A Family Kind of Wedding Page 3

  “I’m just telling you that it wouldn’t hurt.” He glanced around the backyard where a rusted basketball hoop hung at an odd angle from the garage and the dandelions battled it out with the crabgrass for control of the lawn. Weeds choked the flower beds, and the patio furniture needed to be treated for a severe case of rust. Yep, the whole place needed a makeover—and badly. Even her old hound dog, Blue, who was lying in the shade of the porch, one silvering ear cocked though his eyes were closed, could probably use a flea bath, a teeth cleaning and a “buff and puff” from Elsie, the local dog groomer.

  It didn’t make Jarrod’s suggestion any more palatable. She was a woman with a mission, imagined herself launched into a career in high-profile journalism. It was coming her way, and soon. She might already have been sent her one-way ticket to fame and fortune—if the anonymous letter she’d received in this morning’s post was to be believed.

  “A man, Katie,” her brother repeated.

  “You’re like a broken record or CD, these days.” Planting both fists firmly on her hips, she asked, “So what do you suggest? That I take in a roommate so that I don’t con my lazy, no-good, self-serving half brothers into doing odd jobs like fixing the dryer or the dishwasher or the car for me?”

  A crooked smile tugged at the corner of Jarrod’s mouth. “Now, that’s an idea.” He swiped the beads of perspiration from his forehead and left a grease stain on his brow.

  “Or should I just take out an ad in the personals, hmm? ‘Wanted: Handyman and part-time father. Must do light housework. References required.’”

  “Maybe you should just get married,” he said, and Katie bristled at the thought.

  She wasn’t interested in marriage with anyone. Wasn’t even dating. For a second her thoughts skipped to Luke Gates, then, horrified, she cleared her throat as well as her mind. “Our family has enough of that going around,” she grumbled as they walked toward the back porch where several wasps were busily constructing a muddy nest in the corner of the ceiling. Blue struggled to his arthritic legs, and his tail whipped back and forth. Katie couldn’t let the subject drop. “If you haven’t noticed, Jarrod, I don’t have time for another man in my life. Believe me, Josh is enough.”

  “He’s one boy.”

  “And a great kid,” she said automatically as she tugged open the screen door. A jagged tear in the mesh was getting bigger by the day, but she ignored it as she always did. She had bigger worries, but she wasn’t about to tell her older brother that she was concerned as all get-out about her son, that it was hard as hell to raise a boy alone, that sometimes it scared her to death. Nope, she’d somehow deal with Josh and whatever challenge he came with. He was worth it.

  The interior of the kitchen was sweltering—nearly ninety degrees according to her indoor-outdoor thermometer. Though the window over the sink was ajar, no summer breeze slipped through to dissipate the smells of maple syrup and bacon that hung in the air from the breakfast she’d made hours before. Whining, Blue lifted his nose toward the sink where the frying pan was soaking in greasy water.

  “Trust me, boy, you don’t want it,” Katie advised.

  Swinging his gaze around what he called “a thousand square feet of chaos,” Jarrod asked, “Where’s Josh?”

  “At soccer practice. Earlier he was at Tiffany’s. He and Stephen have kind of bonded, I guess you’d say.”

  “Better than you and Tiffany?”

  “Actually, Tiff and I are getting along just great,” Katie said. “She wants me to rent out this place and take over hers.” She explained quickly about Tiffany’s offer earlier in the day. “So Tiffany and I don’t have a problem.”

  “Real sisters, eh?”

  “Half sisters.”

  “Close enough.” He winked at her, and she grinned. “Like you are to me.”

  “Right.”

  “So John’s getting his wish.”

  “Not completely, but this ragtag family is finally coming together a little, I think. Tiffany has agreed to be in Bliss’s wedding, and I never would have thought that was possible.” There was still some envy on Tiffany’s part because Bliss was John Cawthorne’s only legitimate daughter, but things were working out.

  Katie snagged a peanut from a bowl on the table and plopped it into her mouth. “I would never have thought that Tiffany would agree to be in Bliss’s wedding.”

  “See? Finding a man didn’t hurt Tiffany’s disposition, did it?”

  “Oh, get over yourself. So now men help women’s personalities? Come on, Jarrod, that kind of thinking went out with hula hoops.”

  “I’m just pointing out a simple fact.”

  “I’m not getting married, okay?” Biting her tongue before she said anything she might really regret, Katie took up her scratchy sponge and scrubbed the frying pan so fiercely, she wondered if she’d scrape the Teflon right off the metal. Though she relied on her brothers from time to time, they—especially Jarrod in his current older-brother mood—could be worse than irritating. “My marital status is, as they say, none of your business.”

  He had the audacity to laugh. “But your car is.”

  “Touché, brother dear,” she said with a sigh. “Want something to drink?”

  “Got a beer?”

  “Nope. Bottled water, tomato juice and grapefruit juice.”

  “Thanks anyway. Too healthy for me. I think I’ll pass.” He grabbed a handful of peanuts and tossed them one by one into the air, catching them in his mouth—a trick he’d perfected before Katie had even entered grade school.

  “Thanks for helping out,” she said over her shoulder.

  “Any time.” He was out the door, and it slapped shut behind him. Katie rinsed her hands and dried them quickly. Since Josh was at soccer practice, there was just enough time for her to do some research for a story she was investigating—the biggest news story in Bittersweet in years. She found her purse and slung the strap over her shoulder as she breezed out the back door. Someone had to solve the mystery surrounding Isaac Wells’s disappearance, and she was determined to get the ball rolling. One way or another, her byline was going to be on the story when it broke.

  * * *

  Astride a tired, sorrel mare, Luke squinted against an ever-lowering sun. His bones ached from over six hours in the saddle, and sweat had collected on his back. Dust covered his hands and face, and all he wanted was a cool shower and a cold bottle of beer. As the horse eased down a steep cattle trail, Luke eyed the rough terrain of rocky cliffs, narrow ridges and scraggly stands of oak and madrona. The place wasn’t exactly Eden. Not by a long shot.

  He’d spent the afternoon following deer and cattle trails that fanned across the hilly, sun-dried terrain. Thickets of scrawny trees offered some shade, but for the most part the earth was covered with brittle, bleached grass, rocks and a sprinkling of weeds. There wasn’t more than five acres of level land, and not much more of rolling hills. Most of the spread was mountain-goat country, with craggy hillsides, narrow ravines and a slash of a creek that zigzagged its way through the canyon floor.

  But it was perfect for trail rides and the small cattle drives he planned to organize as part of the working dude ranch he envisioned. Better yet, the eastern flank of the spread abutted a huge parcel of national forest service land that was open for the type of backpacking, hunting or camping he was going to offer to his clients.

  He frowned and wondered if, for the first time in his thirty-six years, he would finally find some peace of mind. “Not a prayer,” he said to the mare, a game little quarter horse who, he’d been told by Max Renfro, the onetime foreman of the place, was named Lizzy.

  Especially not until he found Ralph’s grandson or granddaughter. If there was one. Just because Dave had mentioned ten years after the fact that he thought he might have fathered a kid didn’t necessarily mean it was true. Luke could be chasing after the gossamer fabric of an old man’s dreams—nothing more.

  He clucked to the horse and nudged her sides. They started down the south
slope.

  A glint of metal flashed in the distance.

  “Whoa.”

  From his vantage spot on the hill, he had a full view of the Isaac Wells place. It had been unoccupied since the old guy had disappeared, but it had attracted its share of curiosity seekers despite the lengths of yellow police tape that had been strung across the main gate. According to Max Renfro, the sheriff’s department was always having to run someone off the place.

  Sure enough, there was a car in the drive—a convertible, he realized—and Luke felt an uneasy sensation stir in his gut. He reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a pair of binoculars.

  Lifting the glasses to his eyes, he spied Katie Kinkaid, as big as life, climbing over the fence and ignoring not only the police tape but the No Trespassing sign posted on the gate.

  Luke’s jaw grew hard as he watched her shade her eyes and peer into the windows of the dilapidated old house. Luke had never met Isaac Wells, but his mysterious disappearance a while back was well known. So what was Katie Kinkaid doing, nosing around the neglected spread?

  “She’s a snoopy thing,” he remarked to the horse, then remembered that she was a reporter of some kind or other. She leaned over to look through one window as if she were trying to see beneath a half-lowered shade, and Luke’s gaze settled on her rear end, round and firm beneath her shorts. His mouth turned to sand, and he suddenly felt like a schoolboy for staring at her. Who cared if she was wandering around the abandoned farm? It wasn’t any of his business.

  But the rumors he’d been hearing in the taverns and coffee shops—talk of possible kidnapping, burglary and murder—cut through his mind. What if Isaac Wells had been the victim of foul play? What if he’d been killed, and the murderer was still on the loose?

  It’s not your problem, he told himself and decided he was only borrowing trouble. If there was a culprit involved in the Isaac Wells mystery, he was long gone. There probably wasn’t much danger anyway. The whole Isaac Wells mess was probably blown out of proportion, grist for the slow-turning gossip mill in this part of the country. He took one final look at the fiery redhead. She was standing now, one hip thrown out the way it had been earlier, and as she turned toward him, he noticed the now familiar pucker of her full lips, the arched eyebrows pulled together in concentration.

  He swallowed hard as his gaze skated down the column of her throat to the gap between the lapels of her blouse, to the hint of cleavage he’d seen earlier. He gritted his teeth and looked away in disgust. He wasn’t used to the earthy pull of this woman, the desire that singed his mind every time he looked at her. “Come on,” he ground out, clucking to the horse and urging her back down the steep grade.

  He couldn’t worry about Ms. Kinkaid or anyone else, for that matter. He’d learned long ago that he could only take care of himself.

  At that particular thought, he scowled. Reaching flatter ground, he pressed his knees into Lizzy’s sweaty sides. Though she was tired, the mare responded, her strides stretching as they reached the lower hills where the grade was much gentler and the stables were in sight. Her ears pricked forward, and she let out a little nicker at the small herd that had gathered by the weathered fence.

  “Yeah, and they miss you, too, Lizzy,” Luke said, already feeling at home on this dusty scrap of land. All of the outbuildings needed new roofs, the siding of each was crying out for gallons of paint, and there were few windows that didn’t require replacement of at least one new pane.

  But he was getting ahead of himself. First he had to find out if Ralph’s son had fathered a child around here. It shouldn’t be too hard. He’d already started checking birth notices for ten and eleven years back. Tomorrow he’d drive to the county courthouse to check records there, and, of course, there was always local gossip—as good a place to start as any.

  He cooled Lizzy down and stripped her of bridle and saddle, then set her free in the closest field. With an eager nicker, she joined the small herd gathered near a solitary pine tree. A few half-grown foals frolicked around their more sedate dams while a roan gelding rolled on the ground. His legs pawed the air madly, and he grunted in pleasure as brown clouds of dust enveloped his body. Luke smiled. All in all, the horses looked healthy and alert. Good stock. Ten head if you counted the two fillies and one colt.

  The cattle were another story. They roamed the hillsides freely and were rangy and lean—not exactly prime beef. But they would do for what he had in mind.

  His plan was to start renovations on the main house as soon as the building permits were approved by the county, work through the winter, then start advertising in January. In order to be in full operation this coming spring, he’d have to hire at least basic help—a cook and housekeeper, along with a few ranch hands and a part-time guide or two. Hopefully he’d have his first group of clients in by mid-May. He figured he’d run the first two years in the red, but after that, he hoped to turn a profit.

  He had to. All his hopes and dreams were tied up in this old place, he thought with a humorless smile.

  Years ago, he’d had other visions for his life. He’d thought he’d settle down and raise a family, save enough to buy his own place and live out the American Dream. But things hadn’t worked out the way he’d thought they would. His stomach clenched when he thought of his marriage. Hell, what a mess. Seven years of bad luck. Then the divorce. As bad as the marriage had been, the divorce had been even worse.

  Well, it was over. A long time ago. Since then, he’d worked his butt off to save enough money to buy a place of his own, and this, it seemed, was it. So he’d better make good.

  He locked up, then climbed into his old truck. With a flick of his wrist, he turned the key. Tomorrow he’d start by cleaning out each of the buildings and checking on the permits again—-just as soon as he’d done a little digging into the past. He figured it wouldn’t take long to discover the truth. If Dave Sorenson had fathered a kid eleven years ago, someone around a town as small as Bittersweet would know. It was just a matter of time before he found out.

  * * *

  “Don’t do this to me!” Katie cried.

  She tromped on the accelerator of the convertible, pushing the pedal to the floor, but the car continued to slow. The engine had died, and she had no choice but to roll on to the shoulder of the road.

  “Perfect,” she grumbled sarcastically. She was nearly three miles outside of town, the sun was about to set and she was wearing sandals that would cut her feet to ribbons before she could catch sight of the town limits of Bittersweet. “Just damned perfect.”

  The car eased to a stop, tires crunching on the gravel.

  Valiantly she twisted the ignition again.

  Nothing.

  “Come on, come on.” She tried over and over, but the convertible was as dead as a proverbial doornail and wasn’t about to budge. “Great. Just bloody terrific!” She thought of her half brother and his efforts under the hood a short while ago. “Nice try, Jarrod,” she grumbled, but couldn’t really blame him. He was a private investigator, an ex-cop, and never had been a mechanic. Just because he was male didn’t mean he knew anything about alternators or batteries or spark plugs or whatever it was that made a car run.

  With a pained sigh she dropped her head on to the steering wheel and whispered, “A cell phone, a cell phone. My kingdom for a cell phone.” Sweat ran down the back of her neck, and within seconds a lazy bee buzzed and hovered near her head.

  Katie drew in a long, deep breath, then gave herself a quick mental shake.

  “Okay, okay, you’re a smart woman, Kinkaid. When Jarrod worked on this he might have messed up and didn’t reconnect a wire or hose properly. It’s probably no big deal.” She buoyed herself up as she slid from behind the steering wheel and looked under the hood. The same engine she’d stared at earlier in the day sat where it always had, ticking as it cooled in front of her. Everything appeared in order, but then she didn’t know up from sideways when it came to cars. Gingerly, hoping not to burn herself or smear oil a
ll over, she jiggled a few wires, poked at the hoses, checked the battery cables and saw nothing out of the ordinary. Not that she would recognize it if it was.

  In the distance, beyond the last hill, the sound of an engine reached her ears. “Hallelujah!”

  Ignoring all the warnings she’d been given as a schoolgirl, she stepped around the car and raised her hands. On this road she was most likely to come across a farmer or ranch hand, or a mother toting her kids into town.

  A battered pickup crested the hill, and her heart nose-dived. She recognized Luke Gates’s truck before it ground to a stop.

  “Great,” she muttered sarcastically. “Just…perfect.” She told herself she should be relieved rather than disgusted, angry or embarrassed. After all, he was a man she trusted. Well, sort of. At least, as far as she knew, he wasn’t a rapist or murderer or any other kind of criminal.

  He parked just ahead of her car and opened the truck’s door. Long, jeans-clad legs unfolded from behind the wheel, and leather boots that had seen better days hit the ground. “Trouble?” he asked as he slammed the door shut.

  “A little.” Katie’s heart drummed a bit faster, and she mentally berated herself for letting his innate sex appeal get to her. What did she care if he was tall and lean and irreverently intriguing? She’d met a lot of men in her lifetime—a lot—who were just as good-looking, rebelliously charming and sensual as this guy.

  Hadn’t she?

  “Looks like a lot of trouble to me.”

  “I guess. It just died on me,” she said as he bent to look under the hood.

  “And it was runnin’ fine before?”

  “No, not really.” Standing next to him, her bare shoulder brushing against his forearm, she explained how the car had been giving her fits and starts over the past six months. “It zips along just fine, then something goes wrong. I have a mechanic or one of my brothers fiddle around with it, and it finally begins to run again. Or, worse yet, it stops on me, and with enough prayer and sweat I manage to get it going again, only to take it into the service station where it purrs like a kitten.” She slid the convertible a spiteful glance. “Then the mechanics can’t find anything wrong with it.” Frustration burned through her veins. “It’s what you might call ‘temperamental.’”