McKettrick's Luck (9 page)

“Very funny.”

Keegan leaned back in his leather chair and tented his fingers under his chin. “Still practicing for the big poker tournament?”

“Just biding my time,” Jesse answered.

“Wasn't one gold bracelet, fifteen minutes of fame and five million dollars enough?”

“I want to make sure it wasn't a one-shot deal.”

“What if it was? Why should you care?”

Jesse shrugged. “I just do. Now, about that job—”

Keegan thrust out another sigh, gustier than the first. “I need a computer wiz. Happen to have one handy?”

“I don't know if she's good with computers or not.”

“She?” Keegan put an edge on the word.

“Maybe you remember her from school. Cheyenne Bridges. She's working for some real-estate outfit now, and they're about to show her the road because I wouldn't sell them that five hundred acres I bought with my prize money.”

Keegan squeezed the bridge of his nose between a thumb and forefinger. “Cash Bridges's daughter? I remember her, all right. I asked her out once or twice, but she was so hung up on you that I didn't get anywhere.”

Jesse sat up a little straighter. Keegan was single again, and he was a good catch by anybody's definition. Maybe it wouldn't be such a good idea for him and Cheyenne to work together.

“Just a thought,” he said and stood to leave.

“Sit down,” Keegan said.

Jesse sat.

“What exactly does she do? Cheyenne, I mean. For the real-estate outfit?”

Jesse swallowed. “Builds condos,” he said. “Rounds up investors, I think.”

“She's good with money, then?”

“I don't know,” Jesse said, wishing he'd approached somebody else about a job for Cheyenne. Maybe Mr. Mackey, over at the Cattleman's Bank. Hell, he'd rather see her hawking crystals down in Sedona than working shoulder to shoulder with Keegan. What the hell had he been thinking?

“I can find out easily enough,” Keegan said. “What's her number?”

C
HEYENNE SURVEYED THE CONTENTS
of her suitcase for the third time since she'd gotten home from Jesse's place. Tailored slacks. Suits. Silk blouses. Panty hose. Nothing suitable for a Saturday night barbecue and hayride on the Triple M.

“That Nigel dude's on the phone again,” Mitch announced from the doorway of Cheyenne's girlhood bedroom. It was a tiny place, hardly larger than the walk-in closet in her San Diego apartment, and there were still bits of tape clinging to the wallpaper where she'd affixed pictures of Jesse, all through junior and senior high. Where were those clippings and school photos now? She didn't remember throwing them away, but maybe she had, during some fit of adolescent heartbreak.

She tuned in again, just in time to hear Mitch finish with, “You'd better talk to the boss man. I don't think he's going to quit calling until you do.”

Cheyenne turned to look at her brother. Here was a primary reason why she had to attend that McKettrick party. Mitch had brightened just since she'd told him about it, and so had Ayanna. They were already looking forward to the event, and God knew they had little enough to keep them going. “I'll be right there,” she said, after forestalling a sigh. “Might as well get it over with.”

Mitch smiled. “That's what you always told me, anyway,” he said. “Whenever I had to have a spinal tap or go through another physical-therapy session.”

Unknowingly, Mitch had put all Cheyenne's complaints squarely back into perspective. So
what
if she didn't have a job anymore? So what if she didn't own a car, or a pair of jeans to wear to the party? She had two good legs, and she'd never had to endure a single painful medical procedure in her life. Her employment situation, dicey as it was, probably looked pretty good to her brother.

She pointed a finger at him and pretended to shoot. “You made a direct hit, buddy,” she said grinning. “Thanks.”

Mitch wheeled backward to let her pass.

In the living room, she picked up the heavy receiver of the plain black rotary phone her grandmother had had installed back in the mid 1950s. The service had ebbed and flowed over the years, according to the family's financial ups and downs.

Cheyenne took a deep breath, let it out, and said, “Hello, Nigel.”

“You're not fired,” Nigel declared, blustering a little.

Cheyenne blinked. “I'm not? Maybe you should know I ran over my company phone, and—”

“I'm having a car delivered, and a new phone. The rental people will pick up whatever you're driving now. I want you to keep working on this deal, Cheyenne. McKettrick must have a weak point somewhere, and we're going to find it.”

This kind of double-pronged approach was typical of Nigel, and while Cheyenne was certainly glad she was still among the gainfully employed, and even gladder that she would have a company car, the remark about finding and exploiting Jesse's “weak point” left her feeling disturbed and oddly protective. “Nothing underhanded, Nigel,” she warned. “I won't be part of anything like that.”

Nigel gave a snort—possibly disbelief, possibly even contempt, there was no telling without seeing his face—and Cheyenne wondered if she'd ever really known the man at all. She'd never suspected, for instance, that he'd believed she'd used sex to land all those deals, and just remembering the insinuation made her fume.

Ayanna was watching her from the kitchen door, though, and Mitch from his chair just inside the living room. Whatever her new reservations about her boss, and about Meerland Ventures in general, she had to stay in the game as long as she could.

“Are you hung up on this guy or something?” Nigel asked.

Cheyenne simmered. “I don't have to be ‘hung up' on Jesse to play by the rules,” she said. “I have standards, Nigel.”

“And I don't?”

“I'm not sure,” she replied. “First, you suggest that I sleep with him to get what I want. Now, you're talking about looking for a soft spot to stick the knife. I'm not about to undercut Jesse McKettrick or anybody else to push this deal through. Before you send the car and the new phone, you'd better be clear on where I'm coming from.”

“I'm clear, all right,” Nigel replied. “Listen, I'm sorry if I stepped on your toes. I just thought you were willing to play hardball, that's all. And furthermore, if you think people with the kind of money the McKettricks have
don't,
you are grievously naive.”

Cheyenne frowned. “I'm confused, here, Nigel. Do I still have a job or not? And if I do, do I get to do it my way? Because I don't
give a rip
how anybody else conducts business. I'm only concerned with my own conscience.”

Mitch and Ayanna applauded.

Cheyenne widened her eyes and mimed a gulp.

“You get the car,” Nigel said. “You get the phone. And you get three weeks—twenty-one bright, shiny days—to pull this off. If you fail, no car, no phone, no job.” He paused, then added solemnly, “No
company.
”

“I want one more thing,” Cheyenne said. In poker terms, she thought wryly, her chips were in the center of the table and she was
all in.
Might as well call Nigel's car and phone and raise him an ultimatum. “No more phone calls. I believe I've said this before, but since it didn't get through, I'll try one more time. When I have something to say, I'll call you.”

Another round of applause from the family, louder this time.

“Do you have the television set on or something?” Nigel asked with a frown in his voice.

“Yeah,” Cheyenne answered, with a wink for Mitch and Ayanna. The TV, with its foil-flagged antenna, probably didn't even work.
“Wheel of Fortune.”

I'll spin, Pat.

“You'll have the car tomorrow,” Nigel promised.

Cheyenne thanked him, hung up and then stood there, wondering whether to do a victory dance or burst into tears.

Ayanna and Mitch stared at her, waiting for some reaction.

“I need jeans,” she said. “And let's splurge on supper at the Roadhouse. I'm buying.”

She didn't want to go near Lucky's, because of old memories, and besides, the Roadhouse was more accessible for Mitch.

Their faces glowed.

“You don't own a pair of
jeans?
” Ayanna asked, sounding stunned, looking down at her own battered Levi's.

“Why does everybody make such a big deal about that?” Cheyenne retorted good-naturedly. “You'd think they were part of a national uniform or something.”

“They are,” Ayanna said.

Half an hour later, with everybody spit-shined and presentable, and Mitch's chair folded and loaded into the trunk of the rental car, they set out for town. Cheyenne dashed into the local Stuff-Mart, bought two pairs of jeans, two T-shirts, a denim jacket and some cheap but flashy boots. When she got back to the car, Ayanna was reading a newspaper, while Mitch, ensconced in the backseat, played a handheld video game.

“All set?” Ayanna asked, eyeing the bulging blue plastic bag Cheyenne carried.

“All set,” Cheyenne replied, hoping it was true.

She had jeans.

She had three weeks to change Jesse's mind about selling his land.

And it would take a miracle.

 

“N
O ANSWER
,” K
EEGAN SAID
, hanging up the phone and sitting back in his chair again. His eyes twinkled as he studied Jesse, though the set of his face remained serious. “You know, cousin, you don't
look
as if you want me to bring Cheyenne in for an interview, let alone offer her a job with McKettrickCo. And I find that fascinating, given that that was allegedly the reason why you came here in the first place.”

Jesse couldn't help scowling. He was losing his touch, he concluded. All of a sudden, people could read him like a book.

Maybe he ought to stay away from that big poker tournament in Vegas. Leave well enough alone.

As if he'd ever been able to do that.

“She's coming to Sierra and Travis's party with me on Saturday,” Jesse said, for the sake of clarity.

“I see,” Keegan said sagely, grinning with everything but his mouth. “You don't just like Cheyenne—you
like
her.”

Jesse shifted in his chair. He'd drawn a line in the sand, marked his territory. So be it. “Just don't put the moves on her, okay?”

Keegan chuckled. “Now that's funny, coming from you.
I'm
not the famous heartbreaker in this family, you know.”

“I mean it, Keeg. Cheyenne's vulnerable.”

“
Vulnerable?
Good God, you
have
been watching talk-TV. I remember her as serious and smart. Tough, too—she had to be, to grow up with Cash Bridges for a father. But ‘vulnerable'? I don't think so, Jesse.”

“Think whatever you damn well please,” Jesse said tersely. “But don't mess with her.”

Keegan held up both hands, palms out, in a gesture of amused concession. “I hear you,” he said, but the thoughtful look in his eyes still raised Jesse's hackles.

He thrust himself out of his chair, reached for his hat. “See ya,” he said.

“See ya,” Keegan replied.

Jesse left the office without another word.

 

S
UPPER AT THE
R
OADHOUSE
was a celebration, of sorts. Ayanna was pleased about her new job at the supermarket, and Mitch flirted the whole time with a teenage waitress named Bronwyn. Cheyenne was the only one putting on an act. Behind a cheerful smile, she mentally relived that morning's encounter with Jesse, over and over again. Hadn't he
told
her, straight out, that he wasn't about to sell his precious five hundred acres? What did she hope to accomplish by staying on in Indian Rock?

Three weeks wasn't enough time to change Jesse's mind.

He was a McKettrick, genetically stubborn. Three
centuries
probably wouldn't do the trick.

All she was really doing was putting off the inevitable.

Prolonging the agony.

Maybe she ought to look into bagging groceries alongside her mother.

She was actually thinking of asking the Roadhouse manager for a job application when some primitive sense awakened, crackling in her nerve endings, and her gaze swung, without her consciously intending to look in that direction, toward the front door.

Jesse McKettrick ambled in.

He looked straight at her.

The air sizzled.

She wondered why the smoke detectors didn't go off, and if he'd left his hat in the truck, because he wasn't wearing it.

He smiled and came directly over to their booth.

“Hello, Cheyenne,” he said. He nodded to Ayanna. “Mrs. Bridges.” Then he turned his easy, approving smile on Mitch. “Jesse McKettrick,” he said, putting out his hand.

Mitch, parked at the end of the table in his wheelchair, shook it manfully. “Mitch Bridges,” he said.

“Why don't you join us, Jesse?” Ayanna asked, beaming.

Cheyenne nudged her mother's ankle with the toe of her shoe.

“We're just about to order dessert,” Ayanna added, ignoring the signal.

“Don't mind if I do,” Jesse said. Cheyenne had to scoot over a little to let him sit down next to her in the booth, or he'd have landed on her lap, but she didn't give him much room.

“Do they have any horses at the ranch where we're going to for the barbecue?” Mitch asked, so hopefully that Cheyenne's throat constricted.

“Mitch,” she began, “you can't—”

This time, it was Jesse who did the nudging. His right thigh whacked eloquently against her left, effectively silencing her.
And
sending a flash of heat through her entire body. “Sure there are,” he said. “I'll saddle one for you if you want.”

Cheyenne whacked him back. A painful flush climbed her neck and pulsed in her cheeks.

Jesse didn't spare her so much as a glance, but the pressure of his thigh increased, hard and muscular.

“That would be great!” Mitch said exuberantly.

Ayanna looked equally delighted.

Had these people lost their minds? Was she, Cheyenne, the only one with any common sense at all? Mitch was a paraplegic. He couldn't ride a horse.

Bronwyn, Mitch's new friend, strolled over to take dessert orders. She was cute, with gleaming brown hair worn in a lengthy French braid, huge green eyes and an angelic smile. Her gaze kept slanting sideways to land on Mitch, who smiled up at her as though they'd known each other from birth.