The Mckettrick Way. Linda Miller Lael

      He frowned. Things changed, places changed.

      What if the Dixie Dog had closed down?

      What if it was boarded up, with litter and sagebrush tumbling through a deserted parking lot?

      And what the hell did it matter, anyhow?

      Brad shoved a hand through his hair. Maybe Phil and everybody else was right—maybe he was crazy to turn down the Vegas deal. Maybe he would end up sitting in the barn, serenading a bunch of horses.

      He rounded a bend, and there was the Dixie Dog, still open. Its big neon sign, a giant hot dog, was all lit up and going through its corny sequence—first it was covered in red squiggles of light, meant to suggest catsup, and then yellow, for mustard. There were a few cars lined up in the drive-through lane, a few more in the parking lot.

      Brad pulled into one of the slots next to a speaker and rolled down the truck window.

      “Welcome to the Dixie Dog Drive-In,” a youthful female voice chirped over the bad wiring. “What can I get you today?”

      Brad hadn’t thought that far, but he was starved. He peered at the light-up menu box under the chunky metal speaker. Then the obvious choice struck him and he said, “I’ll take a Dixie Dog,” he said. “Hold the chili and onions.”

      “Coming right up” was the cheerful response. “Anything to drink?”

      “Chocolate shake,” he decided. “Extra thick.”

      His cell phone rang again.

      He ignored it again.

      The girl thanked him and roller-skated out with the order about five minutes later.

      When she wheeled up to the driver’s-side window, smiling, her eyes went wide with recognition, and she dropped the tray with a clatter.

      Silently, Brad swore. Damn if he hadn’t forgotten he was famous.

      The girl, a skinny thing wearing too much eye makeup, immediately started to cry. “I’m sorry!” she sobbed, squatting to gather up the mess.

      “It’s okay,” Brad answered quietly, leaning to look down at her, catching a glimpse of her plastic name tag. “It’s okay, Mandy. No harm done.”

      “I’ll get you another dog and a shake right away, Mr. O’Ballivan!”

      “Mandy?”

      She stared up at him pitifully, sniffling. Thanks to the copious tears, most of the goop on her eyes had slid south. “Yes?”

      “When you go back inside, could you not mention seeing me?”

      “But you’re Brad O’Ballivan!”

      “Yeah,” he answered, suppressing a sigh. “I know.”

      She was standing up again by then, the tray of gathered debris clasped in both hands. She seemed to sway a little on her rollers. “Meeting you is just about the most important thing that’s ever happened to me in my whole entire life. I don’t know if I could keep it a secret even if I tried!”

      Brad leaned his head against the back of the truck seat and closed his eyes. “Not forever, Mandy,” he said. “Just long enough for me to eat a Dixie Dog in peace.”

      She rolled a little closer. “You wouldn’t happen to have a picture you could autograph for me, would you?”

      “Not with me,” Brad answered. There were boxes of publicity pictures in storage, along with the requisite T-shirts, slick concert programs and other souvenirs commonly sold on the road. He never carried them, much to Phil’s annoyance.

      “You could sign this napkin, though,” Mandy said. “It’s only got a little chocolate on the corner.”

      Brad took the paper napkin, and her order pen, and scrawled his name. Handed both items back through the window.

      “Now I can tell my grandchildren I spilled your lunch all over the pavement at the Dixie Dog Drive-In, and here’s my proof.” Mandy beamed, waggling the chocolate-stained napkin.

      “Just imagine,” Brad said. The slight irony in his tone was wasted on Mandy, which was probably a good thing.

      “I won’t tell anybody I saw you until you drive away,” Mandy said with eager resolve. “I think I can last that long.”

      “That would be good,” Brad told her.

      She turned and whizzed back toward the side entrance to the Dixie Dog.

      Brad waited, marveling that he hadn’t considered incidents like this one before he’d decided to come back home. In retrospect, it seemed shortsighted, to say the least, but the truth was, he’d expected to be—Brad O’Ballivan.

      Presently, Mandy skated back out again, and this time, she managed to hold on to the tray.

      “I didn’t tell a soul!” she whispered. “But Heather and Darlene both asked me why my mascara was all smeared.” Efficiently, she hooked the tray onto the bottom edge of the window.

      Brad extended payment, but Mandy shook her head.

      “The boss said it’s on the house, since I dumped your first order on the ground.”

      He smiled. “Okay, then. Thanks.”

      Mandy retreated, and Brad was just reaching for the food when a bright red Blazer whipped into the space beside his. The driver’s-side door sprang open, crashing into the metal speaker, and somebody got out, in a hurry.

      Something quickened inside Brad.

      And in the next moment, Meg McKettrick was standing practically on his running board, her blue eyes blazing.

      Brad grinned. “I guess you’re not over me after all,” he said.

      Chapter Two

      After Sierra had opened all her shower presents, and cake and punch had been served, Meg had felt the old, familiar tug in the middle of her solar plexus and headed straight for the Dixie Dog Drive-In. Now that she was there, standing next to a truck and all but nose to nose with Brad O’Ballivan through the open window, she didn’t know what to do—or say.

      Angus poked her from behind, and she flinched.

      “Speak up,” her dead ancestor prodded.

      “Stay out of this,” she answered, without thinking.

      Puzzlement showed in Brad’s affably handsome face. “Huh?”

      “Never mind,” Meg said. She took a step back, straightened. “And I am so over you.”

      Brad grinned. “Damned if it didn’t work,” he marveled. He climbed out of the truck to stand facing Meg, ducking around the tray hooked to the door. His dark-blond hair was artfully rumpled, and his clothes were downright ordinary.

      “What worked?” Meg demanded, even though she knew.

      Laughter sparked in his blue-green eyes, along with considerable pain, and he didn’t bother to comment.

      “What are you doing here?” she asked.

      Brad spread his hands. Hands that had once played Meg’s body as skillfully as any guitar. Oh, yes. Brad O’Ballivan knew how to set all the chords vibrating.

      “Free country,” he said. “Or has Indian Rock finally seceded from the Union with the ranch house on the Triple M for a capitol?”

      Since she felt a strong urge to bolt for the Blazer and lay rubber getting out of the Dixie Dog’s parking lot, Meg planted her feet and hoisted her chin. McKettricks, she reminded herself silently, don’t run.

      “I heard you were in rehab,” she said, hoping to get under his hide.

      “That’s a nasty rumor,” Brad replied