McKettrick's Pride

by Linda Lael Miller

  “The dog stays,” Rance repeated, giving the words no inflection at all. “Echo, take Avalon and go inside.”

  “No,” she said.

  “You leave that dog right here,” Willand ordered, without looking away from Rance’s face. “She’s going with me.”

  Rance didn’t look away, either. In point of fact, he was spoiling for a fight, and if Echo and the dog hadn’t been there, he would have indulged the impulse and worried about the consequences later.

  “Echo,” Rance said, one more time, “go inside.”

  She thrust out a sigh, took the dog by the collar and led her to the door of the shop. After a few moments of purse rummaging, both woman and canine were off the sidewalk and out of harm’s way.

  “That is my dog,” Willand said, running the back of one hand across his mouth. Rance caught a whiff of stale beer, sweat and bad dental hygiene. “My wife is waitin’ at home, watchin’ the road for me and Whitey. I ain’t goin’ back without her.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Rance saw Echo peering through the glass door of the bookshop, cell phone in hand.

  God bless her, she was ready to call the police.

  He almost smiled at that.

  The stare-down went on.

  Finally, Willand folded. Slammed the tailgate closed, then went around to the front of his truck. “I’ll be back for my dog,” he warned.

  Rance followed. Now, with Willand’s truck blocking her view, Echo was probably on her tiptoes, trying to see what was going on.

  “How much?” Rance asked. With guys like Bud Willand, it always came down to cold, hard cash.

  Willand, having wrenched open the driver’s-side door, narrowed his eyes. “Say what?”

  “How much?”

  “You admittin’ that dog is mine?”

  “I’m not admitting anything,” Rance replied. “For the last time—how much?”

  Willand shoved a hand through his greasy hair. Checked out Rance’s SUV, then his clothes. “I could get five hundred bucks for a dog like that, easy,” he said speculatively. “More, if there’s pups, like I figure there is.”

  Rance pulled his money clip from the pocket of his white shirt. Without taking his eyes off Willand, he counted out twice the price the other man had mentioned.

  Willand grasped at it.

  Rance drew back his hand, the bills folded between his thumb and index finger. “You’re a country boy,” he said, “so I figure you’ll understand what I’m about to tell you. If you ever set foot in this town again, for any reason, you’d better bring an army, because you’re going to need one to keep me from turning you inside out. Is that clear?”

  Willand’s attention was on the money. “Sure,” he muttered.

  Rance was almost disappointed. He tucked the bills behind the cigarette pack rolled up in the sleeve of Willand’s stained T-shirt. “Get out.”

  Willand nodded. “Piece-of-shit dog, anyhow,” he said. Then he got behind the wheel of his truck, slammed the door and laid rubber.

  Rance watched until the taillights of the old rig disappeared into the darkness. The lights went on inside the bookstore, and Echo stuck her head out.

  “He’s gone?”

  Under any other circumstances, Rance would have laughed at the inanity of that question, but he knew what Echo was really asking, beyond the rhetorical. She wanted to know if Willand would be back.

  “He’s gone,” Rance confirmed, moving toward her.

  She stepped back to let him into the shop. “For good?”

  “Probably,” he answered, entering.

  “She really isn’t his dog,” Echo said, closing the door behind him. “Or, if she is, he mistreated her. She obviously hates him and—”

  She paused and her eyes filled with tears.

  Rance laid his hands on her shoulders, but lightly. “It’s okay, Echo,” he said. He wanted to kiss her again, a lot more thoroughly than he had the night before, out at his place, but the moment called for something else. He drew her against him instead and held her.

  “How did you make him go away?” she asked, her voice muffled by the fabric of his shirt.

  He stroked the back of her head, closing his fingers around that fetching braid, found it thick as a calf rope, but a lot softer. “Never mind that,” he said. “If you see or hear from Willand again, you just let me know. I’ll take it from there.”

  She tilted her head back, looked up at him and sniffled. “I’m sorry, Rance,” she said.

  “What for?” he asked, honestly puzzled.

  “For getting you involved. He could have had a gun, or a knife—”

  “I can take care of myself,” Rance assured her. He wanted to add, And I can take care of you, but he didn’t, because it was too soon. Because the time for it might never come at all.

  She let out a shuddery sigh and pulled back out of Rance’s arms. Sniffled again. “Thank you,” she said.

  “Any time,” he replied, oddly bereft now that he wasn’t holding her anymore. Now that she’d withdrawn.

  He shook off a sudden case of the dismals and looked around at the boxes taking up most of the floor space. “Guess we’d better get started,” he said, “if you want to open Saturday morning.”

  Echo smiled at him, but it was a cautious drawbridge of a smile. Keep your distance, it said. “You’ve been at your office all day, working hard,” she argued. “I can handle this, Rance. Really.”

  “I’m sure you can,” Rance said. “Where’s the coffeepot?”

  “The coffeepot?”

  He grinned. “I could use a little caffeine,” he told her. Maybe the stuff would mix with the adrenaline coursing through his system—like meeting like in some weird chemical reaction—and the two would cancel each other out. “Since it’s probably politically incorrect to ask you to make coffee, I’ll do it myself.”

  She blinked. “You’re not leaving?”

  “Not unless you call the cops and have me thrown out,” he said.

  To his surprise, she laughed. “You are stubborn. And I seriously doubt that political correctness is at the top of your priority list.”

  “Guilty on both counts,” he replied. “I can’t help it. I’m a McKettrick.”

  She started for the stairs at the back of the shop.

  He followed, even though he hadn’t been invited.

  Near the top, she turned, looked down at him with her heart in her wide eyes. “It’s too soon,” she said, very quietly.

  “I know,” he answered.

  She looked relieved and disconcerted, both at the same time.

  At least they were on the same page.

  *

  ECHO LOVED HER APARTMENT, small as it was. Loved the featherbed and the big windows and the shelves jammed with cherished, oft-read books.

  Now, though, she wondered how it looked to Rance. The man traveled by private jet. He chartered helicopters and lived in a house that was probably worth more money than she’d be likely to earn in three lifetimes.

  She tried not to stare as he glanced around, taking it in.

  Avalon, stretched out luxuriously on her airbed, gave a loud, snorting snore.

  Echo fumbled with the coffeemaker. Ran the water so hard that it splashed up and soaked the front of her shirt. She was cranking down the ancient faucet when Rance’s hand closed over hers.

  She shut her eyes briefly. Withdrew her fingers.

  He turned off the water.

  “Echo,” he said.

  She forced herself to look at him.

  “Relax,” he told her. “Nothing is going to happen until you’re ready.”

  She bit her lower lip, trying to hold back her response. It popped right out of her mouth, anyway. “But it is going to happen.”

  He smiled. Took the coffeepot out of her hand, filled it with water. “I think so,” he said easily. “Tell me about the man who made you so skittish.”

  She held the front of her T-shirt away from her skin, wiggled the fabric a little, in a
futile attempt to dry it. It was an ordinary thing to do, and she hoped she looked calm, though her heart was racing. “Who says I’m skittish?”

  Rance poured the water into the back of the machine, took filters and the coffee canister down off the shelf above the counter. “I do,” he answered. “Every time I get close to you, you practically jump out of your skin.”

  “I do not,” she protested.

  He gave her a look.

  “Okay, you do make me a little nervous.”

  “Sorry about that,” he said, but he didn’t sound sorry at all. He sounded pleased. He finished with the coffee, turned and stood leaning against the counter with his arms folded, watching her. Waiting.

  “We were supposed to get married,” she told him, without meaning to. “Justin and I, I mean.”

  “Justin,” he repeated, as though testing the name. “What went wrong?”

  “He changed his mind at the last minute.” She looked away, made herself look back. It was a point of pride, being able to stand toe to toe with Rance McKettrick, though God only knew why she should feel that way. After all, the man was a virtual stranger. “It was probably for the best.”

  “Probably,” Rance agreed.

  He seemed to fill the room, with his broad shoulders and his big personality. He sucked out all the air—made her want to throw open the windows. Made her want to do other things, too. Things she blushed to think about, because they all involved getting naked.

  “Maybe we should go downstairs,” she said.

  Rance’s gaze drifted to the bed, then back to her. “Maybe we should,” he agreed, albeit reluctantly.

  For the next hour, they unpacked boxes, drank coffee and talked about everything but the way the earth seemed to tilt whenever they accidentally touched shoulders or made eye contact.

  They’d made considerable progress when they decided, by tacit agreement, to call it a night.

  Rance inspected the locks on his way out, frowning thoughtfully.

  Echo’s throat tightened at his concern. When was the last time anyone had worried about her safety?

  “I have Avalon to protect me,” she told him, and then she was embarrassed, because maybe he hadn’t been thinking along those lines at all.

  He was a man. They thought about hardware—nuts and bolts, locks and screws.

  “Have them changed,” he said. “You need a dead bolt, and a chain.”

  She nodded, ridiculously touched.

  He went out and waited on the sidewalk until she worked the lock.

  Grinned at her through the glass.

  It was all she could do not to jerk the door open again and ask him to stay. Not because she was afraid—that would have been a much more acceptable reason, to Echo’s way of thinking, than the real one.

  She wanted Rance McKettrick.

  It was that simple—and that complicated.

  He hesitated, then turned away and headed for his SUV.

  A moment later, he was back, rapping lightly on the glass with his knuckles.

  Barely able to breathe, Echo wrestled with the lock and pulled open the door.

  “I was wondering,” Rance said, “if you’ve ever ridden a horse.”

  She swallowed, totally confused. “A horse?”

  He grinned. “You know. Big critters. Four legs. A mane and tail.”

  She giggled, more from nerves than amusement. “No,” she said. “I have never ridden a horse.”

  “Sunday?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Would you like to go riding? On Sunday?”

  Indian Rock was a small town, with five different churches. Echo had already noticed that the other stores, with the exception of the supermarket, were all closed that day, and she’d adjusted her plans accordingly. “I was going to work,” she said, sounding lame. “Try to get the inventory organized. Log titles into the computer.”

  “Are you scared of horses?”

  The challenge made her stiffen her spine, even though she knew she was being played. “No.”

  “Then I’ll pick you up around one.” He took in her shorts and T-shirt. “Wear jeans,” he added. “It’s rough country.”

  Before Echo could protest, he was gone again.

  She relocked the door, shut off the lights and went upstairs.

  Because of all the coffee, she was wide awake.

  At least she told herself it was the coffee.

  *

  BY THE TIME RANCE GOT TO Cora’s, Rianna and Maeve were in their pajamas, sound asleep at either end of their grandmother’s couch, sharing a faded quilt he knew had been Julie’s.

  Cora put a finger to her lips, then beckoned for Rance to follow her to the kitchen. The album she and the girls had been looking at earlier, with Echo, rested on the table.

  “I could make some decaf,” Cora said.

  Rance shook his head.

  She smiled. “You can leave the girls overnight. They’re fine where they are.”

  Rance nodded, drew back a chair at the table and sat down. The ranch house was big, and without his daughters it would be empty, as well. He was in no hurry to get back there.

  Cora’s smile dimmed a little. “You all right, Rance?”

  He sighed, then laid a hand on the cover of the album. An old and fathomless sorrow washed through him. “I’m fine,” he said.

  Cora’s gaze followed his hand. “Let her go,” she said very softly. “Julie, I mean.”

  They needed to talk, about so many things. But every time Rance got too close to the subject of his late wife, he felt so raw inside that it took his breath away. He was afraid he’d break down, and he couldn’t do that—not in front of Cora.

  Despite his privileged upbringing, he’d known a lot of loss in his life—his parents had divorced while he was in college, after his only sibling, his younger sister, Cassidy, had died of leukemia, within mere weeks of the diagnosis. She’d been seventeen.

  Seventeen.

  Where was the justice in that?

  And what if it happened again—to Maeve or Rianna? What if one of them had inherited the same renegade gene that had brought Cassidy down?

  “I have,” he said belatedly, realizing he’d let Cora’s words go unanswered. “I have let Julie go.”

  “Have you?” Cora asked, pulling back a chair and joining him at the table.

  Rance rubbed his chin. His beard was coming in, and he was tired to the bone. Tired of McKettrickCo, tired of the rat race that had been his refuge for so long.

  Suddenly, he wanted to be a rancher, like generations of McKettricks before him. He wanted to run cattle on the land, ride horses, plant hayfields.

  Chuck out the three-piece suits jamming his closet at home and wear jeans and western shirts and boots again, the way Jesse did. Sell the SUV and get himself a truck.

  He chuckled at the pictures going through his mind. Tried, without success, to shake them off.

  “What is it?” Cora asked, very gently.

  He couldn’t look at her. “Did you ever wish you’d done something different with your life?”

  “Not for a single, solitary minute,” she replied with certainty. “I’d marry Mike Tellington all over again. Raise my daughter just the way I did. Run the Curl and Twirl, too.”

  Rance forced himself to meet Cora’s gaze. “It hasn’t been easy for you,” he said, and then felt like an idiot for stating the obvious.

  “It hasn’t been so bad, Rance. Sure, it was hard losing Mike, and then Julie, too, but I have Rianna and Maeve. I try to think about what I have, not what I’m missing.”

  “You’re a wise woman, Cora.”

  She gave a little snort at that. “I don’t know how wise I am, but I can count my blessings well enough.”

  Rance absorbed that in silence. He had blessings aplenty, Rianna and Maeve being the most important ones, his pioneer heritage being another, but sometimes he felt empty, just the same. As if a cold and bitter wind could blow right through him and not even slow down.r />
  “What about you, Rance?” Cora prompted. “What would you do differently, if you could go back in time?”

  “I’d have been there when Julie took that spill at the horse show, for one thing,” he said. She’d broken her neck, going over a jump. Rance had been in Hong Kong at the time, making deals, driving the hard bargains he was famous for. It had all seemed so damn important back then.

  Cora touched his hand. “Don’t, Rance,” she said. “Don’t go back over that ground. Julie died instantly—there was nothing you could have done.”

  His eyes burned. “You had to handle it all. The arrangements. The girls. All while you were grieving yourself.”

  “Situation like that,” Cora said, sounding choked, “a person does what they have to do. I wish you’d been here, too, Rance, but I don’t hold it against you that you weren’t.”

  A long, difficult silence fell.

  “It wasn’t perfect,” he said. That was as close as he could get to the truth both of them were avoiding, to what lay behind the oh-so-respectable facade of his memories. “But I loved Julie.”

  “Of course you did,” Cora replied. “And she loved you. You were a good provider, Rance. You were a faithful husband and a fine father. Nobody could have asked any more of you.”

  Julie had asked more of him. A lot more. And he’d put her off, thinking there was plenty of time.

  Julie might still be alive if he’d swallowed his damnable pride. If he’d given even an inch of ground.

  “Life moves on, Rance,” Cora said, squeezing his hand. “Takes us with it, kicking and screaming sometimes, but we don’t get much say. When they lowered my Julie’s casket into the ground, I wanted to die, too. Right then and there. But I had Maeve and Rianna to think about. I had to go on.”

  Rance nodded. Looked away and blinked hard.

  “You’ve been stuck in neutral for a long time,” Cora said. “But you’re a young man. You have two daughters. Rance, you’ve got to go on.”

  It wasn’t as if he had a choice, any more than Cora had. Time he accepted that, and stopped running from a past he couldn’t change.

  “Mind if I crash in the spare room tonight?” he asked.

  Cora rose out of her chair, patted his shoulder as she passed.