McKettricks of Texas: Austin

by Linda Lael Miller

  Paige sighed. “I certainly don’t want Austin chasing after a bunch of modern-day rustlers any more than the rest of you do,” she said, wearying of the argument. While she and her sisters often disagreed, they were rarely short with each other. She held out a hand, and Libby crossed the small distance between the rocking chair and the bed to sit on the side of the mattress and intertwine her fingers with Paige’s. “Have they learned anything new—Brent and the state police, I mean?”

  Libby shook her head. “Tate and Garrett think it’s an inside job,” she said, “but they can’t prove anything.”

  Instantly, Paige thought of Reese. She disliked the man, but there could have been a million petty and subconscious reasons for that, and it wasn’t fair to finger him as a crook just because something about him rubbed her the wrong way.

  On the other hand, what about instinct? What about woman’s intuition?

  “What’s being done to protect the herds?” Paige asked. “And the oil fields?”

  Libby’s shoulders tensed visibly under her lightweight blue sweater, worn with slim jeans and a pair of boots that had seen better days. Most likely, big sister had been paying regular visits to Molly, out in the barn, making sure the mare was recovering.

  “They’ve hired extra ranch hands to keep an eye on the cattle,” Libby said. “As for the oil fields—”

  Paige waited. Her sister was a intelligent woman. She didn’t need to be told, any more than Tate, Garrett or Austin did, that a fire in one or more of those wells could be a disaster of epic proportions. Oil fires could burn underground for years, and the environmental ramifications of that might well be staggering in scope.

  “As for the oil fields,” Libby finally went on, “Tate and Garrett hired a special security firm to keep an eye on the wells, but until they arrive—”

  “Until they arrive,” Paige repeated woodenly, “those two yahoos are guarding the property themselves, aren’t they?”

  Libby swallowed, nodded miserably. “What else can they do?” she asked when she’d had a few moments to gather her composure. “Chief Brogan doesn’t have the manpower, and neither do the state police. And it’s not the kind of job you can just turn over to a bunch of rent-a-cops, Paige.”

  “So when are these hotshot security people supposed to show up?”

  “Any time now,” Libby said, with a mix of defiant hope and utter defeat. “They’ve been busy in the Middle East or somewhere.”

  “Oh, great,” Paige retorted. “God knows, it’s just a hop, skip and a jump to the Middle East. They ought to be here any minute!”

  A tear slipped down Libby’s cheek. “Do you think I like this any better than you do, Paige?” she asked, almost in a whisper. “If anything happened to Tate—or to Garrett—”

  Paige raised herself far enough to hug Libby hard. “I still think it would be better if Austin knew about all this,” she said. “Who knows? He might even have sense enough not to rush off half-cocked and take on the bad guys single-handedly.”

  Libby laughed, even as she swiped at her tears with the back of one hand. “Or not,” she replied. “We’re talking about the same man who saw lights in the oil field one fine night and took off to investigate all on his lonesome. If they hadn’t been so scared he’d die of his gunshot wound, I swear Tate and Garrett would have killed him themselves.”

  Paige chuckled at the irony of that statement, and so did Libby. But Paige was entirely serious when she said, “Talk to your man, Libby. And tell Julie to talk to hers. I know Tate’s and Garrett’s hearts are in the right place, but if something goes down that Austin could have prevented—or even thinks he could have prevented—there will be hell to pay.”

  Libby sighed, nodded. “I’ll try. But reasoning with a McKettrick is like trying to reason with—”

  “One of us?” Paige asked gently, smiling. Touching the side of her head to the side of Libby’s before her sister rose to her feet.

  “Yes,” Libby agreed with a feeble grin. “It’s a lot like that.”

  “Try,” Paige urged.

  TRY.

  Paige wanted Libby—and, by extension, Julie—to persuade Tate and Garrett to tell him, Austin, what he by God had a right to know in the first place.

  He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop; he’d come back to the guest apartment to find Shep, who’d settled himself on the hooked rug in Paige’s room, because Doc Pomeroy was there and wanted to examine the dog after he’d finished with Molly out in the barn.

  Now, stung to the quick by what his brothers were keeping from him, even though he understood their granny-assed reasons, Austin turned on his heel and got out of the guest quarters as fast as he could.

  Reaching the kitchen, he grabbed a denim jacket from one of the hooks beside the back door and muttered a curse at the pain that shot through his left arm when he forgot the bullet wound and shoved his hand through the sleeve as though nothing were wrong.

  Doc Pomeroy’s old truck stood in the barnyard, but there were no human beings in sight. Austin had barely closed the door when he heard a scratching sound from within and opened up again so Shep could join him.

  The vet was busy checking Molly over, and there was no sign of Cliff. Since Doc’s son had accompanied him on every visit to the mare or to Shep so far, Austin noticed, preoccupied as he was.

  “Cliff go back to Dallas?” he asked in the cowboy shorthand he’d grown up with, coming to a stop outside Molly’s stall.

  Doc started slightly, reminding Austin of the old man’s age, making him wish he’d given some indication that he was approaching.

  “Damn,” Doc complained. “What’s to be gained by sneaking up on a man like that?”

  “Sorry,” Austin said, and though he spoke lightly, he meant it.

  “Cliff says he’s under the weather,” Doc said, in belated reply to Austin’s original question. “You ask me, he’s just hungover from trying to drown his sorrows last night at the bar in the Silver Dollar.”

  “What kind of sorrows would those be, Doc?” Austin asked quietly, leaning on the stall door, watching as Doc ran skilled eyes—and hands—over the parcel of illused horseflesh that was Molly.

  “Ones he made for himself, I reckon,” Doc said, not looking at Austin. “About like the rest of us.”

  “Amen to that,” Austin said, thinking of all the things he’d change about his own life, if only he got the chance.

  He’d tell his folks not to bother driving out to Lubbock for that one rodeo, that was for sure. And instead of deliberately hurting Paige the way he had, he’d just tell her, straight out, that they were too young to know what love was, let alone how to make it stick.

  He’d have asked her to wait for him. Wait, Paige. Wait for me to grow up. Wait for yourself to grow up.

  Austin knew then, in that moment, that he loved Paige Remington—that once he’d begun to love her, albeit with the love of a boy, rather than a man, he’d never really stopped.

  Doc didn’t say anything more about Molly, or about his son. He just picked up his worn-out medical bag, pushed open the stall door when he got to it and came out to join Austin in the breezeway.

  They walked in silence, out of the barn and toward the house.

  The fire on the kitchen hearth had gone out, but Shep’s blanket bed was still in front of it, and Doc gently herded the animal in that direction. Opening his bag, the seasoned veterinarian spoke to the critter in a cordial undertone. The man definitely spoke fluent Dog.

  Shep allowed him to cut away the old bandage without so much as a whimper of protest.

  “Well, now,” Doc said, when he’d uncovered the shaved leg and taken a good look, “you’re a McKettrick dog, all right. Mending about twice as fast as most.” With that, he slanted a wry look in Austin’s direction and spared him one of his salty grins. “Unless my eyes deceive me,” he drawled, “you’re doing pretty well yourself.”

  Austin shrugged, though a big part of his mind was on Paige, and his feelings for her, the old ones
and the new. Sorting through all that was going to be one hell of a job, and besides that, he still had to confront Tate and Garrett about cutting him out of ranch business the way they had. He owned a third of the Silver Spur, and that meant he had an equal share in the problems, as well as the profits.

  Doc put some ointment on Shep’s injured leg, then wound it up in fresh gauze and tape again. This time, at least, the bindings left the dog’s paw bare, which meant it would be easier for him to get around.

  Once Doc had gone, Austin resisted the urge to look in on Paige, appropriated the keys to Garrett’s Porsche, and grinned to see that Shep was standing at his side, looking up at him with luminous hope.

  “Come along, then,” Austin said.

  Since the sports car was low-slung, Shep got in easily, with just a little boost from Austin.

  The garage door rolled up at the push of a button, as usual.

  Austin started the Porsche, taking a certain satisfaction in the powerful roar of the engine as it sucked up a couple of gallons of gas before turning a wheel, and backed out into the yard.

  “One of these days,” he told Shep, who was sitting bolt upright in the passenger seat, like a dog accustomed to riding shotgun in a Porsche, “you and I are going to have to break down and invest in a fancy car of our own, and a new rig, too. Reckon it’s probably best to award the old truck a purple heart and put it out to pasture.”

  Shep seemed to agree, though of course it was hard to be sure.

  The gates were open, and Austin pulled through and stopped to decide which way to go.

  “Now,” he mused aloud, “if I were either one of those numbskull brothers of mine, where would I be right about now?”

  Of course he could have called one or the other of them on his cell phone, but there was no guarantee they’d welcome his company, given that they obviously considered him an invalid. Besides, he wanted to surprise them.

  Thinking back on what he’d overheard Libby telling Paige, Austin decided the oil fields might be a good place to start. Hoping he wasn’t putting old Shep, and himself, right back in harm’s way, he made a left turn.

  “We definitely need a truck,” he told his dog.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “JUST HELP YOURSELF TO MY CAR whenever you want it,” Garrett snapped, leaning to peer through the passenger-side window of the Porsche when Austin lowered it. He had to bend to see around the dog.

  “Thanks,” Austin replied, deliberately missing the sarcasm and checking out the immediate area. “I will.”

  Being back at the oil field, the memory of last time still fresh in his mind, his gut and his wounded shoulder sent a shiver dripping like cold water down his backbone. He hid the reaction with a grin and shoved open the door to get out.

  Shep crossed the console and the gearshift to follow.

  Brent Brogan was present and accounted for; he’d brought one of his deputies along, and the two of them were busy pacing something off while Tate stood with his hands shoved into the pockets of his denim jacket, watching.

  Garrett rounded the car to stand in front of Austin, temporarily blocking his way. “Wait a second, will you?” he said.

  Austin put a hand to his brother’s chest and pushed just hard enough to let him know he was pissed. “Get out of my way, Garrett.”

  Garrett set his jaw and, for a moment, it looked as though he’d push back, but in the end, he didn’t. Can’t hit baby brother, Austin figured he was thinking, or something along those lines, his being crippled and all.

  “Austin, listen to me,” Garrett said.

  Austin was in no mood to listen. No, sir, he wanted to talk, not listen. “Screw you, Garrett,” he bit out.

  Tate was approaching with long strides, Austin noticed out of the corner of his eye.

  Good. He wanted both his brothers to hear what he had to say, loud and clear.

  Austin sucked in a breath, held it for a beat or two, and then let it out. It was an anger management trick he’d learned somewhere along the line, and sometimes it even worked.

  This wasn’t one of those times.

  Tate had a howdy grin on his mouth and a watch-out look in his eyes. “Nice car,” he said drily, indicating the Porsche with a slight nod.

  Austin glared at him, folded his arms. He’d been practicing his speech ever since he’d accidentally eavesdropped on Libby and Paige, back at the house, and learned that not only were the troubles plaguing the ranch—and thus the family—getting worse, that knowledge was being kept from him.

  Now, standing face-to-face with his brothers, Austin discovered that he was half again too mad to say anything at all.

  Tate and Garrett exchanged glances, Garrett still hard-jawed, and then Tate spoke.

  “There’s nothing you can do, Austin,” he said quietly. “Except get better.”

  A wave of frustration washed over Austin; he waited for it to pass. At his side, Shep sat down and gave an uncertain whimper. The dog’s ears were perked up, and he kept looking from one of the three men towering over him to the next.

  Austin managed to get a grip on his temper, though just barely. “I’m two years younger than you are,” he reminded Tate, “and one year—twelve months—younger than you, Garrett. The way you two act, a person would think I was still wet behind the ears.” He swept them both up in a single scathing glance. “This ranch is as much mine as it is either of yours, and I do not appreciate being treated like some junior partner.”

  “You know damn well why we didn’t tell you,” Garrett growled, reddening in the neck and under the bristle of beard covering the lower half of his face. “You haven’t got the sense God gave a road apple!”

  Austin stepped forward.

  Tate eased between them. “Now, boys,” he said in a smart-ass, singsong tone. “Let’s not go losing our heads, throwing punches and saying things we’ll regret later. We’re all on the same side, here.”

  Chief Brogan meandered over. “Do I need to call out the riot squad?” he asked. His tone said he was kidding, but the look on his face was all business.

  The thought of Blue River with its own riot squad was ridiculous enough to drain off some of the bad juju infecting the moment.

  “Well, now, Denzel,” Tate told his best friend, slapping Brogan on the back, “my kinfolk and I seem to be in the midst of a disagreement. Garrett and I are trying to keep our lit—younger brother alive and well, but he sure as hell doesn’t make it easy.”

  “I could lock him up, if you want him off the streets for a while,” Brogan offered.

  He was probably joking, but Austin was ticked off just the same. “On what charge?” he asked.

  Brogan shifted his gaze to the Porsche, grinned. “Grand theft auto?” he ventured smoothly.

  Garrett nodded thoughtfully. “How long could you hold a car thief, if I were to press charges?”

  Like he didn’t know, Austin thought furiously. The man had a goddamn law degree.

  “Long enough, most likely,” Brogan drawled in response, looking speculative.

  Austin swore under his breath and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

  Tate held up both hands. “Hold everything,” he said. “We’ve got serious business to attend to, if the pissing match is over.” Then, resting a palm lightly between Austin’s shoulder blades, he gave him an eloquent little shove. “Come on, Austin. I’ll show you what we’re up against.”

  Garrett fell into step beside Austin. A wicked grin twitched at one corner of his mouth. “Know why the folks had you?” he asked.

  “Maybe they figured the third time would be the charm,” Austin replied, “and they’d finally get it right.”

  “Nah,” Garrett said, with a shake of his head, “they were just trying to get a girl.”

  AROUND TWO THAT AFTERNOON, all slept out and unable to bear being cooped up in the bedroom for another moment, Paige ransacked her limited clothing supply for a black broomstick skirt, since jeans wouldn’t fit over her cast, and decided on
a long-sleeved white pullover for a top.

  Putting these garments on proved to be a challenge—she was nearly wrestled to the floor by her own bra, and forget underpants—for a person on crutches.

  After drawing and releasing a few deep, calming breaths, Paige regained her common sense. She sat down on the side of the bed and pulled the skirt on over her feet, grateful for the garment’s stretchy waist. After that, she flailed into the pullover, a task that proved incredibly arduous, considering how simple it should have been, and wiggled the toes of her good foot into a bedroom slipper.

  She stood, wobbled until she caught her balance.

  As a nurse, she’d taught a lot of people how to manage a pair of crutches, and it was just plain ironic that she was having so much trouble with the process herself.

  By the time she stumped out into the kitchen, there was no one around. Julie was still at work, and Libby, having brought Paige’s lunch and given her a pill, was probably upstairs, in the section of the house she and Tate and the girls shared. There was no sign of Austin, or his dog.

  Everybody had things to do, it seemed, except her. She crutched it over to the counter, got out a mug and ferreted around until she found the tea bags. Every time she went looking for the canister, it seemed to her, it was in a different place.

  While she was waiting for the tea to brew, she happened to glance out the kitchen window and see Reese entering the barn. She might not have thought anything much about it, given that the man worked on the ranch, if he hadn’t stopped and looked around in a way that was just furtive enough to bother her.

  Paige swung her way over to the back door, took a jacket from one of the pegs and gyrated a little, balancing on one crutch, then on the other, as she poked her arms into the sleeves and used one hand to straighten the collar.

  After that, zipping the thing up just seemed like more trouble than it was worth.

  Paige opened the back door and made her way along the concrete walk, across the top of the driveway, where the going was tougher because the tips of her crutches sank deep into the gravel.