Kentucky Home (19 page)

“I don't know why he's avoiding me,” Mal said to Luke as they sat in the kitchen sipping coffee. “You'd think he would want to put this divorce through as fast as possible.”

“Maybe he's dead,” Luke said hopefully. They were taking a break from working on a budget for Luke's stud business. He was pretty eager for the distraction.

“It makes me nervous, that's all. Like he's cooking something up out there, and I'm going to be married to him forever.”

“You know what? He probably loves having you chasing after him. Leave him alone for a few days, he'll come crawling back to you.”

“Luke, I don't want to take that kind of risk. Michael can be so unpredictable, and the last few times I talked to him . . .”

“Honey, I know. I met him, remember? And maybe you're right, maybe he's coming unhinged and is cooking up some nefarious plan. But what you're doing now isn't working, so you might as well try another tactic. Let him think you don't care.”

“Yeah.”

“And, sweetheart, I don't think you should go to DC on your own.”

“Luke—”

“Please, Mal. If for no other reason, then take someone with you for my peace of mind. You don't want me suffering, do you?”

Mal laughed. “I would never. Anyway, Keith said he would go with me.”

Luke raised his eyebrows. “Keith agreed to go to a city? Darlin', it must be love.”

Mal blushed. “Well, we're not going anywhere until I hear from Michael. I hate not knowing what he's thinking.” She sighed into her coffee. “Maybe he really is dead. Oh, that's a horrible thing to say!”

Luke laughed. “Maybe he's just injured in a ditch somewhere. Nonfatal. Oh, maybe he has amnesia! And he's in a coma! And when he wakes up, he'll be an actual human being!”

Mal laughed. “OK, enough procrastinating. Let's take another look at these figures.”

“Ugh.” Luke slumped in his chair. “I never thought I would dread looking at figures.”

 

 

The next day, Katie came charging through the kitchen, looking for Luke. Mal had told her they were working on a business plan, and if Luke thought he was going to cut her out of it . . .

The ringing phone stopped her and she grabbed the receiver. “Hello!” she barked.

“Mallory?”

“No, who is this?”

“I'm looking for Mallory. My wife.”

“Oh, you must be Michael. Wonderful. I've heard so much about you.”

“Well, you're very charming in your hillbilly way, but I would like to speak to my wife.”

“You mean ex-wife.”

“She didn't tell you? She hasn't signed the divorce papers yet. I've been trying to get hold of her for weeks. She left me an address to send the papers to, but that doesn't sound very safe. I think she needs to come back here—”

“Listen, Michael.” Katie was practically spitting, she was so mad.

“I don't know what you think you're trying to pull, but Mal has friends here and we're not just going to let her—Hey!” She turned to face Chase, who had come up behind her and pushed the receiver down to hang up. “I wasn't done talking to him!”

Chase pried the receiver out of Katie's white-knuckled grip. “Pissing him off isn't going to help Mal any.”

“Well! He's delusional if he thinks she'll just drop everything for him anymore! Somebody needs to set him straight!”

“But not you.”

She looked at him, her eyes furious, her mouth set. “Fine,” she said, storming out of the kitchen.

 

 

The night air was crisp, but the sky was clear and the moon was full and bright. Mal sat on the porch swing, wrapped in a few blankets to ward off the chill, absentmindedly counting stars. She couldn't get over how many more stars there seemed to be in Kentucky than in DC. The benefits of living in the middle of nowhere, she supposed.

“Hey.” Keith climbed the steps, his big work boots making the boards creak.

“Hay is for horses,” she said, smiling at him.

“Aren't you cold?”

“Yes. But it's too beautiful a night to sit inside. Come keep me warm,” she said, scooting over on the swing to make room for him.

“Here,” he said, handing her a bunch of flowers. In the bright moonlight, she could see the yellows and oranges and reds.

“What's that for?”

“The colors reminded me of the leaves. You were saying yesterday how sad it looked now that the leaves have all fallen. So, I thought—”

“That's very sweet. Thank you.” She laughed and pulled him down to kiss him.

“Wait, um. I don't want to sit outside with you. And not just because it's freezing out here.”

“Wimp.”

“Come with me,” he said, holding out his hand. She gathered her flowers, left the blankets, and let him lead her out into the night.

She wasn't surprised when he led her to the bunkhouse, or when he led her into his bedroom. What did surprise her were the candles everywhere, on the dresser, surrounding the bed. There were rose petals—actual wild rose petals!—on the bed. She looked up at him. He was holding her hand tightly. Was he nervous?

“I had to leave Peanut up at the house. I was afraid he would knock over the candles. I figured it wouldn't be very romantic if we had to use a fire extinguisher.”

“It's beautiful,” she said, looking around the room. Candlelight sparkled off the mirror, off the old brass of the bed.

“I wanted to do something special, you know? I know with Michael, he could give you whatever you wanted. I just wanted to show you—”

She silenced him with a hand over his mouth. Not quite as gently as she meant to do it, but, well, it shut him up. “Michael gave me nothing that I wanted. You give me everything.”

“Yeah, I give you a barn and hard labor and a cranky old man—”

“You give me your heart. That's all I want,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“Oh,” he said, letting her pull him forward, kissing him, kissing her back.

She led him to the bed; they slowly removed each other's clothes, gently exploring bodies, loving the curves, the scars, loving each other. She pulled him on top of her, spreading her legs for him. As he entered her, she exhaled in pure pleasure at the way he filled her so completely. They began to move, slow, loving movements that soon turned insistent, reaching. She looked into his eyes, her fingers tangled in his hair. “I love you,” she whispered, and they came apart together.

Mal woke up to the sound of Peanut's barking. It was still dark out, and she was warm, her limbs tangled with Keith's. She sighed and nestled closer; Peanut would sort it out, whatever it was.

Then she tensed as she heard someone swearing at Peanut. It was a voice she'd been waiting for, but hearing it now, outside the room where she slept, twisted her stomach. Michael. She climbed out of bed and hurried to the window, and there he was, raising his hand to Peanut, who thought he was playing a game, nipping at him playfully.

“Shit,” she said, and began throwing on her clothes.

“What is it?” Keith asked sleepily from the bed.

“Nothing, I'll be back in a second.”

“'Kay,” he said, rolling over to his side and going back to sleep.

Mal shook her head, smiling, as she slipped on her boots and ran quietly down the stairs, and out to meet her soon-to-be-ex-husband.

He still had his hand raised to Peanut, who seemed to have figured out that this wasn't a game and was growling at him, crouching down, hackles raised.

“Michael!”

Michael didn't take his eyes off of Peanut. “Call off your damn dog.”

“Peanut, come.” Peanut trotted dutifully over to her, licked her hand, then took a protective stance in front of her.

Michael finally looked at her, surprised at the direction she'd come from. “Are you sleeping in the barn? And what the hell did you do to your hair?”

“Michael, what are you doing here?”

“I bet you can guess.”

Mal didn't like the manic look she saw in his eyes. “You brought me the divorce papers to sign?” she asked, hopefully. Stupidly.

“No, Mallory. I told you I would track you down. I came to bring you home.”

“Mal? You OK?” Keith was emerging from the bunkhouse, headed toward them. Peanut barked quietly, keeping his position in front of Mal.

“Who is this? Is this the other brother? The one you're screwing?”

“Michael!”

“You're my wife, dammit!”

She wasn't sure how she hadn't noticed it before, but she was sure she was the last one to do so. Peanut was growling protectively, and Keith had stopped several yards from them, his hands in the air. She looked at him, puzzled, then looked back at Michael, who was pointing a handgun in her face.

“Jesus, Michael!” Her heart stuttered in fear. How much more of this was she going to take from him? He wouldn't stop until she was dead. That thought fostered a kernel of indignation, a spark of anger that he would take her life just when she was starting to enjoy it. She held on to that anger as he waved his gun.

“I told you, I'm bringing you home! You're my wife!”

He reached for her, but Peanut growled and crouched lower.

“Call off that dog or I'll shoot him!”

She had never seen him quite like this. Even when he'd hit her, he was strangely calm. He had never looked out of control before. That, more than the gun, frightened her.

“Keith, call Peanut!”

“Mal!” His voice was gruff behind her. He sounded far away.

“Keith, please!”

She thought he wasn't going to do it, he waited that long. “Peanut, come here.”

Peanut didn't look back at Keith, but his ears twitched.

“Again, Keith, please!”

He called the dog again. This time Peanut looked at Mal. “Go,” she said, her voice firm. Peanut ran to Keith, sitting in front of him, facing Mal and Michael. “Good dog,” she heard Keith say softly.

“Stupid dog,” Michael said. “Is this what you do here? Sleep with the redneck brothers, take in cripples? Mallory, I can give you so much more. I
have
given you so much more. You've made your point, I didn't appreciate you. Now come home.”

“Michael, please, just go. There's nothing for you here.”

“My
wife
is here.”

“You left me for Bunny Ashton-Pierce!” Stop provoking him, Mal! Michael faltered. “I am willing to admit an error in judgment. Now get in the car!”

She felt a movement behind her. “Don't move or I swear I'll shoot you!” Michael shouted. Keith.
Keith, don't be stupid,
she pleaded silently.

Keith was stupid, though, and he moved forward to try to get between Mal and Michael. Between Mal and Michael's gun. But Keith didn't know Michael like she did, didn't know that Michael was a lot of things, but he wasn't a faker and he didn't like his territory threatened. So she shouldn't have been surprised when the gun went off.

“No!” she said, diving for Keith. He went down; she tried to catch him, collapsing at his side. “Keith!”

“Mal, run. Please!” Keith's shirt was covered in blood; where was all that blood coming from?

“That's right, baby. You're back where you belong,” Michael said, pulling her up and toward the car, keeping his gun trained on Keith. “There's no need to cry,” he said, wiping her tears. She flinched, then flinched again when he kissed her. She kept her lips shut tight.

She heard a
click
and Cal's voice behind her. “Let go of the girl and get the hell off my property.”

Michael laughed and started to reply, but Mal took advantage of the distraction and lifted her knee. Hard.

Michael doubled over in pain, clutching his groin, still holding the gun.

She turned and ran back to Keith, who was looking paler, bloodier.

Peanut streaked past her, teeth bared, looking like the ferocious beast she had mistaken him for the first time she saw him.

She turned back, kept running toward Keith. She was almost there, had almost reached him. She heard a shot go off and she stumbled, but she crawled the last few paces to Keith and shielded his body with hers, turning back to face the others. Through the haze of tears, she saw Peanut, his jaw attached to Michael's wrist, the gun abandoned on the ground. Cal had his rifle trained on Michael, was shouting to Libby to call the cops. Katie was running out of the house, a shotgun in her hand, the phone up to her ear. Mal blinked, turned down to Keith. “Hold on,” she whispered.

He lifted his hand. It was covered in blood, but Mal grabbed it, brought his palm to her face. “Hold on, Keith. Please, hold on.”

Mal knew her way around a hospital, but she barely knew where she was now. The fog that had descended on her when they shut the ambulance doors hadn't lifted yet. Keith was in surgery. One of the nurses had brought her into an exam room, cleaned her up, checked her for injuries.
I'm fine
, she wanted to scream.
I'm not the one who was shot in the chest by my crazy husband!

Now she sat in a hard plastic chair in the waiting room. Libby sat next to her, squeezing her hand, muttering comforting words she couldn't quite make out. Cal and Katie had stayed behind to talk to the police, but they were apparently on their way now. Libby wanted the doctors to check Cal's heart, which was enough for him to try to keep away. Great, Mal thought. They would all be there to see what she had done to Keith.

“Here we are again,” Mal said.

“Yes. I hope not to make it a habit.”

“Libby, I'm so sorry,” she whispered.

“Hush now,” Libby said, and wrapped her arm tightly around Mal.

“I brought this trouble here. It's my fault.”

“Mal, I'm only going to say this once.” Libby tilted Mal's chin so she was looking into her eyes. “This is not your fault. Everybody is responsible for their own actions. You did not drive Michael here. You did not point his gun at my boy.” Her voice broke. “Do you hear me? This is not your fault.”

“But—”

“No.” She jerked Mal's chin. “And that's all I want to hear about that.”

Mal looked at Libby, her chin quivering but her eyes determined. How had Mal been so lucky to find these people? How could she lose them now?

The doctor came out, pulling the paper wrapper off his head. Libby jumped up to greet him. Mal couldn't move. She saw him lower his head and speak quietly to Libby, saw Libby buckle and shout, “Oh, thank the Lord,” and Mal was on her feet.

“Is he OK? Can I see him?”

“He was lucky. The bullet missed his heart and went clean through. He's going to have a rough road ahead of him, but he is out of danger.”

“Can I see him?”

“He's still unconscious, but you can go in if you're quiet.”

“Go on, Mal. He'll need to see you when he wakes up.”

 

 

There were so many tubes. And the beeping. After two days, though, Mal found the beeping comforting. It meant everything was working, that Keith was healing. He had woken up a few times, groggy and a little cranky. She took that to be a good sign—he was so much like his father, surely crankiness was a sign of recovery? All of the Carsons had been in to see him, and Libby brought her food that she barely touched. Mal hadn't left his side, except for last night when Luke dragged her home to shower (“You stink, woman. Let Keith wake up to something beautiful, OK?”), and to sleep. She was back at dawn, listening to the beeping, stroking Keith's forehead.

Her back was starting to cramp. She got up to pace around the room. The view out the window was not as distracting as she hoped it would be—just the roof of the next building. Not even a parking lot—some good people watching would have been nice. She stretched her arms above her head and leaned down to touch her toes.

“Hey.”

She stood up too fast and knocked into the bedside tray.

“You OK?”

Mal let out the breath she was holding. “You're recovering from a gunshot wound and you're asking if I'm OK?”

Keith squinted. “What?”

The doctor had told Mal that Keith might not remember everything about the other night. She approached the bed quietly.

“Keith, you were shot. Michael shot you.”

“Is that why my chest hurts?”

“Yes.”

He sighed. “I thought you might break my heart. This isn't what I had in mind.”

And that was it. Mal couldn't stop the tears from pouring down her cheeks.

“Hey, hey, don't cry. That was a joke.”

“I know. It was a good one.”

Keith raised his eyebrows weakly.

“Keith, I'm so sorry.”

“Come here.”

Mal stepped closer to the bed and picked up his hand.

“No, come here.” He tugged her down until she was sitting on the edge of the bed. He tugged her again so she was lying down next to him.

“Stop, I don't want to hurt you.”

“I'm sick, humor me.”

He grunted as he moved over, making room for her. He put his arm around her and pulled her close.

“Be careful.”

“Hush,” he said, kissing her forehead.

She lay there for a minute, soaking in his smell. Hospital and Keith.

“Does it hurt?”

Keith snorted. “Like hell.”

“Oh, Keith.”

“Michael shot me?”

“Yes.”

“Did you shoot him back?”

Mal's laugh was a little watery. “No. But Cal and Katie were ready to.”

“Nobody shot him?”

“Didn't have to. Peanut tackled him.”

“I knew that was a good dog.”

She raised her hand and pushed his hair off his forehead. “Do you need anything? Ice? More pain medicine?”

“I just need to hold you and be quiet.”

“OK.”

“Keep doing that, though. I have a killer headache.”

“You're probably dehydrated.”

“Quiet, remember?”

She ran her fingers through his hair, gently running them over his forehead, his cheeks, his chin. She ran her hand gently around the bandage on his chest.

She tried to be quiet. She really did. But the tears kept running down her face, wetting his sterile hospital sheets. “So close to your heart,” she whispered.

Keith didn't say anything, just took her hand, placed a gentle kiss on her palm, then on the inside of her wrist. He tugged her arm so she leaned closer to him, and traced the tears down her cheek. He pulled her closer.

Mal found she couldn't cry when Keith was kissing her.