McKettricks of Texas: Garrett. Linda Lael Miller
other lives. And there’s our own Garrett McKettrick, defending the man.” A sad shake of the head. “Jim and Sally raised those three boys of theirs right. Garrett ought to know better than to throw in with a crook like that.”
Just then, Rachel Strivens appeared in the doorway of Julie’s office. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly, seeing that Julie wasn’t alone, and started to leave.
“Wait,” Julie said.
Helen was already turning off the TV set, unplugging it, rolling it back out into the hallway on its noisy cart. If Helen had planned on staying to talk, she’d clearly changed her mind.
Blushing a little, Rachel slipped reluctantly into the room.
“Rachel,” Julie said quietly, “sit down, please.”
Rachel sat.
“What is it?” Julie finally asked, though of course she knew. She’d announced the suspension of plans to produce the showcase—it was only temporary, she’d insisted, she’d think of something—in all her English classes that day.
Rachel looked up, her brown eyes glistening with tears. “I just wanted to let you know that it’s okay, about the showcase probably not happening and everything,” she said. The girl made a visible effort to gather herself up, straightening her shoulders, raising her chin. “I can’t do any extracurricular activities anyway—Dad says I need to start working after school, so I can help out with the bills. His friend Dennis manages the bowling alley, and with the fall leagues starting up, they can use some extra people.”
Julie took a moment to absorb all the implications of that.
Rachel hadn’t said she wanted to save for college, or buy clothes or a car or a laptop, like most teenagers in search of employment. She’d said she had to “help out with the bills.”
She wasn’t planning to go to college.
“I understand,” Julie said, at some length, wishing she didn’t.
Rachel bit her lower lip, threw her long braid back over one shoulder. “Dad tries,” she said, her voice barely audible. “Everything is so hard, without my mom around anymore.”
Julie nodded, holding back tears. In five years, in ten years, in twenty, Rachel might still be working at the bowling alley—if she had a job at all. Julie had seen the phenomenon half a dozen times. “I’m sure that’s true,” she said.
Rachel was on her feet. Ready to go.
Julie leaned forward in her chair. “Have you actually been hired, Rachel, or is the job at the bowling alley just a possibility?”
Rachel stood on the threshold, poised to flee, but clearly wanting to stay. “It’s pretty definite,” she answered. “I just have to say yes, and it’s mine.”
Things like this happened, Julie reminded herself. The world was an imperfect place.
Kids tabled their dreams, thinking they’d get back to them later.
Except that they so rarely did, in Julie’s experience. One thing led to another. They met somebody and got married. Then there were children and rent to pay and car loans.
Rachel was so bright and talented, and she was standing at an important crossroads. In one direction lay a fine education and every hope of success. In the other …
The prospects made Julie want to cover her face with her hands.
After Rachel had gone, she sat very still for a long time, wondering what she could do to help.
Only one course of action came to mind, and that was probably a long shot.
She would speak to Rachel’s father.
CHAPTER THREE
TATE WAS WAITING AT THE AIRSTRIP in his truck when Garrett landed the Cessna around five that afternoon.
Garrett taxied to a stop outside the ramshackle hangar that had once housed his dad’s plane and shut off the engines. The blur of the props slowed until the paddles were visible.
He climbed down, shut the door behind him and walked toward his brother.
They met midway between the Cessna and Tate’s truck.
Obviously, Tate had heard about the scandal in Austin by then, and Garrett figured he was there to say, “I told you so.”
Instead, Tate reached out, rested a hand on Garrett’s shoulder. “You okay?”
Garrett didn’t know what to say then. Flying back from the capital, he’d rehearsed another scenario entirely—and that one hadn’t involved the sympathy and concern he saw in his brother’s eyes.
He nodded, though he couldn’t resist qualifying that with “I’ve been better.”
Tate let his hand fall back to his side. Folded his arms. “I caught the press conference on TV,” he said. “Cox isn’t planning to resign?”
Garrett sighed, shoved a hand through his hair. “He will,” he said sadly. “Right now, he’s still trying to convince himself that the hullabaloo will blow over and everything will get back to normal.”
“How’s Nan taking all this?”
“She’s holding up okay,” Garrett said. “As far as I can tell, anyway.”
Tate took that in. His expression was thoughtful. “Now what?” he asked, after a few moments had passed. “For you, I mean?”
“I catch my breath and look for another job,” Garrett replied.
“You quit?” Tate asked, sounding surprised. If there was one thing a McKettrick didn’t do, it was desert a sinking ship. Unless, of course, that ship had been commandeered by one of the rats.
Garrett grinned wanly. Spread his hands at his side. “I was fired,” he said.
Now there, he thought, was a first. In living memory, he knew of no McKettrick who had ever been fired from a job. On the other hand, most of them worked for themselves, and that had been the case for generations.
The look on Tate’s face would have been satisfying, under any other circumstances. “What?”
Garrett chuckled. Okay, so his brother’s surprise was sort of satisfying, circumstances notwithstanding. It made up for Garrett’s skinned pride, at least a little. “The senator and I had words,” he said. “He wanted to go on as if nothing had happened. I told him that wouldn’t work—he needed to fess up, stand by his wife and his kids, if he wanted to come out of this with any credibility at all, never mind holding on to his seat in the Senate. I agreed to handle the press conference because Nan practically begged me, but when it was over, the senator informed me that my services were no longer needed.” Still enjoying Tate’s bewilderment, Garrett started toward the Cessna he’d just climbed out of, intending to roll it into the hangar. He stopped, looked back over one shoulder. “You wouldn’t be in the market for a ranch hand, would you?”
Tate smiled, but there was a tinge of sadness to it. “Permanent or temporary?”
“Temporary,” Garrett said, after a moment of recovery. “I still want to work in government. And I’ve already had a couple of offers.”
Tate’s disappointment was visible in his face, though he was a good sport about it. “Okay,” he said. “How long is ‘temporary’?”
Garrett wasn’t sure how to answer that. He needed time—thinking time. Horse time. “As long as it takes,” he offered.
Tate put out a hand so they could shake on the agreement, nebulous as it was. “Fair enough,” he said.
Garrett nodded, watched as Tate turned to walk away, open the door of his truck and step up on the running board to climb behind the wheel.
“See