McKettrick's Heart (21 page)

“What?”

“Call Travis and Sierra and tell them they're not going to be adopting Lucas after all. My guess is they're going to be pretty disappointed.”

Psyche smiled again, endearingly. “Well, they might have been,” she said, “if I'd ever actually made the offer in the first place. I asked Travis to play along, hoping you'd come to your senses, and he did.” She paused, savoring his reaction. “Why don't you go out there in the kitchen and tell Molly the truth, Keegan? You can still get yourself off the hook.”

He stared at her.

She beamed back at him, patted his cheek. “But you won't do that, will you?”

“What makes you think I won't?” Keegan asked angrily.

“I
know
you won't.”

“Is that right?”

“Of course it is,” Psyche said with cheerful finality. “You and Molly made love last night. I'd have to be blind not to know it. Molly's radiant—mad as a wet hen, but radiant—and you look…”

Keegan's neck warmed. “Damn it, Psyche, of all the sneaky, manipulative, underhanded—”

She stretched, kissed him lightly on the mouth. “You're keeping me from my book,” she said.

“Did you put Molly through that to pay her back for—”

“For sleeping with my husband? Of course not. But there might have been the tiniest barb in that remark about her wedding dress. I like Molly, Keegan. I wouldn't give her my child if I didn't.”

Keegan turned to walk away.

All he had to do was go into the kitchen and tell Molly the truth—that Psyche would let her adopt Lucas whether they got married or not. They could write the trial run off as just another memorable night and get on with their lives.

And if he did that, chances were he would not only lose Lucas, he would lose Molly, too.

K
EEGAN NEEDED
to think.

He
wanted
to get Molly naked and take her against the nearest wall.

He
needed
distance, and perspective.

After they'd gone to the little courthouse adjacent to Wyatt's jail and applied for a marriage license, he and Molly parted ways.

Molly went back to Psyche's place, and to Lucas.

Keegan headed for the Triple M.

Once there, he changed clothes, wolfed down a nuked breakfast sandwich only two days past its expiration date, and went out to the barn.

Spud's feeder was full, and so was his waterer, but he still welcomed Keegan with a cheerful bray.

“Hey, buddy,” Keegan said. After fetching the clippers and a hasp, he went into Spud's stall, picked up one of the donkey's feet and began trimming hooves. It wasn't hard work, but it required a certain amount of patience, and the critter bore it cheerfully.

“I'm getting married,” Keegan told the donkey.

Spud nuzzled his shoulder, maybe in sympathy. More likely, he was hoping for a lump of sugar or a carrot.

“Her name is Molly,” Keegan went on, clipping away, careful to avoid the tender flesh inside Spud's hoof, called the frog. “She's sexy as hell, but she's about as stubborn as—well—a mule. No offense.”

Spud nickered. His brown eyes were full of trust.

Keegan set the clippers aside and took up the hasp, a metal file used to smooth the rough edges. The sound was rhythmic, and probably the reason he didn't hear an arriving vehicle.

He was taken by surprise when Devon's head popped up over the stall door. Her face was sunburned and there was a mosquito bite on her chin, but otherwise she looked as though she'd survived the campout and the ride down from Jesse's ridge.

“Cheyenne dropped me off,” she said.

Keegan grinned, glad to see her. “Did you have a good time?”

“Excellent,” Devon answered. “We roasted marshmallows and Uncle Jesse told ghost stories, and Maeve and Rianna and I stayed up
way late.
Liam ate too many hot dogs and hurled all over the place, and Sierra had to wash him off in the creek.”

“Sounds typical,” Keegan said, pleased. He'd been doused a time or two in that creek himself as a boy.

“Can I get a pony?”

“Yeah,” Keegan replied. “But not this very minute.”

Devon grinned at Spud. “He's getting a manicure,” she observed. “If he wasn't a boy, I'd put nail polish on him.”

Keegan chuckled. “Go take a bath,” he said.

Devon sighed. “I have to clean out Spud's stall first,” she replied. “It's a mess. He's pooped
everywhere.
”

“Makes sense to do that before you take a bath,” Keegan admitted, still smiling a little as he went back to filing Spud's hoof.

Devon darted away, came back pushing the wheelbarrow and carrying a pitchfork over one shoulder. She began scooping, but Keegan knew she'd picked up on something in his manner by the way she kept stealing glances. She was an intuitive kid.

Keegan straightened, rested one arm on Spud's back.

Devon stood still, too, leaning on the handle of the pitchfork. Waiting.

“I'm getting married in a couple of days, shortstop,” Keegan said.

She was silent for what seemed like a long time, but was probably only a second or two. “To Molly?”

He nodded.

“Is she going to live here after Psyche dies? With Lucas?”

Keegan nodded again. The suspense was killing him—Devon could come down in favor of the marriage, or she could feel threatened. Her position on the matter was vitally important to him, he realized. He hadn't given that aspect much thought before—the whole idea of getting married, to Molly or anybody else, was so new that he was still trying to assimilate it himself.

“Will that mean Lucas is my brother?”

“Yes,” Keegan said. “Are you okay with that?”

“I guess you've probably always wanted a son.”

“Nothing beats a daughter,” Keegan told her. “But I won't mind having a son, too.”

“He'll be a McKettrick? Like me?”

“He'll be a McKettrick,” Keegan confirmed. “Like you.”

Devon's lower lip wobbled. “But he'll get to live here all the time, and I won't. You might start loving Lucas more than you love me, just because you get to see him every day.”

Keegan crossed the short distance to where Devon stood, still gripping the pitchfork, and laid his hands on her shoulders. “McKettrick-true, Dev,” he said quietly, his voice gruff. “I'm never going to love Lucas more than I love you.”

She pondered that, her expression so heartbreakingly serious that Keegan's eyes burned. “Promise?” she asked.

“Promise.”

She tilted her head back to look straight up into his face. “I guess you should try to love Lucas just as much as you love me, though. That's only fair.”

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, held her close for a moment. Kissed the top of her head. “I'll try,” he said.

“What about Molly? Do you love her, too?”

He'd known that question would come, and he'd dreaded it. He was already living one lie where Devon was concerned, and he couldn't add another, even though it would have made things easier for both of them. “No,” he said.

Devon pulled back from him, let the pitchfork fall, forgotten, to the floor.
“Dad!”
she protested.

“People get married every day, all over the world, for reasons that have nothing much to do with love,” Keegan hastened to point out.

“You didn't love Mom,” Devon argued staunchly, “and look what happened. There was a whole bunch of fighting and yelling, and then you moved out. You got divorced, and
I
got caught in the middle!”

“I know you did, Dev. And I'm sorry. I'd do anything to make it up to you.”

She bent to retrieve the pitchfork. Straightened again. “Then tell Mom you want me to live here, all the time, with you and Molly and Lucas.”

The plea in Devon's eyes bruised Keegan's heart, made his throat feel tight and raw. “I'll tell her,” he said. “But you and I both know what she's going to say. And whatever our differences are, Shelley's and mine, she's your mother, Dev.”

“She doesn't
want
to be my mother. She just wants to use me to get back at you.”

It was a bare-bones, brass-knuckle truth, and to deny it would be to dishonor Devon. People underestimated kids, Keegan thought—and he was as guilty of that as anybody. Kids knew when they were being used. They knew whether they were loved or not. They sure as hell knew who wanted them and who didn't.

He did.

Shelley didn't.

It was that simple…and that complicated.

“Dev…” he said, because it was all he could get to come out of his mouth.

She straightened her shoulders, took a firmer grip on the pitchfork and started scooping poop. A tear trickled through the layer of trail grime and campfire soot on her cheek, and Keegan reached out to wipe it away with his thumb.

“She'll do it for money, Dad,” Devon said. “Mom will give me to you for lots and
lots
of money.”

Keegan ached inside. Another hard truth. And the fact that Devon knew her own mother would essentially sell her, had probably figured it out long ago, both shattered and enraged him. He longed to deny it but couldn't, not in good conscience, because it had cost his daughter so much to say it out loud. She'd been working up to it for a long time, at who knew what cost.

“You do understand, don't you, Dev, that this is about her, not you?”

Devon nodded. “I know,” she said with a sniffle, shoveling more industriously than ever.

Keegan ruffled her hair. “Finish up and get your bath,” he said hoarsely. “There's nothing in the house to eat, so we're going to have to head into Indian Rock and load up on groceries.”

She nodded.

Keegan went back to trimming Spud's hooves.

“You'll talk to Mom?” Devon asked, without looking at him.

“I'll talk to her,” Keegan said.

 

M
OLLY CALLED HER DAD,
once she'd bathed and dressed Lucas. Florence had moved the playpen onto the sunporch, and he was there now, keeping Psyche company.

Molly sat on the window seat in her room, staring at the rumpled bed she'd shared with Keegan McKettrick the night before, and trying to work up a little shame.

It wasn't happening for her. She'd never met anybody who galled her more than Keegan did, but she'd never been made love to like that, either. Up until last night she'd honestly believed multiple orgasms were just some tagline
Cosmo
used to sell magazines.

Not so, she thought, listening to the phone ring—and ring—on the other end.

Her dad's voice mail picked up. He probably wasn't speaking to her, since his DMV record had been faxed to Joanie and she'd reported to Molly that his license was currently suspended. Ergo, she hadn't bought the truck he wanted, and though she hadn't talked to him directly since the last conversation, when she'd been sitting in the courtyard at the hospital in Flagstaff, she knew he was furious.

“This is Luke,” snapped a recorded voice. “Leave a message.”

Tears welled in Molly's eyes. Damn, but she was tired of crying so much. It wasn't like her at all; she'd always been strong, competent, in charge. Until she'd met Thayer Ryan, and he'd simultaneously screwed up her life and given her the greatest gift a man could give a woman—a child.

He'd taken Lucas away from her. Caught her in a weak moment, played on her guilt.

Now, miraculously, and at such a high price, Psyche was about to give that precious gift back to her.

“Dad, this is Molly,” she told some telephone company computer. “I'm getting married in a couple of days, and I thought maybe you'd like to—fly up here for the ceremony. Call me back, okay? Please?”

She hung up, then placed a call to Joanie. Sooner, rather than later, she was going to have to go back to L.A., gather her small staff and make arrangements to either close or move the office. She needed to put her house on the market, too, and tie up a hundred other loose ends.

Say goodbye to friends, and to special places.

It was going to be very hard.

When she was going to do all this was a closely guarded secret of the universe, and Molly hadn't been let in on it.

“Shields Literary Agency,” Joanie chimed. “May I help you?”

“I wish you could,” Molly said.

Joanie's tone softened and took on a confidential note. “Dave was in this morning,” she said. “He said he had a meltdown in Indian Rock, and got arrested by Andy of Mayberry. Did you really have him committed? Not that I'd blame you if you did. He's crazy as a tick.”

Molly sighed. There were a lot of things she wouldn't miss about running her hotshot agency, and Dave was one of them. He'd certainly filled up her bank accounts, though, and for that she was grateful. “I didn't have him
committed,
” she said. “Just hospitalized. They must have stabilized his medication and discharged him right away.”

“He says you don't want to be his agent anymore,” Joanie said.

“The Gospel according to Dave,” Molly replied. “I've had it with him.”

There was a long pause. “Could
I
be his agent, then?” Joanie asked tentatively. She served primarily as an office manager, but she had represented a few clients Molly hadn't been able to take on, and she'd gotten them modest contracts, too.

Dave, certifiable though he was, was a very big fish. Molly, as a fledgling working in someone else's agency, had signed just such a client, a romance novelist whose first book had been a runaway bestseller. After considerable negotiation, she'd gone out on her own and rapidly made a place for herself.

“Joanie,” she said, “if you can deal with the stalking and the drama and everything else that goes with the Davis Jerritt package, be my guest. You might call Denby, too. He's definitely looking for an agent.”

“You mean it?” Joanie asked, almost breathless. She was a divorced mother with two teenage boys, and even though Molly paid her an excellent wage, she had trouble making ends meet. Representing Davis Jerritt would be no picnic, but Joanie was up to the challenge. And the commission checks would change her life.

Molly smiled. “I mean it,” she said. “But I called for another reason.” She paused, searching for words, and finally just took the plunge. “I'm getting married in two days, Joanie. I'd like you to be here, if you can. It's a personal invitation—nothing to do with business.”