She knew how it was, all right. Only too well. A retired homicide cop, Luke drew a decent, if unspectacular, pension. He had no mortgage, his living expenses were minimal and he was always strapped.
“We talked about this,” she said. “You, me and your AA sponsor—remember? When I give you money, it’s called enabling.”
“Look, Molly, don’t give me that twelve-step bullshit right now, all right? My car broke down and—”
She sighed. “You’re drinking again.”
“No,” he replied vehemently. “You know what it’s like to live in L.A. without a car. It’s impossible.”
It was impossible. And suppose he was telling the truth?
“Fax the repair bills to Joanie, at my office,” Molly said, defeated. “If your story checks out, she’ll cut you a check.”
“Sweetheart, this jitney is way past the repair stage. I’ve got my eye on a truck—”
“Okay, fax a copy of your driver’s license,” Molly said. “Joanie will call the DMV. If it hasn’t been suspended—” she bit her lip to keep from adding “again,” “—we’ll get you back on wheels.”
“What are you, some kind of cop or something?” Luke snapped.
“No, Dad,” Molly said gently. “You’re a cop.”
He slammed the receiver down so hard that she winced.
She closed the phone, dropped it into her purse and, sensing something, turned around. Florence was standing at the entrance to the courtyard, looking at her in curious concern.
Molly managed an uncertain smile. “Is Psyche ready to see Lucas again?” she asked.
Florence shook her head, still pensive. “She’s asleep. And I’ll be darned if she wasn’t right about coming home tomorrow—the doctor stood right there and said there wasn’t much they could do for her here. I’ve got a number right here, to call one of those rental places and get a hospital bed delivered to the house.”
“They’re discharging her?” Molly couldn’t believe it.
Suddenly Florence’s eyes glistened, awash in tears. “She wants to die at home,” she said. “I’m to ask the delivery people to put the bed on that glassed-in porch, back of the kitchen, so she can see the garden.”
“Oh, Florence,” Molly said, standing.
Florence sank onto another bench nearby and put her arms out for Lucas. He bustled to her, chortling and jingling Molly’s keys. “I’ll stay with the baby,” the older woman said wearily. “It would be a favor to me if you’d go get the car.”
Molly nodded, lingering because she sensed that Florence wanted to say something more. Something important.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
Florence wouldn’t look at her. “I’ll be just fine unless you try to break your promise to Psyche and take that boy away to California. I heard what you said on the phone, about going for a visit after she’s gone.”
Molly took a moment to absorb the fact that Florence had heard all or part of her conversation with her dad. Sifted back through it for anything else the woman might have misconstrued.
“I’ll raise Lucas in Indian Rock, Florence,” she finally said.
“See that you do,” Florence replied. “I’ll be gone to my sister’s place in Seattle once poor Psyche is dead and buried, but Keegan McKettrick will be around. You can bet on that. You try to pull a fast one, go back on your word, and he’ll nail you before you get to the city limits.”
A new sadness settled over Molly like a damp fog and sank into the marrow of her bones. For a little while she’d actually hoped she and Florence might establish some kind of working truce, even if they couldn’t be friends.
Now she knew she was still the outsider.
And that wasn’t going to change.
“Wait here,” she said quietly. “I’ll go get the car.”
CHAPTER
7
THE DONKEY STOOD contentedly in a barn stall built for an animal three times his size, happily munching alfalfa pellets. Spud appeared to like the Triple M, at least so far.
Devon, perched on a cross board of the stall door with Keegan standing beside her, sighed.
“He sure poops a lot,” she said.
Keegan, who’d showered, shaved and donned chinos and a blue sport shirt after picking up his daughter at Rance’s, chuckled at the observation.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “Better get the pitchfork and the wheelbarrow.”
“You look real tired, Dad,” Devon told him solemnly, studying his face. “I wouldn’t mind if you went inside and crashed for a while.”
Keegan was, if anything, too tired to sleep. And maybe too cowardly. Once, dozing in his chair beside Psyche’s hospital bed the night before, he’d been flung upward, soaked in a cold, clammy sweat and breathless with alarm, from the dregs of a dream he hadn’t had for years.
In it, he’d seen a plane spiraling toward the ground, nose-first. Known his parents were aboard. He’d heard the roar of the explosion, seen the fireball bulge against an otherwise placid blue sky, felt the scorching heat blistering his skin. He’d tried to get through, even though he knew it was hopeless—he couldn’t save his mom and dad—but the blaze had turned solid as a wall.
“Dad?” Devon said.
He smiled. “Your mom will be here to pick you up in a few hours,” he said. “I can sleep later.”
Devon’s shoulders slumped a little under her yellow T-shirt. “I wish I could stay,” she told him. “Live here all the time. I could do chores, like Rianna and Maeve. It would be my job to feed Spud and shovel out his stall.”
Keegan laid a hand on Devon’s nape, squeezed slightly. Sunday afternoons were bittersweet when she spent the weekend. He enjoyed every minute with her, and yet he was conscious all the while that their time together was slipping away. It bothered him, too, that she apparently thought she had to earn her keep.
“Sorry about being gone so much this time,” he said. There was a lot more he wanted, needed, to say, but he couldn’t seem to find the right words.
She jumped down off the stall door and stood close, resting her head against his side. “You couldn’t help it,” she told him. “Your friend is sick.”
Before Keegan could answer, he heard a car drive up outside, then the slamming of a door.
He frowned, checked his watch.
Devon stiffened, clung a little more tightly. “It’s too early for Mom to be here,” she protested.
“It could be somebody else,” Keegan reasoned, but he knew, as Devon clearly did, that when they stepped out the barn door Shelley’s Lexus would be parked in the driveway. The purr of the engine was distinctive.
“Let’s pretend we’re not here,” Devon whispered. “Maybe she’ll go away.”
Keegan ruffled his daughter’s hair, gently disengaged from her. “No such luck, kid,” he said. And he went outside.
For a moment the sunlight dazzled him, but Shelley came into focus quickly enough, picking her way across the barnyard in pointy heels. Her hair was pinned up, and she wore a tailored gray pantsuit—not her usual uniform for a visit to the Triple M, brief though her stays always were.
Seeing him, she smiled winningly.
He wondered, as he invariably did during these encounters, what he’d ever seen in her. How had he overlooked the callousness, the calculation, the cold, relentlessly self-serving dynamics that powered her? Sex would have been an easy excuse—but the truth was, that didn’t wash, either.
The sex hadn’t been that good with Shelley.
“You’re early,” Keegan accused, aware of Devon standing just behind him.
Shelley beamed apologetically. Spread her hands.
What the hell was she up to?
Keegan waited.
Shelley tilted to one side, tracking Devon, who was trying to hide, like a heat-seeking missile. “Go say hello to Rory, sweetheart,” Shelley said. “I need to talk to your dad for a few minutes.”
“I don’t want to talk to Rory,” Devon said.
“It’s okay,
” Keegan told her. Rory was at the wheel of the Lexus, a slouching shadow, no doubt hoping to go unnoticed.
Reluctantly Devon crossed the grassy expanse between the barn and the Lexus. The window on the driver’s side whirred down.
Shelley looked back, watching the exchange for a moment, then turned to Keegan again. The high-beam smile went on like a floodlight.
Keegan folded his arms.
Shelley blushed prettily. “Rory surprised me with tickets to Paris,” she said. “For my birthday.”
“I bet that was a surprise,” Keegan drawled.
Shelley let the gibe pass. “First class,” she said. “His sister works for one of those online travel agencies.”
“And there’s always my American Express card for pesky little incidentals like food and hotel rooms,” Keegan said evenly, but his heart, jolted by a sudden rush of adrenaline, beat a little faster, thrumming in his ears.
“Well, it is my birthday,” Shelley said. “Not that I would have expected you to remember.”
“We’ve already discussed this, Shelley,” he reminded her. “You’re not taking Devon out of the country.”
Shelley lowered her voice to an earnest, almost desperate whisper after glancing back at Devon again. “That’s sort of what I wanted to talk to you about. Rory could only get two tickets….”
There it was, the reason for the adrenaline rush.
She was going to ask if Devon could stay with him. Keegan was exultant, but he didn’t let it show, and he didn’t let Shelley off the hook, either.
“I was hoping Devon could stay here until we get back,” Shelley said. “With you.”
“Which will be when?” Keegan asked.
“I—I’m not sure,” Shelley said. He knew she wanted to take his head off, but she couldn’t afford to be snippy. He loved that.
“You’re not sure.”
“The tickets are open-ended. Rory and I were going to look at apartments while we’re over there, and Devon is out of school for the summer, so—”
“Okay,” Keegan said.
“Okay?” The stadium-light smile faltered a little, and he saw her temper, forcibly restrained, roiling in her eyes. About to bust loose. “What does that mean, exactly?”
“Devon can stay.”
The real Shelley came through. She narrowed her eyes to slits and set her hands on her hips. “You enjoyed that, didn’t you? Making me squirm?”
“Immensely,” Keegan replied.
“Bastard,” Shelley said.
He smiled. “Now, there’s an opinion I can value.”
“You still have to pay child support.”
“No problem,” Keegan said.
“And you’d better not cancel my credit cards as soon as I drive out of here, either.”
“I wouldn’t do a thing like that.”
“Like hell you wouldn’t. I’m doing you a favor, Keegan, by letting Devon stay here. I could have taken her to my mother’s, you know.”
“Your mother lives in Boise. My guess is the plane to Paris leaves Phoenix around eight o’clock tonight. You don’t have time to dump Devon on your mom’s doorstep.”
Shelley’s face reddened with frustration. “Why can’t you just let this be easy?” she demanded in a furious whisper.
Keegan let his glance slide to Rory, then back to Shelley again. “You’re easy enough for both of us,” he said. “The word ought to be tattooed on your ass.”
“I don’t have to stand here and listen to this, Keegan!”
“No,” he said. “You don’t. You can get in the car, head for Phoenix and jet off to the City of Light with lover boy.”
“And I’m not easy,” Shelley sputtered, a beat or two behind, just like always. “Rory and I are in love—not that you’d ever understand such a concept.”
Keegan laid a hand to his heart. “It’s a beautiful thing to see,” he said.
“Screw you, Keegan!”
“Oh, you already did that—with a lot of help from your lawyers.”
Rory must have mentioned the trip to Paris to Devon, and broken the news that she wasn’t invited, because she started jumping up and down. Muscleman got out of the car, taking care not to look in Keegan’s direction, and opened the trunk. Hauled out a couple of small suitcases and plunked them on the ground.
Shelley, meanwhile, glared at Keegan once more, then turned and minced her way back toward Devon.
Keegan watched as mother and daughter embraced.
Rory was already back in the car, with the engine running.
Keegan enjoyed a brief fantasy in which he walked over, dragged Rory from behind the wheel and beat the crap out of him on the spot. He wouldn’t actually do it, of course, because Devon was there, because it wasn’t the McKettrick way and because deep down he was grateful to the meathead for carrying his job as a personal trainer to a whole new level.
The day he’d walked in on Rory and Shelley, caught them enjoying a nooner in the exercise studio at the back of the house in Flag, he’d expected to feel rage.
Instead, he’d been jubilant. Dizzy with relief.
Shelley gave Devon one last distracted hug, then got into the Lexus. She and Rory sped away, leaving the child gazing happily after them in a spinning plume of dust.
Keegan walked toward her, grinning. Took a suitcase handle in each hand and started for the house.
Devon scampered after him, fairly dancing with glee. “Can I go across the creek and tell Rianna and Maeve I get to stay?” she prattled. “Can we have hot dogs for supper? If I feed Spud and clean out his stall every day, will you raise my allowance?”
Keegan laughed. “Yes to the hot dogs and the raise. As for crossing the creek, you’d better call first.”
Inside the ranch house kitchen, Devon bolted for the phone.
Keegan watched her, suddenly so bone tired he could barely keep his eyes open, but happier than he would have believed he could be, too. Psyche was still dying. McKettrickCo was still going down the tubes. But Devon was staying, at least for a while. Good things were still possible.
Devon chattered into the phone for a minute or so, then listened, then held the receiver out to Keegan.
“Hey,” Emma said when he took it and said the obligatory hello.
“Hey,” he replied.
“Good news on the kid front,” Emma remarked.
“The best,” Keegan answered.
“Cheyenne tells me you and Jesse were at the hospital all night, up in Flag, standing guard over Psyche Ryan.”
Keegan yawned. “Yeah,” he said.
“Big meeting tomorrow, too,” Emma said. “At McKettrickCo.”
The reminder nettled Keegan, but it wasn’t Emma’s fault and he didn’t take it out on her. “Is there a point to this conversation?” he asked warmly.
She laughed. “Yes. And here it is—Rance and I will keep Devon overnight. You’d better get some sleep.”
“Emma?”
“What?”
“You are an angel.”
She laughed again. “Tell that to Rance, will you? We’ve been arguing about what color to paint the kitchen for three days, and I think he’s about ready to drown me in the creek.”
“I’ll tell him,” Keegan promised.
“Here’s your chance,” Emma said. “He’s crossing the bridge to your place even as we speak.”
Devon, who had vanished up the rear staircase when Keegan took the phone, thundered back down with the pink bear, a pair of pajamas and her toothbrush.
Keegan said goodbye to Emma and hung up.
Devon dashed to the back door. “He’s here!” she shouted. “And he’s on a horse!”
Keegan followed his daughter outside. Sure enough, there was Rance, in old-time McKettrick mode, mounted on one of his growing collection of geldings. This one was black, with three white stockings.
Seeing Keegan, Rance tugged at the brim of his hat. Then he slipped one foot out of the stirrup, so Devon could put her own there, leaned down and ho
isted her up behind him, pink bear, pajamas and all.
Keegan should have left well enough alone, but he couldn’t. “You going to vote with Jesse tomorrow?” he asked Rance.
Rance adjusted his hat, shifted in the saddle. Devon wrapped both arms around his middle, bouncing a little because she wanted to go.
“I’m going to vote the way I damn well please,” Rance answered easily. “Get some shut-eye, because it could turn out to be one hell of a row, with all those McKettricks crammed into one room.”
With that, he started to rein the horse around, toward home.
“Rance?” Keegan said.
He looked back. “What?”
“Let Emma paint the kitchen whatever color she wants.”
Rance chuckled. Shook his head. “A pink kitchen? I’d have to shoot myself.”
Keegan reconsidered. “Pink, huh?”
“Pink,” Rance confirmed. “The woman’s obsessed with it.”
“A man has to draw the line somewhere,” Keegan decided.
Rance nodded. “And that line,” he drawled, “lies just this side of pink.”
Devon waved. For a kid who’d wanted so much to stay, she was sure in a hurry to leave.
Keegan waved back. “Be good,” he told his daughter, and something about the way he spoke made Rance take a closer look at him.
“I’m all right,” Keegan insisted.
Rance was a long time looking away. Finally, though, he and Devon were headed for the bridge spanning the creek. On the far side the reflected light of the setting sun glowed crimson on the windows.
A lump rose in Keegan’s throat.
Devon’s voice flowed back to him, riding softly on the breeze. “Go fast, Uncle Rance!” she pleaded.
Rance gave a yee-haw and heeled the horse into a trot.
Keegan waited until they’d cleared the bridge before going inside the house. Stood just over the threshold, more aware of the history of the place than usual, soaking it in through his pores and the raw-edged holes in his heart.
It gave him solace to know old Angus McKettrick had built the heart of that house with his own hands. He’d raised his three younger sons and a daughter, too, right here in these rooms.
They’d taken meals cooked on the old wood-burning stove over in the far corner of the room. These days, it was used only to provide heat and a pleasant crackle on cold winter mornings, though it was still in good working order. Keegan’s once-a-week cleaning service kept it dusted off, and the chrome gleamed.
McKettrick's Heart Page 10
