At Home in Stone Creek (Silhouette Special Edition) (19 page)

Giving up on surfing the Web, catching up on all he'd missed since Tombstone, he tried to interest himself in the pile of high school yearbooks stacked on a shelf in his closet.

What a hotheaded little jerk he'd been, he thought. A throwback, especially in comparison to his brothers.

He revisited his junior year, flipping pages until he found Molly Henshaw, the love of his adolescent life. Although he hadn't been a praying man, Jack had begged God to let him marry Molly someday.

Looking at her class picture, he remembered that she'd had acne, which she tried to cover with stuff closer to orange than flesh tone. Big hair, too. And a come-hither look in her raccoonlike eyes. Even in the photograph, he could see the clumps of mascara coating her lashes.

Must have been the come hither, he decided.

And thank God for unanswered prayers.

Having come to that conclusion, Jack decided to go downstairs, where Abigail was undoubtedly flitting around the kitchen. Time to make a start at getting to know his father's new wife, though their acquaintance might be a short one if his body rejected Bryce's marrow.

For his dad's sake, because there were so many things he couldn't make up for, he had to give it a shot. Ironically, he knew it was what his mother would have wanted.

Later, he'd log on to his dad's computer, in the den.

See if Ashley's Web site was up and running.

With luck, there would be a picture of her, smiling like the welcoming hostess she was, dressed in something flowered, with her hair pulled back into that prim French braid he always wanted to undo.

For now, that would have to be enough.

Abigail was in the kitchen, the room where Jack had had so many conversations with his mother. Feminine and modestly pretty, Abigail wore a flowered apron, her hair was pinned up in a loose chignon at her nape, and her hands were white with flour.

She smiled shyly at Jack. “Your father likes peach pie above all things,” she confided.

“I'm pretty fond of it myself,” Jack answered, grinning. “You're a baker, Abigail?”

His stepmother shrugged. She couldn't have been more different, physically anyway, from his mom. She'd been tall and full-figured, always lamenting humorously that she should have lived in the 1890s, when women with bosoms and hips were appreciated. Abigail was petite and trim; she probably gardened, maybe knitted and crocheted.

His mother had loved to play golf and sail, and to Jack's recollection, she'd never baked a pie or worn an apron in her life.

“A baker and a few other things, too,” Abigail said, with a quirky little smile playing briefly on her mouth. “I retired from real estate a year before Bill and I met. Sold my company for a chunk of cash and decided to spend the rest of my life doing what I love…baking, planting flowers, sewing. Oh, and fussing over my husband.”

Jack swiped a slice of peach from the bowl waiting to be poured into the pie pan, and she didn't slap his hand. “Married before?” he asked casually. “Any kids?”

Abigail shook her head, and a few tendrils of her graying auburn hair escaped the chignon. “I was too busy with my career,” she said, without a hint of regret. “Besides, I always promised myself I'd wait for the right man, no matter how long it took. Turned out to be Bill McKenzie.”

He'd underestimated Abigail, that much was clear. She was an independent woman, living the life she chose to live, not someone looking for an easy life married to a prosperous dentist. In fact, Abigail probably had a lot more money than his dad did, and that was saying something.

“He's happy, Abigail. Thank you for that.” Jack reached for a second slice, and this time, she did swat his hand, smiling and shaking her head.

She took a cereal bowl from the cupboard, scooped in a generous portion of fruit with a soup spoon, and handed him the works.

Jack decided he knew all he needed to know about Abigail—she loved his father, and that was as good as it got. Leaning in a little, he kissed her cheek.

“Welcome aboard, Abigail,” he said hoarsely.

She smiled. “Thanks,” she replied, and went back to building the pie.

“M
s. O'Ballivan? My name is Bryce McKenzie and I—”

Ashley shifted the telephone receiver from her left ear to her right, hunching one shoulder to hold it in place, busy rolling out pie dough on the butcher's block next to the counter. “I'm sorry, Mr. McKenzie,” she said, distracted, “but we're all booked up for Valentine's Day—”

The man replied with an oddly familiar chuckle. Something about the timbre of it struck a chord somewhere deep in Ashley's core. “Excuse me?” he said.

“The bed-and-breakfast—I guess I just assumed you were calling because of the publicity my Web site's been getting—”

Again, that sense of familiarity flittered, in the pit of Ashley's stomach now.

“I'm Jack McKenzie's brother,” Bryce explained.

McKenzie
. The name finally registered in Ashley's befuddled memory, the one Jack had admitted leaving behind so long ago. “Oh,” she said, stretching the phone cord taut so she could collapse into a kitchen chair.
“Oh.”

“I probably shouldn't be calling you like this, but—well—”

“Is Jack all right?”

Bryce McKenzie sighed. “Yes and no,” he said carefully.

Ashley put a floury hand to her heart, smearing her T-shirt with white finger marks. “Tell me about the ‘no' part, Mr. McKenzie,” she said.

“Bryce,” he corrected. And then, after clearing his throat, he explained that Jack had needed a bone marrow transplant. The patient was up and around, and he was taking antirejection drugs, but he didn't seem to be recovering—or regressing—and his family was worried.

They'd had a family meeting, Bryce concluded, one Jack hadn't been privy to, and decided as a unit that seeing Ashley again might be the boost he needed to get better.

Ashley listened with her eyes closed and her heart hammering.

“Where is he now?” she asked, very quietly, when Bryce had finished.

“We live in Chicago, so he's here,” he answered. “There's plenty of room at my dad's place, if you wanted to stay there. I mean, if you even want to come in the first place, that is.”

Ashley's heart thrummed. Valentine's Day was a week away and she had to be there to greet her guests, make them comfortable—didn't she? This was her chance to take the business to a whole new level, make
some progress, stay caught up on her payments to Brad and fortify her faltering savings.

And none of that was as important as seeing Jack again.

“I think,” she said shakily, “that if Jack wanted to see me, he would have called himself.”

“He wants to make sure he's going to live through this first,” Bryce answered candidly. Then, after sucking in an audible breath, he added, “Will you come? It could make all the difference in his recovery—or, at least, that's what we're hoping.”

Ashley looked around her kitchen, cluttered now with the accoutrements of serious cooking. The freezer was full, the house was ready for the onslaught of lovers planning a romantic getaway.

How could she leave now?

How could she
stay?

“I'll be there as soon as I can book a flight,” she heard herself say.

“One of us will pick you up at O'Hare,” Bryce said, his voice light with relief. “Just call back with your flight number and arrival time.”

Ashley wrote down the cell numbers he gave her and promised to get in touch with him as soon as she had the necessary information.

“This is crazy,” she told Mrs. Wiggins, as soon as she'd hung up.

“Meooow,” Mrs. Wiggins replied, curling against Ashley's ankle.

Having made the decision, Ashley was full of sudden energy. She made airline reservations for the next day, flying out of Flagstaff, connecting in Phoenix, and then going on to Chicago. When that was done, she called Bryce back.

“You're sure Jack wants to see me?” she asked, having second thoughts.

“I'm sure,” Bryce said, with a smile in his voice.

The next call was to Melissa, at her office, and Ashley was almost panicking by then. The moment Melissa greeted her with a curious “Hello”—Ashley never called her at work—the whole thing spilled out.

Ashley held her breath, after the spate of words, awaiting Melissa's response.

“I see,” Melissa said cautiously.

“I might be back before Valentine's Day,” Ashley blurted, anxious to assuage her sister's misgivings about Jack, “but I can't be absolutely sure, and I need you to cover for me if necessary.”

“I don't know beans about running a bed-and-breakfast,” Melissa said gamely, “much less
cooking
. But I'll be there, Ash. Get your bags packed.”

Tears burned Ashley's eyes. She could always count on Melissa, on any member of her family, to come through in a pinch. Why had she doubted that, even for a moment? “Thanks, Melissa.”

“You'll have to send the cat to Olivia's place,” Melissa warned, though her tone was good-natured. “You know how my allergies flare up when I'm around anything with fur.”

“I know,” Ashley said sweetly, “that you're a hypochondriac. But I love you anyway.”

“Gee, thanks,” Melissa replied. “No cat,” she clarified firmly. “The deal's off if Olivia won't take him.”

“Her,”
Ashley said, smiling. “How many male cats do you know with the name ‘Mrs. Wiggins'?”

“I don't know
any
cats, whatever the gender,” Melissa answered, “and I don't want to, either.”

Ashley grinned to herself. “I'm sure Olivia will cat-
sit,” she conceded. “One more thing. Could you serve punch at the Valentine's Day dance? I promised and I did all this baking and I'm not sure I'll be back in time—”

“Oh, for Pete's sake,” Melissa said. “
Yes
, if it comes to that, but you'd better do your darnedest to be home before the first guests arrive. I mean well, but we're taking a risk here. I'm not the least bit domestic, remember, and I could put you out of business without half trying.”

Ashley laughed, sniffled once. “I promise I'll do my O'Ballivan best,” she said. “Have you seen Dan yet?”

“No,” Melissa said, “and don't mention his name again, if you don't mind.”

After the call ended, Ashley wrestled her one and only suitcase down from the attic—she rarely traveled—and set it on her bed, open.

Mrs. Wiggins immediately climbed into it, as though determined to make the journey with her mistress.

“Not this time,” Ashley said, gently removing the furball.

The next dilemma was, what did a person pack for a trip to Chicago in the middle of winter?

She decided on her trademark broomstick skirts, lightweight tunic sweaters, and some jeans, for good measure.

When she called Starcross Ranch, hoping to speak to Olivia, Tanner answered instead. Ashley asked if Mrs. Wiggins could bunk in for a few days.

“Sure,” Tanner said, as Ashley had known he would. But he also wanted an explanation. “Where are you off to, in such a hurry?”

Tanner was Jack's friend, and he'd surely been as worried about him as Ashley had. Although it was
possible that the two men had been in touch, her instincts told her they hadn't.

Ashley drew a deep breath, let it out slowly, and hoped she was doing the right thing by telling Tanner. And by jetting off to Chicago when Jack hadn't asked her to come.

“Jack's in Chicago,” she said. “He's had a bone marrow transplant—something to do with the toxin—and his family is worried about him. He's not getting worse, but he's not getting better, either.”

Tanner murmured an exclamation. “I see,” he said. “Jack didn't call you himself?”

“No,” Ashley admitted, her shoulders sagging a little.

Tanner considered that, must have decided against giving an opinion, one way or the other. “You'll keep me in the loop?” he asked presently.

“Yes,” Ashley said.

“I'll be there to get the cat sometime this afternoon. Do you want a ride to the airport?”

“I've got that covered,” Ashley replied. “Thanks, Tanner. I really appreciate this.”

“We're family,” Tanner pointed out. “Brad could probably charter a jet—”

“I don't need a jet,” Ashley interrupted, though gently. “And I'm not really ready to discuss any of this with Brad. Not just yet, anyhow.”

“Is there a plan?” Tanner asked. “And if so, what is it?”

Ashley smiled, even though her eyes were burning again. “No plan,” she said. “I'm not even sure Jack wants me there. But I have to see him, Tanner.”

“Of course you do,” Tanner agreed, sounding both relieved and resigned. “Brad is going to wonder where
you've gone, though. He keeps pretty close tabs on his three little sisters, you know. But don't worry about that—I'll handle him.”

She heard Olivia's voice in the background, asking what was going on.

“Let me talk to her,” Ashley said, and told the whole story all over again.

“I don't like it that you're going alone,” Olivia told her, a minute or so later. “I've got the babies to look after, and I think Sophie is coming down with a cold, but maybe Melissa could go along—”

“Melissa is going to house-sit,” Ashley said. “And she'll have her hands full holding down the fort, especially if I'm not back before Valentine's Day. I'll be
fine
, Livie.”

“You're sure? What if Jack—?”

“What if he doesn't want to see me? I'll handle it, Liv. I'm a big girl now, remember?”

Olivia's laugh was warm, and a little teary. “Godspeed, little sister,” she said. “And call us when you get there.”

“I will,” Ashley said, thinking how lucky she was.

The next few hours passed in a haze of activity—there were project lists to make for Melissa, and dozens of other details, too.

As promised, Tanner showed up late that afternoon to collect a mewing Mrs. Wiggins in the small pet carrier Olivia had sent along.

“Tell Jack I said hello,” Tanner said, as he was leaving.

Ashley nodded, and her brother-in-law planted a light kiss on the top of her head.

“Take care,” he told her. And then he was gone.

Melissa showed up when she got off work, and she
and Ashley went over the lists—which guests to put where, how to reheat the food she'd prepared ahead of time, frozen and carefully labeled, how to take reservations and run credit cards, and a myriad of other things.

Melissa looked overwhelmed, but in true O'Ballivan spirit, she vowed to do her best.

Knowing she wouldn't sleep if she stayed in Stone Creek that night, Ashley loaded her suitcase into the car and set out for Flagstaff, intending to check into a hotel near the airport and have a room-service supper.

Her flight was leaving at six-thirty the next morning.

Along the way, though, she pulled off onto the snowy road leading to the cemetery where her mother was buried, parked near Delia's grave, and waded toward the headstone.

There were no heartfelt words, no tears.

Ashley simply felt a need to be there, in that quiet place. Somehow, a sense of closure had stolen into her heart when she wasn't looking. She could let go now, move on.

The weather was bitterly cold, though, and she soon got back in her car and made her steady, careful way toward Flagstaff.

She would always love the mother she'd longed to have, she reflected, but it was time to go forward, appreciate the
living
people she loved, those who loved her in return: Brad and Meg, Olivia and Tanner, Melissa and little Mac and Carly and sweet Sophie and the babies.

And Jack.

She didn't obsess over what might happen when she arrived in Chicago. For once in her life, she was taking a risk, going for what she wanted.

And she wanted Jack McCall—McKenzie—whoever he was.

Once she'd arrived in Flagstaff, she chose a hotel and checked in, ordered a bowl of cream of broccoli soup, ate it, and soaked in a warm bath until the chill seeped out of her bones. Most of it, anyway.

A part of her would remain frozen until she'd seen Jack for herself.

 

“You did
what?
” Jack demanded, after supper that night, when he and Bryce wound up the evening sitting in chairs in front of the fireplace. It had been a hectic thing, supper, with brothers and their wives, nieces and nephews, and even a few neighbors there to share in the meal celebrating Jack's return from the dead.