Sierra's Homecoming (26 page)

“I didn't know,” Sierra admitted.

Damned if she'd cry.

Who needed Travis Reid, anyway?

She had Liam. She had a family and a home and a two-million-dollar trust fund.

She'd gotten along without Travis, and his lovemaking, all her life. The man was entirely superfluous.

So why did she want to lay her head down on her arms and wail with sorrow?

1919

C
ome morning Hannah made her way through the still, chilly dawn to the barn. Besides their own stock, four livery horses were there, gathered at the back of the barn, helping themselves to the haystack. Remnants of harness hung from their backs.

Hannah smiled, led each one into a stall, saw that they each got a bucket of water and some grain. She was milking old Earleen, the cow, when Doss joined her, stiff and bruised but otherwise none the worse for his trials, as far as Hannah could see.

They'd shared a bed the night before, but they'd both been too exhausted, after the rigors of the day and getting Doc Willaby settled comfortably in the spare room, to make love.

“You ought to go into the house, Hannah,” Doss said, sounding both confounded and stern. “This work is mine to do.”

“Fine,” she said, still milking. There was a rhythm in the task that settled a person's thoughts. “You can gather the eggs and get some butter from the spring house. I reckon Doc will be in the grip of a powerful hunger when he wakes up. He'll want hotcakes and some of that bacon you brought from the smokehouse.”

Doss moved along the middle of the barn, limping a little. Stopping to peer into each stall along the way. Hannah watched his progress out of the corner of her eye, smiling to herself.

“I meant what I said last night, Hannah,” he said, when he finally reached her. “I love you. But if you really want to go back to your folks in Montana, I won't interfere. I know it's hard, living out here on this ranch.”

Hannah's throat ached with love and hope. “It
is
hard, Doss McKettrick, and I wouldn't mind spending winters in town. But I'm not going to Montana unless you go, too.”

He leaned against one of the beams supporting the barn roof, pondering her with an unreadable expression. “Gabe knew,” he said.

She stopped milking. “Gabe knew what?”

“How I felt about you. From the very first time I saw you, I loved you. He guessed right away, without my saying a word. And do you know what he told me?”

“I can't imagine,” Hannah said, very softly.

“That I oughtn't to feel bad, because you were easy to love.”

Tears stung Hannah's eyes. “He was a good man.”

“He was,” Doss agreed gruffly, and gave a short nod. “He asked me to look after you and Tobias, before he died. Maybe he figured, even then, that you and I would end up together.”

“It wouldn't surprise me,” Hannah replied. Dear, dear Gabe. She'd loved him so, but he'd gone on, and he'd want her to carry on and be as happy as she could. Tobias, too.

“What I mean to say is,” Doss went on, taking off his hat and turning it round and round in his hands by the brim, “I understand what he meant to you. You can say it, straight out, anytime. I won't be jealous.”

Hannah stood up so fast she spooked Earleen, who kicked over the milk bucket, three-quarters of the way full now, steaming in the cold and rich with cream. She put her arms around Doss and didn't try to hide her tears.

“You're as good a man as Gabe ever was, Doss McKettrick,” she said, “and I won't let you forget it.”

He grinned down at her, wanly, but with that familiar spark in his eyes. “I'll build you a house in town, Hannah,” he said. “We'll spend winters there, so you can see folks and Tobias can go to school without riding two miles through the snow. Would you like that?”

“Yes,” Hannah said. “But I'd stay on this ranch forever, too, if it meant I could be with you.”

Doss bent his head. Kissed her. His hands rested lightly on the sides of her waist, beneath the heavy fabric of Gabe's coat.

“You go inside and see to breakfast, Mrs. McKettrick. I'll finish up out here.”

She swallowed, nodded. “I love you, Mr. McKettrick,” she said.

His eyes danced mischievously. “Once we get Doc back to town,” he replied, “I mean to bed you, good and proper.”

Hannah blushed. Batted her lashes. “When is he leaving?”

Present Day

Travis was packing, loading things into his truck. Even whistling as he went about it. Meg got into her Blazer and drove off somewhere.

Sierra waited as long as she could bear to—she didn't know how she was going to explain this to Liam, who was sleeping off his flu bug—didn't know how to explain it herself.

She got out the album, for something to do, and set the remembrance book aside without opening it. Even after seeing Hannah and Tobias the night before, in Liam's room, she just didn't believe in magic any more.

So she took a seat at the table and lifted the cover of the album.

A cracked and yellowed photograph, done in sepia, filled most of the page. Angus McKettrick, the patriarch of the family, stared calmly up at her. He'd been handsome in his youth; she could see that. Though, in the picture his thick hair was white, his stern, square-jawed face etched with lines of sorrow as well as joy. His eyes were clear, intelligent and full of stubborn humor.

It was almost as though he'd known Sierra would be looking at the photo one day, searching for some part of herself in those craggy features, and crooked up one corner of his mouth in the faintest smile, just for her.

Be strong,
he seemed to say.
Be a McKettrick.

Sierra sat for a long time, silently communing with the image.

I don't know how to “be a McKettrick.” What does that mean, anyway?

Angus's answer was in his eyes. Being a McKettrick meant claiming a piece of ground to stand on and putting your roots down deep into it. Holding on, no matter what came at you. It meant loving with passion and taking the rough spots with the smooth. It meant fighting for what you wanted, letting go when that was the best thing to do.

Sierra absorbed all that and turned to the next page.

A good-looking couple posed in the front yard of the very house where Sierra sat, so many years later. A small boy and a girl in her teens stood proudly on either side of them, and underneath someone had written the names in carefully. Holt McKettrick. Lorelei McKettrick. John Henry McKettrick. Lizzie McKettrick.

They wore the name like a badge, all of them.

After that came more pictures of Holt and Lorelei together and separately. In one, they were each holding the hand of a laughing, golden-haired toddler.

Gabriel Angus McKettrick, stated a fading caption beneath.

On the facing page, Lorelei sat proud and straight in a chair, holding an infant. Young Gabriel, older now, stood with a hand on her thigh, his ankles crossed, with the toe of one old-fashioned shoe touching the floor. Holt flanked them all, one hand resting on Lorelei's shoulder. The baby, according to the inscription, was Doss Jacob McKettrick.

Sierra continued to turn pages, and moved through the lives of Gabe and Doss along with them, or so it seemed, catching a glimpse of them on important dates. Birthdays. School. Mounted on ponies. Fishing in a pond.

Sierra felt as though she were looking not at mere photographs, but through little sepia-stained windows into another time, a time as vivid and real as her own.

She watched Gabe and Doss McKettrick grow into young men, both of them blond, both of them handsome and sturdy.

At last she came to the wedding picture. Her gaze landed on Hannah, standing proudly beside Gabe. She was wearing a lovely white dress, holding a nosegay.

Hannah.

The woman with whom, in some inexplicable way, she shared this house. The woman she had seen in Liam's bedroom the night before, caring for her own sick child even as Sierra was caring for hers.

Sierra could go no further. Not then.

She closed the album carefully.

“Mom?”

She turned, looked around to see Liam standing at the foot of the stairs, in his flannel pajamas. His hair was rumpled, his glasses were askew, and he looked desperately worried.

“Hey, buddy,” she said.

“Travis is putting stuff in his truck,” he told her. “Like he's going away or something.”

Sierra's heart broke into two pieces. She got up, went to him. “I guess he was just here temporarily, to look after your aunt Meg's horses.”

Liam blinked. A tear slipped down his cheek. “He can't go,” he said plaintively. “Who'll make the furnace work? Who'll get us to the clinic if I get sick?”

“I can do those things, Liam,” Sierra said. She offered a weak smile, and Liam looked skeptical. “Okay, maybe not the furnace. But I know how to get a fire going in the wood stove. And I can handle the rest, too.”

Liam's lower lip wobbled. “I thought…maybe—”

Sierra hugged him, hard. She wanted to cry herself, but not in front of Liam. Not when his heart was breaking, just like hers. One of them had to be strong, and she was elected.

She was an adult.

She was a McKettrick.

Before she could think of anything to say, the back door opened and suddenly Travis was there. He looked at her briefly, but then his gaze went straight to Liam's face.

“If you came to say goodbye,” Liam blurted out, “then don't! I don't care if you're leaving—
I don't care!”
With that, he turned and fled up the stairs.

“That went well,” Travis said, taking off his hat and hanging it on the peg. He didn't take his coat off, though, which meant he really
was
going away. Sierra had known that—and, at the same time, she
hadn't
known it. Not until she was faced with the reality.

“He's attached to you,” she said evenly. “But he'll be all right.”

Travis studied her so closely that for a moment she thought he was going to refute her words. “I know this all seems pretty sudden,” he began.

Sierra kept her distance, glad she wasn't standing too close to him. “It's your life, Travis. You've done a lot to help us, and we're grateful.”

Upstairs, something crashed to the floor.

Sierra closed her eyes.

“I'd better go up and talk to him,” Travis said.

“No,” Sierra replied. “Leave him alone. Please.”

Another crash.

She found Liam's backpack, unzipped it and took out the inhaler. “I've got to get him calmed down,” she said quietly. “Thanks for…everything. And goodbye.”

“Sierra…”

“Goodbye, Travis.”

With that, she turned and went up the stairs.

Liam had destroyed his new telescope and his DVD player. He was standing in the middle of the wreckage, trembling with the helplessness of a child in a world run by adults, his face flushed and wet with tears.

Sierra picked up his shoes, made her way to him. “Put these on, buddy,” she said gently, crouching to help. “You'll cut your feet if you don't.”

“Is he—” Liam gulped down a sob “—gone?”

“I think so,” Sierra said.

“Why?” Liam wailed, putting a hand on her shoulder to keep from falling while he jammed one foot into a shoe, then the other. “Why does he have to go?”

Sierra sighed. “I don't know, honey,” she answered.

“Make him stay!”

“I can't, Liam.”

“Yes, you can! You just don't want to! You don't
want
me to have a dad!”

“Liam, that is enough.” Sierra stood, handed him the inhaler. “Breathe,” she ordered.

He obeyed, puffing on the inhaler between intermittent, heartbreaking sobs. “Make him stay,” he pleaded.

She squired him to the bed, pulled his shoes off again, tucked him in. “Liam,” she said.

Outside, the truck door slammed. The engine started up.

And suddenly Sierra was moving.

She ran down the stairs, through the kitchen, and wrenched open the back door. Coatless, shivering, she dashed across the yard toward Travis's truck.

He was backing out, but when he saw her, he stopped. Rolled down the window.

She jumped on to the running board, her fingers curved around the glass.
“Wait,”
she said, and then she felt stupid because she didn't know what to say after that.

Travis eased the door open, and she was forced to step back down on to the ground. Unbuttoning his coat as he got out, he wrapped it around her. But he didn't say anything at all. He just stood there, staring at her.

She huddled inside his coat. It smelled like him, and she wished she could keep it forever. “I thought it meant something,” she finally murmured. “When we made love, I mean. I thought it
meant something.
”

He cupped a gloved hand under her chin. “Believe me,” he said gruffly, “it did.”