The McKettrick Legend (24 page)

They were shown to a booth right away, and given menus and glasses of water with the obligatory slices of fresh lemon rafting on top of the ice.

Brad ordered a steak, Meg a Caesar salad.

The waitress went away, albeit reluctantly.

“Okay,” Brad said, “it's my turn to ask questions. Why did you quit working after you left McKettrickCo?”

Meg smiled, but she looked a little flushed, and he could tell by her eyes that she was busy in there, sorting things and putting them in their proper places. “I didn't need the money. And I've always wanted to live full-time on the Triple M, like Jesse and Rance and Keegan. When I spent summers there, as a child, the only way I could deal with leaving in the fall to go back to school was to promise myself that one day I'd come home to stay.”

“You love it that much?” Given his own attachment to Stone Creek Ranch, Brad could understand, but at the same time, the knowledge troubled him a little, too. “What do you do all day?”

Her mouth quirked in a way that made Brad want to kiss her. And do a few other things, too. “You sound like
my mother,” she said. “I take care of the horses, ride sometimes—”

He nodded. Waited.

She didn't finish the sentence.

“You never married.” He hadn't meant to say that. Hadn't meant to let on that he'd kept track of her all these years, mostly on the Internet, but through his sisters, too.

She shook her head. “Almost,” she said. “Once. It didn't work out.”

Brad leaned forward, intrigued and feeling pretty damn territorial, too. “Who was the unlucky guy? He must have been a real jackass.”

“You,” she replied sweetly, and then laughed at the expression on his face.

He started to speak, then gulped the words down, sure they'd come out sounding as stupid as the question he'd just asked.

“I've dated a lot of men,” Meg said.

The orgasm image returned, but this time, he wasn't Meg's partner. It was some other guy bringing her to one of her long, exquisite, clawing, shouting, bucking climaxes, not him. He frowned.

“Maybe we shouldn't talk about my love life,” she suggested.

“Maybe not,” Brad agreed.

“Not that I exactly have one.”

Brad felt immeasurably better. “That makes two of us.”

Meg looked unconvinced. Even squirmed a little on the vinyl seat.

“What?” Brad prompted, enjoying the play of emotions on her face. He and Meg weren't on good terms—too soon for that—but it was a hopeful sign that she'd met him at Jolene's and then agreed to supper on top of it.

“I saw that article in
People
magazine. ‘The Cowboy with the Most Notches on His Bedpost,' I think it was called?”

“I thought we weren't going to talk about our love lives. And would you mind keeping your voice down?”

“We agreed not to talk about
mine,
if I remember correctly, which, as I told you, is nonexistent. And to avoid the subject of your second wife—at least, for now.”

“There have been women,” Brad said. “But that bedpost thing was all Phil's idea. Publicity stuff.”

The food arrived.

“Not that I care if you carve notches on your bedpost,” Meg said decisively, once the waitress had left again.

“Right,” Brad replied, serious on the outside, grinning on the inside.

“Where is this Phil person from, anyway?” Meg asked, mildly disgruntled, her fork poised in midair over her salad. “Seems to me he has a pretty skewed idea on the whole cowboy mystique. Rehab. Trashing hotel rooms. The notch thing.”

“There's a ‘cowboy mystique'?”

“You know there is. Honor, integrity, courage—those are the things being a cowboy is all about.”

Brad sighed. Meg was a stickler for detail; good thing she hadn't gone to law school, like she'd once planned. She probably would have represented his second ex-wife in the divorce and stripped his stock portfolio clean. “I tried. Phil works freestyle, and he sure knew how to pack the concert halls.”

Meg pointed the fork at him. “
You
packed the concert halls, Brad. You and your music.”

“You like my music?” It was a shy question; he hadn't quite dared to ask if she liked
him
as well. He knew too well what the answer might be.

“It's…nice,” she said.

Nice?
Half a dozen Grammies and CMT awards, weeks at number one on every chart that mattered, and she thought his music was “nice”?

Whatever she thought, Brad finally concluded, that was all she was going to give up, and he had to be satisfied with it.

For now.

He started on the steak, but he hadn't eaten more than two bites when there was a fuss at the entrance to the restaurant and Livie came storming in, striding right to his table.

Sparing a nod for Meg, Brad's sister turned immediately to him. “He's hurt,” she said. Her clothes were covered with straw and a few things that would have upset the health department, being that she was in a place where food was being served to the general public.

“Who's hurt?” Brad asked calmly, sliding out of the booth to stand.

“Ransom,” she answered, near tears. “He got himself cut up in a tangle of rusty barbed wire. I'd spotted him with binoculars, but before I could get there to help, he'd torn free and headed for the hills. He's hurt bad, and I'm not going to be able to get to him in the Suburban—we need to saddle up and go after him.”

“Liv,” Brad said care fully, “it's dark out.”

“He's
bleeding,
and probably weak. The wolves could take him down!” At the thought of that, Livie's eyes glistened with moisture. “If you won't help, I'll go by myself.”

Distractedly, Brad pulled out his wallet and threw down the money for the dinner he and Meg hadn't gotten a chance to finish.

Meg was on her feet, the salad forgotten. “Count me in,
Olivia,” she said. “That is, if you've got an extra horse and some gear. I could go back out to the Triple M for Banshee, but by the time I hitched up the trailer, loaded him and gathered the tack—”

“You can ride Cinnamon,” Olivia told Meg, after sizing her up as to whether she'd be a help or a hindrance on the trail. “It'll be cold and dark up there in the high country,” she added. “Could be a long, uncomfortable night.”

“No room service?” Meg quipped.

Livie spared her a smile, but when she turned to Brad again, her blue eyes were full of obstinate challenge. “Are you going or not—cowboy?”

“Hell, yes, I'm going,” Brad said. Riding a horse was a thing you never forgot how to do, but it had been a while since he'd been in the saddle, and that meant he'd be groaning-sore before this adventure was over. “What about the stock on the Triple M, Meg? Who's going to feed your horses, if this takes all night?”

“They're good till morning,” Meg answered. “If I'm not back by then, I'll ask Jesse or Rance or Keegan to check on them.”

Livie led the caravan in her Suburban, with Brad following in his truck, and Meg right behind, in the Blazer. He was worried about Ransom, and about Livie's obsession with the animal, but there was one bright spot in the whole thing.

He was going to get to spend the night with Meg McKettrick, albeit on the hard, half-frozen ground, and the least he could do, as a gentleman, was share his sleeping bag—and his body warmth.

 

“Right smart of you to go along,” Angus commented, appearing in the passenger seat of Meg's rig. “There might be some hope for you yet.”

Meg answered without moving her mouth, just in case Brad happened to glance into his rearview mirror and catch her talking to nobody. “I thought you were giving me some elbow room on this one,” she said.

“Don't worry,” Angus replied. “If you go to bed down with him or something like that, I'll skedaddle.”

“I'm not going to ‘bed down' with Brad O'Ballivan.”

Angus sighed. Adjusted his sweat-stained cowboy hat. Since he usually didn't wear one, Meg read it as a sign bad weather was on its way. “Might be a good thing if you did. Only way to snag some men.”

“I will not dignify that remark with a reply,” Meg said, flooring the gas pedal to keep up with Brad, now that they were out on the open road, where the speed limit was higher. She'd never actually been to Stone Creek Ranch, but she knew where it was. Knew all about King's Ransom, too. Her cousin Jesse, practically a horse-whisperer, claimed the animal was nothing more than a legend, pieced together around a hundred camp fires, over as many years, after all the lesser tales had been told.

Meg wanted to see for herself.

Wanted to help Olivia, whom she'd always liked but barely knew.

Spending the night on a mountain with Brad O'Ballivan didn't enter into the decision at all. Much.

“Is he real?” she asked. “The horse, I mean?”

Angus adjusted his hat again. “Sure he is,” he said, his voice quiet, but gruff. Some times a look came into his eyes, a sort of hunger for the old days and the old ways.

“Is there anything you can do to help us find him?”

Angus shook his head. “You've got to do that your selves, you and the singing cowboy and the girl.”

“Olivia is not a girl. She's a grown woman and a veterinarian.”

“She's a snippet,” Angus said. “But there's fire in her. That O'Ballivan blood runs hot as coffee brewed on a cookstove in hell. She needs a man, though. The knot in
her
lasso is way too tight.”

“I hope that reference wasn't sexual,” Meg said stiffly, “because I do
not
need to be carrying on that type of conversation with my dead multi-great grandfather.”

“It makes me feel old when you talk about me like I helped Moses carry the commandments down off the mountain,” Angus complained. “I was young once, you know. Sired four strapping sons and a daughter by three different women—Ellie, Georgia and Concepcion. And I'm not dead, neither. Just…different.”

Olivia had stopped suddenly for a gate up ahead, and Meg nearly rear-ended Brad before she got the Blazer reined in.

“Different as in dead,” Meg said, watching through the wind shield, in the glow of her head lights, as Brad got out of his truck and strode back to speak to her, leaving the driver's-side door gaping behind him.

He didn't look angry—just earnest.

“If you want to ride with me,” he said when Meg had buzzed down her window, “fine. But if you're planning to drive this rig up into the bed of my truck, you might want to wait until I park it in a hole and lower the tailgate.”

“Sorry,” Meg said after making a face.

Brad shook his head and went back to his truck. By then, Olivia had the gate open, and he drove ahead onto an unpaved road winding upward between the juniper and Joshua trees clinging to the red dirt of the hillside.

“What was that about?” Meg mused, following Brad and Olivia's vehicles through the gap and not really addressing Angus, who answered, nonetheless.

“Guess he's prideful about the paint on that fancy jitney of his,” he said. “Didn't want you denting up his buggy.”

Meg didn't comment. Angus was full of the nineteenth-century equivalent of “woman driver” stories, and she didn't care to hear any of them.

They topped a rise, Olivia still in the lead, and dipped down into what was probably a broad valley, given what little Meg knew about the landscape on Stone Creek Ranch. Lights glimmered off to the right, revealing a good-size house and a barn.

Meg was about to ask if Angus had ever visited the ranch when he suddenly vanished.

She shut off the Blazer, got out and followed Brad and Olivia toward the barn. She wished it hadn't been so dark—it would have been interesting to see the place in the daylight.

Inside the barn, which was as big as any of the ones on the Triple M and boasted all the modern conveniences, Olivia and Brad were already saddling horses.

“That's Cinnamon over there,” Olivia said with a nod to a tall chestnut in the stall across the wide breeze way from the one she was standing in, busily preparing a palomino to ride. “His gear's in the tack room, third saddle rack on the right.”

Meg didn't hesitate, as she suspected Olivia had expected her to do, but found the tack room and Cinnamon's gear, and lugged it back to his stall. Brad and his sister were already mounted and waiting at the end of the breeze way when Meg led the gelding out, however.

“Need a boost?” Brad asked, in a teasing drawl, saddle leather creaking as he shifted to step down from the big paint he was riding and help Meg mount up.

Cinnamon was a big fella, taller by several hands than any of the horses in Meg's barn, but she'd been riding since
she was in diapers, and she didn't need a boost from a “singing cowboy,” as Angus described Brad.

“I can do it,” she replied, straining to grip the saddle horn and get a foot into the high stirrup. It was going to be a stretch.

In the next instant, she felt two strong hands pushing on her backside, hoisting her easily onto Cinnamon's broad back.

Thanks, Angus,
she said silently.

I
T WAS A PURELY CRAZY
thing to do, setting out on horseback, in the dark, for the high plains and meadows and secret canyons of Stone Creek Ranch, in search of a legendary stallion determined not to be found. It had been way too long since she'd done anything like it, Meg reflected, as she rode behind Olivia and Brad, on the borrowed horse called Cinnamon.

Olivia had brought a few veterinary supplies along, packed in saddle bags, and while Meg was sure Ransom, wounded or not, would elude them, she couldn't help admiring the kind of commitment it took to set out on the journey anyway. Olivia O'Ballivan was a woman with a cause and for that, Meg envied her a little.

The moon was three-quarters full, and lit their way, but the trail grew steadily narrower as they climbed, and the mountainside was steep and rocky. One misstep on the part of a distracted horse and both animal and rider would plunge hundreds of feet into an abyss of shadow, to their very certain and very painful deaths.

When the trail widened into what appeared, in the thin wash of moonlight, to be a clearing, Meg let out her breath, sat a little less tensely in the saddle, loosened her grip on Cinnamon's reins. Brad drew up his own mount to wait for her, while Olivia and her horse shot forward, intent on their mission.

“Do you think we'll find him?” Meg asked. “Ransom, I mean?”

“No,” Brad answered, unequivocally. “But Livie was bound to try. I came to look out for her.”

Meg hadn't noticed the rifle in the scabbard fixed to Brad's saddle before, back at the O'Ballivan barn, but it stood out in sharp relief now, the polished wooden stock glowing in a silvery flash of moonlight. He must have seen her eyes widen; he patted the scabbard as he met her gaze.

“You're expecting to shoot something?” Meg ventured. She'd been around guns all her life—they were plentiful on the Triple M—but that didn't mean she liked them.

“Only if I have to,” Brad said, casting a glance in the direction Olivia had gone. He nudged his horse into motion, and Cinnamon automatically kept pace, the two geldings moving at an easy trot.

“What would constitute having to?” Meg asked.

“Wolves,” Brad answered.

Meg was familiar with the wolf controversy—environmentalists and animal activists on the one side, ranchers on the other. She wanted to know where Brad stood on the subject. He was well-known for his love of all things finned, feathered and furry—but that might have been part of his care fully constructed persona, like the notched bedpost and the trashed hotel rooms.

“You wouldn't just pick them off, would you? Wolves, I mean?”

“Of course not,” Brad replied. “But wolves are predators, and Livie's not wrong to be concerned that they'll track Ransom and take him down if they catch the blood-scent from his wounds.”

A chill trickled down Meg's spine, like a splash of cold water, setting her shivering. Like Brad, she came from a
long line of cattle ranchers, and while she allowed that wolves had a place in the ecological scheme of things, like every other creature on earth, she didn't romanticize them. They were not misunderstood
dogs,
as so many people seemed to think, but hunters, savagely brutal and utterly ruthless, and no one who'd ever seen what they did to their prey would credit them with nobility.

“Sharks with legs,” she mused aloud. “That's what Rance calls them.”

Brad nodded, but didn't reply. They were gaining on Olivia now; she was still a ways ahead, and had dismounted to look at something on the ground.

Both Brad and Meg sped up to reach her.

By the time they arrived, Olivia's saddle bags were open beside her, and she was holding a syringe up to the light. Because of the darkness, and the movements of the horses, a few moments passed before Meg focused on the animal Olivia was treating.

A dog lay bloody and quivering on its side.

Brad was off his horse before Meg broke the spell of shock that had descended over her and dismounted, too. Her stomach rolled when she got a better look at the dog; the poor creature, surely a stray, had run afoul of either a wolf or coyote pack, and it was purely a miracle that he'd survived.

Meg's eyes burned.

Brad crouched next to the dog, opposite Olivia, and stroked the animal with a gentleness that altered something deep down inside Meg, causing a grinding sensation, like the shift of tectonic plates far beneath the earth.

“Can he make it?” he asked Olivia.

“I'm not sure,” Olivia replied. “At the very least, he needs stitches.” She injected the contents of the syringe into the animal's ruff. “I sedated him. Give the medicine
a few minutes to work, and then we'll take him back to the clinic in Stone Creek.”

“What about the horse?” Meg asked, feeling helpless, a by stander with no way to help. She wasn't used to it. “What about Ransom?”

Olivia's eyes were bleak with sorrow when she looked up at Meg. She was a veterinarian; she couldn't abandon the wounded dog, or put him to sleep because it would be more convenient than transporting him back to town, where he could be properly cared for. But worry for the stallion would prey on her mind, just the same.

“I'll look for him tomorrow,” Olivia said. “In the daylight.”

Brad reached across the dog, laid a hand on his sister's shoulder. “He's been surviving on his own for a long time, Liv,” he assured her. “Ransom will be all right.”

Olivia bit her lower lip, nodded. “Get one of the sleeping bags, will you?” she said.

Brad nodded and went to unfasten the bedroll from behind his saddle. They were miles from town, or any ranch house.

“How did a dog get all the way out here?” Meg asked, mostly because the silence was too painful.

“He's probably a stray,” Olivia answered, between soothing murmurs to the dog. “Somebody might have dumped him, too, down on the highway. A lot of people think dogs and cats can survive on their own—hunt and all that nonsense.”

Meg drew closer to the dog, crouched to touch his head. He appeared to be some kind of lab-retriever mix, though it was hard to tell, given that his coat was saturated with blood. He wore no collar, but that didn't mean he didn't have a microchip—and if he did, Olivia would be able to identify him immediately, once she got him to the clinic.
Though from the looks of him, he'd be lucky to make it that far.

Brad returned with the sleeping bag, unfurling it. “Okay to move him now?” he asked Olivia.

Olivia nodded, and she and Meg sort of helped each other to their feet. “You mount up,” Olivia told Brad. “And we'll lift him.”

Brad whistled softly for his horse, which trotted obediently to his side, gathered the dangling reins, and swung up into the saddle.

Meg and Olivia bundled the dog, now mercifully unconscious, in the sleeping bag and, together, hoisted him high enough so Brad could take him into his arms. They all rode slowly back down the trail, Brad holding that dog as tenderly as he would an injured child, and not a word was spoken the whole way.

When they got back to the ranch house, where Olivia's Suburban was parked, Brad loaded the dog into the rear of the vehicle.

“I'll stay and put the horses away,” Meg told him. “You'd better go into town with Olivia and help her get him inside the clinic.”

Brad nodded. “Thanks,” he said gruffly.

Olivia gave Meg an appreciative glance before scrambling into the back of the Suburban to ride with the patient, ambulance-style. Brad got behind the wheel.

Once they'd driven off, Meg gathered the trio of horses and led them into the barn. There, in the breeze way, she removed their saddles and other tack and let the animals show her which stalls were their own. She checked their hooves for stones, made sure their automatic waterers were working, and gave them each a flake of hay. All the while, her thoughts were with Brad, and the stray dog lying in the back of Olivia's rig.

A part of her wanted to get into the Blazer and head straight for Stone Creek, and the veterinary clinic where Olivia worked, but she knew she'd just be in the way. Brad could provide muscle and moral support, if not medical skills, but Meg had nothing to offer.

With the O'Ballivans' horses attended to, she fired up the Blazer and headed back toward Indian Rock. She covered the miles between Stone Creek Ranch and the Triple M in a daze, and was a little startled to find herself at home when she pulled up in front of the garage door.

Leaving the Blazer in the driveway, Meg went into the barn to look in on Banshee and the four other horses who resided there. On the Triple M, horses were continually rotated between her place, Jesse's, Rance's and Keegan's, depending on what was best for the animals. Now they blinked at her, sleepily surprised by a late-night visit, and she paused to stroke each one of their long faces before starting for the house.

Angus fell into step with her as she crossed the side yard, headed for the back door.

“The stallion's all right,” he informed her. “Holed up in one of the little canyons, nursing his wounds.”

“I thought you said you couldn't help find him,” Meg said, stopping to stare up at her ancestor in the moonlight.

“Turned out I was wrong,” Angus drawled. His hat was gone; the bad weather he'd probably been expecting hadn't materialized.

“Mark the calendar,” Meg teased. “I just heard a McKettrick admit to being wrong about something.”

Angus grinned, waited on the small, open back porch while she unlocked the kitchen door. In his day, locks hadn't been necessary. Now the houses on the Triple M were no more immune to the rising crime rate than anyplace else.

“I've been wrong about plenty in my life,” Angus said. “For one thing, I was wrong to leave Holt behind in Texas, after his mother died. He was just a baby, and God knows what I'd have done with him on the trail between there and the Arizona Territory, but I should have brought him, nonetheless. Raised him with Rafe and Kade and Jeb.”

Intrigued, Meg opened the door, flipped on the kitchen lights and stepped inside. All of this was ancient family history to her, but to Angus, it was immediate stuff. “What else were you wrong about?” she asked, removing her coat and hanging it on the peg next to the door, then going to the sink to wash her hands.

Angus took a seat at the head of the table. In this house, it would have been Holt's place, but Angus was in the habit of taking the lead, even in small things.

“I ever tell you I had a brother?” he asked.

Meg, about to brew a pot of tea, stopped and stared at him, stunned out of her fatigue. “No,” she said. “You didn't.” The McKettricks were raised on legend and lore, cut their teeth on it; the brother came as news. “Are you telling me there could be a whole other branch of the family out there?”

“Josiah got on fine with the ladies,” Angus reminisced. “It would be my guess his tribe is as big as mine.”

Meg forgot all about the tea-brewing. She made her way to the table and sat down heavily on the bench, gaping at Angus.

“Don't fret about it,” he said. “They'd have no claim on this ranch, or any of the take from that McKettrickCo outfit.”

Meg blinked, still trying to assimilate the revelation. “No one has
ever
mentioned that you had a brother,” she said. “In all the diaries, all the letters, all the photographs—”

“They wouldn't have said anything about Josiah,” Angus
told her, evidently referring to his sons and their many descendents. “They never knew he existed.”

“Why not?”

“Because he and I had a falling-out, and I didn't want anything to do with him after that. He felt the same way.”

“Why bring it up now—after a century and a half?”

Angus shifted uncomfortably in his chair and, for a moment, his jawline hardened. “One of them's about to land on your doorstep,” he said after a long, molar-grinding silence. “I figured you ought to be warned.”

“
Warned?
Is this person a serial killer or a crook or something?”

“No,” Angus said. “He's a lawyer. And that's damn near as bad.”

“As a family, we haven't exactly kept a low profile for the last hundred or so years,” Meg said slowly. “If Josiah has as many descendants as you do, why haven't any of them contacted us? It's not as if McKettrick is a common name, after all.”

“Josiah took another name,” Angus allowed, after more jaw-clamping. “That's what we got into it about, him and me.”

“Why would he do that?” Meg asked.

Angus fixed her with a glare. Clearly, even after all the time that passed, he hadn't forgiven Josiah for changing his name and for whatever had prompted him to do that.

“He went to sea, when he was hardly more than a boy,” Angus said. “When he came back home to Texas, years later, he was calling himself by another handle and running from the law. Hinted that he'd been a pirate.”

“A
pirate?
”

“Left Ma and me to get by on our own, after Pa died,” Angus recalled bitterly, looking through Meg to some long-ago reality. “Rode out before they'd finished shovel
ing dirt into Pa's grave. I ran down the road after him—he was riding a big buckskin horse—but he didn't even look back.”

Tentatively, Meg reached out to touch Angus's arm. Clearly, Josiah had been the elder brother, and Angus a lot younger. He'd adored Josiah McKettrick—that much was plain—and his leaving had been a defining event in Angus's life. So defining, in fact, that he'd never acknowledged the other man's existence.

Angus bristled. “It was a long time ago,” he said.

“What name did he go by?” Meg asked. She knew she wasn't going to sleep, for worrying about the injured dog and the stallion, and planned to spend the rest of the night at the computer, searching on Google for members of the here to fore unknown Josiah-side of the family.