The McKettrick Legend: Sierra's Homecoming. Linda Miller Lael
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charge seemed to pass between them, like before, when Hannah had come back from getting the mail and found To bias outside, in the teeth of a high-country winter, building a snow fort.
“It’s too damn dark in this house,” Doss said. He walked to the middle of the room, reached up, and pulled the beaded metal cord on the overhead light. The bare bulb glowed so brightly it made Hannah blink, but she didn’t object. Some thing in Doss’s face prevented her from it.
Present Day
Travis had long since finished his coffee and left the house by the time Liam got up from his nap and came down stairs, tousle-haired and puffy-eyed from sleep.
“That boy was in my room again,” he said. “He was sitting at the desk, writing a letter. Can I watch TV? There’s a nice HD setup in that room next to the front door. A computer, too, with a big, flat-screen monitor.”
Sierra knew about the fancy electronics, since she’d explored the house after Travis left. “You can watch TV for an hour,” she said. “Hands off the computer, though. It doesn’t belong to us.”
Liam’s shoulders slumped slightly. “I know how to use a computer, Mom,” he said. “We had them at school.”
Between rent, food and medical bills, Sierra had never been able to scrape together the money for a PC of their own. She’d used the one in the office of the bar she worked in, back in Florida. That was how Meg had first contacted her. “We’ll get one,” she said, “as soon as I find another job.”
“My mailbox is probably full,” Liam replied, unappeased. “All the kids in the Geek Program were going to write to me.”
Sierra, in the midst of putting a package of frozen chicken breasts into the microwave to thaw, felt as though she’d been poked with a sharp stick. “Don’t call it the Geek Program, please,” she said.
Liam shrugged one shoulder. “Every body else does.”
“Go watch TV.”
He went.
A rap sounded at the back door, and Sierra peered through the glass, since it was dark out, to see Travis standing on the back porch.
“Come in,” she called, and headed for the sink to wash her hands.
Travis entered, carrying a fragrant bag of take-out food in one hand. The collar of his coat was raised against the cold, his hat brim pulled low over his eyes.
“Fried chicken,” he said, lifting the bag as evidence.
Sierra paused, shut off the faucet, dried her hands. The timer on the microwave dinged. “I was about to cook,” she said.
Travis grinned. “Good thing I got to you in time,” he answered. “If you’re anything like your sister, you shouldn’t be allowed to get near a stove.”
If you’re anything like your sister.
The words saddened Sierra, settled bleak and heavy over her heart. She didn’t know whether she was like her sister or not; until Meg had emailed her a smiling picture a few weeks ago, she wouldn’t have recognized her on the street.
“Did I say something wrong?” Travis asked.
“No,” Sierra said quickly. “It was—thoughtful of you to bring the chicken.”
Liam must have heard Travis’s voice, because he came pounding into the room, all smiles.
“Hey, Travis,” he said.
“Hey, cowpoke,” Travis replied.
“The computer’s making a dinging noise,” Liam reported.
Travis smiled, set the bag of chicken on the counter but made no move to take off his hat and coat. “Meg’s got it set to do that, so she’ll remember to check her email when she’s here,” he said.
“Mom won’t let me log on,” Liam told him.
Travis glanced at Sierra, turned to Liam again. “Rules are rules, cowpoke,” he said.
“Rules bite,” Liam said.
“Ninety-five percent of the time,” Travis agreed.
Liam recovered quickly. “Are you going to stay and eat with us?”
Travis shook his head. “I’d like that a lot, but I’m expected some where else for supper,” he answered.
Liam looked sorely disappointed.
Sierra wondered where that “some where else” was, and with whom Travis would be sharing a meal, and was irritated with her self. It was none of her business, and besides, she didn’t care what he did or who he did it with anyway. Not the least little bit.
“Maybe another time,” Travis said.
Liam sighed and retreated to the study and his allotted hour of television.
“You shouldn’t have,” Sierra said, indicating their supper with a nod.
“It’s your first night here,” Travis answered, opening the door to leave. “Seemed like the neighborly thing to do.”
“Thank you,” Sierra said, but he’d already closed the door between them.
Travis started up his truck, just in case Sierra was listening for the engine, drove it around behind the barn and parked. After stopping to check on Baldy and the three other horses in his care, he shrugged down into the collar of his coat and slogged to his trailer.
The quarters were close, smaller than the closet off his master bedroom at home in Flag staff, but he didn’t need much space. He had a bed, kitchen facilities, a bathroom and a place for his laptop. It was enough.
More than Brody was ever going to have.
He took off his hat and coat and tossed them on to the built-in, padded bench that passed for a couch. He tried not to think about Brody, and in the daytime, he stayed busy enough to succeed. At night, it was another matter. There just wasn’t enough to do after dark, especially out here in the boonies, once he’d nuked a frozen dinner and watched the news.
He thought about Sierra and the boy, in there in the big house, eating the chicken and fixings he’d picked up in the deli at the one and only super market in Indian Rock. He’d never intended to join them, since they’d just arrived and were settling in, but he could picture himself sitting down at that long table in the kitchen, just the same.
He rooted through his refrigerator, something he had to crouch to do, and chose between Salisbury steak, Salisbury steak and Salisbury steak.
While the sectioned plastic plate was whirling round and round in the lilliputian microwave that came with the trailer, he made coffee and remembered his last visit from Rance McKettrick. Widowed, Rance lived alone in the house his legendary ancestor, Rafe, had built for his wife, Emmeline, and their children, back in the 1880s. He had two daughters, whom he largely ignored.
“This place is just a fancy coffin,” Rance had observed, in his blunt way, when he’d stepped into the trailer. “Brody’s the one that’s dead, Trav, not you.”
Travis rubbed his eyes with a thumb and fore finger. Brody was dead, all right. No getting around that. Seventeen, with everything to live for, and he’d blown himself up in the back room of a slum house in Phoenix, making meth.
He looked into the window over the sink, saw his own reflection.
Turned away.
His cell phone rang, and he considered letting voice mail pick up, but couldn’t make himself do it. If he’d answered the night Brody called…
He fished the thing out, snapped it open and said, “Reid.”
“Whatever happened to ‘hello’?” Meg asked.
The bell on the microwave rang, and Travis reached in to retrieve