Linda Lael Miller - The McKettrick Way

B rad OBallivan opened the drivers-side door of the waiting pickup truck, tossed his guitar case inside and turned to wave a farewell to the pilot and crew of the private jet he hoped never to ride in again.

A chilly fall wind slashed across the broad, lonesome clearing, rippling the fading grass, and he raised the collar of his denim jacket against it. Pulled his hat down a little lower over his eyes.

He was home.

Something inside him resonated to the Arizona high country, and more particularly to Stone Creek Ranch, like one prong of a perfectly balanced tuning fork. The sensation was peculiar to the placehed never felt it in his sprawling lakeside mansion outside Nashville, on the periphery of a town called Hendersonville, or at the villa in Mexico, or any of the other fancy digs where hed hung his hat over the years since hed turned his back on the spreadand so much moreto sing for his supper.

His grin was slightly ironic as he stood by the truck and watched the jet soar back into the sky. His retirement from the country music scene, at the age of thirty-five and the height of his success, had caused quite a media stir. Hed sold the jet and the big houses and most of what was in them, and given away the rest, except for the guitar and the clothes he was wearing. And he knew hed never regret it.

He was through with that life. And once an OBallivan was through with something, that was the end of it.

The jet left a trail across the sky, faded to a silver spark, and disappeared.

Brad was about to climb into the truck and head for the ranch house, start coming to terms with things there, when he spotted a familiar battered gray Suburban jostling and gear-grinding its way over the rough road that had never really evolved beyond its beginnings as an old-time cattle trail.

He took off his hat, even though the wind nipped at the edges of his ears, and waited, partly eager, partly resigned.

The old Chevy came to a chortling stop a few inches from the toes of his boots, throwing up a cloud of red-brown dust, and his sister Olivia shut the big engine down and jumped out to round the hood and stride right up to him.

Youre back, Olivia said, sounding nonplussed. The eldest of Brads three younger sisters, at twenty-nine, shed never quite forgiven him for leaving homemuch less getting famous. Practical to the bone, she was small, with short, glossy dark hair and eyes the color of a brand-new pair of jeans, and just as starchy. Olivia was low-woman-on-the-totem-pole at a thriving veterinary practice in the nearby town of Stone Creek, specializing in large animals, and Brad knew she spent most of her workdays in a barn someplace, or out on the range, with one arm shoved up where the sun didnt shine, turning a crossways calf or colt.

Im delighted to see you, too, Doc, Brad answered dryly.

With an exasperated little cry, Olivia sprang off the soles of her worn-out boots to throw her arms around his neck, knocking his hat clear off his head in the process. She hugged him tight, and when she drew back, there were tears on her dirt-smudged cheeks, and she sniffled self-consciously.

If this is some kind of publicity stunt, Livie said, once shed rallied a little, Im never going to forgive you. She bent to retrieve his hat, handed it over.

God, she was proud. Shed let him pay for her education, but returned every other check he or his accountant sent with the words NO THANKS scrawled across the front in thick black capitals.

Brad chuckled, threw the hat into the pickup, to rest on top of the guitar case. Its no stunt, he replied. Im back for good. Ready to take hold and count for something, as Big John used to say.

The mention of their late grandfather caused a poignant and not entirely comfortable silence to fall between them. Brad had been on a concert tour when the old man died of a massive coronary six months before, and hed barely made it back to Stone Creek in time for the funeral. Worse, hed had to leave again right after the services, in order to make a sold-out show in Chicago. The large infusions of cash hed pumped into the home place over the years did little to assuage his guilt.

How much money is enough? How famous do you have to be? Big John had asked, in his kindly but irascible way, not once but a hundred times. Come home, damn it. I need you. Your little sisters need you. And God knows, Stone Creek Ranch needs you.

Shoving a hand through his light brown hair, in need of trimming as always, Brad thrust out a sigh and scanned the surrounding countryside. That old stallion still running loose out here, or did the wolves and the barbed wire finally get him? he asked, raw where the memories of his grandfather chafed against his mind, and in sore need of a distraction.

Livie probably wasnt fooled by the dodge, but she was gracious enough to grant Brad a little space to recover in, and he appreciated that. We get a glimpse of Ransom every once in a while, she replied, and a little pucker of worry formed between her eyebrows. Always off on the horizon somewhere, keeping his distance.

Brad laid a hand on his sisters shoulder. Shed been fascinated with the legendary wild stallion since she was little. First sighted in the late nineteenth century and called Kings Ransom because that was what he was probably worth, the animal was black and shiny as wet ink, and so elusive that some people maintained he wasnt flesh and blood at all, but spirit, a myth believed for so long that thought itself had made him real. The less fanciful maintained that Ransom was one in a long succession of stallions, all descended from that first mysterious sire. Brad stood squarely in this camp, as Big John had, but he wasnt so sure Livie took the same rational view.

Theyre trying to trap him, she said now, tears glistening in her eyes. They want to pen him up. Get samples of his DNA. Turn him out to stud, so they can sell his babies.

Whos trying to trap him, Liv? Brad asked gently. It was cold, he was hungry, and setting foot in the old ranch house, without Big John there to greet him, was a thing to get past.

Never mind, Livie said, bucking up a little. Setting her jaw. You wouldnt be interested.

There was no point in arguing with Olivia OBallivan, DVM, when she got that look on her face. Thanks for bringing my truck out here, Brad said. And for coming to meet me.

I didnt bring the truck, Livie replied. Some people would have taken the credit, but Liv was half again too stubborn to admit to a kindness she hadnt committed, let alone one she considered unwarranted. Ashley and Melissa did that. Theyre probably at the ranch house right now, hanging streamers or putting up a Welcome Home, Brad banner or something. And I only came out here because I saw that jet and figured it was some damn movie star, buzzing the deer.

Brad had one leg inside the truck, ready to hoist himself into the drivers seat. Thats a problem around here? he asked, with a wry half grin. Movie stars buzzing deer in Lear jets?

It happens in Montana all the time, Livie insisted, plainly incensed. She felt just as strongly about snowmobiles and other off-road vehicles.

Brad reached down, touched the tip of her nose with one index finger. This isnt Montana, shortstop, he pointed out. See you at home?

Another time, Livie said, not giving an inch. After all the hoopla dies down.

Inwardly, Brad groaned. He wasnt up for hoopla, or any kind of celebration Ashley and Melissa, their twin sisters, might have cooked up in honor of his return. Classic between-a-rock-and-a-hard-place stuffhe couldnt hurt their feelings, either.