Buch lesen: «The Mighty Quinns: Mac»

To Birgit Davis-Todd, who first suggested I write about the Quinns.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Praise

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Prologue

“WHAT’S YOUR NAME, SON?”

Lukas sat on the edge of the gurney, his gaze darting around the exam room. He was trapped by a pale green curtain on three sides, and he fought the impulse to run. It would only make him look more suspicious and he was unsure of what was waiting on the other side.

The police officer pulled up a stool and sat down, resting his hand on Luke’s knee. “Do you know where your parents are? They were with you ten days ago when you checked into the motel. What happened?”

Tears welled in the corners of his eyes. How long had it been? He’d lost count of the days since the fight. It had been a particularly violent argument between his mother and father, and, as usual, he’d locked himself in the bathroom, covering his ears against the bitter words they’d flung at each other.

But this fight had been different. The next morning, when he’d woken up, they were gone. He’d found himself alone, his meager belongings scattered around the motel room. He’d waited, certain they’d return for him. As the days passed and he’d been forced to search the trash cans for food, Luke realized that he was twelve years old and he was on his own.

“Do you have any relatives we can call?” the officer asked.

It had always been just the three of them, as long as he could remember. They’d moved around a lot, sometimes staying in motels for weeks on end, other times settling into a house or an apartment when his father found work. Luke would enroll in school and life would seem almost normal.

Then, something would happen and they’d be off again, slipping away in the dark of night, leaving behind anything that couldn’t fit in the car.

He couldn’t remember when life wasn’t like this, when his father wasn’t angry and abusive and when his mother wasn’t terrified. They were running from something—or someone—dangerous. Whoever or whatever it was, it was always just a few steps behind them.

“I—I’m not sure where they are,” Luke murmured.

He knew just one truth. They were gone and he was all alone in the world—all alone against some invisible threat that still stalked him. They’d left St. Louis two days ago, on the run again. He wasn’t even sure where they were now. Colorado? Utah? They’d been headed to Oregon, but that’s all he’d been told.

“Where do you live?”

“I can’t remember,” he insisted.

“Son, I don’t think—”

“I don’t know,” Luke said. “Can I leave now?”

“No, you can’t leave. We need to find a relative,” the officer said, “or you’re going to have to go into the foster care system. You don’t want to do that, do you?”

In truth, the option sounded good to him. He’d be safe, hidden among strangers. Luke wasn’t sure how long he’d be able to survive on his own. He had no money, nowhere to sleep, nothing to eat. “It’s okay,” he said. “You can send me there.”

“No relatives? No one who might want to take you in?”

Luke shook his head, then slipped off the edge of the gurney. “I’m hungry. Can I get something to eat?”

The officer stood up. “Let me see what I can find,” he murmured.

Luke circled the gurney and found a dark corner where he could think. Up until a few weeks ago, he’d been Lukas Parrish. But since leaving St. Louis he was Lukas MacKenzie. “M-A-C-capital-K-E-N-Z-I-E,” he murmured to himself. His father had made him spell it over and over again until it came naturally. There had been other names in other places. He had no idea which one to use. He knew that Parrish wasn’t his real last name, either. Before Parrish it had been Cartwright, and before that, Phillips. If he thought about it hard enough, he could come up with ten or fifteen different names. Since MacKenzie was the last name his father had told him to use, that was the name he’d given the police.

Pulling his knees up to his chest, he wrapped his arms over his head, wrapping his body into a tight ball. The tears stung his eyes and Luke finally surrendered to his fears. A string of curses burst from his lips and he felt a surge of anger toward his parents. How could they do this to him?

This was all his fault. He should have been brave and convinced his mother to leave his father. He should have kept her safe. They could have made a good life for themselves. But his father was a selfish, obsessive man. He hadn’t been happy unless he controlled every facet of his family’s lives. He’d always said it was for their safety, but Luke knew better. His father would never have let his mother go.

He saw a policewoman approach and he avoided her gaze, knowing there would be more questions.

“How are you doing, Luke?” she asked in a kind voice.

“Not so good,” Luke murmured. “Am I going to foster care soon?”

She pulled something out of her pocket and held it out to him. It was the little tin box of treasures that he kept with him. Luke wasn’t sure where the box had come from, but he’d always had it. No matter where they moved, his mother helped him find a proper hiding place for it, a spot that his father wouldn’t find. Luke wasn’t sure why it meant so much them. He assumed that the contents of the box must be important.

“Is this yours?” the officer asked.

Luke nodded and he took the box from her outstretched hand. “Can you find a photo of your mother in there?”

Luke sorted through it and held up a shot of the two of them together taken in a photo booth at a seaside amusement park. He’d been young, but he remembered that day—the warm sand and the salty sea breeze. The gulls that swooped down from the sky to finish the remains of Luke’s and his mother’s sandwiches.

“This is her?” the policewoman asked.

Luke nodded.

“Do you have a picture of your father?”

“He doesn’t like photos.”

She held out a small wallet-sized album. “What about these people? They look older. Are they your grandparents?”

He shook his head. “I’m not sure who they are.”

“And these wedding bands? And this watch? Who does this belong to?”

Luke shrugged. “They’ve always been in the box. I don’t know.”

The rest of the treasures were things he’d added—a seashell, a piece of pink quartz, an old Indian head nickel. Had his father known of the box, the contents would have been pawned long ago.

“We’re going to make a copy of this photo and see if we can track down your parents,” she said. “And if you remember anything else, you give me a call, all right?” She handed him a business card. “That’s my home number.”

“I don’t think they want me,” he said. Tears filled his eyes and spilled out onto his cheeks. Though he tried to stop them by sheer force of will, nothing he thought or did seemed to control his grief. She rubbed his back until he stopped crying, then handed him a wad of tissues.

“I can’t believe that’s true,” she said.

Maybe he was wrong. But until he was sure, he’d follow his father’s rules. The rules would keep him safe. His name was Luke MacKenzie. But his friends called him Mac.

1

“WHO ARE YOU? Where’s Buddy? I need to talk to Buddy. When will he be back?”

Luke MacKenzie grabbed a rag from the floor of the airplane hangar and wiped the grease from his hands. As he approached the counter, he studied the woman who had burst through the door just a few seconds before.

Her dark hair was windblown and the color was high on her cheeks. His gaze dropped to her lush lips and perfect white teeth. Her expression, though tense with anger, did nothing to diminish her natural beauty. In truth, he hadn’t met anyone quite so beautiful in a very long time.

Mac grinned lazily and walked up to the counter. “Which one of those questions would you like me to answer first?” he asked, leaning closer to her.

Her scowl deepened. “Where’s Buddy?”

“He’s in the hospital having his hip replaced.”

The news seemed to take her by surprise and he detected a slight blush creeping up her cheeks. “Oh,” she murmured. “He did tell me that. When is he going to be back?”

“About three weeks,” he said. “Maybe a month.”

“And who are you?”

“Luke MacKenzie,” he said. “They call me Mac.” He wiped his hand on his jeans and held it out. To his surprise, she took and shook it firmly. Mac held on for a few moments longer, enjoying the feel of her slender fingers resting in his palm.

“Mr. MacKenzie, I—”

“Just Mac,” he insisted, giving her hand another squeeze.

She straightened her spine and met his gaze, then slowly tugged her hand from his. “Well, Mr. Just Mac, let me give you the 411 because obviously Buddy didn’t fill you in before he left. The next time Charlie Clemmons shows up and wants you to haul that ridiculous Marry Me, Emma banner all over the sky, you’re supposed to tell him no!”

“And your name is...”

“Emma,” she murmured. “Emma Bryant.”

“Well, Marry-Me Emma, Buddy might be able to turn down two hundred dollars for an airborne marriage proposal, but I don’t have that luxury. As long as Charlie’s money is green, I’m gonna take the job.”

“But you don’t understand. This has become an obsession with Charlie. And I’m not going to marry him. Not now. Not ever. So he can waste all the money he wants but I’m not going to change my mind.”

“Maybe he’s in love,” Mac suggested.

“And maybe he’s completely insane,” she countered.

“Why don’t you want to marry him?”

“Haven’t you been listening? He’s insane. He just won’t let go. It’s not healthy.”

“Is there another reason you don’t want to marry him? Maybe there’s someone else?”

She gasped, then fixed him with a glare that could melt steel. “That is none of your business! And if I were you, I wouldn’t listen to town gossip.”

“There’s gossip? I’m afraid I’m out of the loop. I’ve got a few minutes. Why don’t you fill me in? Can I get you something cold to drink? I’ve got a Yoo-hoo back in the fridge.”

She looked at him as if he’d just asked her to strip naked and join him in a round of “The Hokey Pokey.” “I’m sure you think you’re charming, and I’m sure that charm works on a certain element of society, but it’s not going to work on me.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” he said.

“You didn’t ask me a question,” she said.

“Sure I did. I asked if there was someone else. A boyfriend or a fiancé? I could see how a stray marriage proposal might be problematic in that situation.”

She really was a beautiful woman, Mac mused. Her short dark hair curled gently around her pretty face, enhancing wide eyes and a lush mouth that had been made to be kissed. She also had thick lashes that ringed her brilliant green eyes—eyes that seemed to see right into his soul.

“Just don’t fly any more of his banners,” she warned. She spun on her heel and started for the door, but he called her name and she stopped and slowly faced him.

“You know, the fastest way to get rid of the old guy is to take up with a new guy.”

“You think I don’t know that? When you live in a small town like San Coronado, decent men are in short supply. Believe me, I’ve been looking.”

“Maybe you haven’t been looking hard enough,” Mac suggested.

She strode toward the door, but before she had a chance to pull it open, he spoke.

“You could go out with me,” Mac said. “I’m new in town, and I haven’t met many people. It would be nice to have someone show me around.” He’d issued the request more as an experiment than an actual invitation. And as an excuse to keep her in the shop just a little bit longer.

He found her quite fascinating, this stunningly beautiful girl who couldn’t seem to find a man. But now that he’d made the invitation, he wanted her to accept. “Let me get you that Yoo-hoo and we can talk over the particulars. Give me a chance to apologize for the whole banner problem.”

She stared at him for a long moment. “You’re asking me out? On a date?”

“Yes,” he said.

“We just met. And I don’t think I like you.”

“’Tis one thing to be tempted,” he murmured. “Another to fall.”

“Do you really believe a little Shakespeare is going to make me swoon for you?”

“Swoon? What does that mean?”

“Look it up,” she said.

“I left my dictionary in my other toolbox,” he teased. “Do you like Shakespeare?”

“He’s only the greatest writer who ever lived.”

“So where do you come down in the authorship issue? Are you a Stratfordian or an Oxfordian?” Clearly his question had taken her by surprise. He also noticed a bit of interest in her expression. “I just finished a new book on the subject.”

“The Weight of the Words?” Emma asked. “I loved that book.”

“We should get together and discuss it,” he said.

Emma opened her mouth, then frowned, shaking her head. “Just don’t do it again,” she warned. With that, she walked out of the hangar and into the bright sunshine of the October day.

“Do what again?” Mac shouted. “Ask you out on a date? Or fly that banner?”

He strolled over to the door and stared out, hoping to catch one last glimpse of her. But she’d already hopped in her car and started to race the battered Volvo station wagon down the airstrip road, a cloud of dust trailing behind it.

J. J. Jones, Buddy’s mechanic, strolled around the corner of the hangar wall and handed an old hydraulic pump to Mac. “Was that Emma Bryant?”

“Yeah,” Mac said.

“I told you not to fly that banner,” J.J. said.

“What do you know about her?” he asked.

“Know about her?” He grabbed the pump from Mac’s hand. “We went to school together. She’s the same age as I am. Twenty-seven. She’s the town librarian. Her dad died when she was young and her mom passed away about three years ago after a long illness. Emma was devoted to her. Cared for her at home for almost four years.”

“If she’s such a saint, why do people gossip about her?” he asked.

J.J. gave him an uneasy look. “What do you mean?”

“She asked if I’d heard the gossip around town about her. What gossip?”

“Listen, I don’t like tellin’ tales. My mama said if I keep my mouth shut and my hands clean I’d go far in life. I always follow my mama’s advice.”

“Come on. If it’s something everyone around town knows, why can’t you spill?” Mac prodded. “Is she crazy? Like bunny-boiler crazy?”

J.J. shook his head. “She’s real nice. She’s one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. Always very generous with her time. Everyone loves her. Everyone.”

“So she’s perfect?”

He nodded. “As close to perfect as you’re going to get,” J.J. said. “You won’t catch me saying anything bad about her.”

Mac sighed. “You think she’d go out with me?” he asked.

“I doubt you’d be her type,” J.J. said.

“She’s picky, then,” he said.

“She’s careful,” J.J. countered.

Mac frowned. What did that mean? Careful? She was a twenty-seven-year-old single woman. If she was looking for love, she’d have to take some risks to find it. “So she hangs out at the library?”

J.J. grabbed the pump. “I gotta get back to work. That pump on your plane is shot. We should probably replace both of them while we’re at it. Want me to order two?”

“No, just get me one,” Mac murmured. “And find me a decent price.”

“I will,” J.J. said.

Mac’s gaze was drawn back to the road where Emma Bryant had disappeared. This was a strange feeling, Mac mused. It wasn’t often that he found himself genuinely intrigued by a woman. His reactions to the female gender came in one of two varieties—she’s hot and I’d like to take her to bed...or, no, thank you. But this was something very different.

“Emma Bryant,” he murmured to himself as he walked back inside. Marry-Me Emma. If he took the proposal sign up again tomorrow morning, he could be assured that she’d stop by again and register her opinion.

* * *

“I THINK HE asked me out.” Emma paused, then shook her head. “Or maybe I just imagined it. Everything just happened so quickly. The conversation jumped around so much I could barely keep up. But I’m pretty sure there was an invitation in there.”

“What did you say?”

“I can’t remember.” Emma turned to her best friend, Trisha Kelling, and shrugged. “I wish I could rewind the whole thing and listen to it again.”

“Wait,” Trisha said. “Pull over.”

“What?”

“Just pull over. We need your full concentration.”

Emma did as she was instructed, steering the station wagon to the edge of the dusty road. She threw it into Park and faced her friend, taking a deep breath.

“What did he look like?” Trish asked.

“Cute. No, handsome. Really sexy. Dark hair, pale blue eyes. You know like blue denim that has been faded by the sun.”

“Oh, God, I love that kind of blue,” Trisha said. “What else?”

“Straight nose. Not too big. Just right. Nice teeth. And a really nice body, at least, what I was able to see of it.”

“What about the goods?” she said. “Did you check that out?”

“No! Why would I check out his...crotch?”

“All right. Was he charming or just kind of full of himself?”

“A little bit of both. But I think he might have been teasing me. He was clever. He seemed really smart. He quoted Shakespeare at me.”

“Really? What did he say?”

Trish was an English teacher at the high school and knew her Shakespeare. Emma searched her memory for the phrase, but she couldn’t recall the exact words—a sign that Luke MacKenzie had really flustered her. “Something about being tempted and then falling.”

“’Tis one thing to be tempted? Another thing to fall?”

“Yes! That’s it. As You Like It?”

“I should remember where it comes from and don’t you dare tell anyone that I don’t.” Trish pulled out her phone and punched in the quote. “Measure For Measure. What do you think he meant?”

“I’m not sure.” Emma rubbed her face with her hands. “After that he started talking about the authorship controversy, the Oxfordians versus the Stratfordians. It was as if he knew I was fascinated with the subject and he was tempting me.”

“’Tis one thing to be tempted...” Trisha said.

Emma smiled. “This could be it. He could be the one. It makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“He’s handsome and sexy. He appears to have a brain. And an abundance of charm.”

“And he’s only going to be in town for a short time. Six weeks at the most. That’s perfect,” Emma said. “I can’t believe I’m finally going to rid myself of this awful virginity. I’ll have sex with this man and it will finally be done.”

Emma drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. She’d never intended to remain a virgin for this long. It had just happened. Each year had passed without a potential lover in sight and before she knew it, she’d ended up here, more than halfway to thirty and still as chaste as a nun.

“I shouldn’t have walked out,” Emma said. “I should have flirted with him.”

“You could always go back,” Trish suggested.

“Under what pretense?”

“An apology for being such a bitch?”

“I was a bitch. I just couldn’t believe he was serious. A guy like that...and me. Marian the Librarian.”

“You could take him a book!” Trisha said. “You know he reads Shakespeare. If he likes Whitman, then he’s the ultimate sex machine.”

“Whitman? No, that would seem so...obvious. And a little desperate.”

“But you are desperate,” Trish said. “Maybe it would be best to just admit that right at the top. There is something sexy about a woman desperate to copulate.”

“Copulate?”

“My mother always taught me to use the proper terms for sex.”

“Alice Pettit told me to keep my knees together and my feet on the floor,” Emma said. “Marliss Franks warned me that naughty girls burn in hell and Reverend Kopitsky said that my body is sacred and my virtue worth more than gold. It really didn’t matter, though. Once I got that stupid brace, the boys stayed away.”

Her teenage years had been lonely at best. She’d been diagnosed with scoliosis at age thirteen and had worn a back brace through most of high school. Burdened also with massive orthodontia and a bad case of acne, she hadn’t been the most attractive option for a prom date. Just months after the brace came off, her mother had been diagnosed with cancer and Emma’s attention had turned to nursing her. There’d never been time to date, and without dating—and living in a small town—sex had become an unreachable goal. Now, after all these years of chastity, she felt vulnerable, unprepared for a relationship. She had no idea how to talk to boys or flirt. She still felt like the girl with the back brace and the pimples.

She’d always taken solace in her studies, graduating at the top of her high school class. After high school came college and grad school. She’d lived at home, for both convenience and cost, and so she could watch over her mother’s care.

Four years ago, she’d finished her masters in information sciences and been offered the head librarian’s job at the small library in town. Though she’d always dreamed about leaving town and starting life somewhere new, Emma stayed to see her mother though the last stages of her illness.

The people of San Coronado had always stood behind her and her mother, Elaine. Elaine had been a beloved kindergarten teacher at the local school and everyone had known her. During her illness, there’d been lots of volunteers who’d arranged fund-raisers—spaghetti dinners and bake sales and benefit concerts—all to help with her mother’s medical costs. A prayer circle had spent two hours a week praying for her recovery. How could Emma refuse the job and a chance to return something to the community that had given her mother so much love and attention?

So she’d thrown herself into her work, completely updating the library’s catalog system, rearranging the floor plan and adding new programs for children and seniors. And though her mother had urged her to get out and socialize, it was easier to just work into the late hours and then flop into bed when she got home.

She’d had dreams once. She and her mother had always talked about traveling together, taking the summer to see exotic places. They’d pored over travel books and planned itineraries, keeping their notes in leather-bound journals.

New Zealand, Indonesia, Portugal, Finland, Costa Rica. Lists of things to see and do, places to eat. Even during the worst of her mother’s illness, they’d kept at it, as if the work held some magic cure.

And once it was clear there would be no cure, her mother made her promise that she’d find a way to go on her own. She’d save her money and buy a ticket to one of the places that had fascinated them both.

As for her lack of social life, that had really been her own fault. After her mother’s death, she’d given herself the chance to grieve. It had been easy to shut herself in the house and avoid people. The more time that passed, the more overwhelming getting back out there became. She pushed aside thoughts of a social life to focus entirely on a rigorous work schedule. But now, she felt as if the world had passed her by.

There were a few available men left in town and at least one of them was interested. But trying to start a relationship underneath a microscope was daunting. Everyone seemed a bit too invested in her happily-ever-after.

“I know how difficult it’s been on you,” Trish said.

“I’m not complaining,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m a lucky woman. I have a wonderful job and a wonderful best friend. I don’t need anything else.”

“Yes, you do!” Trish cried. “You need to feed your soul and your heart. You need passion in your life. And a few really good orgasms. I think this Mac guy is the answer to all your problems.”

“Let’s say I do decide that I want to pursue something...carnal with Mac,” Emma said. “I have to be ready to do it. I mean, it could happen quickly, right? Sometimes, the passion is so overwhelming you just can’t help yourself.”

“Sometimes,” Trisha agreed.

“So, I should buy some sexy underwear and do the whole wax thing. And a mani and a pedi. I’ll get my hair cut, too, so I don’t look like a demented bear the morning after. Oh, and I have to be ready to provide breakfast if he stays the night. I’ll have to plan a menu. And I probably should brush up on...you know...sex.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“We have a whole section of books in the library in our self-help section. They’re quite informative. I expect he’s going to be good at it, so I’d like to return the favor.”

“There is a possibility that you might be overanalyzing this,” Trish said. “I’ll be honest with you, once you start taking off your clothes, there’s not a lot of time to think.”

“Great advice,” Emma murmured. She reached out and restarted the car, then pulled it back out onto the road. She gripped the wheel with white-knuckled fingers, her mind spinning with the possibility that her long ordeal might be over soon.

There were some women who chose to be virgins until they married. But Emma knew she’d never marry. And sex was something that she wanted to experience, a simple human need that had to be satisfied.

“There is another option,” Trisha said. “I was reading an article a couple weeks ago about a brothel in Nevada that had men on the menu. You could always pay for it. For the right price, I bet Joey would consider it.”

“You’re offering up your husband?” Emma asked.

“Not to you,” Trish said. “Besides, you’re looking for a perfect male specimen, not a guy with a furry chest and the body of a teddy bear.” She shrugged. “What can I say? I find the man incredibly sexy. And he’s always been so enthusiastic in the sack. And he’s got the goods.”

“Thank you for your generous offer, but I’m going to have to refuse. But I will buy you lunch.”

As they drove toward town, past pastures and vast irrigated fields, the windows of the car open to the afternoon breeze, Emma felt happy, as if the future had suddenly opened up in front of her. There weren’t many days when she didn’t think about the lack of passion and adventure in her life. But today, she was different. There was an excitement that burned inside her...a delicious anticipation that her life was about to change.