McKettricks of Texas: Austin (29 page)

It was infectious. Paige yawned, too.

Shep went to sleep.

And so did Paige.

When she woke up, Libby was standing next to her bed with a tray and a sisterly smile. “Lunchtime,” she said.

“Already?” Paige pushed up onto the pillows behind her. Looked for her crutches.

“Hold on a second,” Libby protested good-naturedly,
when, with the aid of the crutches, Paige started to get up. “Let me help you—”

“You're not helping me go to the bathroom, Lib. You are absolutely
not
doing that.” She was on her feet. The tops of the crutches dug into her armpits. “There is such a thing as personal dignity, you know. I have to draw the line somewhere.”

Libby set the tray down on the bedside table. “But what if you fall?”

“If you hear a crash,” Paige said, “feel free to barge right in.”

Libby sighed and folded her arms, clearly not amused, but she didn't follow Paige out of the room.

In fact, when she returned, Libby was sitting patiently on the edge of the bed. Seeing Paige, she jumped up and flung back the covers.

Lunch, Paige discovered, once she'd settled back into bed and let Libby put the tray in her lap, was a tuna salad sandwich, chips and a glass of unsweetened iced tea.

Libby sat in the rocking chair, watching her.

“Is there going to be an early wedding?” she asked. First off, she really wanted to know and, second, she wanted to distract her big sister from worrying too much.

“We haven't decided,” Libby said, rocking. A sweet little smile settled on her mouth, and she laid one hand on her abdomen, as though she could already feel the baby moving around inside her. “We go back and forth. One moment, we're thinking we ought to go ahead and get ourselves married. The next, we're reminding each other that it's only six weeks until the big day and what's the use of doing it twice?” In
four
weeks, Paige reflected, munching on her
sandwich, she would be out of her cast. Just in time, it would seem, to put on the ugly pink dress and stroll down the aisle ahead of her sisters, the team brides. She chuckled and shook her head. There was, evidently, no escaping bridesmaids' hell.

“Anyway,” Libby went on with a sigh, slowing the rocking chair a little. “Tate has plenty to worry about right now besides gossip.”

The instant Libby had uttered those words, she looked as though she would have given a lot to take them back.

“Meaning…?” Paige prompted, raising one eyebrow.

“You know,” Libby said, throwing out her hands. The chair had come to a complete stop now. “The rustling, Austin getting shot—”

“The rustling is still going on, then?”

Libby swallowed, nodded. She glanced toward the doorway and, seeing no one there, lowered her voice just the same. “If anything, it's worse,” she said. “More cattle have been slaughtered.” Pain filled her face, and a moment or so passed before she could go on. “Tate and Garrett don't want Austin to find out,” she finished.

“They're keeping secrets from him?” Paige asked. “Now
there's
a recipe for trouble if I've ever heard one.”

“Austin was
shot,
” Libby reminded Paige, as though she, his erstwhile nurse, needed reminding. “He has a herniated disc. If he knew about the rustling and the—the rest of it, there would be no stopping him from putting his life in danger all over again!”

Paige sighed. “Lib,” she reasoned. “I don't want to see Austin—or Tate or Garrett or anyone else, for that matter—taking any unnecessary chances with their lives. I'm just saying, Austin is going to be
seriously
pissed off
when he finds out—he'll figure he has as much right to know as either of his brothers, and it would be hard to argue with that logic. He's a grown man, after all.”

Libby sat up very straight, her chin high. “They're only looking out for their brother,” she said, sounding a mite defensive. Which probably meant she had some of the same doubts Paige did, though it was unlikely she'd ever admit as much.

The Remingtons, in their own way, were as cussedly stubborn as the McKettricks.

“Really?” Paige echoed, and there might have been a certain tartness to her tone. “Does that mean they're looking out for
each other,
too?”

“Tate and Garrett aren't injured,” Libby pointed out, miffed. “Austin
is.
As his nurse, I should think you would see this from our point of view.”

Paige sighed. “I certainly don't want Austin chasing after a bunch of modern-day rustlers any more than the rest of you do,” she said, wearying of the argument. While she and her sisters often disagreed, they were rarely short with each other. She held out a hand, and Libby crossed the small distance between the rocking chair and the bed to sit on the side of the mattress and intertwine her fingers with Paige's. “Have they learned anything new—Brent and the state police, I mean?”

Libby shook her head. “Tate and Garrett think it's an inside job,” she said, “but they can't prove anything.”

Instantly, Paige thought of Reese. She disliked the man, but there could have been a million petty and subconscious reasons for that, and it wasn't fair to finger him as a crook just because something about him rubbed her the wrong way.

On the other hand, what about instinct? What about woman's intuition?

“What's being done to protect the herds?” Paige asked. “And the oil fields?”

Libby's shoulders tensed visibly under her lightweight blue sweater, worn with slim jeans and a pair of boots that had seen better days. Most likely, big sister had been paying regular visits to Molly, out in the barn, making sure the mare was recovering.

“They've hired extra ranch hands to keep an eye on the cattle,” Libby said. “As for the oil fields—”

Paige waited. Her sister was a intelligent woman. She didn't need to be told, any more than Tate, Garrett or Austin did, that a fire in one or more of those wells could be a disaster of epic proportions. Oil fires could burn underground for
years,
and the environmental ramifications of that might well be staggering in scope.

“As for the oil fields,” Libby finally went on, “Tate and Garrett hired a special security firm to keep an eye on the wells, but until they arrive—”

“Until they arrive,” Paige repeated woodenly, “those two yahoos are guarding the property
themselves,
aren't they?”

Libby swallowed, nodded miserably. “What else can they do?” she asked when she'd had a few moments to gather her composure. “Chief Brogan doesn't have the manpower, and neither do the state police. And it's not the kind of job you can just turn over to a bunch of rent-a-cops, Paige.”

“So when are these hotshot security people supposed to show up?”

“Any time now,” Libby said, with a mix of defiant hope
and utter defeat. “They've been busy in the Middle East or somewhere.”

“Oh, great,” Paige retorted. “God knows, it's just a hop, skip and a
jump
to the Middle East. They ought to be here any minute!”

A tear slipped down Libby's cheek. “Do you think I like this any better than you do, Paige?” she asked, almost in a whisper. “If anything happened to Tate—or to Garrett—”

Paige raised herself far enough to hug Libby hard. “I still think it would be better if Austin knew about all this,” she said. “Who knows? He might even have sense enough not to rush off half-cocked and take on the bad guys single-handedly.”

Libby laughed, even as she swiped at her tears with the back of one hand. “Or not,” she replied. “We're talking about the same man who saw lights in the oil field one fine night and took off to investigate all on his lonesome. If they hadn't been so scared he'd die of his gunshot wound, I
swear
Tate and Garrett would have killed him themselves.”

Paige chuckled at the irony of that statement, and so did Libby. But Paige was entirely serious when she said, “Talk to your man, Libby. And tell Julie to talk to hers. I know Tate's and Garrett's hearts are in the right place, but if something goes down that Austin could have prevented—or even
thinks
he could have prevented—there will be hell to pay.”

Libby sighed, nodded. “I'll try. But reasoning with a McKettrick is like trying to reason with—”

“One of us?” Paige asked gently, smiling. Touching the side of her head to the side of Libby's before her sister rose to her feet.

“Yes,” Libby agreed with a feeble grin. “It's a lot like that.”

“Try,”
Paige urged.

 

T
RY
.

Paige wanted Libby—and, by extension, Julie—to persuade Tate and Garrett to tell him, Austin, what he
by God
had a right to know in the first place.

He hadn't meant to eavesdrop; he'd come back to the guest apartment to find Shep, who'd settled himself on the hooked rug in Paige's room, because Doc Pomeroy was there and wanted to examine the dog after he'd finished with Molly out in the barn.

Now, stung to the quick by what his brothers were keeping from him, even though he understood their granny-assed reasons, Austin turned on his heel and got out of the guest quarters as fast as he could.

Reaching the kitchen, he grabbed a denim jacket from one of the hooks beside the back door and muttered a curse at the pain that shot through his left arm when he forgot the bullet wound and shoved his hand through the sleeve as though nothing were wrong.

Doc Pomeroy's old truck stood in the barnyard, but there were no human beings in sight. Austin had barely closed the door when he heard a scratching sound from within and opened up again so Shep could join him.

The vet was busy checking Molly over, and there was no sign of Cliff. Since Doc's son had accompanied him on every visit to the mare or to Shep so far, Austin noticed, preoccupied as he was.

“Cliff go back to Dallas?” he asked in the cowboy shorthand he'd grown up with, coming to a stop outside Molly's stall.

Doc started slightly, reminding Austin of the old man's age, making him wish he'd given some indication that he was approaching.

“Damn,” Doc complained. “What's to be gained by sneaking up on a man like that?”

“Sorry,” Austin said, and though he spoke lightly, he meant it.

“Cliff says he's under the weather,” Doc said, in belated reply to Austin's original question. “You ask me, he's just hungover from trying to drown his sorrows last night at the bar in the Silver Dollar.”

“What kind of sorrows would those be, Doc?” Austin asked quietly, leaning on the stall door, watching as Doc ran skilled eyes—and hands—over the parcel of ill-used horseflesh that was Molly.

“Ones he made for himself, I reckon,” Doc said, not looking at Austin. “About like the rest of us.”

“Amen to that,” Austin said, thinking of all the things he'd change about his own life, if only he got the chance.

He'd tell his folks not to bother driving out to Lubbock for that one rodeo, that was for sure. And instead of deliberately hurting Paige the way he had, he'd just tell her, straight out, that they were too young to know what love
was
, let alone how to make it stick.

He'd have asked her to wait for him.
Wait, Paige. Wait for me to grow up. Wait for
yourself
to grow up.

Austin knew then, in that moment, that he loved Paige Remington—that once he'd begun to love her, albeit with the love of a boy, rather than a man, he'd never really stopped.

Doc didn't say anything more about Molly,
or
about his son. He just picked up his worn-out medical bag, pushed
open the stall door when he got to it and came out to join Austin in the breezeway.

They walked in silence, out of the barn and toward the house.

The fire on the kitchen hearth had gone out, but Shep's blanket bed was still in front of it, and Doc gently herded the animal in that direction. Opening his bag, the seasoned veterinarian spoke to the critter in a cordial undertone. The man definitely spoke fluent Dog.

Shep allowed him to cut away the old bandage without so much as a whimper of protest.

“Well, now,” Doc said, when he'd uncovered the shaved leg and taken a good look, “you're a McKettrick dog, all right. Mending about twice as fast as most.” With that, he slanted a wry look in Austin's direction and spared him one of his salty grins. “Unless my eyes deceive me,” he drawled, “you're doing pretty well yourself.”

Austin shrugged, though a big part of his mind was on Paige, and his feelings for her, the old ones and the new. Sorting through all that was going to be one hell of a job, and besides that, he still had to confront Tate and Garrett about cutting him out of ranch business the way they had. He owned a third of the Silver Spur, and that meant he had an equal share in the problems, as well as the profits.

Doc put some ointment on Shep's injured leg, then wound it up in fresh gauze and tape again. This time, at least, the bindings left the dog's paw bare, which meant it would be easier for him to get around.

Once Doc had gone, Austin resisted the urge to look in on Paige, appropriated the keys to Garrett's Porsche, and grinned to see that Shep was standing at his side, looking up at him with luminous hope.

“Come along, then,” Austin said.

Since the sports car was low-slung, Shep got in easily, with just a little boost from Austin.

The garage door rolled up at the push of a button, as usual.

Austin started the Porsche, taking a certain satisfaction in the powerful roar of the engine as it sucked up a couple of gallons of gas before turning a wheel, and backed out into the yard.

“One of these days,” he told Shep, who was sitting bolt upright in the passenger seat, like a dog accustomed to riding shotgun in a Porsche, “you and I are going to have to break down and invest in a fancy car of our own, and a new rig, too. Reckon it's probably best to award the old truck a purple heart and put it out to pasture.”