Ms. Shields did her wrong. Isn’t it possible she’s trying to set things right before it’s too late?”
Keegan gave a snort. “Love,” he told his cousin, “has softened your head.”
Rance chuckled. “That’s about all it’s softened,” he said.
Keegan grinned before he could catch himself. “You’re a lucky son of a bitch,” he told Rance. “So’s Jesse.”
“Your turn will come,” Rance replied, and he looked dead serious.
“I’m through with marriage,” Keegan answered. His ex-wife, Shelley, had cured him of any romantic notions he might have had where love and wedding cake were concerned. He was looking for regular sex of the no-strings-attached variety.
“I thought I was, too,” Rance said. He looked back over one shoulder toward his own place, and the pull of Emma’s presence was visible, for a fraction of a second, in the way he stood, leaning a little toward home.
“Pure luck,” Keegan reiterated.
“Come on over and have supper with us,” Rance urged, turning back to face Keegan again.
Keegan shook his head. “Not tonight,” he said.
Rance clasped Keegan’s shoulder briefly with one newly calloused hand. “I know it’s hard on you,” he said. “Psyche coming home to die and all. But she’s not stupid, Keeg. If she asked that Shields woman here for a visit, she’s got something in mind. You been to see her yet? Psyche, I mean?”
Again Keegan shook his head. Swallowed hard and looked away before meeting Rance’s steady gaze once more. “I’m going there tomorrow, for lunch.”
Rance nodded in solemn approval. “You tell Psyche I’ll be by later in the week, when she’s had more time to settle in.”
“I’ll tell her.”
Rance started to turn away, whistled for the horse. He caught the reins in one hand, put a foot into the stirrup, turned back before mounting up to go back to his woman and his kids. “Keeg?”
Keegan waited.
“If there’s trouble and Psyche needs our help, we’ll give it. You, me and Jesse. In the meantime, try not to let this eat another hole in your stomach lining.”
Until he’d met Emma—known as Echo when she first came to Indian Rock—driving a bright pink Volkswagon with a white dog riding shotgun, Rance had been as committed to McKettrickCo as Keegan was. He’d worn three-piece suits, traveled all over the world driving the hard bargains he was famous for and put in eighteen-hour days when he was in town.
He’d fallen in love, hard and fast, like Jesse before him, and nothing had been the same since. Now here he was, warning Keegan about ulcers.
Keegan was still getting used to the change, and there were times when he thought he never would.
He managed another grin, nodded again. “Take care,” he said.
“Back at you,” Rance replied.
And then he was riding away. Watching him go, Keegan felt about as lonesome as he ever had, and given some of the things he’d been through, that was saying something.
* * *
PSYCHE WATCHED from her bedroom window with a slight, wistful smile as Keegan got out of his car in front of the house, steeled himself in that subtle but unmistakable way she knew so well and opened the front gate.
I should have married him, she thought.
“Keegan’s here,” she told Florence, who had helped her out of her nightgown and into a royal-blue silk caftan for the occasion. She’d actually considered wearing a wig, but in the end she’d decided on a scarf instead. It seemed less pitiful, somehow.
“I’d better get down there and open the door for him, then,” said Florence. “You want me to come back for you?”
Psyche squared her shoulders. Turned to face her old friend. “No,” she replied, summoning up a smile that wouldn’t fool Florence for a moment. “I want to make an entrance.”
Florence smiled back, but tears shimmered in her eyes, too. She nodded once and left.
From the nursery, Psyche could hear Molly’s voice, comically high-pitched as she read Lucas a story. Psyche’s heart pinched; it was hard, withdrawing from her son so he could bond with Molly, but it had to be done. She’d fought the good fight. Psyche had done everything she could to stay alive, but it was a losing battle, and she knew it. Every day she was weaker than the one before. Every day the world seemed a little less real, a little less solid, as though she were retreating from it somehow, dissolving like a wisp of smoke.
She wasn’t even dead yet, she thought, and she already knew what it felt like to be a ghost.
Downstairs the doorbell chimed.
Supporting herself by keeping one hand to the corridor wall, Psyche made her slow way toward the elevator.
When the door opened on the first floor, Keegan was waiting there, quick to offer an arm and a gentle smile. His McKettrick-blue eyes were dark with a sorrow he was trying hard to hide.
Something swelled in Psyche’s throat. Made it impossible to speak.
Keegan took in the caftan and the flowing scarf. “You look as beautiful as ever,” he said.
Psyche knew he was lying, and she blessed him for it, and for giving her a moment to regain her composure. “Stop it, you flattering scoundrel,” she said. Then, with a twinkle, “But not right away.”
He laughed hoarsely and bent to kiss her forehead. He was still gripping her arm, firmly but gently, and when she wavered a little, turning to lead the way to the back sunporch, where Florence had set the table for lunch, he swooped her up into his arms and carried her.
Tears stung her eyes. She had forgotten such gallantry existed.
When they reached the rear of the house Florence was there, arranging snow-white peonies, big as salad plates, in a shimmering crystal bowl.
Psyche gasped at the sight of her favorite flower. It was the third of July, and the last of the peonies in her garden in Flagstaff had been gone for two weeks. “Where on earth did you get those?” she asked Florence, putting a hand to her heart.
“Keegan brought them,” Florence said, sniffling once before resetting her shoulders to their usual proud lines.
Keegan lowered Psyche carefully into one of the chairs at the table. His neck was a little flushed.
Psyche strained to kiss his cheek and gave voice to an earlier thought. “I should have married you, Keegan McKettrick.”
He smiled. “I tried to tell you,” he teased.
“Sit down so I can serve this lunch,” Florence blustered, uncomfortable with all the emotion. “I been slaving in that kitchen all morning long.”
