The McKettrick Way Page 2

  Something tightened in the pit of Meg's stomach.

  "Nonsense," Eve said. "If you could have gotten away with it, you would have stayed home today, wandering around that old house in your pajamas, with no makeup on and your hair sticking out in every direction."

  It was true, but beside the point. With Eve McKettrick for a mother, Meg couldn't get away with much of anything. "I'm here," she said. "Give me a break, will you?"

  She pulled off her coat, handed it to Eve, and sidled into the nearest group, a small band of women. Meg, who had spent all her childhood summers in Indian Rock, didn't recognize any of them.

  "It's all over the tabloids," remarked a tall, thin woman wearing a lot of jewelry. "Brad O'Ballivan is in rehab again." .

  Meg caught her breath at the name, and nearly dropped the cup of punch someone shoved into her hands.

  "Nonsense," a second woman replied. "Last week those rags were reporting that he'd been abducted by aliens."

  "He's handsome enough to have fans on other planets," observed a third, sighing wistfully.

  Meg tried to ease out of the circle, but it had closed around her. She felt dizzy.

  "My cousin Evelyn works at the post office over in Stone Creek," said yet another woman, with authority. "According to her, Brad's fan mail is being forwarded to the family ranch, just outside of town. He's not in rehab, and he's not on another planet. He's home. Evelyn says they'll have to build a second barn just to hold all those letters."

  Meg smiled rigidly, but on the inside, she was scrambling for balance.

  Suddenly, woman #1 focused on her. "You used to date Brad O'Ballivan, didn't you, Meg?"

  "That—that was a long time ago," Meg said as graciously as she could, given that she was right in the middle of a panic attack. "We were just kids, and it was a summer thing—" Frantically, she calculated the distance between Indian Rock and Stone Creek—a mere forty miles. Not nearly far enough.

  "I'm sure Meg has dated a lot of famous people," one of the other women said. "Working for McKettrickCo the way she did, flying all over the place in the company jet—"

  "Brad wasn't famous when I knew him," Meg said lamely.

  "You must miss your old life," someone else commented.

  While it was true that Meg was having some trouble shifting from full throttle to a comparative standstill, since the family conglomerate had gone public a few months before, and her job as an executive vice president had gone with it, she didn't miss the meetings and the sixty-hour workweeks all that much. Money certainly wasn't a problem; she had a trust fund, as well as a personal investment portfolio thicker than the Los Angeles phone book.

  A stir at the front door saved her from commenting. Sierra came in, looking baffled. "Surprise!" the crowd shouted as one. The surprise is on me, Meg thought bleakly. Brad O'Bal-livan is back.

  ***

  Brad shoved the truck into gear and drove to the bottom of the hill, where the road forked. Turn left, and he'd be home in five minutes. Turn right, and he was headed for Indian Rock.

  He had no damn business going to Indian Rock.

  He had nothing to say to Meg McKettrick, and if he never set eyes on the woman again, it would be two weeks too soon.

  He turned right.

  He couldn't have said why.

  He just drove.

  At one point, needing noise, he switched on the truck radio, fiddled with the dial until he found a country-western station. A recording of his own voice filled the cab of the pickup, thundering from all the speakers.

  He'd written that ballad for Meg.

  He turned the dial to Off.

  Almost simultaneously, his cell phone jangled in the pocket of his jacket; he considered ignoring it—there were a number of people he didn't want to talk to—but suppose it was one of his sisters calling? Suppose they needed help?

  He flipped the phone open, not taking his eyes off the curvy mountain road to check the caller ID panel first. "O'Ballivan," he said.

  "Have you come to your senses yet?" demanded his manager, Phil Meadowbrook. "Shall I tell you again just how much money those people in Vegas are offering? They're willing to build you your own theater, for God's sake. This is a three-year gig—"

  "Phil?" Brad broke in.

  "Say yes," Phil pleaded.

  "I'm retired."

  "You're thirty-five," Phil argued. "Nobody retires at thirty-five!"

  "We've already had this conversation, Phil."

  "Don't hang up!"

  Brad, who'd been about to thumb the off button, sighed.

  "What the hell are you going to do in Stone Creek, Arizona?" Phil demanded. "Herd cattle? Sing to your horse? Think of the money, Brad. Think of the women, throwing their underwear at your feet—"

  "I've been working real hard to repress that image," Brad said. "Thanks a lot for the reminder."

  "Okay, forget the underwear," Phil shot back, without missing a beat. "But think of the money!"

  "I've already got more of that than I need, Phil, and so do you, so spare me the riff where your grandchildren are homeless waifs picking through garbage behind the supermarket."

  "I've used that one, huh?" Phil asked.

  "Oh, yeah," Brad answered.

  "What are you doing, right this moment?"

  "I'm headed for the Dixie Dog Drive-In."

  "The what?"

  "Goodbye, Phil."

  "What are you going to do at the Dixie-Whatever Drive-In that you couldn't do in Music City? Or Vegas?"

  "You wouldn't understand," Brad said. "And I can't say I blame you, because I don't really understand it myself.'

  Back in the day, he and Meg used to meet at the Dixie Dog,

  by tacit agreement, when either of them had been away. It had been some kind of universe-thing, purely intuitive. He guessed he wanted to see if it still worked—and he'd be damned if he'd try to explain that to Phil.

  "Look," Phil said, revving up for another sales pitch, "I can't put these casino people off forever. You're riding high right now, but things are bound to cool off. I've got to tell them something—"

  "Tell them 'thanks, but no thanks,'" Brad suggested. This time, he broke the connection.

  Phil, being Phil, tried to call twice before he finally gave up.

  Passing familiar landmarks, Brad told himself he ought to turn around. The old days were gone, things had ended badly between him and Meg anyhow, and she wasn't going to be at the Dixie Dog.

  He kept driving.

  He went by the Welcome To Indian Rock sign, and the Roadhouse, a popular beer-and-burger stop for truckers, tourists and locals, and was glad to see the place was still open. He slowed for Main Street, smiled as he passed Cora's Curl and Twirl, squinted at the bookshop next door. That was new.

  He frowned. Things changed, places changed.

  What if the Dixie Dog had closed down?

  What if it was boarded up, with litter and sagebrush tumbling through a deserted parking lot?

  And what the hell did it matter, anyhow?

  Brad shoved a hand through his hair. Maybe Phil and everybody else was right—maybe he was crazy to turn down the Vegas deal. Maybe he would end up sitting in the barn, serenading a bunch of horses.

  He rounded a bend, and there was the Dixie Dog, still open. Its big neon sign, a giant hot dog, was all lit up and going through its corny sequence—first it was covered in red squiggles of light, meant to suggest catsup, and then yellow, for mustard. There were a few cars lined up in the drive-through lane, a few more in the parking lot.

  Brad pulled into one of the slots next to a speaker and rolled down the truck window.

  "Welcome to the Dixie Dog Drive-in," a youthful female voice chirped over the bad wiring. "What can I get you today?"

  Brad hadn't thought that far, but he was starved. He peered at the light-up menu box under the chunky metal speaker. Then the obvious choice struck him and he said, "I'll take a Dixie Dog," he said. "Hold the chili and onions."

  "Comin
g right up" was the cheerful response. "Anything to drink?"

  "Chocolate shake," he decided. "Extra thick."

  His cell phone rang again.

  He ignored it again.

  The girl thanked him and roller-skated out with the order about five minutes later.

  When she wheeled up to the driver's-side window, smiling, her eyes went wide with recognition, and she dropped the tray with a clatter.

  Silently, Brad swore. Damn if he hadn't forgotten he was famous.

  The girl, a skinny thing wearing too much eye makeup, immediately started to cry. "I'm sorry!" she sobbed, squatting to gather up the mess.

  "It's okay," Brad answered quietly, leaning to look down at her, catching a glimpse of her plastic name tag. "It's okay, Mandy. No harm done."

  "I'll get you another dog and a shake right away, Mr. O'Ballivan!"

  "Mandy?"

  She stared up at him pitifully, sniffling. Thanks to the copious tears, most of the goop on her eyes had slid south. "Yes?"

  "When you go back inside, could you not mention seeing me?"

  "But you're Brad O'Ballivan!"

  "Yeah," he answered, suppressing a sigh. "I know."

  She was standing up again by then, the tray of gathered debris clasped in both hands. She seemed to sway a little on her rollers. "Meeting you is just about the most important thing that's ever happened to me in my whole entire life. I don't know if I could keep it a secret even if I tried!"

  Brad leaned his head against the back of the truck seat and closed his eyes. "Not forever, Mandy," he said. "Just long enough for me to eat a Dixie Dog in peace."

  She rolled a little closer. "You wouldn't happen to have a picture you could autograph for me, would you?"

  "Not with me," Brad answered. There were boxes of publicity pictures in storage, along with the requisite T-shirts, slick concert programs and other souvenirs commonly sold on the road. He never carried them, much to Phil's annoyance.

  "You could sign this napkin, though," Mandy said. "It's only got a little chocolate on the corner."

  Brad took the paper napkin, and her order pen, and scrawled his name. Handed both items back through the window.

  "Now I can tell my grandchildren I spilled your lunch all over the pavement at the Dixie Dog Drive-In, and here's my proof." Mandy beamed, waggling the chocolate-stained napkin.

  "Just imagine," Brad said. The slight irony in his tone was wasted on Mandy, which was probably a good thing.

  "I won't tell anybody I saw you until you drive away," Mandy said with eager resolve. "I think I can last that long."

  "That would be good," Brad told her.

  She turned and whizzed back toward the side entrance to the Dixie Dog.

  Brad waited, marveling that he hadn't considered incidents like this one before he'd decided to come back home. In retrospect, it seemed shortsighted, to say the least, but the truth was, he'd expected to be—Brad O'Ballivan.

  Presently, Mandy skated back out again, and this time, she managed to hold on to the tray.

  "I didn't tell a soul!" she whispered. "But Heather and Darlene both asked me why my mascara was all smeared." Efficiently, she hooked the tray onto the bottom edge of the window.

  Brad extended payment, but Mandy shook her head.

  "The boss said it's on the house, since I dumped your first order on the ground."

  He smiled. "Okay, then. Thanks."

  Mandy retreated, and Brad was just reaching for the food when a bright red Blazer whipped into the space beside his. The driver's-side door sprang open, crashing into the metal speaker, and somebody got out, in a hurry.

  Something quickened inside Brad.

  And in the next moment, Meg McKettrick was standing practically on his running board, her blue eyes blazing.

  Brad grinned. "I guess you're not over me after all," he said.

  Chapter Two

  After Sierra had opened all her shower presents, and cake and punch had been served, Meg had felt the old, familiar tug in the middle of her solar plexus and headed straight for the Dixie Dog Drive-in. Now that she was there, standing next to a truck and all but nose to nose with Brad O'Ballivan through the open window, she didn't know what to do—or say.

  Angus poked her from behind, and she flinched.

  "Speak up," her dead ancestor prodded.

  "Stay out of this," she answered, without thinking.

  Puzzlement showed in Brad's affably handsome face. "Huh?"

  "Never mind," Meg said. She took a step back, straightened. "And I am so over you."

  Brad grinned. "Damned if it didn't work," he marveled. He climbed out of the truck to stand facing Meg, ducking around the tray hooked to the door. His dark-blond hair was artfully rumpled, and his clothes were downright ordinary.

  "What worked?" Meg demanded, even though she knew.

  Laughter sparked in his blue-green eyes, along with considerable pain, and he didn't bother to comment.

  "What are you doing here?" she asked.

  Brad spread his hands. Hands that had once played Meg's body as skillfully as any guitar. Oh, yes. Brad O'Ballivan knew how to set all the chords vibrating.

  "Free country," he said. "Or has Indian Rock finally seceded from the Union with the ranch house on the Triple M for a capitol?"

  Since she felt a strong urge to bolt for the Blazer and lay rubber getting out of the Dixie Dog's parking lot, Meg planted her feet and hoisted her chin. McKettricks, she reminded herself silently, don't run.

  "I heard you were in rehab," she said, hoping to get under his hide.

  "That's a nasty rumor," Brad replied cheerfully.

  "How about the two ex-wives and that scandal with the actress?"

  His grin, insouciant in the first place, merely widened. "Unfortunately, I can't deny the two ex-wives," he said. "As for the actress—well, it all depends on whether you believe her version or mine. Have you been following my career, Meg McKettrick?"

  Meg reddened.

  "Tell him the truth," Angus counseled. "You never forgot him."

  "No," Meg said, addressing both Brad and Angus.

  Brad looked unconvinced. He was probably just egotistical enough to think she logged onto his Web site regularly, bought all his CDs and read every tabloid article about him that she could get her hands on. Which she did, but that was not the point.

  "You're still the best-looking woman I've ever laid eyes on," he said. "That hasn't changed, anyhow."

  "I'm not a member of your fan club, O'Ballivan," Meg informed him. "So hold the insincere flattery, okay?"

  One corner of his mouth tilted upward in a half grin, but his eyes were sad. He glanced back toward the truck, then met Meg's gaze again. "I don't flatter anybody," Brad said. Then he sighed. "I guess I'd better get back to Stone Creek."

  Something in his tone piqued Meg's interest.

  Who was she kidding?

  Everything about him piqued her interest. As much as she didn't want that to be true, it was.

  "I was sorry to hear about Big John's passing," she said. She almost touched his arm, but managed to catch herself just short of it. If she laid a hand on Brad O'Ballivan, who knew what would happen?

  "Thanks," he replied.

  A girl on roller skates wheeled out of the drive-in to collect the tray from the window edge of Brad's truck, her cheeks pink with carefully restrained excitement. "I might have said something to Heather and Darleen," the teenager confessed, after a curious glance at Meg. "About you being who you are and the autograph and everything."

  Brad muttered something.

  The girl skated away.

  "I've gotta go," Brad told Meg, looking toward the drive-in. Numerous faces were pressed against the glass door; in another minute, there would probably be a stampede. "I don't suppose we could have dinner together or something? Maybe tomorrow night? There are—well, there are some things I'd like to say 1 to you."

  "Say yes," Angus told her.

  "I don't think that would be a good id
ea," Meg said.

  "A drink, then? There's a redneck bar in Stone Creek—"

  "Don't be such a damned prig," Angus protested, nudging her again.

  "I'm not a prig."

  Brad frowned, threw another nervous look toward the drive-in and all those grinning faces. "I never said you were," he replied.

  "I wasn't—" Meg paused, bit her lower lip. I wasn't talking to you. No, siree, I was talking to Angus McKettrick 's ghost. "Okay." she agreed, to cover her lapse. "I guess one drink couldn't do any harm."

  Brad climbed into his truck. The door of the drive-in crashed open, and the adoring hordes poured out, screaming with delight.

  "Go!" Meg told him.

  "Six o'clock tomorrow night," Brad reminded her. He backed the truck out, made a narrow turn to avoid running over the approaching herd of admirers and peeled out of the lot.

  Meg turned to the disappointed fans. "Brad O'Ballivan," she said diplomatically, "has left the building."

  Nobody got the joke.

  ***

  The sun was setting, red-gold shot through with purple, When Brad crested the last hill before home and looked down on Stone Creek Ranch for the first time since his grandfather's funeral The creek coursed, silvery-blue, through the middle of the land. The barn and the main house, built by Sam O'Bal-livan's own hands and shored up by every generation to follow, stood as sturdy and imposing as ever. Once, there had been two houses on the place, but the one belonging to Major John Blackstone, the original landowner, had been torn down long ago. Now a copse of oak trees stood where the major had lived, surrounding a few old graves.

  Big John was buried there, by special dispensation from the Arizona state government.

  A lump formed in Brad's throat. You see that I'm laid to rest with the old-timers when the bell tolls, Big John had told him once. Not in that cemetery in town.

  It had taken some doing, but Brad had made it happen.

  He wanted to head straight for Big John's final resting place, pay his respects first thing, but there was a cluster of cars parked in front of the ranch house. His sisters were waiting to welcome him home.

  Brad blinked a couple of times, rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger, and headed for the house.