“Go haunt somebody else!” Meg McKettrick whispered to the ghost cowboy riding languidly in the passenger seat of her Blazer, as she drove past Sierra’s new house, on the out skirts of Indian Rock, for at least the third time. Both sides of the road were jammed with cars, and if she didn’t find a parking place soon, she’d be late for the baby shower. If not the actual baby. “Pick on Keegan—or Jesse—or Rance—anybody but me!”
“They don’t need haunting,” he said mildly. He looked nothing like the august, craggy-faced, white-haired figure in his portraits, grudgingly posed for late in his long and vigorous life. No, Angus McKettrick had come back in his prime, square-jaw handsome, broad shouldered, his hair thick and golden brown, his eyes in tensely blue, at ease in the charm he’d passed down to generations of male descendents.
Still flustered, Meg found a gap between a Lexus and a minivan, wedged the Blazer into it, and turned off the ignition with a twist of one wrist. Tight-lipped, she jumped out of the rig, jerked open the back door, and reached for the festively wrapped package on the seat. “I’ve got news for you,” she sputtered. “I don’t need haunting, either!”
Angus, who looked to Meg as substantial and “real” as anybody she’d ever encountered, got out and stood on his side of the Blazer, stretching. “So you say,” he answered, in a lazy drawl. “All of them are married, starting families of their own. Carrying on the McKettrick name.”
“Thanks for the reminder,” Meg bit out, in the terse under tone she reserved for arguments with her great-great-however-many-greats grandfather. Clutching the gift she’d bought for Travis and Sierra’s baby, she shouldered both the back and driver’s doors shut.
“In my day,” Angus said easily, “you’d have been an old maid.”
“Hello?” Meg replied, without moving her mouth. Over her long association with Angus McKettrick—which went back to her earliest child hood memories—she’d developed her own brand of ventriloquism, so other people, who couldn’t see him, wouldn’t think she was talking to herself. “This isn’t ‘your day.’ It’s mine. Twenty-first century, all the way. Women don’t define them selves by whether they’re married or not.” She paused, sucked in a calming breath. “Here’s an idea—why don’t you wait in the car? Or, better yet, go ride some happy trail.”
Angus kept pace with her as she crossed the road, clomping along in his perpetually muddy boots. As always, he wore a long, cape-shouldered canvas coat over a rough-spun shirt of butternut cotton and denim trousers that weren’t quite jeans. The handle of his ever-present pistol, a long-barreled Colt .45, made a bulge behind his right coat pocket. He wore a hat only when there was a threat of rain, and since the early October weather was mild, he was bare-headed that evening.
“It might be your testy nature that’s the problem,” Angus ruminated. “You’re down right pricklish, that’s what you are. A woman ought to have a little sass to her, to spice things up a mite. You’ve got more than your share, though, and it ain’t becoming.”
Meg ignored him, and the bad grammar he always affected when he wanted to impart folksy wisdom, as she tromped up the front steps, shuffling the bulky package in her arms to jab at the doorbell. Here comes your nineteenth noncommittal yellow layette, she thought, wishing she’d opted for the sterling baby rattles instead. If Sierra and Travis knew the sex of their unborn child, they weren’t telling, which made shopping even more of a pain than normal.
The door swung open and Eve, Meg and Sierra’s mother, stood frowning in the chasm. “It’s about time you got here,” she said, pulling Meg inside. Then, in a whisper, “Is he with you?”
“Of course he is,” Meg answered, as her mother peered past her shoulder, searching in vain for Angus. “He never misses a family gathering.”
Eve sniffed, straightened her elegant shoulders. “You’re late,” she said. “Sierra will be here any minute!”
“It’s not as if she’s going to be surprised, Mom,” Meg said, setting the present atop a mountain of others of a suspiciously similar size and shape. “There must be a hundred cars parked out there.”
Eve shut the door smartly and then, before Meg could shrug out of her navy blue peacoat, gripped her firmly by the shoulders. “You’ve lost weight,” she accused. “And there are dark circles under your eyes. Aren’t you sleeping well?”
“I’m fine,” Meg insisted. And she was fine—for an old maid.
Angus, never one to be daunted by a little thing like a closed door, materialized just behind Eve, looked around at his assembled brood with pleased amazement. The place was jammed with McKettrick cousins, their wives and husbands, their growing families.
Some thing tightened in the pit of Meg’s stomach.
“Nonsense,” Eve said. “If you could have gotten away with it, you would have stayed home today, wandering around that old house in your pajamas, with no makeup on and your hair sticking out in every direction.”
It was true, but beside the point. With Eve McKettrick for a mother, Meg couldn’t get away with much of anything. “I’m here,” she said. “Give me a break, will you?”
She pulled off her coat, handed it to Eve, and sidled into the nearest group, a small band of women. Meg, who had spent all her child hood summers in Indian Rock, didn’t recognize any of them.
“It’s all over the tabloids,” remarked a tall, thin woman wearing a lot of jewelry. “Brad O’Ballivan is in rehab again.”
Meg caught her breath at the name, and nearly dropped the cup of punch someone shoved into her hands.
“Nonsense,” a second woman replied. “Last week those rags were reporting that he’d been abducted by aliens.”
“He’s handsome enough to have fans on other planets,” observed a third, sighing wistfully.
Meg tried to ease out of the circle, but it had closed around her. She felt dizzy.
“My cousin Evelyn works at the post office over in Stone Creek,” said yet another woman, with authority. “According to her, Brad’s fan mail is being for warded to the family ranch, just outside of town. He’s not in rehab, and he’s not on another planet. He’s home. Evelyn says they’ll have to build a second barn just to hold all those letters.”
Meg smiled rigidly, but on the inside, she was scrambling for balance.
Suddenly, woman #1 focused on her. “You used to date Brad O’Ballivan, didn’t you, Meg?”
“That—that was a long time ago,” Meg said as graciously as she could, given that she was right in the middle of a panic attack. “We were just kids, and it was a summer thing—” Frantically, she calculated the distance between Indian Rock and Stone Creek—a mere forty miles. Not nearly far enough.
“I’m sure Meg has dated a lot of famous people,” one of the other women said. “Working for McKettrickCo the way she did, flying all over the place in the company jet—”
“Brad wasn’t famous when I knew him,” Meg said lamely.
“You must miss your old life,” someone else commented.
While it was true that Meg was having some trouble shifting from full throttle to a comparative stand still, since the family conglomerate had gone public a few months before, and her job as an executive vice president had gone with it, she didn’t miss the meetings and the sixty-hour work weeks all that much. Money certainly wasn’t a problem; she had a trust fund, as well as a personal investment portfolio thicker than the Los Angeles phone book.
A stir at the front door saved her from commenting.
Sierra came in, looking baffled.
“Surprise!” the crowd shouted as one.
The surprise is on me, Meg thought bleakly. Brad O’Ballivan is back.
Brad shoved the truck into gear and drove to the bottom of the hill, where the road forked. Turn left, and he’d be home in five minutes. Turn right, and he was headed for Indian Rock.
He had no damn business going to Indian Rock.
He had nothing to say to Meg McKettrick, and if he never set eyes on the woman again, it would be two weeks too soon.<
br />
He turned right.
He couldn’t have said why.
He just drove.
At one point, needing noise, he switched on the truck radio, fiddled with the dial until he found a country-western station. A recording of his own voice filled the cab of the pickup, thundering from all the speakers.
He’d written that ballad for Meg.
He turned the dial to Off.
Almost simultaneously, his cell phone jangled in the pocket of his jacket; he considered ignoring it—there were a number of people he didn’t want to talk to—but suppose it was one of his sisters calling? Suppose they needed help?
He flipped the phone open, not taking his eyes off the curvy mountain road to check the caller ID panel first. “O’Ballivan,” he said.
“Have you come to your senses yet?” demanded his manager, Phil Meadowbrook. “Shall I tell you again just how much money those people in Vegas are offering? They’re willing to build you your own theater, for God’s sake. This is a three-year gig—”
“Phil?” Brad broke in.
“Say yes,” Phil pleaded. “I’m retired.”
“You’re thirty-five,” Phil argued. “Nobody retires at thirty-five!”
“We’ve already had this conversation, Phil.”
“Don’t hang up!”
Brad, who’d been about to thumb the Off button, sighed.
“What the hell are you going to do in Stone Creek, Arizona?” Phil demanded. “Herd cattle? Sing to your horse? Think of the money, Brad. Think of the women, throwing their under wear at your feet—”
“I’ve been working real hard to repress that image,” Brad said. “Thanks a lot for the reminder.”
“Okay, forget the under wear,” Phil shot back, without missing a beat. “But think of the money!”
“I’ve already got more of that than I need, Phil, and so do you, so spare me the riff where your grandchildren are homeless waifs picking through garbage behind the supermarket.”
“I’ve used that one, huh?” Phil asked.
“Oh, yeah,” Brad answered.
“What are you doing, right this moment?”
“I’m headed for the Dixie Dog Drive-In.”
“The what?”
“Goodbye, Phil.”
“What are you going to do at the Dixie-Whatever Drive-In that you couldn’t do in Music City? Or Vegas?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” Brad said. “And I can’t say I blame you, because I don’t really understand it myself.”
Back in the day, he and Meg used to meet at the Dixie Dog, by tacit agreement, when either of them had been away. It had been some kind of universe-thing, purely intuitive. He guessed he wanted to see if it still worked—and he’d be damned if he’d try to explain that to Phil.
“Look,” Phil said, revving up for another sales pitch, “I can’t put these casino people off forever. You’re riding high right now, but things are bound to cool off. I’ve got to tell them something—”
“Tell them ‘thanks, but no thanks,’” Brad suggested. This time, he broke the connection.
Phil, being Phil, tried to call twice before he finally gave up.
Passing familiar land marks, Brad told himself he ought to turn around. The old days were gone, things had ended badly between him and Meg anyhow, and she wasn’t going to be at the Dixie Dog.
He kept driving.
He went by the Welcome To Indian Rock sign, and the Road house, a popular beer-and-burger stop for truckers, tourists and locals, and was glad to see the place was still open. He slowed for Main Street, smiled as he passed Cora’s Curl and Twirl, squinted at the bookshop next door. That was new.
He frowned. Things changed, places changed.
What if the Dixie Dog had closed down?
What if it was boarded up, with litter and sage brush tumbling through a deserted parking lot?
And what the hell did it matter, anyhow?
Brad shoved a hand through his hair. Maybe Phil and every body else was right—maybe he was crazy to turn down the Vegas deal. Maybe he would end up sitting in the barn, serenading a bunch of horses.
He rounded a bend, and there was the Dixie Dog, still open. Its big neon sign, a giant hot dog, was all lit up and going through its corny sequence—first it was covered in red squiggles of light, meant to suggest catsup, and then yellow, for mustard. There were a few cars lined up in the drive-through lane, a few more in the parking lot.
Brad pulled into one of the slots next to a speaker and rolled down the truck window.
“Welcome to the Dixie Dog Drive-In,” a youthful female voice chirped over the bad wiring. “What can I get you today?”
Brad hadn’t thought that far, but he was starved. He peered at the light-up menu box under the chunky metal speaker. Then the obvious choice struck him and he said, “I’ll take a Dixie Dog,” he said. “Hold the chili and onions.”
“Coming right up” was the cheerful response. “Any thing to drink?”
“Chocolate shake,” he decided. “Extra thick.”
His cell phone rang again.
He ignored it again.
The girl thanked him and roller-skated out with the order about five minutes later.
When she wheeled up to the driver’s-side window, smiling, her eyes went wide with recognition, and she dropped the tray with a clatter.
Silently, Brad swore. Damn if he hadn’t forgotten he was famous.
The girl, a skinny thing wearing too much eye makeup, immediately started to cry. “I’m sorry!” she sobbed, squatting to gather up the mess.
“It’s okay,” Brad answered quietly, leaning to look down at her, catching a glimpse of her plastic name tag. “It’s okay, Mandy. No harm done.”
“I’ll get you another dog and a shake right away, Mr. O’Ballivan!”
“Mandy?”
She stared up at him pitifully, sniffling. Thanks to the copious tears, most of the goop on her eyes had slid south.
“Yes?”
“When you go back inside, could you not mention seeing me?”
“But you’re Brad O’Ballivan!”
“Yeah,” he answered, suppressing a sigh. “I know.”
She was standing up again by then, the tray of gathered debris clasped in both hands. She seemed to sway a little on her rollers. “Meeting you is just about the most important thing that’s ever happened to me in my whole entire life. I don’t know if I could keep it a secret even if I tried!”
Brad leaned his head against the back of the truck seat and closed his eyes. “Not forever, Mandy,” he said. “Just long enough for me to eat a Dixie Dog in peace.”
She rolled a little closer. “You wouldn’t happen to have a picture you could au to graph for me, would you?”
“Not with me,” Brad answered. There were boxes of publicity pictures in storage, along with the requisite T-shirts, slick concert programs and other souvenirs commonly sold on the road. He never carried them, much to Phil’s annoyance.
“You could sign this napkin, though,” Mandy said. “It’s only got a little chocolate on the corner.”
Brad took the paper napkin, and her order pen, and scrawled his name. Handed both items back through the window.
“Now I can tell my grandchildren I spilled your lunch all over the pavement at the Dixie Dog Drive-In, and here’s my proof.” Mandy beamed, waggling the chocolate-stained napkin.
“Just imagine,” Brad said. The slight irony in his tone was wasted on Mandy, which was probably a good thing.
“I won’t tell anybody I saw you until you drive away,” Mandy said with eager resolve. “I think I can last that long.”
“That would be good,” Brad told her.
She turned and whizzed back toward the side entrance to the Dixie Dog.
Brad waited, marveling that he hadn’t considered incidents like this one before he’d decided to come back home. In retrospect, it seemed shortsighted, to say the least, but the truth was, he’d expected to be—Brad O�
�Ballivan.
Presently, Mandy skated back out again, and this time, she managed to hold on to the tray.
“I didn’t tell a soul!” she whispered. “But Heather and Darlene both asked me why my mascara was all smeared.” Efficiently, she hooked the tray onto the bottom edge of the window.
Brad extended payment, but Mandy shook her head.
“The boss said it’s on the house, since I dumped your first order on the ground.”
He smiled. “Okay, then. Thanks.”
Mandy retreated, and Brad was just reaching for the food when a bright red Blazer whipped into the space beside his. The driver’s-side door sprang open, crashing into the metal speaker, and somebody got out, in a hurry.
Some thing quickened inside Brad.
And in the next moment, Meg McKettrick was standing practically on his running board, her blue eyes blazing.
Brad grinned. “I guess you’re not over me after all,” he said.
CHAPTER TWO
AFTER SIERRA HAD OPENED all her shower presents, and cake and punch had been served, Meg had felt the old, familiar tug in the middle of her solar plexus and headed straight for the Dixie Dog Drive-In. Now that she was there, standing next to a truck and all but nose to nose with Brad O’Ballivan through the open window, she didn’t know what to do—or say.
Angus poked her from behind, and she flinched.
“Speak up,” her dead ancestor prodded.
“Stay out of this,” she answered, without thinking.
Puzzlement showed in Brad’s affably handsome face. “Huh?”
“Never mind,” Meg said. She took a step back, straightened. “And I am so over you.”
Brad grinned. “Damned if it didn’t work,” he marveled. He climbed out of the truck to stand facing Meg, ducking around the tray hooked to the door. His dark-blond hair was artfully rumpled, and his clothes were down right ordinary. “What worked?” Meg demanded, even though she knew.
Laughter sparked in his blue-green eyes, along with considerable pain, and he didn’t bother to comment.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
Brad spread his hands. Hands that had once played Meg’s body as skill fully as any guitar. Oh, yes. Brad O’Ballivan knew how to set all the chords vibrating.
The McKettrick Legend: Sierra's HomecomingThe McKettrick Way (Hqn) Page 24
