Her spine was very straight, and she held her chin high. “He was much too badly hurt.”

  Garrett put his arm around the woman’s shoulders.

  She trembled, allowed herself to lean against him, though just for a moment. “We’ll have to make some kind of statement soon,” she said.

  Garrett nodded again, at a loss for words.

  Nan gave a teary smile and tilted her head to one side as she studied him.

  “What?” Garrett asked.

  “What happened to your eye?” Nan countered.

  THE NEWS WAS ALL OVER THE TV, all over the Internet.

  Senator Morgan Cox was dead.

  His grieving mistress, Mandy Chante, was already angling for her own reality show.

  Julie stared at the TV, a cup of Esperanza’s coffee raised to her lips. They were in the ranch-house kitchen, Calvin still sleeping, Esperanza watching the morning news as she started breakfast.

  Julie felt a jolt of emotion, all of it unidentifiable, when Garrett’s head and shoulders filled the screen. His hair was rumpled, his right eye was blackened and nearly swollen shut, his clothes more suited to the barn or the range than national TV. On top of all that, he needed a shave.

  Her heart turned over inside her.

  I love you, she told him silently.

  “Senator Cox passed away at 2:33 a.m.,” he said, into a cluster of microphones. He looked weary and grief-stricken and Julie longed to put her arms around him, and hold him, and chase away all the reporters.

  All the demons.

  “Madre de Dios,” Esperanza muttered, pausing to cross herself.

  Julie continued to watch Garrett, willing him to be strong.

  “Mommy?” Calvin stood in the doorway to the guest suite. He was still wearing his pajamas, his hair was mussed and his cheeks were too pink by at least three shades.

  Plus, he rarely called her “Mommy” these days.

  She’d been demoted to “Mom” sometime after his fourth birthday.

  “I don’t feel good,” Calvin said. Then, to prove his point, he threw up.

  Julie hurried to her son, and Esperanza switched off the TV set.

  “He’s burning up,” Julie told Esperanza, resting the backs of her fingers against Calvin’s forehead.

  Esperanza rushed to fill a bucket and grab a cleaning rag. “Back to bed,” she said. “There can be no going to school like this!”

  Calvin vomited again.

  “Oh, Calvin!” Julie cried, alarmed by the violence of his illness.

  “Am I in trouble?” he asked desperately, blinking as he stared up at her.

  “No,” Julie said, gathering him to her, mess and all. “No, sweetie. Come on, let’s get you into some clean pajamas and back in bed.”

  Calvin cried and then wailed.

  Harry, ever sympathetic, whimpered his concern.

  Julie swept her son up into her arms and carried him back to their bathroom. There, she quickly stripped him, sprayed him down in the bathtub and bundled him into fresh pajamas.

  Calvin had quieted down by then, but Harry cried continuously, the poor thing. He seemed to think his little master was being punished for some horrible misdeed.

  Julie had no more than tucked Calvin into bed when he threw up again, all over everything.

  Because Audrey and Ava were still sick, and therefore in what amounted to quarantine, she’d planned to take the boy to town herself, drop him off for kindergarten before her first-period class, and bring him back to the high school until tryouts were over.

  All that was clearly out of the question now.

  While Esperanza changed Calvin, and the sheets and blankets on his bed, Julie showered and changed her own clothes, then made a quick call to Arthur Dulles. The principal wouldn’t be happy, since the tasks of overseeing her classes, along with that day’s phase of the tryouts for Kiss Me Kate, were sure to fall to him.

  Julie was relieved to get her boss’s voice mail, although she dutifully left her callback information.

  Next, she called Calvin’s pediatrician.

  The office nurse told her to put him to bed, dose him with children’s aspirin and bring him in if he got worse.

  Discouraged, she got in touch with Paige next, describing Calvin’s symptoms.

  “I’m on my way,” her sister, the RN, responded.

  “What about your job?” Julie asked, worried.

  “I’m between one and the other,” Paige replied. “And this is Calvin we’re talking about here.”

  Julie let out her breath, relieved and grateful. “Thanks,” she murmured.

  She sat with Calvin, who was fitful, until Paige arrived, looking a little frazzled, which was unlike her.

  It took Julie a moment to realize that her sister must have e
ncountered Austin when she entered the house.

  Paige’s expression transformed in a twinkling, though, as she focused her attention on Calvin. “Hey, little buddy,” she greeted her nephew, “what’s the deal?”

  “I spewed,” Calvin said miserably. “Everywhere.”

  “It happens,” Paige answered matter-of-factly, tossing a wan grin in Julie’s direction. “Hi, sis. How about getting me a cup of coffee? I didn’t get a chance to grab my usual caffeine fix this morning.”

  Julie nodded, reluctant to leave Calvin even long enough to pour Paige’s coffee, but she knew he couldn’t have been in better hands.

  When she reached the kitchen, Austin was there, leaning against a counter and sipping coffee from a mug while Esperanza tried to persuade him to sit down and have a good breakfast before he went off to spend the day “playing cowboy.”

  Disreputably handsome in his work clothes and scuffed boots, Austin hadn’t shaved, and if he’d combed his hair at all, he’d used his fingers. He looked pale and deeply weary, Julie thought, and even in her agitation over Calvin, it gave her pause.

  Of course there had been an encounter between him and Paige, she concluded, both intrigued and saddened.

  He’d been just as rattled by it as Paige.

  “You heard about the senator, I guess,” Austin said, his voice rough as sandpaper, cocking his head toward the TV. “Garrett will be taking this hard.”

  Julie nodded. She got a mug and filled it with coffee for Paige. “It’s awful.”

  “Esperanza says your boy is under the weather,” Austin said, watching Julie. “Is there anything I can do? Drive to town to fetch a prescription at the drugstore or something?”

  Julie smiled, touching Austin’s arm to let him know she was grateful for the offer. “Thanks,” she said. “Now that Paige is here, I think we’ll be all right.”

  The change in his face was barely perceptible, and he looked away quickly, but Julie saw it and recognized it for what it was.

  He still cared for Paige—and he didn’t like it.

  “I’ve got my cell phone,” he said, glancing briefly at Esperanza before turning his gaze back to Julie. There was a sort of unfolding in the way he moved, getting ready to leave, spend a day outdoors, working hard. “The number’s over there on the message board. Call if you need anything.”