McKettrick's Luck (13 page)

The smell of freshly turned earth awakened an old, half-forgotten joy in Cheyenne. She remembered working in the vegetable garden out behind the house, with Gram and Ayanna, planting tomatoes and corn that grew so tall, from a small child's perspective, anyway, that it blocked out the sky.

It would be nice to have a garden, she reflected, with uncharacteristic whimsy. To sit on the back porch and listen to the whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of a sprinkler, flinging droplets of shimmering water over green and growing things.

At a gesture from Mitch, she moved the wheelchair out of his way. A smile broke over her face as she watched him pass.

And then two things happened simultaneously.

Jesse McKettrick drove in, and the tractor overturned, pitching Mitch onto the ground.

Cheyenne raced toward her brother.

Jesse got there first and shut off the tractor.

“You okay, buddy?” he asked with another of his easy grins, crouching at Mitch's side, opposite Cheyenne, who'd dropped to her knees.

Mitch nodded uncertainly. “There must have been a hole, hidden in the grass,” he said, sounding dazed. “I didn't see it.”

“It could happen to anybody,” Jesse told him, but he was looking straight into Cheyenne's eyes. Silently warning her not to panic.

She put a hand to her chest, trying not to hyperventilate. “You're sure you're not hurt?”

Mitch grinned. Now that the initial shock was past, he seemed almost proud of the spill he'd taken. “No,” he said. “I
think
I'm okay, but I can't feel the lower half of my body. For all I know, I've broken both legs.”

“Better get you checked out,” Jesse said calmly. “Okay to move you, or do you want an ambulance?”

“No ambulance,” Mitch said.

At that, Jesse slipped both arms under Mitch, lifted him and carried him to his truck.

Cheyenne, still stricken, got to her feet and hurried after them. Opened the door on the passenger side, so Jesse could set Mitch on the seat.

“I'll get my purse,” she said.

Mitch snapped his seat belt into place and tilted his head back, closed his eyes. Was he in pain? Pretending, perhaps for her sake, that he wasn't?

“Take a breath,” Jesse told her. “There's no emergency here.”

How did
he
know that? Cheyenne, feeling both exasperated and grateful that he was there to help, dashed into the house, got her bag and ran out again.

Jesse's truck had an extended cab, and he was holding one of the back doors open for her when she returned.

“I hope this doesn't mean I can't ride that horse,” Mitch said as she buckled herself in.

“Forget the damn horse,” she said. “And I shouldn't have let you
near
that tractor!”

Jesse, about to climb behind the wheel, paused with one foot on the running board and gave her another quelling look.

She swallowed, defiant and chagrined at the same time, and felt heat surge into her face.

“I'm probably all right,” Mitch said, and turned in the front seat to look back at her. “Anyhow, if one of us had to take a header off a tractor, I'd rather it was me than you.”

Jesse got into the truck, started the engine and drove out of the yard as calmly as if they were going for a drive, instead of heading for the hospital.

Did Indian Rock even
have
a hospital? Cheyenne knew there hadn't been when she'd lived there before, but maybe one had been added.

“Want me to call your mom?” Jesse asked quietly. Clearly, he was addressing Mitch, not Cheyenne.

She opened her mouth to answer, just the same, then closed it again.

“No,” Mitch said. “She just started her new job, and I don't want to get her upset for no reason.”

“No reason?” Cheyenne echoed. “You
fell off a tractor—
”

“Chill,” Mitch told her.

Five minutes later, they pulled up in front of the local clinic.

Jesse looked back at Cheyenne. “Wait here,” he said and got out of the truck to sprint across the ambulance bay.

A gray-haired doctor came outside almost immediately, followed by two nurses pushing a gurney. Jesse brought up the rear.

With a gentle smile, the physician opened Mitch's door, assessed him with wise, gentle eyes, the color of old blue jeans. His face was rugged, etched deep with character lines.

“I'm Dr. Krischan,” he said to Mitch, before sparing Cheyenne a brief, kindly glance. “I hear you got bucked off a tractor.”

“I don't think I'm hurt,” Mitch said.

Cheyenne's heart pinched. Mitch had been through so much.
What
had possessed her to let him get on that monstrous piece of equipment? She should have known something like this would happen….

“Let's just make sure,” Dr. Krischan said.

He and the nurses helped Mitch out of the car and placed him carefully on the stretcher. By then, Cheyenne was standing beside Jesse, and when he reached out and took her hand, she didn't pull away, even though that was her first inclination.

Inside, Mitch was whisked off to an examination room while Cheyenne filled out the necessary forms. She'd been through the medical maze so many times, she knew the information by heart.

When that was done, though, she was at a loss.

There was nothing to do now but wait.

“Maybe I should call Mom after all,” she told Jesse.

He shook his head, led her to a chair, sat her down and brought her a bottle of water from a nearby vending machine. Took a seat next to her. “Mitch doesn't want her to worry, remember?”

“She's his
mother,
” Cheyenne fretted.

“And he's a grown man.”

“He's only nineteen.”

“A grown man,” Jesse repeated.

Cheyenne heaved a frustrated sigh. “Thank you, Jesse. For being there. For helping.”

He grinned at her. “Why, shucks, ma'am,” he drawled, eyes twinkling. “It's nothing.”

“Does anything ruffle you?”

“Not much,” Jesse replied.

“Things always work out for you, don't they?”

“McKettrick luck,” Jesse said. “It's never failed me yet.”

Cheyenne felt a sort of fascinated envy. “Must be nice,” she said, and then wished she'd kept her mouth shut.

“Luck isn't something you're born with,” Jesse told her. “It's a choice.”

She couldn't keep the skepticism out of her voice. “A
choice?
”

“Yes,” he answered. And she couldn't figure out whether the look in his eyes was a caress or an expression of sympathy.

“You're crazy.”

The corner of his mouth jutted upward. “Maybe so,” he conceded. “But I figure I'm lucky because I expect to be. And since I could just as well expect to be the
unluckiest
SOB on earth, that makes it a choice.”

“I could choose all I wanted to, and I'd still be Cash Bridges's daughter,” Cheyenne heard herself say. She took a great swallow of water, but it was too late to wash the words back down her throat.

“Who you are has nothing to do with your dad,” Jesse reasoned, “and everything to do with you. If you've decided it's a bad thing to be ‘Cash Bridges's daughter,' though, then that's the way it will be.”

“What are you, some kind of philosopher?”

“No,” Jesse grinned. “I just think a lot.”

Cheyenne got out of her chair to pace. And to get a little farther from Jesse, because he had a way of pulling her into his orbit, like some central star system with whole galaxies revolving around it.

When she'd expended enough nervous energy, she stopped, looked down at Jesse. “Why did you come by our place this morning?” It had just occurred to her to ask.

“I have a knack for being in the right place at the right time,” Jesse said. “Just part of my charm.”

Cheyenne took another swig from the water bottle. Swallowed. “You must have had a reason.”

“I decided Mitch's ramp needed side rails. So I bought some lumber, loaded it in the back of my truck, and headed for your house.”

“Why?”

“I just told you why.”

“I mean, why are you so determined to help?”

“It's what we do, out here in the country. Or have you forgotten that, living in the big city?”

“Don't try to come off as a country boy, okay?” Cheyenne said, but she was relaxing. It was a strange paradox, his having that effect on her, when nobody had ever rattled her more than Jesse McKettrick did. He made her stomach jump and her palms sweat. “You've led a sophisticated life—traveled all over the world.”

“So I have,” Jesse allowed. “But Indian Rock is home. Always has been.”

Cheyenne began to pace again.

After an eternity, Dr. Krischan returned. “Nothing broken,” he said, watching Cheyenne. “Mitch can go home.”

Jesse got to his feet. “See you at the shindig tonight, Doc?”

The other man chuckled. “I'll be there.”

“Good to know,” Jesse said, with a nod toward the back, where Mitch was, “since the kid is hell-bent on taking up bronc busting.”

Cheyenne stiffened.

“I'm
kidding,
” Jesse told her.

She sighed.

A nurse wheeled Mitch out of the examining area in a clinic chair, and once they reached the truck, Jesse took over. As much as he unsettled her, Cheyenne was touched by the way he lifted Mitch onto the passenger seat without making it seem like a big deal. From his manner, anybody would have thought he dealt with paraplegics every day.

Humiliation was a virtual way of life for Mitch, but with Jesse, things were different. Jesse treated Mitch with quiet respect and utter normality.

Once they were home, and Mitch was back in his chair, Jesse righted the rented tractor, got on it and finished spading up the weeds. Ayanna came home for lunch, and while Mitch was inside regaling her with an account of what had happened, Cheyenne sat on the porch step and watched Jesse in action.

“How do you do it?” she asked when he finally parked the tractor and came over to sit beside her.

“Do what? Drive a tractor?”

“You know that isn't what I mean,” Cheyenne said. “You make Mitch feel—well—
normal.
How do you do that?”

“It's easy, Cheyenne,” Jesse answered gently. “He
is
normal.”

“He—” Cheyenne stopped herself. She'd been about to point out that Mitch was confined to a wheelchair, and list all the things he couldn't do. But Jesse was right. Her brother wasn't a medical case. He wasn't a label. He wasn't a number on a chart somewhere.

He was a person. Somewhere along the line, with all the crises and all the worry, she'd forgotten that.

“Guess I'd better unload the wood for those rails,” Jesse said, standing up. “I'll have to put them up another time, though. I promised Travis I'd help him unload a bunch of rented chairs after lunch, and he's probably watching the road for me. See you at six.”

“See you at six,” Cheyenne echoed. The words sounded hoarse, and she cleared her throat.

Jesse pulled the boards out of the back of the truck, stacked them neatly, got behind the wheel and drove away.

Cheyenne rose off the porch step and went inside the house.

She found Ayanna alone in the kitchen, looking unusually tired and a little glum.

“Mitch is going through his suitcases,” she told Cheyenne, “looking for something to wear to the party tonight.”

Cheyenne smiled, crossed to her mother and put an arm around her shoulders. “You doing okay?” she asked. “I know it was probably a shock, but Mitch really is all right—”

Ayanna bit her lip. The shadows under her eyes seemed to deepen. “I know he is,” she said. “It's not that. It's—I'm not sure I can do this job, Cheyenne.”

Cheyenne's heart ached. “Then quit,” she replied gently. “There must be something else you could do.”

Tears brimmed along Ayanna's lower lashes, and she gave a brave little nod that made Cheyenne feel even worse. “Mama begged me to go to secretarial school,” she said. “I wish I'd listened. But, oh, no—I was young and in love with Cash Bridges, of all people, and I knew everything—”

Cheyenne gave her a hug. “You could attend junior college in Flagstaff,” she said. “It's never too late.”

“Of course it's too late,” Ayanna responded, with a combination sniffle and laugh. “Or is it?”