McKettricks of Texas: Austin (30 page)

Shep seemed to agree, though of course it was hard to be sure.

The gates were open, and Austin pulled through and stopped to decide which way to go.

“Now,” he mused aloud, “if I were either one of those numbskull brothers of mine, where would I be right about now?”

Of course he could have called one or the other of them on his cell phone, but there was no guarantee they'd welcome his company, given that they obviously considered him an invalid. Besides, he wanted to surprise them.

Thinking back on what he'd overheard Libby telling Paige, Austin decided the oil fields might be a good place to start. Hoping he wasn't putting old Shep, and himself, right back in harm's way, he made a left turn.

“We definitely need a truck,” he told his dog.

“J
UST HELP YOURSELF TO MY CAR
whenever you want it,” Garrett snapped, leaning to peer through the passenger-side window of the Porsche when Austin lowered it. He had to bend to see around the dog.

“Thanks,” Austin replied, deliberately missing the sarcasm and checking out the immediate area. “I will.”

Being back at the oil field, the memory of last time still fresh in his mind, his gut
and
his wounded shoulder sent a shiver dripping like cold water down his backbone. He hid the reaction with a grin and shoved open the door to get out.

Shep crossed the console and the gearshift to follow.

Brent Brogan was present and accounted for; he'd brought one of his deputies along, and the two of them were busy pacing something off while Tate stood with his hands shoved into the pockets of his denim jacket, watching.

Garrett rounded the car to stand in front of Austin, temporarily blocking his way. “Wait a second, will you?” he said.

Austin put a hand to his brother's chest and pushed just hard enough to let him know he was pissed. “Get out of my way, Garrett.”

Garrett set his jaw and, for a moment, it looked as though he'd push back, but in the end, he didn't.
Can't hit
baby brother,
Austin figured he was thinking, or something along those lines,
his being crippled and all.

“Austin, listen to me,” Garrett said.

Austin was in no mood to
listen.
No, sir, he wanted to
talk,
not listen. “Screw you, Garrett,” he bit out.

Tate was approaching with long strides, Austin noticed out of the corner of his eye.

Good. He wanted
both
his brothers to hear what he had to say, loud and clear.

Austin sucked in a breath, held it for a beat or two, and then let it out. It was an anger management trick he'd learned somewhere along the line, and sometimes it even worked.

This wasn't one of those times.

Tate had a howdy grin on his mouth and a watch-out look in his eyes. “Nice car,” he said drily, indicating the Porsche with a slight nod.

Austin glared at him, folded his arms. He'd been practicing his speech ever since he'd accidentally eavesdropped on Libby and Paige, back at the house, and learned that not only were the troubles plaguing the ranch—and thus the family—getting worse, that knowledge was being kept from him.

Now, standing face-to-face with his brothers, Austin discovered that he was half again too mad to say anything at all.

Tate and Garrett exchanged glances, Garrett still hard-jawed, and then Tate spoke.

“There's nothing you can do, Austin,” he said quietly. “Except get better.”

A wave of frustration washed over Austin; he waited for it to pass. At his side, Shep sat down and gave an uncertain whimper. The dog's ears were perked up, and
he kept looking from one of the three men towering over him to the next.

Austin managed to get a grip on his temper, though just barely. “I'm two years younger than you are,” he reminded Tate, “and
one
year—twelve months—younger than you, Garrett. The way you two act, a person would think I was still wet behind the ears.” He swept them both up in a single scathing glance. “This ranch is as much mine as it is either of yours, and I
do not
appreciate being treated like some junior partner.”

“You know damn well why we didn't tell you,” Garrett growled, reddening in the neck and under the bristle of beard covering the lower half of his face. “You haven't got the sense God gave a road apple!”

Austin stepped forward.

Tate eased between them. “Now, boys,” he said in a smart-ass, singsong tone. “Let's not go losing our heads, throwing punches and saying things we'll regret later. We're all on the same side, here.”

Chief Brogan meandered over. “Do I need to call out the riot squad?” he asked. His tone said he was kidding, but the look on his face was all business.

The thought of Blue River with its own riot squad was ridiculous enough to drain off some of the bad juju infecting the moment.

“Well, now, Denzel,” Tate told his best friend, slapping Brogan on the back, “my kinfolk and I seem to be in the midst of a disagreement. Garrett and I are trying to keep our lit—
younger
brother alive and well, but he sure as hell doesn't make it easy.”

“I could lock him up, if you want him off the streets for a while,” Brogan offered.

He was probably joking, but Austin was ticked off just the same. “On what charge?” he asked.

Brogan shifted his gaze to the Porsche, grinned. “Grand theft auto?” he ventured smoothly.

Garrett nodded thoughtfully. “How long could you hold a car thief, if I were to press charges?”

Like he didn't know, Austin thought furiously. The man had a goddamn law degree.

“Long enough, most likely,” Brogan drawled in response, looking speculative.

Austin swore under his breath and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

Tate held up both hands. “Hold everything,” he said. “We've got serious business to attend to, if the pissing match is over.” Then, resting a palm lightly between Austin's shoulder blades, he gave him an eloquent little shove. “Come on, Austin. I'll show you what we're up against.”

Garrett fell into step beside Austin. A wicked grin twitched at one corner of his mouth. “Know why the folks had you?” he asked.

“Maybe they figured the third time would be the charm,” Austin replied, “and they'd finally get it right.”

“Nah,” Garrett said, with a shake of his head, “they were just trying to get a girl.”

 

A
ROUND TWO THAT AFTERNOON,
all slept out and unable to bear being cooped up in the bedroom for another moment, Paige ransacked her limited clothing supply for a black broomstick skirt, since jeans wouldn't fit over her cast, and decided on a long-sleeved white pullover for a top.

Putting these garments on proved to be a challenge—
she was nearly wrestled to the floor by her own bra, and
forget
underpants—for a person on crutches.

After drawing and releasing a few deep, calming breaths, Paige regained her common sense. She sat down on the side of the bed and pulled the skirt on over her feet, grateful for the garment's stretchy waist. After that, she flailed into the pullover, a task that proved incredibly arduous, considering how simple it should have been, and wiggled the toes of her good foot into a bedroom slipper.

She stood, wobbled until she caught her balance.

As a nurse, she'd taught a lot of people how to manage a pair of crutches, and it was just plain ironic that she was having so much trouble with the process herself.

By the time she stumped out into the kitchen, there was no one around. Julie was still at work, and Libby, having brought Paige's lunch and given her a pill, was probably upstairs, in the section of the house she and Tate and the girls shared. There was no sign of Austin, or his dog.

Everybody had things to do, it seemed, except her. She crutched it over to the counter, got out a mug and ferreted around until she found the tea bags. Every time she went looking for the canister, it seemed to her, it was in a different place.

While she was waiting for the tea to brew, she happened to glance out the kitchen window and see Reese entering the barn. She might not have thought anything much about it, given that the man worked on the ranch, if he hadn't stopped and looked around in a way that was just furtive enough to bother her.

Paige swung her way over to the back door, took a jacket from one of the pegs and gyrated a little, balancing on one crutch, then on the other, as she poked her
arms into the sleeves and used one hand to straighten the collar.

After that, zipping the thing up just seemed like more trouble than it was worth.

Paige opened the back door and made her way along the concrete walk, across the top of the driveway, where the going was tougher because the tips of her crutches sank deep into the gravel.

As she labored on toward the barn, she asked herself what the hell she thought she was doing. She didn't have a sensible answer, just a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Molly was out there, all by herself, since the other horses had been turned out into the pasture for the day.

And Paige didn't trust Reese.

When she reached the doorway of the barn, she had to pause for a moment, wait for her eyes to adjust to the dimmer light.

Reese stood with his back to her. As she watched, he struck a wooden match against one of the timbers supporting the roof.

“There's no smoking in the barn,” Paige said clearly, and firmly.

The ranch hand spun around, shaking out the match as he turned. Paige hobbled forward, finding the sawdust on the floor of the breezeway even less receptive to her crutches than the gravel in the driveway had been.

He must have pulled the cigarette from his mouth without her seeing, and as he walked toward her, he was smiling.

Paige felt for the light switch, flipped it on.

Reese was practically right in front of her when she
stopped blinking away the dazzle of sudden illumination.

His hair needed washing, and he smelled of smoke and sweat, but it was the glacial look in his eyes that made Paige's heart bounce up into the back of her throat for a moment.

“You givin' orders around here now, ma'am?” Reese asked. He took off his hat, in a parody of good country manners, and looked her up and down in a way that would have earned him a slap across the face if she hadn't needed both hands to stay upright on those damn crutches.

Paige simply repeated what she'd said before. “There's no smoking in the barn.”

He gave an edgy little chuckle and hooked his thumbs through the belt loops of his jeans. “It ain't like some poor horse is going to keel over from breathing in a little secondhand smoke,” he said.

Paige wanted to flee, but she stood her ground. Hitched her chin up a notch and tightened her fingers around the handles on her crutches. If Reese came any closer, she would either jab at his groin or swing at his head. “Secondhand smoke isn't the problem,” she said mildly—
and you damn well know it, you son of a bitch.
“Fire is.”

Reese made a production of looking all around, still smirking. “I guess you've got a point there, little lady. With all this hay and sawdust around, why, the place could go up—” he thrust his hand under her nose and snapped his fingers sharply “—like
that.
”

Paige flinched, startled and, for the moment, speechless.

Reese leaned in, and she felt his breath on her face, fetid and hot.
“He killed my dog,”
he said.

By then, Paige was operating strictly on bravado. “What are you talking about?” she asked, stalling.

“Austin McKettrick shot my dog,”
Reese repeated.

Paige cleared her throat. “The animal attacked,” she said.

“So he says,” Reese argued, still way too close for Paige's comfort. If she swung a crutch at him now, he'd be able to block the move easily. “You sleepin' with him?” He raised his hand, ran his knuckles lightly down the side of her cheek. “A man's got land and money, he can have his choice of the women, and you sure are that, little lady. Choice, I mean.”

Adrenaline rushed through Paige's system, and she managed to lever herself back a couple of steps. “You are
way
over the line, mister,” she warned. “Don't touch me again.”

Reese grinned, apparently amused, but his pleasure was short-lived.

Behind her, Paige heard the distinctive sound of a rifle being cocked.

“Touch my sister again,” Libby said, “and I'll have to put you out of your misery.”

The man spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Nobody has a sense of humor anymore,” he said to no one in particular.

Libby was at Paige's elbow by then, and she sure enough had a rifle in her hands. Furthermore, she looked like she knew what to do with the thing, which was more than Paige could have claimed.

“Get out of here,” Libby told Reese. “If you've got any money coming to you, you can pick it up in town tomorrow.”

“You're firin' me?” Reese asked. The grin was still
in place, but his eyes had hardened and taken on a flinty glint. “You got the authority to do that, ma'am? Just because you're sleepin' with one of the high-and-mighty McKettricks?”

“I've got the authority,” Libby replied evenly. She gestured toward the door with the barrel of the gun. “Go on,” she added, “get out.”

“I came here in a ranch-owned vehicle,” Reese said, less cocky now but just as furious, “and I've still got personal belongings over at the bunkhouse. I'm not leavin' here on foot.”

It appeared to be a standoff. Until a rig pulled up outside the barn a few seconds later, that is.

Ron Strivens walked in, stopped in his tracks when he saw Libby pointing the rifle at Reese. “What the—”

“I forgot the rules and started to have myself a smoke,” Reese told the other man, his tone wheedling now. “The
ladies
here, took serious issue with that.”

“So I see,” Strivens said.

“He's fired,” Libby put in. “Mr. Reese has some things to collect from the bunkhouse, then he'll be needing a ride into town.”

Strivens looked at the rifle, smiled slightly and swung his gaze to Reese's furious face. “You heard the lady,” he said. “You're through here. Go get your stuff—I'll give you a lift to the bus station or wherever else you need to go, soon as you're ready.”

Reese hesitated, then stormed out of the barn, giving the three of them—mostly Libby—a wide berth as he passed.

When he was gone, Strivens held out a hand, not speaking.