Keegan

by Lori Wilde

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  KEEGAN

  First edition. November 13, 2018.

  Copyright © 2018 Lori Wilde.

  ISBN: 978-1386612438

  Written by Lori Wilde.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  TEXAS RASCALS: KEEGAN | Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Epilogue

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  About the Author

  TEXAS RASCALS: KEEGAN

  Chapter One

  Wren Matthews took the last of the cranberry-walnut bread from the oven and set the small loaves to cool on the oak sideboard.

  The aroma of freshly baked bread and brewing coffee mingled with the hearty scent of beef stew simmering on the stove.

  Jaunty strains of Brenda Lee’s “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” spilled from the radio tuned to a local station so she could catch the weather report, blunting the sound of the winter weather howling outside her door.

  Yesterday, it had been a sunny sixty degrees in the Davis Mountains. But this morning, the temperature had plummeted, bringing with it a vibrant electrical storm.

  She had finished her Christmas baking just in time to start the evening milking. At the thought of the heavy chores waiting for her, Wren sighed and closed the oven door.

  Sometimes the overwhelming responsibility had her thinking of selling the dairy and moving into town, but she simply couldn’t bring herself to part with the farm. The modest homestead had been in the Matthews family for three generations. She couldn’t bring herself to give up. It was the only life she’d ever known.

  Wren washed her hands at the sink and peered out at the cedar trees whipping in the wind. The branches made an eerie scratching noise against the window pane.

  It was tough running the place on her own. If only she could find reliable help. Someone to live in the loft apartment over the barn. Someone strong and hardworking. Someone who would keep to himself and leave her be.

  But good help was difficult to find in this sparse country where her nearest neighbor, the Markum Ranch, was three miles away.

  Perhaps she should advertise for a dairy hand on the social media network for the Rascal, Texas community. For a while, one of the boys from the high school where she taught freshman English, had assisted her. Then six weeks ago, Jeff had injured his knee playing football, and Wren found herself struggling to meet the dual obligations of teaching and dairy farming all on her own.

  Thank heavens for Christmas break. With any luck, she would find someone before school resumed after the new year.

  The problem was, she was shy around people she didn’t know. Very shy. She required a boarder as introverted as herself. Someone who wouldn’t want to talk her ear off or become fast friends. Someone who preferred solitude as much as she did.

  She turned off the oven, untied her flour-stained, red-and-green apron—with miniature Santa Clauses embroidered across the front—draped it over the cabinet and limped to the back door.

  Her old hip injury flared in damp weather, and as much as she hated to give in to the pain, she’d been forced to down two aspirins earlier that evening to ease the ache.

  “And now it’s time for the six o’clock news,” the announcer purred, followed by lead-in music.

  Half listening to the broadcast, Wren worked her feet into the yellow rubber boots she’d left drying on newspaper spread over the parquet entryway. While the radio announcer gave a rundown on world and state news, Wren went about her business.

  She lifted the heavy down jacket, that had once belonged to her father, from the coat tree in the corner. Shrugged into it. Pulled on the worn leather gloves she took from the pocket.

  “The storm moving through the Trans-Pecos is expected to worsen late tonight, plunging temperatures to an all-time record low,” the announcer warned. “Bring the pets and plants inside and don’t drive if at all possible. This is a night to curl up by the fire with a cup of hot cocoa and a good book.”

  Now that sounded like Wren’s idea of a perfect Friday night.

  The icy wind wailed like a mournful banshee around the wooden doorframe, chasing a chill down Wren’s spine. If it weren’t for the cattle, she’d make sure the door was locked tight, crawl inside her four-poster bed, and take the radio announcer’s advice.

  But the cows had to be milked, and she was the only one to do it.

  Here goes nothing. She rested her hand on the knob at the same time a knock barked at the door.

  The sudden noise reverberated in the room like a gunshot blast. Startled, Wren jumped and jerked her hand back. Her stomach churned, and her chest tightened.

  Pressing a palm to her mouth, she waited. Prayed it was just a tree branch breaking loose and slamming against the side of the house.

  She waited.

  The knock came again, denying any fanciful explanations. Someone was at her door.

  Who could be visiting in this storm? An eerie sensation lifted the hairs at the nape of her neck.

  She didn’t get many guests out this far from town—her pastor, some of the little old ladies from her church, one or two teacher friends from the high school, that was about it. In Rascal, she was known as the kooky crippled spinster who lived all alone on her aging dairy farm. And who, at the naive age of nineteen, had once been swindled by a charming con man.

  Even now, ten years later, Wren blushed at the memory of Blaine Thomas and her youthful mistake.

  She’d been lonely and vulnerable after her parents’ deaths. Easy pickings for the likes of smooth, butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-his-mouth Blaine. He’d used flattery and compliments to make her feel loved when he’d only been after her money. She’d almost lost the farm because of her foolishness, and she’d sworn never again to trust a handsome man.

  The knock was bolder, more insistent the third time.

  Who could it be? She cocked her head and struggled to muster enough courage to answer the door.

  Maybe it was a neighbor in distress. You can’t leave someone standing out in this storm, she scolded herself.

  And yet, a snake of fear winding around her heart kept her rooted firmly to the floor. Wren placed her hands over her ears. Go away, go away, go away.

  “Is anyone home?”

  The voice was strong, masculine, demanding. It sharpened Wren’s dread.

  “I need help.”

  Too readily, she recalled those terrifying moments eleven years ago. In the wee hours of the morning, she had found herself in a similar situation, dragging her wounded body from door to door, begging people to let her in while her parents’ mangled car lay overturned on an icy street. She had practically crawled on her crumpled, bleeding leg, and she’d gone to three houses before a kind, elderly couple had finally opened their door to her.

  “Please?”

  That single word rent her heart and snuck past her defenses as nothing else would have. What if this man needed her as badly as she’d needed assistance that awful night her parents died?

  Resolutely, she put the chain on the door then edged it open a tiny crack. A streak of lightning illuminated the ebony sky, highlighting the figure on her porch.

  A hulking stranger loomed in the darkness. The sight of him snatched the air from her lungs. Gasping, Wren slapped a hand over her mouth and took a step backward.

  The
man was very tall, towering many inches above her own petite five-foot-two-inches, and he was powerfully built, with wide shoulders and large muscular arms. He wore a white felt Stetson, a denim jacket, and worn cowboy boots like most of the ranchers in Presidio County. His dark-blue eyes were deep-set and watchful, his countenance enigmatic and forbidding.

  A fresh chill ran through her.

  “I’m stranded,” he said.

  His sharp, clipped speech told her the man wasn’t a Texan despite being dressed like a cowboy. A Northerner, she guessed. Chicago, perhaps? The clash in clothing and speech concerned her. He wasn’t what he looked like.

  The man waited expectantly, his head angled to one side, cold rain blowing into the house around him. Instinct begged her to slam the door and lock it tight against him.

  And yet, she hesitated.

  “What do you want?” Wren squeaked, her heart pounding, one hand wrapped protectively around the door.

  “To come in from the wet and cold.”

  He spoke in a commanding timbre. His voice reminded Wren of the eerie tone her father had used when he had told ghost stories around the campfire.

  “I’m sorry,” she shook her head. “I can’t help you.” She began easing the door closed.

  “I understand,” he said. “I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t take a stranger into my home either.” Hunching his shoulders, he turned and started down the steps.

  Wren slammed the door behind him and slid the deadbolt home. Her pulse, thready and weak, slipped through her veins like water. Her whole body trembled violently, and she sagged against the door to keep from falling over.

  Maybe she should call someone. Tell them she was alone with a stranger at the door. But who could she call?

  Taking a deep breath, she tried to calm down. “Steady, Wren, just step across the floor to the phone and notify the sheriff. That’s all you’ve got to do.”

  In the Davis Mountains, a landline was still a necessity. Just a mile outside the Rascal city limits and cell phone reception diminished. This far out and it was nonexistent. She might as well be on the dark side of the moon.

  Ugly images kept springing into her mind. Images of that dark, threatening stranger standing outside her window with a sharp knife clutched in his hand, waiting for the opportunity to hurt her.

  “Stop it,” she hissed under her breath. “Call the sheriff. Now.”

  Wren put one foot in front of the other, clenching her jaw to block out any other unnecessary visions. Her fingers shook, and she dropped the phone twice before she managed to get it to her ear.

  Sterile silence.

  The line was dead.

  THE STRANGER SLOGGED through the driving sleet, disappointed but not surprised. Over the course of the last six months, he’d grown accustomed to such treatment. He expected it. But he wasn’t opposed to trespassing, especially since the lady’s barn appeared so inviting.

  A light shone through the barn window, and he could hear cattle lowing and moving restlessly from behind closed doors. It was a dairy farm, he rationalized, the barn was bound to be heated, and he’d slept in worse places. If nothing else, he’d have milk to drink and a dry place to rest his head.

  He’d frightened the woman pretty badly. She reminded him of a timid mouse, all wide-eyed and twitchy. She was one of those quiet women that men rarely noticed. Not unattractive, but definitely nothing that snagged interest. She lived alone, he’d figured out, and he doubted that she was brave enough to come into the barn looking for him. This would be as good a place as any to hole up for the night. He’d be gone by morning, and she’d never need to know he’d lingered here.

  With a backward glance over his shoulder at the house, the stranger turned and entered the large barn.

  The cows greeted him loud and hearty, clearly expecting to be milked. The stranger closed the door behind him and shook off the wet cold. The warm air offered a welcome respite and for the first time in many hours, he felt free to relax his guard.

  His gaze fell on a stairwell leading to an overhead loft. Raising a curious eyebrow, he went to investigate, moving past over a dozen stalls of well-fed Holsteins.

  He climbed the stairs and pushed open the door into the small sparse room. A cot covered with a worn woolen army blanket sat in one corner, an unplugged space heater rested beside it. There was a sink on the opposite side wall and a toilet cloaked behind a flowered shower curtain. Primitive but functional.

  A smile curled his wind-blistered lips.

  It would do nicely.

  “OKAY, JUST BECAUSE the phone is dead doesn’t mean he cut the line,” Wren said, trying desperately to hearten herself. “It’s probably the storm. Remember? The phones went out twice last winter.”

  Her pathetic reassurances did nothing to comfort her internal quaking. Was the man still prowling out there in the night?

  Terrified at the thought, Wren went to every window and made sure they were securely locked, and the curtains drawn. She darted occasional glances into the darkness beyond, knowing that if she looked out to see a face staring back at her, she’d have a heart attack on the spot.

  From the kitchen, her radio inanely played on, heedless of her situation. “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” flowed into “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.” The rollicking, tongue-in-cheek ditty provided direct contrast to the turmoil from the stranger’s mysterious arrival. She thought about turning the radio off, but the prospect of eerie silence was even more unsettling than the merry music.

  She interlaced her hands and began to pace, favoring her aching hip. She wondered what to do next. Even through the storm and the song, Wren could hear the cows calling. She glanced at the clock on the wall, saw it was well after six thirty. The ruckus from the barn would only get louder as the cows grew more distended with milk.

  “I can’t go out there,” she muttered.

  Wren quivered at the prospect of trekking out into the freezing rain with the interloper on the loose and bit the inside of her cheek.

  Perhaps he’d gone.

  And perhaps he’d not.

  Distressed, she plopped down at the kitchen table and drummed her fingers over the scarred oak. What to do?

  A bellowing noise, louder and more insistent than a foghorn, mingled with the shrieking wind and created a nerve-racking cacophony. There was no mistaking Bossie’s distinctive clamor. She was the oldest cow in Wren’s seventeen-head herd and quite spoiled.

  “You can’t hide in here all night, Wren,” she chided. “The cows have to be milked.”

  But it can wait, her cautious side argued. Give that dark stranger time to mosey on down the road.

  Her sense of responsibility warred with her natural timidity. Finally, Wren struck a bargain with herself. She’d eat supper first, then go milk the cows.

  Scraping back her chair on the worn floor, she shrugged out of her coat. She dished up stew into a bowl and retrieved a handful of saltines from the cracker jar. Taking her time, she poured herself a cup of hot tea before settling back in at the table with her meal.

  The racket from the barn increased, rising in both tempo and intensity. She blew on a spoonful of stew to cool it and tried her best to tune out the cows’ miserable cries, but the food stuck in her throat. Swallowing down the bite, she stared into her bowl.

  She couldn’t eat. Not now. Not when she was so upset. Not with the cows begging to be milked.

  Lightning jumped outside the window. Thunder grumbled, and Wren tightened her grip on the spoon handle, the sounds almost too much to bear.

  “And now, the seven o’clock news.” The radio crackled. “Worsening weather is the hour’s top story,” the news announcer said. “Driving rain is rapidly turning to sleet and the temperature has already dropped ten degrees in less than an hour, with tonight’s expected low in the single digits.”

  Wren shivered. There was no way she could keep ignoring the cows. She had to make sure they were warm enough, that the heaters were still working.

&nbs
p; “The National Weather Service has issued a severe winter weather advisory. Motorists are cautioned to stay off the roads if at all possible.”

  Idly, Wren crushed a cracker with the palm of her hand. She couldn’t help thinking about that man, out there alone in the wet and cold. Sighing, she pushed her soup bowl across the table. Why she should suddenly feel sorry for the stranger mystified her.

  Inclining her head, she dusted the cracker crumbs from her hands. Suddenly, the cows had stopped mooing.

  Wren froze. Why?

  Her stomach tingled as if she’d eaten a thousand hot chili peppers and her mouth went dry. Wren got up and turned down the radio. She waited in the middle of the kitchen, head cocked, pulse racing.

  Nothing but the wind howling through the trees.

  She bit her bottom lip. The cows should be getting louder, not shutting up entirely. This was weird.

  Investigate. But Wren stayed rooted to the spot. I’m scared.

  Coward.

  She fisted her hands. She couldn’t stay here all night, cowering in fear. She had to find out what was going on in the barn. No matter how frightening the prospect.

  Heaving in deep breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth three times, Wren bolstered her courage. She donned her coat and gloves once more. She took a small gold key from a rack over the sink and went to the living room to unlock her father’s gun cabinet.

  She peered at the array of firearms. She knew next to nothing about guns and had only used the .22 on occasion to kill rattlesnakes. Wren wrapped a gloved hand around the wooden stock and lifted the weapon. Locked the cabinet and dropped the key into her pocket.

  Could she use the gun on a human being if she had to? Wren gulped. “You can do whatever you have to do to survive.” She shook herself. “Now, come on.”

  Armed with the lightweight .22-caliber semi-automatic, she switched off the safety and headed out the door. Clinging to the barrel, her finger poised near the trigger, Wren struggled through the wind, her hip aching in response to the sorry weather.