McKettricks of Texas: Austin. Linda Miller Lael
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you say,” Austin told her, sweet as pecan pie.
Garrett rolled his eyes.
Tate folded his arms and frowned thoughtfully. “Maybe our brother ought to stay here after all,” he said. “For some of that...observation.”
Austin spoke up. “I need to get my gear from the motel room,” he said, suddenly scared that Tate might convince the doc to admit him after all. He’d spent enough time in hospitals to last him the rest of his life. “And the dog. He’ll be wondering where I went—”
“Will you forget that damn dog?” Garrett snapped.
“No,” Austin said, leveling a look at his brother. “I won’t forget the damn dog.”
Garrett subsided, coloring up a little.
The doctor gave a few more instructions, promised that a prescription would be waiting downstairs at the pharmacy by the time Austin had been wheeled down there in a chair and signed all the insurance forms. With that, she left.
A good half an hour had gone by before they finally turned him loose. He’d scrawled his name on various dotted lines and retrieved his cell phone and wallet, along with the key to Room 3, over at the Cozy Doze Motel.
After climbing into Tate’s truck—this time with no help from his brothers—he shook two pills out of the bottle into his palm and swallowed them dry.
Then he directed Tate to the motel where he’d left a change of clothes and the dog he’d found cowering in the alley the first night, slat-ribbed and down on his luck.
“Room 3,” he said as they pulled up to the crumbling adobe structure. “It’s around back.”
Garrett turned in the front passenger seat to look at him, both eyebrows raised. “You were staying here?” he asked.
Austin chuckled. “The Ritz was full,” he replied. Then he rolled down the back window and whistled, shrill, through his front teeth. He’d chosen the Cozy Doze because he’d wanted to keep a low profile until after he’d evened the score with Buzzsaw the night before at the rodeo. Folks in San Antonio knew him, especially around the fancier hotels, and he hadn’t wanted word of his presence to get back to his brothers before he’d had a chance to make his ride. But clearly Tate and Garrett had eventually tracked him down.
Much to his relief, the dog he’d named Shep wriggled out from behind a pile of old tires all but overgrown by weeds, wagging his tail and lolling his tongue.
Part German shepherd, part Lab and part a lot of other things, by the looks of him, Shep wasn’t a big dog, but he wasn’t a little one, either. He was about the same size as Harry the beagle, and his coat was probably brown, although it would be hard to tell until he’d had a bath.
Austin tossed his room key to Tate, while Garrett got out of the truck to call the dog.
Shep growled halfheartedly and laid his ears back. One of them was missing a chunk of hide.
“It’s all right, boy,” Austin told the frightened animal through the open window of Tate’s rig. “This is my brother Garrett. He used to be a politician, but you can trust him just the same.”
The dog gave a low whimper, but he wagged his tail and let his ears stand up.
Austin pushed the truck door open. If Garrett tried to touch the poor critter, he’d be bitten for sure.
“Come, Shep,” Austin said very quietly.
Shep sort of slouched around Garrett, then crept over to stand on his hind legs, both front paws resting on the running board of the truck.
“Let’s go on home,” Austin told him.
After considering the proposition, the dog high-jumped into the rig, scrambled across Austin’s boots and clawed his way up onto the seat next to him.
Tate appeared with Austin’s shaving kit and duffel, a five-pound sack of kibble under one arm.
“You square on your bill and everything?” he asked, flinging the works into the truck bed. He turned to take in the sorry place once more, no doubt registering the overflowing garbage bin and the broken asphalt in the parking lot, where weeds poked up through the cracks.
Tate shook his head.
“Yeah,” Austin told him. “I paid in advance.”
Tate nodded, crossed to the office to drop off the key.
“This is a real shit hole,” Garrett observed, settling into the front passenger seat again and wearing his hotshot aviator glasses.
Austin didn’t see any point in refuting the obvious. “Why did you and Tate track me down to Pinky’s last night?” he asked. Shep was lying down on the seat now, and Austin ran a light hand over the animal’s matted back, letting him know he’d be okay from then on.
“You’re our kid brother,” Garrett said, sounding tired. “When nobody sees you in a while, we come looking for you. It’s what we do.”
Tate was striding toward the truck now, resettling his hat as he moved. He opened the driver’s-side door, got in, started the engine. Although he wouldn’t have admitted as much, Austin was glad to be headed home, and glad to have his brothers’ company, even if they were a couple of royal pains in the ass.
Blue River, Texas November
THE EVIL BRIDES were gaining on her, closing the gap.
Paige Remington ran blindly down a dark country road, legs pumping, lungs burning, her heart flailing in her throat. Slender tree branches plucked at her from either side with nimble, spidery fingers, slowing her down, and the ground turned soft under her feet.
She pitched forward onto her hands and knees. Felt pebbles dig into her palms.
Behind her, the brides screeched and cackled in delighted triumph.
“This is only a dream,” Paige told herself. “Wake up.”
Still, sleep did not release her.
Flurries of silk and lace, glittering with tiny rhinestones and lustrous with the glow of seed pearls, swirled around her. She felt surrounded, almost smothered.
Suddenly furious, the dream-Paige surged to her feet.
If the monsters wanted a fight, then by God, she’d give it to them.
Confronting her pursuers now, staring directly at them, Paige recognized the brides. They were—and at the same time, in that curious way of dreams, were not—her sisters, Libby and Julie.
Wedding veils hid their faces, but she knew them anyway. Libby wore a luscious vintage gown of shimmering ivory, while Julie’s dress was ultramodern, a little something she’d picked up on a recent romantic getaway to Paris.
“We just want you to try on your bridesmaid’s dress,” the pair said in creepy unison. “That’s all.”
“No,” Paige said. “I’m not trying on the damn dress. Leave me alone.”
They advanced on her. Garment bags had materialized in their arms.
“But you’re our only bridesmaid,” the two chorused.
“No!” Paige repeated, trying to retreat but stuck fast.
It was then that a voice penetrated the thick surface of the dream. “Hey,” the voice said, low and male and disturbingly familiar. “You okay?”
She felt a hand on her shoulder and woke up with a jolt.
And a faceful of Austin McKettrick.
“It just keeps getting worse,” she marveled, gripping the arms of the