Revenge, Page 3

  He slid onto the bench of her booth and glared at her without a speck of joy. “I heard you were coming back,” he said without so much as a hello.

  “Bad news travels fast.”

  He snorted. “The big city lose its attraction?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Max, what’ll it be?” The heavyset waitress appeared, pad and pencil ready, smile wide for the son of one of the richest men in the county.

  “Coffee for me. A swirl cone for—”

  “In a dish!” the child insisted.

  “In a dish,” he repeated, “for Hillary.”

  Hillary. A beautiful name for a pretty little girl.

  “That’s it?” the waitress—her name tag read Sarah—asked, smiling broadly, almost flirting with Max.

  “That’s it.”

  Sarah scooted away, leaving a yawning silence. Skye fiddled with her glass but managed what she hoped seemed like a genuine smile. “So, you’re Hillary,” she said, turning her attention to the curly-haired sprite who was playing with the salt-and-pepper shakers.

  “Who’re you?” the imp asked.

  “This is Skye...Donahue?” he asked, then glanced pointedly at her ringless left hand. “Dr. Donahue.”

  Skye lifted a shoulder. “You can call me—”

  “Dr. Donahue,” Max cut in.

  “You can’t be a doctor,” Hillary said, her little brow puckering in concentration.

  “Why not?”

  “You’re a girl.”

  “A woman,” her father corrected as his eyes locked with Skye’s for an instant. Skye felt her pulse pounding in her throat. A tickle of a memory, of a dewy field and wild flowers, of sunshine and laughter, of kisses and cold wine, touched at her mind, but she shoved it steadfastly away. She would not, would not, remember all those rose-colored memories of her first love with the man bold enough to seat himself squarely across from her. The man who had turned out to be as ruthless as his father.

  “That’s right,” Skye said, forcing herself to concentrate on the conversation, “but just because I’m a woman—or you’re a girl—doesn’t mean you can’t do anything you want to.”

  “I don’t want to be a doctor.” Hillary wrinkled her nose at the prospect and grabbed her spoon. “I hate shots!”

  Skye couldn’t help but smile. “What do you want to be?”

  “A bride!”

  Skye’s throat turned to sand. “A...a bride. Well, I suppose you can do that, but—”

  “But you might want to have a backup plan, just in case things don’t go the way you think they will,” Max said to his daughter, though the words, spoken so coldly, could only have been meant for Skye.

  Sarah brought Max his coffee and his daughter a towering dish of already-melting soft ice cream. Hillary, rather than accept a booster chair, knelt instead and, half-bouncing on the plastic-covered seat of the booth, dug into the sweet confection.

  Stretching a jean-clad leg out to the side of the booth, Max said, “It surprises me—you coming back here. I thought you couldn’t stand the sight of this place.”

  “It was time.”

  “Why?”

  She bristled a little, then decided not to let her temper get the better of her. “Family. And Doc Fletcher’s offer. It was hard to pass up.”

  He looked about to say something, but changed his mind and picked up his cup. “Not as much money as you could make in the city.”

  “There are some trade-offs.”

  “Are there?” He took a long swallow from his cup, and Skye tried not to stare at the movement in his throat. But she couldn’t help feel the weight of his gaze and was suddenly more nervous than she had been in years. “You know, Skye, there are lots of small towns all along the west coast, towns that need medical professionals. You didn’t have to come back to Rimrock.”

  Her temper started to rise. “I chose to, Max.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “My family’s here.”

  “They’ve been here for the past seven years.”

  “Doc Fletcher offered to sell out.”

  Max smiled slightly as if he knew something she didn’t. “He’s been lookin’ for a partner for a long time.”

  “But I wasn’t ready.”

  “There must be more of a reason, Skye,” he said, and for the first time she saw a spark of amusement in his eyes. He was baiting her and she knew it.

  “Don’t make more of it than it is, Max.” She finished her drink, left a bill on the table, and when he began to protest, she cut him with a quick, scathing look that had kept more than one randy resident at bay. “Look, Max, I heard about your dad...I’m sorry.”

  “Are you?” His eyes narrowed up at her, challenging her.

  Standing, she bit back the hot retort on her tongue. “Goodbye, Hillary, it was nice meeting you,” she said, managing a tight smile for Max’s daughter.

  “Are you mad?” Hillary asked before Skye could escape the booth. Chocolate and vanilla were smeared over her lips and chin.

  “Of course not.”

  “You look mad. Just like Mommy every time—”

  “Enough, Hillary,” Max snapped, his face flushed with a silent rage.

  “You hate Mommy,” Hillary said, and her little face crumpled. Tears rose in the corners of her eyes and she dropped her spoon.

  “No, honey, I don’t—”

  Skye felt immediately contrite. What was she doing, letting herself be pulled into some infantile argument with a man who meant nothing, nothing to her? “I—I’m sorry, Max. I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s not your fault,” he retorted, snatching a napkin from the dispenser and tending to the ice cream and tears on Hillary’s face.

  “I...” She felt suddenly useless. She was a mature woman, a doctor, for crying out loud. She’d worked in emergency rooms, helped save lives, lost a few, told patients when their diseases were life threatening, and even consoled the grieving. Yet this one man, this one damnably arrogant man, and his imp of a daughter had reduced her to fumbling and stumbling and muttering apologies that she didn’t mean. “I didn’t expect to run into you this soon—”

  “Just leave, Skye,” he said coldly, his jaw suddenly as hard as granite. “It’s what you do best.”

  She didn’t need to hear anything else. Already a few eyebrows had risen behind the plastic-coated menus, and she felt more than one curious glance cast in her direction. She wasn’t making a good impression. As the new doctor in town, she couldn’t appear rash or quick-tempered or tongue-tied, or anything but a levelheaded professional. These people would have to trust her, depend upon her decisions when they were injured or when one of their loved ones was dying. She stiffened and managed what she hoped was a clinical smile. “I’ll see you,” she said to Max, though the words had a hollow and familiar ring to them.

  “Sure.”

  She walked out the door and into the blasting heat. Grinding her teeth together, she marched to the patch of shade where she’d parked and flung open the car door. She wedged the cat carrier on the back seat and wished to high heaven that she’d never set eyes on Max McKee. Inside the sweltering interior of the Mustang, she turned on the ignition, praying under her breath as the engine coughed and sputtered then finally, with a wheeze, turned over.

  “Thank you, God,” Skye said as Kildare mewed loudly. Backing out of the parking space, she caught a glimpse of Max’s rough-hewn profile through the window of the café. Just her luck to have run into him the first five minutes she was in town.

  She drove through the familiar tree-lined streets, drumming her fingers on the hot steering wheel and half listening to the radio while she calmed down. It was inevitable that she would see Max again, and probably better to have gotten it over with. This was a small town and now the ice had been broken.

  But her hands were still sweating as she turned down the familiar little avenue with its vintage cottages that were all, aside from the differing, peeling paint, nearly identical. Sh
e stopped at the curb in front of her mother’s little bungalow—the house where she’d grown up. Covered in yellow aluminum siding, compliments of Jonah P. McKee, the house had never needed painting, though the porch sagged and the gutters had rusted. The old covered swing had grown dusty beside the living-room window and the hedge separating the side yard from the neighbor’s property was in desperate need of a trim.

  Her chest tightened as she snagged her purse and cat carrier and hurried up the cracked concrete path where dandelions, now gone to seed, grew tenaciously. After rapping softly on the door, she opened it and stepped into the darkened room. “Mom?”

  “Skye!” Irene Donahue’s voice drifted from the kitchen. “You here already?”

  “Couldn’t stay away.” She followed the sound of her mother’s voice to the small kitchen tucked in a back corner of the house.

  Her mother was stirring sugar and lemon slices into a glass pitcher of iced tea. Balancing a hip against the cupboards, she dropped her wooden spoon and wiped her hands on her apron. Her cane was propped under the windowsill. “Dr. Donahue, I presume,” she said with a proud smile.

  “Sometimes I still find it hard to believe.”

  “Not me. Never had a moment’s doubt.” Frail arms surrounded Skye. “And you’ll be the best damned doctor this town’s ever seen.”

  Hot tears stung the back of Skye’s eyes. “I hope so.”

  “I know it. I told old Ralph Fletcher so, too. Now, who’s in here—Kildare, is that you?” she asked, peeking through the screen of the cat carrier.

  A loud meow erupted and Skye set the plastic carrier on the floor. She opened the door and Kildare, a sleek gray tabby, streaked across the kitchen. “He’s not very happy,” Skye said as she found a small dish and filled it with water. “Abused, aren’t you, boy?” Kildare rubbed against her legs, nearly tripping her while she made her way to the screened-in back porch and left the water dish near the door. She scratched the old tomcat behind the ears. Kildare had been her sole constant friend during the long years of medical school.

  Two tall glasses of iced tea were already beginning to sweat on the tiny table wedged between the stove and back door. Irene settled into one chair and waved her older daughter into the empty seat. “Tell me all about your deal with Doc Fletcher,” her mother insisted. “And if that old skinflint ripped you off, I’ll personally drive down to the clinic and—”

  “Hey, slow down.” Once her mother got going, she was like a freight train gathering steam. “Believe me, he didn’t rip me off.” Picking up her glass, she leaned against the windowsill and felt the slight breeze creep past the old gingham curtains as she sipped. The tea was cool as it slid down her throat. “Actually, I think he was relieved I was interested. It’s a good deal.”

  “I’m just glad you’re back.” But her smile gave way. “I hope you didn’t feel obligated—” she motioned to the hated cane “—because of the stroke.”

  “Of course not.” Skye shook her head. “I came back because I wanted to. I was tired of the city.”

  Her mother’s graying brows lifted suspiciously. “What about all your declarations about never living here again?”

  “I was a kid. And I was wrong.”

  Her mother glanced nervously at her hands. “You heard about Jonah?”

  Blowing a stray strand of hair off her face, Skye nodded, though she didn’t want to think about Max’s manipulative father and the role Jonah P. McKee had played in her life. His had been much too large a role.

  “Virginia’s stirring up trouble. Claims he was murdered.”

  “Murdered?” Skye repeated.

  “I know it sounds crazy, but she’s hired a private investigator and insists that Sheriff Polk’s involved in some cover-up or conspiracy or the like.”

  “That’s insane.”

  “Tell it to Virginia.”

  “All her kids think she’s gone off her rocker, but she’s standing firm, even called a reporter for The Rimrock Review. Oh, Lordy, poor old Jonah will never rest in peace.”

  Skye bit the words that seemed destined to roll off her tongue. Jonah was dead. She was sorry that Max had lost his father, Virginia had lost her husband, and Hillary had lost her grandfather, but if she was honest with herself, she didn’t feel a speck of grief for a man who had manipulated people and played with their lives, all for the love of the almighty buck.

  It was ironic, she supposed, that she was back in town so soon after his death. It looked as if she’d been waiting for him to find a way to escape Rimrock. But the truth of the matter was that now was the most convenient time for her to return.

  “He was a good man,” Irene said, apparently reading her mind.

  Skye couldn’t let it rest. “He wasn’t good, Mom. Not by any stretch of the imagination.”

  Irene’s jaw tightened and her chin set stubbornly. “And where would we all be without him, hmm? When your father died and left us without a dime—no insurance whatsoever—what would we have done without Jonah’s help? He gave me a job, a damned good job, and I was able to raise you and your sister decently. We never went hungry, now did we?”

  “No, Mom, we didn’t. Maybe we shouldn’t discuss this right now—”

  “And when I had to go to the hospital for that operation, didn’t he see that all my bills were paid and the payments on the house kept up?”

  “Yes, Mom—”

  “So don’t you go bad-mouthing him, Skye. You may be some fancy doctor nowadays, but you’re still my daughter, and I won’t have you or anyone else spreading bad words about the dead. Especially about a man who did us nothing but favors!”

  Skye settled back against her chair and drained her glass. She thought about telling her mother the truth about all the reasons she’d left Rimrock so suddenly, but she hated to disillusion a woman who had done nothing but struggle to survive, who had given up her own youth so that her daughters could live better lives than she. For years, Skye had suspected that her mother had been secretly in love with Jonah McKee. In Irene’s opinion, the man was nearly a god, saving her from ruin. He’d been upstanding in the community, an elder in the church, a faithful husband, loving father and honest businessman. Irene, as his secretary, had worshiped the ground he’d walked on and had continually compared him to the man she’d married, who had never had much ambition and had died in a logging accident when Skye was five and her sister, Dani, was only three. Though Irene had loved her husband, and Skye had faint, but warm memories of her father, Tom Donahue had made the mistake of dying suddenly and leaving his small family penniless.

  Jonah McKee had stepped in and saved the day. Not only had he given Tom’s widow a job, but he’d helped her move into this little house, a rental he’d owned. Eventually he’d written up a contract and sold the cottage to her.

  Irene Donahue believed Jonah P. McKee was her personal savior.

  And he was dead. It would serve no purpose to expose him now.

  “I expect you’re staying here?” Irene asked.

  “Probably just tonight, and only if you want me.”

  Her mother smiled as if their argument about Jonah McKee had never been aired. “Of course I want you. Don’t be silly. Dani will be over as soon as she’s off work.”

  Skye nodded and put down her glass. Her younger sister seemed to have straightened out over the years, but she’d given their mother nothing but grief as a hell-raising teenager. “Tomorrow I have to go to the clinic. As part of the deal, Ralph offered to let me buy his old apartment house, too.”

  Irene’s lips curved downward. “Isn’t that a lot of debt? The practice and clinic building and house—”

  “I’m only renting the clinic and I could live in one of the apartments while I rent out the rest of the building. It’s half-filled already. Two more tenants and I could make money on the deal.”

  “Have you seen the place?” Irene asked, her brows knitting in concentration. “It needs a lot of work.”

  “Then I’ll hire someone—offer an
apartment rent-free for him to keep up the yard and house and manage the building.”

  Irene worried her lower lip. “I just don’t want to see you biting off more than you can chew. You’ve already got college debts.”

  “I’ll be all right, Mom. Really.”

  “Jonah always said you were ambitious. I guess he was right.”

  Skye didn’t utter a word as she carried her glass to the sink. The subject of Jonah McKee wasn’t comfortable. She knew too much. Way too much...

  “I ran into Max today,” she said instead. Her mother’s back stiffened slightly. “He was with his daughter at the Shady Grove Café.”

  “He thinks the world of that child.” Irene slowly rose from her chair to run hot water in the sink.

  “I could see that.”

  “Too bad about him and his wife,” Irene said, washing a glass. She wiped it dry with the corner of her terry-cloth apron and cast a worried glance at her older daughter. “They’re divorced, you know. Have been for three...no, it’s closer to four years now.”

  Skye’s head snapped up. “He’s divorced and you didn’t tell me?”

  “You never asked,” her mother replied and went on polishing the rim of the glass until it sparkled. “The way you felt about Jonah and what you said about Max when you left town, I thought it best to keep my big mouth shut.”

  Skye felt as if the rug had been pulled out from beneath her feet. Max wasn’t married? Her stomach clenched, but she lifted a shoulder. “Doesn’t matter,” she said, trying to convince herself. Kildare slid like a shadow into the room and rubbed up against her leg. “Max and I are history.”

  Chapter Three

  Driving Hillary back to Colleen’s place in Dawson City, Max ardently refused to think about Skye. He had enough problems as it was. His father had just died, his mother was losing her mind, Jenner’s bad attitude was in the way, and Casey seemed about ready to explode. Then there was his continuing struggle with Colleen about Hillary. He glanced at his little daughter, strapped into her seat belt and half dozing, her head resting against the window. No, he didn’t need any more complications in his life—especially a complication like Skye Donahue.