McKettrick's Luck Read Free Page A

asked, somewhat plaintively, after coffee at the kitchen table, where Mitch had sat brooding in his chair, when Cheyenne had announced her intention to track down Jesse McKettrick.
    With a shake of her head, Cheyenne had said no, gathered her wits, smoothed her skirt and straightened her jacket, and made for the rental car.
    McKettrickCo seemed to be the logical place to start her search—she’d already discovered, via her cell phone, that Jesse’s number was unlisted.
    Cheyenne knew, having grown up in Indian Rock, that the company’s home offices were in San Antonio. The new building housed a branch of the operation, which meant the outfit was in expansion mode. According to her research, McKettrickCo was a diverse corporation, with interests in cutting-edge technology and global investment.
    Jesse’s name wasn’t on the reader board in the sleekly contemporary reception area, a fact that didn’t surprise Cheyenne. When she’d known him, he was the original trust-fund bad boy, wild as a mustang and committed to one thing: having a good time.
    She approached the desk, relieved that she didn’t recognize the woman tapping away at the keyboard of a supercomputer with three large flat-screen monitors.
    â€œMay I help you?” the receptionist asked pleasantly. She was middle-aged, with a warm smile, a lacquered blond hairdo and elegant posture.
    Cheyenne introduced herself, hoping her last name wouldn’t ring any bells, and asked how to locate Jesse McKettrick. With luck—and she was due for some of that—she wouldn’t have to drive all the way out to his house and confront him on his own turf.
    Not that any part of Indian Rock was neutral ground when it came to the McKettricks.
    The receptionist assessed Cheyenne with mild interest. “Jesse could be anywhere,” she said, after some length, “but if I had to make a guess, I’d say he’s probably in the back room over at Lucky’s, playing poker.”
    Cheyenne stiffened. Of course he’d be at Lucky’s—fate wouldn’t have it any other way. How many times, as a child, had she sneaked through the back door of that place from the alley and tried to will her father away from a game of five-card stud?
    She produced a business card, bearing her name, affiliation with Meerland Real Estate Ventures, Ltd., and her cell number. “Thanks,” she said. “Just in case you see Mr. McKettrick before I do, will you give him my card and ask him to please call me as soon as possible?”
    The woman studied Cheyenne’s information, frowned and then nodded politely. “He doesn’t come in too often,” she said.
    Of course he didn’t.
    Still Jesse, after all these years.
    Cheyenne left McKettrickCo, got back into her car and drove resolutely to Lucky’s Main Street Bar and Grill. The gravel parking lot beside the old brick building was full, with the dinner hour fast approaching, so she parked in the alley, next to a mudsplattered black truck with both windows rolled down.
    For a moment, she was a kid again, sent by her misguided mother to fetch Daddy home from the bar. She remembered propping her bike against the wall, next to the overflowing trash bin, rehearsing what she’d say once she got inside, forcing herself up the two unpainted steps and through the screened door, which always groaned on its hinges.
    When the door suddenly creaked open, Cheyenne was startled. She wrenched herself out of the time warp and actually considered crouching behind the Dumpster until whoever it was had gone.
    Jesse stepped out, stretched like a lazy tomcat at home in an alley and fixing to go on the prowl, and adjusted his cowboy hat. He wore old jeans, a Western shirt unbuttoned to his collarbone and the kind of boots country people called shit-kickers. Even mud and horse manure couldn’t disguise the fact that they were expensive, probably custom-made.
    When Cheyenne’s