McKettrick's Luck. Linda Miller Lael
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“Smart-ass,” Keegan said, struggling not to grin.
“Buy you a beer?” Jesse asked, hopeful, for a brief moment, that his cousin was back.
Keegan glanced at his Rolex. “It’s my weekend with Devon,” he said. “I’m supposed to pick her up at six-thirty.”
Devon was Keegan’s nine-year-old daughter, and since he and his wife, Shelley, had divorced a year ago, they’d been shuttling the kid back and forth between Shelley and the boyfriend’s upscale condo in Flag and the main ranch house on the Triple M where Keegan remained.
Jesse hesitated, then laid a hand on Keegan’s shoulder. “It’s okay,” he said quietly. “Another time.”
Keegan sighed. “Another time,” he agreed, resigned. He started to walk away, then turned back. “And, Jesse?”
“What?”
The old, familiar grin spread across Keegan’s face. “Grow up, will you?”
“I’ll put that on my calendar,” Jesse promised, returning the grin. He loved Devon, whom he thought of as a niece rather than a cousin however many times removed, and certainly didn’t begrudge her time with Keegan. Just the same, he felt a twinge of sadness, too.
Everything and everybody in the world changed—except him.
That was the reality. Best accept it.
Jesse went back to the poker table and anted up for the next hand.
“CAN’T THIS WAIT UNTIL tomorrow?” Ayanna had asked, somewhat plaintively, after coffee at the kitchen table, where Mitch had sat brooding in his chair, when Cheyenne had announced her intention to track down Jesse McKettrick.
With a shake of her head, Cheyenne had said no, gathered her wits, smoothed her skirt and straightened her jacket, and made for the rental car.
McKettrickCo seemed to be the logical place to start her search—she’d already discovered, via her cell phone, that Jesse’s number was unlisted.
Cheyenne knew, having grown up in Indian Rock, that the company’s home offices were in San Antonio. The new building housed a branch of the operation, which meant the outfit was in expansion mode. According to her research, McKettrickCo was a diverse corporation, with interests in cutting-edge technology and global investment.
Jesse’s name wasn’t on the reader board in the sleekly contemporary reception area, a fact that didn’t surprise Cheyenne. When she’d known him, he was the original trust-fund bad boy, wild as a mustang and committed to one thing: having a good time.
She approached the desk, relieved that she didn’t recognize the woman tapping away at the keyboard of a supercomputer with three large flat-screen monitors.
“May I help you?” the receptionist asked pleasantly. She was middle-aged, with a warm smile, a lacquered blond hairdo and elegant posture.
Cheyenne introduced herself, hoping her last name wouldn’t ring any bells, and asked how to locate Jesse McKettrick. With luck—and she was due for some of that—she wouldn’t have to drive all the way out to his house and confront him on his own turf.
Not that any part of Indian Rock was neutral ground when it came to the McKettricks.
The receptionist assessed Cheyenne with mild interest. “Jesse could be anywhere,” she said, after some length, “but if I had to make a guess, I’d say he’s probably in the back room over at Lucky’s, playing poker.”
Cheyenne stiffened. Of course he’d be at Lucky’s—fate wouldn’t have it any other way. How many times, as a child, had she sneaked through the back door of that place from the alley and tried to will her father away from a game of five-card stud?
She produced a business card, bearing her name, affiliation with Meerland Real Estate Ventures, Ltd., and her cell number. “Thanks,” she said. “Just in case you see Mr. McKettrick before I do, will you give him my card and ask him to please call me as soon as possible?”
The woman studied Cheyenne’s information, frowned and then nodded politely. “He doesn’t come in too often,” she said.
Of course he didn’t.
Still Jesse, after all these years.
Cheyenne left McKettrickCo, got back into her car and drove resolutely to Lucky’s Main Street Bar and Grill. The gravel parking lot beside the old brick building was full, with the dinner hour fast approaching, so she parked in the alley, next to a mud-splattered black truck with both windows rolled down.
For a moment, she was a kid again, sent by her misguided mother to fetch Daddy home from the bar. She remembered propping her bike against the wall, next to the overflowing trash bin, rehearsing what she’d say once she got inside, forcing herself up the two unpainted steps and through the screened door, which always groaned on its hinges.
When the door suddenly creaked open, Cheyenne was startled. She wrenched herself out of the time warp and actually considered crouching behind the Dumpster until whoever it was had gone.
Jesse stepped out, stretched like a lazy tomcat at home in an alley and fixing to go on the prowl, and adjusted his cowboy hat. He wore old jeans, a Western shirt unbuttoned to his collarbone and the kind of boots country people called shit-kickers. Even mud and horse manure couldn’t disguise the fact that they were expensive, probably custom-made.
When Cheyenne’s gaze trailed back up to Jesse’s face, she realized that he was looking at her. Grinning that lethal grin.
She blushed.
Someone flipped the porch light on from inside, and moths immediately gravitated to it, out of nowhere. Drawing an immediate parallel between Jesse and the bulb, she took half a step back.
He registered her suit and high-heeled shoes in a lazy sweep of his eyes. He clearly didn’t recognize her, which was at once galling and a relief.
He tugged at the brim of his battered hat. “You lost?” he asked.
Cheyenne was a moment catching her breath. “No,” she answered, fishing in her hobo bag for another card. “My name is Cheyenne Bridges, and I was hoping to talk to you about a business proposition.”
She instantly regretted using the word proposition because it made a corner of Jesse’s mouth tilt with amusement, but she was past the point of no return.
He descended the steps with that loose-limbed, supremely confident walk she remembered so well and approached her. Put out his hand. “Jesse McKettrick,” he said.
There was nothing to say but “I know.” She’d given herself away with the first words she’d spoken.
“Bridges,” he said, reflecting. Studying the card pensively before slipping it into his shirt pocket.
Cheyenne braced herself inwardly. Glanced toward the screen door Jesse had come through a few moments before.
“Any relation to—?” He paused, stooped slightly to look into her face. Recollection dawned. “Wait a second. Cheyenne Bridges.” He grinned. “I remember you—Cash’s daughter. We went to the movies a couple of times.”
She swallowed, nodded, hiked her chin up a notch. “That’s right,” she said carefully. Cash’s daughter, that’s who she was to him. A shy teenager he’d dated twice and then lost interest in. He didn’t know, she reminded herself silently, that she’d tacked every picture of him she could get to the wall of her bedroom in that shack out beyond the railroad tracks, the way most girls did photos of rock stars and film idols. He didn’t know she’d loved him with the kind of desperate, hopeless adoration only a sixteen-year-old can feel.
He didn’t know she’d prayed that he’d fall madly in love with her. That she’d imagined their wedding, their honeymoon and the birth of their four children so often that sometimes it felt like a memory of something that