Revenge (4 page)

“I have an inspector's report on this place,” Fletcher said, suddenly embarrassed by the mess. “I'm replacing the roof and some of the porch beams where he found dry rot. I'll put up new gutters, as well, and install two new water heaters.” He pointed to the ceiling. “These pipes will go. New ones will be installed and the insulation replaced where it's coming away from the walls. Other than that, it's up to you. I've already moved over to Hanover Meadows, so you can move into my old apartment tomorrow if you like. If the deal falls through, well, we'll work out something for your rent.”

“It won't fall through,” she said with a streak of conviction that surprised her. Suddenly she wanted very much to own this old house.

He cleared his throat. “I know there's lots of work to be done, but I think the price is fair.”

Walking through the dingy basement unit, Skye didn't argue. He was willing to sell the house below market value in order that she take over his lease for the clinic. She'd hired her own inspector to check out both buildings, so she knew that Fletcher was being honest with her.

But she hadn't expected to have to deal with a McKee on a daily basis. Thank God it was Jenner and not Max.

 

Lugging two baskets of fruit, coffee and cookies up the stairs, Skye told herself that she was making the right move. Fletcher hadn't bothered to introduce her to any of her tenants and she wanted to meet each one on friendly terms.

There were three units on the second floor, each with one bedroom; one unit was unoccupied. She rapped softly on the door to the left. Through the door she could hear the sound of rock music, which was immediately switched off.

She saw an eyeball in the peephole, and then the door opened as far as the chain would let it. A girl about thirteen looked through the crack. “Yeah?”

“I'm Skye Donahue and I wanted to meet you. I'm going to be your new landlord.”

“Mom's not here.” The girl, whose face was covered with freckles, didn't bother to smile.

“Oh, well...”

“You probably won't want to talk to her, anyway. All she does is bitch about this place.”

“All the more reason to meet her. I'd like to find out all about your apartment—what you like and what you don't like.”

The girl's eyes narrowed. “She don't like anything about it. Neither do I.”

“What's your name?”

Hesitation. Finally she said, “Paula.”

The teenager's attitude grated on Skye's nerves, but she managed the cool smile she'd learned in medical school. “Well, Paula, maybe you could give her this basket and ask her to come down to the first floor and meet me. We could have coffee or something.”

“Great.” The girl rolled her eyes, reluctantly opened the door and held out her hand. Skye handed her the basket and the door was promptly slammed in her face. A few seconds later, the sound of heavy metal music seeped through the door.

“Great is right,” Skye muttered under her breath. She turned and knocked on the door across the hallway. It was opened immediately as if the tenant had been lurking near the door, waiting.

A woman barely five feet tall, with gray hair tinged a soft apricot shade, stood on the other side of the threshold. “You're the new landlord,” she guessed, blinking through thick, rimless eyeglasses.

“Yes, Skye Donahue.” Skye extended her hand, and the seventyish woman pumped it enthusiastically.

“Ruth Newby, and boy am I glad you've bought this building. Now maybe something will be done about my hot water heater, if that's what you call it. Why, it barely keeps the water tepid, and I've got a window that rattles something fierce when the wind kicks up, not to mention that there are rats...huge rats in the cellar. Some of them have climbed up the drainpipe and burrowed into my furniture, I'm just sure of it!”

“Well, Mrs. Newby, I'll try to fix anything that's broken.”

“Good, because the oven thermostat is off by twenty-five degrees! Try to bake your grandson's birthday cake in that! It's a nightmare! Come in, come in, and I'll show you everything. I've already prepared a list.” Mrs. Newby guided her through the small rooms decorated in green and gold, past a velvet sofa, fringed lamp shades and a gateleg table in the kitchen. “Here you go.” Mrs. Newby pulled a typewritten list from a bulletin board in the kitchen and gave it to Skye. “I certainly hope you do something about these problems. I'd hate to think that we'd have to organize a tenant grievance committee as I threatened to do with Dr. Fletcher.”

“But there are only two tenants.”

“Oh, that doesn't matter.” Her lips pulled together and she wagged a finger in front of Skye's nose. “It's not the size that matters, it's the voice!”

“I see. Well, I brought you this basket—”

“Oh, well. Oh, my. How lovely!” Mrs. Newby beamed as she took the basket from Skye. “Cookies and crackers and fruit and coffee. Why, aren't you a dear? Here, sit down, sit down, and I'll make us some of this coffee right now.” She wouldn't take no for an answer, and Skye perched on one of the chairs while Mrs. Newby bustled around the room, setting out a plate of the cookies and perking coffee. “Isn't this just grand,” she said as she finally lighted on one of the chairs and held up her bone china coffee cup. “Cheers.” She clinked the rim of her cup to Skye's. “Here's to a long and mutually beneficial relationship.”

“Cheers,” Skye replied.

“Now, dear, let me tell you about the other tenants.” Her gray eyebrows rose above her glasses. “The mother, Tina, is a divorcee and she's a good woman, but that daughter of hers is a wild one. Run away once already. Plays that darned music every minute she's not in school. I'm afraid you're going to have trouble with those two, if you're not careful....”

 

Less than a week.

Skye had been in town less than a week, and in that same amount of time, Max hadn't gotten a lick of work accomplished. It wasn't that he'd bumped into her, which he'd half expected to in a town the size of Rimrock, but he'd
felt
her presence,
sensed
that she was around.

He glanced in the mirror, frowned at his image and yanked off his tie. He wasn't a big-city lawyer, for God's sake. Skye had gotten to him, and the fact that he had to meet with her today was unnerving. It was more than unnerving. It was damn irritating.

He stripped off the white shirt, slid his arms into the sleeves of a faded blue chambray and told himself he was being a fool. He had a helluva lot better things to do than worry about running into Skye Donahue. His father had left him in charge of all the McKee holdings, which included a two-thousand-acre ranch, an old hotel on the north edge of town, three apartment houses, the mobile-home park near the river and on and on. McKee Enterprises, or companies owned by McKee subsidiaries, held the leases on most of the buildings in town as well as a few in Dawson City and a couple as far away as Bend. Including Doc Fletcher's clinic.

Then there were the problems at the ranch with his mother. He tended to agree with Casey. Virginia McKee seemed to be losing her grip on reality. She was pushing this murder idea too far. Instead of losing interest, she seemed to be gathering steam. Not only was the local paper interested, but a few reporters in neighboring cities had called.

Hell, what a mess!

Stuffing the tail of his shirt into the waistband of his worn jeans, he ignored his reflection in the mirror over his bureau. He buttoned his fly, then yanked on his boots.

The meeting would last less than twenty minutes. That was all. Not even a half hour. Then he wouldn't have to deal with her again.

Cursing under his breath, he thundered down the stairs and hurried outside. Atlas, his Border collie, jumped a greeting, and Max scratched the half-grown pup behind his black ears. “You stay,” he said, but the dog, tail wagging wildly, leapt off the porch and dashed to the pickup.

Another truck roared up the gravel drive and shuddered to a stop near the garage. Chester, the ranch foreman, hopped from the cab and left the old Ford idling. Chester's hands were covered with black grease and he was sweating hard enough for the drips to be visible as they slid from beneath his old Oakland A's cap.

“Problems?” Max asked, not wanting to hear them.

“The tractor gave out.”

The old vehicle had been threatening to fail for several seasons. “Great. Can it be fixed?”

Chester reached into his breast pocket for a pack of cigarettes. “Hope so. But it's old. Twenty-five years or better. I've been over to the dealer in Dawson City. You might want to think about investing in some new equipment.” He lit up, sending a jet of smoke from the side of his mouth as he waved out his match.

“Okay, I'll check it out.” Max reached the door of his pickup.

“There's more,” Chester admitted, the lines of his face deepening into grooves. “Some of Cyrus Kellogg's calves have up and died. Four or five in the past three days. He thinks it's blackleg.”

“Hell.” Max frowned. Blackleg was contagious and deadly. The Kellogg place was just north of McKee property, bordering a stretch of timber and fields. “Didn't we inoculate?”

“Last year. This year I didn't bother. Hasn't been a case of blackleg in the county in—”

“Doesn't matter. Go to the vet and get the vaccine.”

“Already done. We started giving shots this morning to the calves that have never been treated. Half the herd has already been taken care of. Got all the hands working on it. Should be done by tomorrow night.”

“Good.”

“I should have gotten more vaccine—”

“Don't worry about it,” Max said. He climbed into the cab and leaned out the window. “From now on, we'll inoculate against everything. Anything else?”

“No,” Chester said, but wouldn't meet his eye.

“What is it?”

Chester shoved the toe of his boot through the gravel and took a long drag on his cigarette. “It's Jenner.”

“Giving you trouble?” Max didn't need this. Jenner was and always had been a hothead.

“Naw. He does more than his share of work, but he puts some of the men off, what with him being an old rodeo star and all.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“The men...well, they're so impressed they fall all over themselves whenever he's around.”

“Does Jenner promote it?”

“Nope. Hell, I probably shouldn't have even mentioned it. Forget it. I'll handle the men.” He patted the fender of Max's truck. “You know, I read in the paper that some people think your pa was murdered.” He dropped the butt of his cigarette into the gravel and stomped it out. “Now, don't that beat all?”

Max couldn't even think about his father's death—not right now. Not when he had to face Skye again.

T
he last person Skye expected to see when she entered the lawyer's office was Max McKee, but there he was, big as life, seated in a leather wing chair, one booted ankle resting on the worn denim covering his opposite knee. Two other men were seated around the desk, but Skye barely noticed Ralph Fletcher or his attorney, Alan Granger.

Max, looking as if he'd just come in from the range, didn't bother smiling. His jaw was clenched, his eyes cold and shuttered, his attitude I-don't-give-a-damn. Why was he here? What business did he have with Granger?

It took all of her willpower to manage a smile and force her gaze away from Max. The man she'd sworn to avoid, the man to whom she'd given her heart so recklessly as a girl, the man who had nearly destroyed all her dreams.

Her stomach knotted as she walked across the room in the company of Granger's petite secretary, Ramona Something-or-other. Though Skye managed a smile for the rangy man rising on the other side of an immense rosewood desk, she was all too aware of Max.

Settled comfortably in his chair, Max stared at her with a look that could have cut through steel. His lips twitched slightly and his brows drew together in a grimace before he forced all emotion from his face again.

“Welcome,” Granger said. “Ralph told us all about you.”

“Did he?” she said woodenly. Why the devil was Max still seated in the room as if he belonged? He must've been here for an earlier meeting....

“Uh-huh. Now, I think you know everyone else.”

“Dr. Donahue,” Max drawled, saying her name like a filthy word.

The hackles rose on the back of her neck. “What are you doing here?” Just because his last name was McKee gave him no right,
no. right whatsoever
to sit in on this meeting.

“I have a business interest.” He shoved his sleeves up forearms tanned bronze from hours in the summer sun, and didn't budge.

Her nerves began to unravel. What did he mean? “A business interest? What kind of—?”

“Dr. Donahue, please, have a seat.” Granger had straightened to the length of his six-feet-five-inch frame. His smile was a little on the plastic side and his mustache was clipped with military precision, but he waved her over to a side chair with the familiarity of one accustomed to dealing with touchy situations.

“Glad you could make it,” Granger said. “Ralph, here—” he pointed to Doc Fletcher who was perched on. the edge of a tufted couch beneath the windows “—he's been telling us all about you. How you graduated near the top of your class, worked awhile in the city and how lucky all of us in Rimrock are to have you back home.”

“Oh, well...thanks.” This wasn't the way she'd hoped to start the meeting. First of all, she hadn't expected to find Max in some kind of position to know anything about her, talking about her behind her back, for crying out loud, and she'd hoped to keep all conversation on an entirely professional level.

“Yep, Ralph here seems to think you're Rimrock's answer to Mother Teresa.”

“Hardly,” Skye said.

Doc Fletcher chuckled, Granger grinned widely, and Max stared at her grimly as if he were wishing the whole ordeal was over. She slid into the chair and decided to take the bull by the horns. Gazing pointedly at Max, she asked, “What do you have to do with this?”

Granger grinned. “Why, Mr. McKee is the president of J.P. Limited which holds the lease on the clinic building.”

“The lease was signed by Carol Larkin.” Skye had gone over the legalese with a fine-tooth comb.

“She's a vice president of one of my father's companies—J. P. Limited,” Max said, his voice without a trace of emotion.

“Your father,” she repeated, remembering the big bear of a man who had taken it upon himself to run her out of town.

“Good old J.P.,” Max restated.

Skye felt the floor dropping from under her feet. J.P. Limited as in Jonah Phineas McKee? How had she been so blind? Of course the McKees would own an interest in the clinic. They owned nearly every piece of real estate in Rimrock. She'd read the lease a dozen times over and noticed Carol Larkin's signature, but she'd just assumed that Carol was the president and...big mistake. “I didn't realize,” she managed to say, feeling the weight of Max's stare and wondering if she imagined the smirk in his blue-green eyes.

“Well, let's get started, shall we?” Granger fingered a flat file lying open on his desk just as his secretary, laden with a tray of cups and an insulated carafe of coffee, swept into the room. “Ah, Ramona, just in time.”

Granger poured them each a cup, then got down to business. The lease and the option to buy the clinic building was first on the agenda, and Skye held firm. Max seemed to think that she didn't need to take on the obligation to buy the clinic, and she made damned sure she set him straight. If there was anything she'd learned from good ol' Jonah it was that you wanted to own everything possible.

Besides, the sooner she was out from under the broad McKee thumb, in this case under the guise of J.P. Limited, the better for everyone involved.

During the discussion, she managed to keep her equilibrium, though Max's gaze was unsettling. They discussed the terms of the lease first, hammered out the details, and eventually, after nearly two hours of heated debate, everyone signed.

As he scrawled his name across the appropriate line, Max looked straight at her. “Seems you got your way again, Dr. Donahue.”

She bit back a hot retort, took the pen from his hand, and scribbled her name across the bottom of the lease. It seemed strange to see her signature so close to Max's. Long ago, she'd fantasized about signing a marriage license, a mortgage on a house, a release from the hospital for their new baby...but those had all been foolish fantasies. She'd known it at the time. Her stomach clenched painfully, and she shoved the paper back across the desk to the lawyer.

“Okay, that's one of the hurdles,” Granger said, handing everyone a copy.

“You don't need me for anything else, do you?” Max asked, obviously anxious to leave.

“That's it.”

“Good.” Max rolled onto his feet. “So we're business partners, you and I, Doctor,” he said, staring down at Skye. “Who would've guessed?”

“Not me,” she replied, inching her chin up a fraction. “Not in a million years.” For a brief instant, she felt as if she'd signed her name in blood, contracted with the very devil himself. Who knew better than she how the McKees did business?

He strode out of the room without so much as a backward glance and she should have felt relieved. It was humiliating enough that he had a copy of her financial statement, that he knew how much money she owed and to whom, so she was thankful that he wouldn't be taking part in the rest of the negotiations.

But, like it or not, he was back in her life.

 

“I can't deal with Mom anymore. I'm telling you, Max, the woman needs help!” Casey was pacing from one end of the front porch to the other while Atlas chased after her, barking and jumping and hoping to be noticed.

“What do you want me to do? Haul her bodily to a doctor? Or have her arrested? Because short of that I can't do much,” Max said. “She's a grown, rational woman.”

“That's just it—she's not! She's taking this murder thing way too far. Not only has she got the press snooping around, she's also talking about hiring a private investigator—some guy from Dawson City.” Casey flopped onto the old porch swing and scratched Atlas behind his ears. “Worst part of it is, she's got Grandma on her side. Those women haven't agreed on anything from the day Mom married Dad. Until now.” Casey crossed her arms and glared up at her brother. “I said I'd stay with Mom until she pulled herself together, but I don't know if I can, Max. I have my own life to live.”

“I thought you were through with L.A.”

She worried her lip and her eyes clouded over. “It's not so easy to give up your dreams.”

He knew. Probably better than anyone else. He had only to look at Skye to remember his own fantasies. “Maybe it's time to face reality, Case. You gave Hollywood a shot, it didn't pan out, now you go to backup plan B.”

“Which is what? Get a job as a P.E. teacher in Dawson City?”

“Would that be so bad?”

Her eyes darkened with a secret pain and she looked away. Something had happened in L.A., something she kept locked inside her and wouldn't share with anyone. Especially not her older brother.

“There are plenty of jobs with the company—”

She scowled her pretty face at him. “Not interested.”

He didn't bother arguing. Casey would never be satisfied doing office work. Years before, their father had tried to steer her toward law. “We could always use another smart lawyer,” he'd told his youngest child. It was the same line he'd delivered to his firstborn and his second, but only Max had listened. Jenner had told the old man to quit meddling in his life. Casey had gone further than that; she'd actually had the audacity to laugh in his face.

“Me? In a three-piece suit? Carrying an eelskin briefcase? Talking about taxes and corporate mergers and God only knows what else? Get real, Dad,” she'd said, rolling her eyes to the heavens. “I'd die first.”

“Well, at least finish college,” Jonah had insisted. “All this talk about the movies—”

“Film industry, Dad. That's what it's called. And it's not like I'm talking about being an actress.”

“Doesn't matter. It's not solid. I don't trust those people in Tinseltown. Now you go back to school and earn yourself a degree.”

She had. In education. She'd graduated from the University of Oregon, turned south and never stopped until she'd reached L.A., where she'd worked as an assistant for a production company until she'd returned to Rimrock.

“Look, just try to talk some sense into Mom, okay?” Casey climbed to her feet and dusted her hands. “I can't stick around forever.”

She tried to breeze past him, but he grabbed the crook of her arm, stopping her cold in her tracks. “Whatever happened in L.A.—”

“Nothing happened, okay?” She tugged her arm away from him and frowned. “Nothing.”

“You're lying.”

“And your big-brother sensors are working overtime. I'm fine,” she said firmly. “You're the one with the problem.”

“Me?” Damn, he hated it when she turned the tables on him.

“Yeah, you. Because of Skye Donahue.”

He felt every muscle in his body grow rigid. His jaw clamped together so hard it ached, and Casey lifted a knowing brow. “Ever since she waltzed back into town, you've been hell to get along with.”

“I haven't—”

“Save it, Max. For Skye.” With that she dashed down the steps and marched across the gravel drive to the shade of a gnarly barked oak where her favorite horse, a swift little mare named Murphy, was nipping at the dry blades of grass. She swung into the saddle, yanked on the reins and dug her heels into the horse's sides. With a holler, she leaned forward as the game mare took off across the parched fields.

Max watched his volatile sister disappear over the first hill and he told himself Casey didn't know what she was talking about. He was fine. Just because Skye was back, because he was her landlord, because he couldn't stop thinking about her, didn't mean there was a problem. Hell, no. He walked into the house, strode to the kitchen and yanked open the refrigerator door. Cool air wafted from the barren interior as he grabbed a long-necked bottle from a half-empty six-pack.

So Skye was in Rimrock. So what?

Twisting the cap from the bottle, he headed upstairs and down a short, dark hallway to the large room where he slept. King-size bed, single bureau; one lamp and a solitary mirror. This room... so long ago...before the house was finished. He took a long pull from his beer to quench his suddenly thick throat. He'd brought Skye here. He closed his eyes, squeezing them shut, blocking out the familiar memory of her lying naked beneath him on the hard, unfinished floor. “Jeez,” he growled and turned to the room next door, a smaller room. He braced himself on the doorjamb, flipped on the lights and took another swallow from the bottle.

The room was austere. Just a single brass bed, the quilt his grandmother had pieced, an oval mirror, a small dresser and bookshelves filled with toys. Hillary's room. Every weekend. Two nights out of seven. What did that add up to in a year—about a hundred days, not quite a third of her young life. And then there were the weekends when she stayed with Colleen. Max had never fought his ex-wife when she'd planned something special or a family gathering and wanted Hillary included. He'd always thought it was best to lie back, give Hillary a broad base, let her know that he still respected her mother's wishes, though, truth to tell, sometimes it bugged the hell out of him. Maybe he'd been too accommodating. Maybe it was time to make a few more fatherly demands. After all, Hillary was his only child while Colleen already had the twins and was probably planning to have even more children.

In frustration, he snapped off the lights and finished his beer in the dark hall. Everything was so messed up. First his father's death and now Skye's arrival back in town.

He walked downstairs, left his empty on the kitchen counter and snatched his keys from a hook near the back door. Outside, the sun was just beginning to set, the sky streaked pink and gold, but he hardly noticed because, for the first time in his life, he'd decided to take his sister's advice. It was time to clear the air.