The McKettrick Legend (13 page)

“Tobias,” Jeb announced, “is spending the night in the room next to mine. I've already made arrangements for the maid to stay with him.”

Hannah laid down her fork, relieved not to have to pretend to eat any longer. It was almost as hard as pretending to be happy, and she didn't think she could manage both.

“I guess that's all right,” she allowed.

Doss looked down at his plate. He hadn't eaten much more than Hannah had, though, like her, he'd made a good show of it. Making illicit love on the ranch was one thing, she realized, and being married was quite another. Was he as nervous about the night to come as she was?

Jeb congratulated them both and left.

Their plates were cleared away.

Doss paid the bill.

And then there was nothing to do but go upstairs and get on with their wedding night.

T
OBIAS'S BED WAS EMPTY,
and his things had been removed. Hannah glanced nervously at Doss, now her husband, and put a hand to her throat.

He sighed and loosened his string tie, then unbuttoned his collar. If there had been whisky in that hotel room, Hannah was sure he would have poured himself a double and downed it in a gulp. She felt moved to touch his arm, soothe him somehow, but the urge died aborning. Instead she stood rigid upon the soles of her practical high-button shoes, and wished she'd put her foot down while there was still time, called the whole idea of getting married for the damn fool notion that it was, stopped the wedding and let the gossips say what they would.

She was miserable.

Doss was miserable.

What in the world had possessed them?

“We could get an annulment,” she said shakily.

Doss's gaze sliced to her, sharp enough to leave the thick air quivering in its wake. “Oh, I'd say we were past that,” he retorted coldly. “Wouldn't you?”

Hannah's cheeks burned as smartly as if they'd been chapped by the bitter wind even then rattling at the windows and seeping in as a draft. “I only meant that we haven't…well…
consummated
the marriage, and—”

He narrowed his eyes. “I remember it a little differently,” he said.

Damn
him, Hannah thought fiercely. He'd been so
all-fired set on going through with the ceremony—it had been
his
idea to exchange vows, not hers—and now he was acting as though he'd been wooed, enticed,
trapped.

“I will thank you to remember
this,
Doss McKettrick—I didn't seduce you.
You
seduced
me!
”

He hooked a finger in his tie and jerked at it. Took an angry step toward her and glared down into her face. “You could have said no at any time, Hannah,” he reminded her, making a deliberate effort to keep his voice down. “My recollection is that you didn't. In fact, you—”

“Stop,” Hannah blurted. “If you're any kind of gentleman, you won't throw that in my face! I was—we were both—
lonely,
Doss. We lost our heads, that's all. We could find the preacher, tell him it was a mistake, ask him to tear up the license—”

“You might as well stand in the middle of Main Street, ring a cowbell to draw a crowd, and tell the whole damn
town
what we did as do that!” Doss seethed. “And what's going to happen in six months or so, when your belly is out to here with my baby?”

Hannah's back teeth clamped together so hard that she had to will them apart. “What makes you so sure there
is
a baby?” she demanded. “Gabe and I wanted more children after Tobias, but nothing happened.”

Doss opened his mouth, closed it again force fully. What ever he'd been about to say, he'd clearly thought better of it. All of a sudden Hannah wanted to reach down his throat and
haul
the words out of him like a bucket from a deep well, even though she knew she'd be just as furious to hear them spoken as she was right then, left to wonder.

For what seemed to Hannah like a very long time, the two of them just stood there, practically nose to nose, glowering at each other.

Hannah broke first, shattered against that McKettrick stubbornness the way a storm-tossed ship might shatter on a rocky shore. With a cry of sheer frustration, she turned on one heel, strode into the next room and slammed the door hard behind her.

There was no key to turn the lock, and nothing to brace under the knob to keep Doss from coming after her. So Hannah paced, arms folded, until some of her fury was spent.

Her gaze fell on her night gown, spread by some thoughtful soul—probably the maid who had looked after Tobias while she and Doss were down stairs ruining their lives—across the foot of the bed.

Resignation settled over Hannah, heavy and cold as a wagonload of wet burlap sacks.

I might as well get this over with, she thought, trying to ignore the unbecoming shiver of excitement she felt at the prospect of being alone with Doss, bared to him, surrendering and, at the same time, conquering.

Resolutely she took off her clothes, donned the nightgown and unpinned her hair.

And waited.

Where was Doss?

She sat down on the edge of the mattress, twiddling her thumbs.

He didn't arrive.

She got up and paced.

Still no Doss.

She was damned if she'd open the door and invite him in after the way he'd acted, but the waiting was almost unbearable.

Finally Hannah sneaked across the room, bent and peered through the keyhole. Her view was limited, and while she couldn't actually see Doss, that didn't mean
he wasn't there. If he'd left, she would have heard him—wouldn't she?

She paced again, briskly this time, muttering under her breath.

The room was growing cold, and not just because there was no fire to light. She marched over to the radiator, under the window, and cranked on the handle until she heard a comforting hiss. Some thing caught her eye, through the night-darkened glass, as she straightened, and she wiped a peephole in the steam with the sleeve of her night gown. Squinted.

Was that Doss, standing in the spill of light flowing over the swinging doors of the Blue Garter Saloon down at the corner? His shape and stance were certainly familiar, but the clothes were wrong—or were they? Doss had worn a suit to the wedding, and this man was dressed for the open range.

Hannah stared harder, and barely noticed when the tip of her nose touched the icy glass. Then the man struck a match against the saloon wall, and lit a cheroot, and she saw his face clearly in the flare of orange light.

It
was
Doss, and he was looking in her direction, too. He'd seen her, watching him from the hotel room window like some woebegone heroine in a melodrama.

No. It couldn't be him.

They had a lot to settle, it was true, but this was their
wed ding night.

Hannah clenched her fists and turned from the window for a few moments, struggling to regain her composure as well as her dignity. By now everyone in Indian Rock knew about the hurry-up wedding, knew they ought to be honeymooning, she and Doss, even if they hadn't gotten any further than the Arizona Hotel. If Doss passed the evening in the Blue Garter Saloon, tonight of all nights—

She whirled, fumbling to pull up the sash, meaning to call out to him, though God only knew what she'd say. But before she could open the window, he turned his back on her and went right through those saloon doors. Hannah watched helplessly as they swung on their hinges and closed behind him.

Present Day

Sierra stood with her hands on her hips, studying the January Christmas tree. The lights shimmered and the colors blurred as she took in the mountain of gifts still to be unwrapped, the wads of bright paper, the expensive loot Liam had already opened.

Sweaters. A leather coat, reminiscent of Travis's. Cowboy boots and a hat. A set of toy pistols. Why, there was more stuff there than she'd been able to give Liam in all seven years of his life, let alone for one Christmas.

Eve had done it all, of course. The decorating, anyway. She might have brought the presents with her from Texas, after sending some office minion out to ransack the high-end stores.

Did it mean she genuinely cared, Sierra wondered, or was she merely trying to buy some form of absolution?

Sierra sensed Eve's presence almost immediately, but it was a few moments before she could look her in the eye.

“The pistols might have been an error in judgment,” Eve conceded quietly, poised in the doorway as though unsure whether to bolt or stay and face the music. “I should have asked.”

“The whole thing is an error in judgment,” Sierra responded, her insides stretched so taut that they seemed to hum. “It's too much.” She turned, at last, and faced her mother. “You had no right.”

“Liam is my grandson,” Eve pointed out, and the very rationality of her words snapped hard around Sierra's heart, like some giant rubber band, yanked to its limits and then let go.

“You had no right!”
Sierra repeated, in a furious undertone.

To her credit, Eve didn't flinch. “What are you so afraid of, Sierra? That he'll like me?”

Sierra swayed a little, suddenly light-headed. “Don't you understand? I can't give Liam things like this. I don't want him getting used to this way of life—it will be too hard on him later, when we have to leave it all behind.”

“
What
way of life?” Eve persisted. Her attitude wasn't confrontational, but it was obvious that she intended to stand her ground. It was all so easy for her, with her money and her power. She could make grand gestures, but Sierra would be the one picking up the pieces when she and Liam made a hard—and inevitable—landing in the real world.

“The
McKettrick
way of life!” Sierra burst out. “This big house, the land, the money—”

“Sierra, you
are
a McKettrick, and so is Liam.”

Sierra closed her eyes for a moment, struggling to regain her composure. “I agreed to come here for one reason and one reason only,” she finally said, with hard-won moderation, “because my son needs medical attention, and I can't afford to provide it. But the agreement was for one year—
one year,
Eve—and we won't be here a single day after that condition is met!”

“And after that one year is up, you think I'm just going to forget that I have a second daughter and a grandson? Whether you're still too blasted stubborn to accept my help or not?”

“I don't
need
your help, Eve!”

“Don't you?”

Sierra shook her head, more in an effort to clear her mind than to deny Eve's meaning, found a chair and sank slowly into it. “I appreciate what you're doing,” she said, after a few slow, deep breaths. “I really do. But if you expect anything beyond what we agreed to, there's a problem.”

Eve moved to the fire place, took a long match from the mantel and lit the newspaper and kindling already stacked in the grate. She waited until the flames caught, crack ling merrily, then added more wood from the basket next to the hearth. “What did Hank tell you about me, Sierra?” she asked quietly, turning back to study Sierra's face. “Did he tell you I was dead? Or did he say I didn't want you?”

“He didn't have to say you didn't want me. That was perfectly obvious.”

“Was it?” Eve dusted off a place on the raised hearth and sat down, folding her hands loosely in her lap. “I want to know what he told you, Sierra. After all these years, after all he took from me, I think I have the right to ask.”

“He never said you didn't want me. He said you didn't want
him.
”

“Well, that was certainly true enough.”

Sierra swallowed. “I guess I was five or six before I noticed that other little girls had mothers, not just fathers. I started asking a lot of questions, and I guess he got tired of it. He said there'd been an accident, that you'd been badly hurt and you'd probably have to go to heaven.”

Eve lowered her head then, wiped furtively at her cheek with the back of one hand. “Who would have thought Hank Breslin would say
two
true things out of three in the same lifetime?”

Sierra slid to the edge of her chair, eager and tense at the same time.

Don't get sucked in,
she heard Hank say, as clearly as
if he'd been standing in the room, taking part in the conversation.

“There
was
an accident?” Sierra asked on a breath, mentally shushing her father. Just asking the question meant a part of her hadn't believed Hank, but this, like so many other things, would have to be considered later, when she was alone. And calm.

Eve nodded.

“What kind of accident?”

Eve visibly collected herself, sitting up a little straighter. Her eyes seemed focused on a past Sierra hadn't been a part of. “I was having lunch at an outdoor café in San Antonio—with my lawyer, as it happens. We'd found you after two years of searching, or at least the investigators we'd hired had, and I'd seen you with my own eyes, in San Miguel. Spoken to you. I wanted to contact Hank, work out some kind of arrangement—”

A peculiar, buzzing sensation dimmed Sierra's hearing.

“Your father had to be handled very care fully. I knew that. It would have been like Hank to take you deeper into Mexico—even into South America—if he'd gotten spooked, and he'd have been a lot more careful to disappear for good the second time.”

Sierra waited, willing her head to clear, listening with everything in her. “The accident?” she prompted, very softly.

“A car jumped the curb, crashed through the stucco wall between the tables and the street. We were sitting just on the other side. My lawyer—his name was Jim Furman and he had a wife and five children—was killed instantly. I was in traction for weeks, and it took me another year and a half just to walk again.”

The incident sounded like something from a soap opera,
and yet Sierra knew it was true. Her stomach churned as horrific images, complete with a sound track of crashes and screams, flashed through her mind.

“By the time I recovered,” Eve went on, after a few long moments of silence, “I knew it was too late, that I'd have to wait until you were older, when you could make choices for yourself. You were happy and healthy and very bright. You were still so young. I couldn't just waltz into your life and say, ‘Hello, I'm your mother.' I was still afraid of what Hank might do, and I was struggling to rebuild my life after the accident. Meg was spending most of her time with nannies as it was, and I had to turn the company over to the board of directors because I couldn't seem to focus my mind on anything. With all that going on, how could I take you away from the only home you knew, only to turn around and leave you in the care of strangers?”