The Mckettrick Way. Linda Miller Lael

      Angus, never one to be daunted by a little thing like a closed door, materialized just behind Eve, looked around at his assembled brood with pleased amazement. The place was jammed with McKettrick cousins, their wives and husbands, their growing families.

      Something tightened in the pit of Meg’s stomach.

      “Nonsense,” Eve said. “If you could have gotten away with it, you would have stayed home today, wandering around that old house in your pajamas, with no makeup on and your hair sticking out in every direction.”

      It was true, but beside the point. With Eve McKettrick for a mother, Meg couldn’t get away with much of anything. “I’m here,” she said. “Give me a break, will you?”

      She pulled off her coat, handed it to Eve, and sidled into the nearest group, a small band of women. Meg, who had spent all her childhood summers in Indian Rock, didn’t recognize any of them.

      “It’s all over the tabloids,” remarked a tall, thin woman wearing a lot of jewelry. “Brad O’Ballivan is in rehab again.”

      Meg caught her breath at the name, and nearly dropped the cup of punch someone shoved into her hands.

      “Nonsense,” a second woman replied. “Last week those rags were reporting that he’d been abducted by aliens.”

      “He’s handsome enough to have fans on other planets,” observed a third, sighing wistfully.

      Meg tried to ease out of the circle, but it had closed around her. She felt dizzy.

      “My cousin Evelyn works at the post office over in Stone Creek,” said yet another woman, with authority. “According to her, Brad’s fan mail is being forwarded to the family ranch, just outside of town. He’s not in rehab, and he’s not on another planet. He’s home. Evelyn says they’ll have to build a second barn just to hold all those letters.”

      Meg smiled rigidly, but on the inside, she was scrambling for balance.

      Suddenly, woman #1 focused on her. “You used to date Brad O’Ballivan, didn’t you, Meg?”

      “That—that was a long time ago,” Meg said as graciously as she could, given that she was right in the middle of a panic attack. “We were just kids, and it was a summer thing—” Frantically, she calculated the distance between Indian Rock and Stone Creek—a mere forty miles. Not nearly far enough.

      “I’m sure Meg has dated a lot of famous people,” one of the other women said. “Working for McKettrickCo the way she did, flying all over the place in the company jet—”

      “Brad wasn’t famous when I knew him,” Meg said lamely.

      “You must miss your old life,” someone else commented.

      While it was true that Meg was having some trouble shifting from full throttle to a comparative standstill, since the family conglomerate had gone public a few months before, and her job as an executive vice president had gone with it, she didn’t miss the meetings and the sixty-hour workweeks all that much. Money certainly wasn’t a problem; she had a trust fund, as well as a personal investment portfolio thicker than the Los Angeles phone book.

      A stir at the front door saved her from commenting.

      Sierra came in, looking baffled.

      “Surprise!” the crowd shouted as one.

      The surprise is on me, Meg thought bleakly. Brad O’Ballivan is back.

      Brad shoved the truck into gear and drove to the bottom of the hill, where the road forked. Turn left, and he’d be home in five minutes. Turn right, and he was headed for Indian Rock.

      He had no damn business going to Indian Rock.

      He had nothing to say to Meg McKettrick, and if he never set eyes on the woman again, it would be two weeks too soon.

      He turned right.

      He couldn’t have said why.

      He just drove.

      At one point, needing noise, he switched on the truck radio, fiddled with the dial until he found a country-western station. A recording of his own voice filled the cab of the pickup, thundering from all the speakers.

      He’d written that ballad for Meg.

      He turned the dial to Off.

      Almost simultaneously, his cell phone jangled in the pocket of his jacket; he considered ignoring it—there were a number of people he didn’t want to talk to—but suppose it was one of his sisters calling? Suppose they needed help?

      He flipped the phone open, not taking his eyes off the curvy mountain road to check the caller ID panel first. “O’Ballivan,” he said.

      “Have you come to your senses yet?” demanded his manager, Phil Meadowbrook. “Shall I tell you again just how much money those people in Vegas are offering? They’re willing to build you your own theater, for God’s sake. This is a three-year gig—”

      “Phil?” Brad broke in.

      “Say yes,” Phil pleaded.

      “I’m retired.”

      “You’re thirty-five,” Phil argued. “Nobody retires at thirty-five!”

      “We’ve already had this conversation, Phil.”

      “Don’t hang up!”

      Brad, who’d been about to thumb the off button, sighed.

      “What the hell are you going to do in Stone Creek, Arizona?” Phil demanded. “Herd cattle? Sing to your horse? Think of the money, Brad. Think of the women, throwing their underwear at your feet—”

      “I’ve been working real hard to repress that image,” Brad said. “Thanks a lot for the reminder.”

      “Okay, forget the underwear,” Phil shot back, without missing a beat. “But think of the money!”

      “I’ve already got more of that than I need, Phil, and so do you, so spare me the riff where your grandchildren are homeless waifs picking through garbage behind the supermarket.”

      “I’ve used that one, huh?” Phil asked.

      “Oh, yeah,” Brad answered.

      “What are you doing, right this moment?”

      “I’m headed for the Dixie Dog Drive-In.”

      “The what?”

      “Goodbye, Phil.”

      “What are you going to do at the Dixie-Whatever Drive-In that you couldn’t do in Music City? Or Vegas?”

      “You wouldn’t understand,” Brad said. “And I can’t say I blame you, because I don’t really understand it myself.”

      Back in the day, he and Meg used to meet at the Dixie Dog, by tacit agreement, when either of them had been away. It had been some kind of universe-thing, purely intuitive. He guessed he wanted to see if it still worked—and he’d be damned if he’d try to explain that to Phil.

      “Look,” Phil said, revving up for another sales pitch, “I can’t put these casino people off forever. You’re riding high right now, but things are bound to cool off. I’ve got to tell them something—”

      “Tell them ‘thanks, but no thanks,’” Brad suggested. This time, he broke the connection.

      Phil, being Phil, tried to call twice before he finally gave up.

      Passing familiar landmarks, Brad told himself he ought to turn around. The old days were gone, things had ended badly between him and Meg anyhow, and she wasn’t going to be at the Dixie Dog.

      He kept driving.

      He went by the Welcome To Indian