Chapter 19
19
Holding his breath, Liam watched from a comfortable distance as Landon Reece, stunt double for A-list actor Bram Finley, took an imaginary bullet to his middle and toppled headfirst off the roof of the Hard Luck Saloon, a distance of more than thirty feet, and did a somersault in midair.
The camera followed Reece until he hit the trampoline waiting below to catch him, rolled triumphantly onto his feet and held both arms in the air to acknowledge the applause of the sound and camera crews and the exuberant cheers of the local lookers-on, who were farther away.
“Wow!” Cavan said, looking up at Liam, who was wearing his marshal’s getup because he’d been in the background of a few shots that morning. “That’s what I want to do when I grow up! I want to jump off of buildings!”
Liam resettled his hat. Offered no comment, although he was thinking, Over my dead body, buckaroo.
“If that’s what you want to do,” Keely told her brother, “you’re stupid.”
“Enough,” Liam muttered. The bickering between his kids was constant, and most of the time, he felt more like a referee than a father.
Good thing the three of them would be heading off to Silver Hills for their first meeting with Angela Winston, family therapist, right after lunch. That woman had her work cut out for her, dealing with a trio of mixed-up McKettricks all at once.
He kept his gaze on the scene that was being filmed, pretending an interest he didn’t feel. The fact was, Liam was tired of the whole showbiz thing and more than ready for the Hollywood gang to wrap up their time in Bitter Gulch and move on to wherever they were headed next.
It wasn’t that he didn’t like the people; they were okay. It was the process he didn’t care for. The disruption, not only in the Gulch, but in Painted Pony Creek proper.
The movie was about all anybody talked about, and he supposed that was normal, given that the project was a definite novelty in a town where the biggest events of the year were the annual rodeo and the lighting of the community Christmas tree.
He was glad he’d be hanging out with three good friends that night; almost since the day of his arrival, he’d been part of the bimonthly poker game in the back room of Sully’s Bar and Grill, commonly referred to simply as Sully’s.
The founding members included Eli Garrett, the county sheriff, Cord Hollister, a horse trainer of renown, and J.P. McCall, rancher and financial wizard, but the group had expanded over the past year or so. Now, besides Liam, it included Dan Summers and several others.
Liam enjoyed the game, the beer and the occasional cigars, but he valued the friendships most of all.
There was a game that night, and he meant to attend, hoping it would distract him, help him shake off some of the things he was dealing with, if only for a little while. Miranda, a waitress at Bailey’s, had agreed to look after Keely and Cavan for a few hours, and they both seemed to be okay with that, which surprised Liam a little, not on Cavan’s account, but on Keely’s.
The girl seemed determined to balk like a spooked pony at every suggestion, especially if it came from her dad.
Liam smiled to himself. She was a tough kid, but there were a few chinks in that unnecessary armor she wore so often.
He turned his thoughts back to the organized pandemonium going on in front of him, wondered why the hell anybody would want to be in the movie business anyhow.
It sounded glamorous, sure, but the reality was anything but.
Liam knew he couldn’t have stood it, the mind-numbing repetition of filming the same scenes over and over again, ad nauseam, the waiting between calls to the set, the long hours, the constant changes of plan.
As an extra, he was in just enough background scenes that he had to hang around, when he would have preferred to be elsewhere.
With Madison, for instance.
Doing just about anything that didn’t involve the movie.
Sure, he respected the director and the rest of the creative staff, and he actually liked Landon Reece. Although Reece earned his living by being shot off roofs, beat up by outlaws and dragged by horses and behind runaway wagons and stagecoaches, he was a down-to-earth kind of guy, reserved but not moody, confident but not arrogant.
The same couldn’t be said of Bram Finley, who strutted around between scenes, charming the women and girls watching from the far end of Main Street, ordering Liam’s people around like they owed him their allegiance, stretching every scene he was in until the very air shuddered, like it did when a sudden storm was about to strike.
Now, while Reece crossed to stand next to Liam, much to the delight of the kids, the trampoline was pulled out of camera range by a couple of gofers, and Bram swaggered into the scene as if he were Laurence Olivier about to spout Shakespeare.
Inwardly, Liam sighed, and he just barely kept himself from rolling his eyes.
Reece must have sensed Liam’s reaction, because he chuckled.
He was the same height as Finley, about six feet, lean and well-built. Like the man he replaced in every action scene, he had brownish-blond hair, on the long side and usually tucked behind his ears.
Beyond those things, there was no real resemblance.
“Seems like you might be getting tired of us hanging around your town, Marshal McKettrick,” Reece remarked in a leisurely drawl, when Keely and Cavan had ventured far enough away to peer through the souvenir shop’s display window.
Across the street, Finley rolled headfirst onto the ground and came up with pistols drawn, one in each hand. They were high-quality fakes, those guns, but they made plenty of noise and spewed smoke when fired.
“I might be getting tired of some of you, Reece, but not all.”
“Call me Landon,” Reece said. “You like it around here, in Painted Pony Creek, I mean?”
Liam gave a semi-shrug, ignoring the scene across the street and looking straight at Landon Reece. “I’m Liam,” he replied, and they shook hands. They’d met before, but never exchanged first names. “And, yes, I do like the Creek. It’s a special place.”
“How’s that?” Landon asked, looking as though he really cared about the answer.
And maybe he did.
“It’s the people,” Liam said, after a few moments’ thought. Madison Bettencourt in particular. “Definitely the people. Most of them are decent to the core. They’re always ready to lend a hand when somebody’s in trouble, for one thing.”
Landon looked pensive. “I’ve wondered sometimes if there were any places like that left. There’s so much turmoil and strife out there—enough to make a man think the good folks have all died off, or just decided it wasn’t worth it to try anymore.”
“Guess that’s another thing that makes the people here different,” Liam ventured. “They don’t give up. Doesn’t seem to be in their nature.”
“Makes me want to stay here when the filming is done,” Landon said, his expression serious, almost solemn. “Buy myself a piece of land, raise crops and maybe a few cattle.”
Liam grinned, hoping to lighten the moment. “And leave Hollywood?”
“That would be the best part,” Landon said, and he grinned back. “I know there are a lot of fine people there, like there are anywhere, but the overall mindset of that place gets to me, if I let it.”
“You’d be starting from scratch as a farmer, right?” Liam asked.
The kids were back, arguing again under their breath.
Like Liam wouldn’t notice.
Landon shook his head. His blue-green eyes were at once thoughtful and alight with whatever vision he had for the next part of his life. “I grew up on a farm, back in Iowa. It’s gone now—my dad lost the place when the last recession hit—but I really miss the life.”
“I hear you,” Liam said, feeling a stab of sympathy for Landon and his family. A loss like that could destroy a person if they weren’t made of strong stuff.
Which, he suspected, Landon Reece was.
Just then, the director, a balding man in chinos, a T-shirt and a windbreaker, without a trace of cowboy to him, turned around, scanning faces, finding Landon’s.
“Reece!” he called out. “We need you over here again!”
“Lucky me,” Landon murmured, but he stepped off the high board sidewalk and headed back across the street.
Watching him go, Liam decided he’d like to have a friend like Landon Reece, and he hoped the man would decide to stay on in Painted Pony Creek and start living the life he’d lost. He’d make a point of inviting the man to that night’s poker game, for a start.
“Can we get lunch now?” Cavan asked, tugging at Liam’s coat sleeve.
It was too damn hot to be wearing a wool coat, and Liam pulled it off, slung it over the nearest hitching rail.
“It’s a little early,” he said to the boy. “Are you really hungry, or just bored?”
“ I’m certainly bored,” Keely said, with such gravity that Liam almost laughed aloud. He felt a surge of pure love for the girl, despite all the drama she’d brought into his life. “Do you have any more walk-ons today?”
“One,” Liam said. “If they get that far.”
“Why don’t you ask the director?” Keely pressed. “It looks to me like they’re about to make Mr. Reece make another dive off the roof.” She gave her brother a sidelong glance. “He needs a new job. One where he won’t break his neck.”
“He’s not going to break his neck!” Cavan protested, alarmed.
Liam ruffled his son’s hair. “Don’t worry, buddy. The man knows what he’s doing.”
“Accidents can happen to anyone,” Keely insisted, with a little sniff and a toss of her head. Then, without preamble, she caught Liam’s eyes and asked, “Are you going to see Madison, or send her flowers or something? Because her grandmother died?”
The question brought Liam up short, inwardly at least, because Madison and her recent loss had been in the back of his mind ever since he’d heard about it that morning, at Bailey’s, when he’d stopped in for coffee.
He’d texted Madison immediately, offered his sympathies, and asked if there was anything he could do to help.
She’d texted back right away, saying she appreciated his concern but she needed some time to herself.
The response, reasonable as it was, had stung Liam.
Time to herself?
She was pushing him away, obviously. Maybe she thought things between them had been moving too fast, or she was having second thoughts.
He came with baggage, after all, and it might well be that Madison had decided to keep her distance. Find someone who didn’t have two kids to raise.
“You look sad,” Cavan said, his lower lip quivering a little.
“I am sad,” Liam confirmed. “I didn’t know Madison’s grandmother, but she’ll be missed, I’m sure.”
“We could visit Madison,” Cavan persisted. “Meet Charlie the dog.”
Liam gave the boy a thin smile. “Another time,” he said. “Madison’s got a lot to do right now, and she’ll probably get more company than she needs. We’ll hang back a while, until she’s ready to hear from us.”
“Can’t we even send flowers ?” Cavan wanted to know.
“Yeah. We can do that,” Liam replied gruffly. Looking down into the boy’s upturned face made something catch inside him, something both painful and sweet.
Just then, a girl with a ponytail and a clipboard bustled across the street, smiling up at Liam. “Mr. McKettrick? We’re ready for you now.”
“Yes!” Cavan said. His sadness had passed quickly, as it usually did.
Keely said nothing at all, but Liam saw a flash of excitement in her eyes. Her dad was going to appear in a major motion picture, however briefly, and that probably gave her bragging rights with her friends back in Seattle.
Liam grabbed his coat, put it on, and crossed the street, resigned to another great moment in cinematic history.
Last time, he’d ridden up to the saloon on a horse, dismounted, and strode inside, like he was mad enough to fight bears with a stick of kindling.
On this occasion, he was instructed to stand in the middle of the street and fire two shots into the air, using the rifle provided. He was supposed to look angry, without a clue why.
This wasn’t High Noon , and he wasn’t Gary Cooper.
He did as he was told, and the director was satisfied with the first take.
Liam was excused for the day, like a schoolboy who’d finished his homework in study hall, and the implications of that chapped his hide a little, but at the same time, he was glad to leave Bitter Gulch and go on about his personal business.
He and the kids chose a bouquet of flowers at the florist’s shop to be delivered to Madison at Bettencourt Hall, and all three of them signed the card.
Next they had lunch at a burger place on the far end of town.
And after that, they set out for Silver Hills and their appointment with the shrink.
Angela Winston greeted them herself.
She was a tall woman, with full lips, striking gray hair and dark eyes, impeccably dressed in a charcoal pantsuit that fit her so well it was probably custom-made. She was in her fifties, Liam estimated, and she looked more like a runway model than a therapist.
The beginning of the session was awkward.
Liam had no idea where to start, and Keely’s mood had darkened again, which gave him the feeling he was about to step onto an emotional minefield.
Which he most likely was.
Cavan was intrigued. Interested. Almost eager.
Keely, of course, glared daggers. Liam didn’t know where else the kid wanted to be, but it wasn’t there.
“Let’s get to know each other,” Ms. Winston said with a broad, bright flash of a smile. Her teeth were almost too white: veneers, probably. “Who wants to start?”
“My name is Keely McKettrick,” announced the most unlikely volunteer, “and I don’t like it here. On my dad’s ranch, that is. Your office is okay, I guess.”
Liam closed his eyes, realized that was a tell, and opened them again. His jawline felt tight.
“And you?” Ms. Winston asked without missing a beat, turning to Cavan.
“I’m Cavan McKettrick,” he said, with a note of pride that touched Liam’s heart like a warm fingertip and left a sweet, throbbing bruise behind. “I’m seven and I have two horses—three if you count the one at Papa and Mimi’s place in California—and my dad is in a movie.”
“Excellent,” the therapist chimed, nearly singing the word.
She turned her deep brown gaze on Liam, raised her eyebrows, and waited.
“Liam McKettrick.” He gave up the name reluctantly, and his voice came out sounding hoarse.
“And you’re here because?”
Liam looked from Cavan to Keely, and for no reason he could define, the tension inside him began to ease.
“Because I love my kids,” he said.
Cavan beamed.
Keely sighed, long-suffering. Waverly in miniature.
Angela Winston said, “Good, good! We’re off to a great start then, aren’t we?”
You tell me, lady , Liam thought. He’d half expected her to clap her hands, she sounded so enthusiastic.
After ten minutes of what seemed to Liam to be casual chatting, the therapist asked to see each of them separately.
Cavan was up first, while Keely and Liam sat in the otherwise empty waiting room, side by side, not speaking, staring straight ahead.
When Keely broke the silence, it was with a thunderbolt. “Are you going to tell Ms. Winston about Cavan? That he’s a mistake, I mean?”
Liam was struck dumb for the next few moments, staring down at his daughter in shock. “What?” he finally gasped. Then he paused, recovered a little, though it involved a struggle. “Cavan isn’t a mistake, Keely.” Another brief interval while he tried to make sense of what she’d said. “And neither are you.”
“Mom said he was. So did Gambie. They said you left because of him.”
The bottom dropped out of Liam’s stomach and swung like a trap door on faulty hinges, dangling over an abyss. Surely , he thought desperately, even Waverly and her mother wouldn’t stoop so low as to tell a kid a lie like that.
It was the equivalent of emotional napalm.
Keely looked defiant, then stubborn, and then, for just a fraction of a heartbeat, regretful. “You need to tell Cavan that you’re not really his dad,” she said.
Liam closed his eyes again. His world rocked on its axis.
Then, straightening his spine, he looked into Keely’s face, now slightly pale, and told her, “I am Cavan’s dad, Keely. As much as I am yours.”
She leaned toward him a little, whispered accusingly, “He’s not even a McKettrick.”
Liam worked hard to control his temper, usually an easy thing to do, but not this time. This time, it cost him. Cost him plenty.
“Cavan is a McKettrick,” he said. The assertion was completely true, as far as he was concerned, because the boy was part of his heart, part of his soul. “That isn’t going to change.”
The receptionist returned from wherever she’d been, a slight woman with a lively smile and a streak of bright green in her hair.
Keely bit down on her lower lip and fell silent, but there was a look of triumph in her eyes that took the starch out of Liam’s knees. What is wrong with this kid? Why is she so eager to reveal something devastating, something she should never have known about in the first place?
No answer came to him.
Soon enough, Ms. Winston opened the door, and Cavan came bounding out of her office, looking ebulliently happy, as he did most of the time.
Liam’s heart cracked down the middle; he wanted to sweep the kid up into his arms and carry him out of this place. Away from his sister.
And that felt worse than wrong.
Ms. Winston looked at Liam. “Can we speak now?” she asked. She nodded toward the receptionist, who was settled at her desk by then, tapping away on a computer keyboard.
Liam stood. Looked at Keely, then at Cavan.
He wasn’t about to leave Keely alone with her brother, not after the things she’d just said. He wanted to be the one to tell his son— his son— the truth, fouled up as it was, but not now , damn it. Not until Cavan was older, better able to understand.
As things stood, he couldn’t trust Keely not to drop the bomb on Cavan first chance she got.
“Maybe next time,” Liam answered at length, feeling weary to the marrow of his bones. “I’d rather you spoke with Keely instead.”
Keely looked up at him with a combination of confusion and fury. “I don’t think I have anything more to say today,” she said.
Liam seethed, but his love for his daughter ran every bit as deep as the weariness he felt. How was it possible to care so deeply for a child and, at one and the same time, want to throw up his hands in frustration and send her straight back to Seattle, to return only when she’d developed an entirely new attitude?
He sighed, thrust a hand through his hair.
And he stood his ground. Glad Cavan wasn’t in the room.
“Why don’t you tell Ms. Winston what you just told me, Keely?” he asked, and there was no mistaking the anger in his words.
Keely flushed pink, lowered her eyes. “I don’t want to,” she said in a very small voice.
“Well,” Liam replied evenly, “right about now, I don’t really care what you want.”
Ms. Winston’s incisive gaze traveled quickly between father and daughter. Clearly, she wanted to ask what was going on, but she was too experienced and well-trained to jump in over her head that way.
Keely stood up, shoulders stooped, head down, and walked past the therapist into the office.
“I think we need separate sessions in the future,” said Angela Winston before she closed the door. “Starting with you, Mr. McKettrick.”
Liam merely nodded.
He couldn’t sit still, so he paced, while Cavan perched on the edge of a chair, feet swinging, and watched him.
The receptionist left again.
“How come you’re mad at Keely?” Cavan asked the moment she was gone.
“I’m not mad at her, son,” Liam said, and before he could accuse himself of lying, he realized he was telling the truth. Keely was a kid. She’d been hurt by the divorce, and then by the loss of her mother.
Now she was living in a new place, in a different house, under a whole new set of rules. If she was a little spiteful, well, he could understand that.
The real problem here wasn’t Keely herself. It was figuring out how to resolve this situation before it blew up in all their faces.
He stopped pacing and went to stand at a floor-to-ceiling window, taking solace from the view of Silver Hills and, in the distance, the mountains. He felt small, until things shifted, and he became part of all that scenery.
Usually, that only happened when he was on horseback, alone on the range.
His phone pinged in his pocket, and he took it out, consulted the screen.
J.P. McCall, one of his poker buddies.
“Hey,” Liam said.
“Back at you,” J.P. replied. “Just checking to see if you’re coming to the game tonight.”
“I was planning to,” Liam answered, surprised by how calm he sounded. How ordinary. “How about you?”
“I’ll be there,” J.P. assured him with a laugh. “I need to win back what I lost to Cord last time.”
“Don’t we all,” Liam responded lightly, wondering how he was going to manage all this, since he felt like he’d have to stand between his son and daughter from now on, like a bodyguard, to avert certain disaster. On the other hand—
“Do you think anybody’d care if I invited a new guy?”
“Nope,” J.P. said with confidence. “Who do you have in mind?” he asked.
“His name’s Landon Reece. He’s a movie stuntman.”
“If you think he’s all right, it’s cool with me.” J.P. paused, cleared his throat. “Bram Finley, on the other hand—”
“He’s on his own,” Liam said.
J.P. laughed. “Good. He’s already had at least one run-in with Eli—drunk and disorderly—so it’s probably best to keep them apart.”
“Drunk and disorderly?” Liam echoed, not the least surprised. “He won’t get an invitation from me. For one thing, he might try to hog all the beer.”
Again, J.P. laughed. “I’d like to see him try,” he said lightly. “See you later, Liam.”
“Later,” Liam confirmed, still wondering how he was going to swing this, given Keely’s attitude and Cavan’s innocent vulnerability.
The answer was obvious, of course.
He would have to sit down with Cavan, explain as best he could that Waverly had made a mistake, and help the boy understand somehow that his biological paternity didn’t matter to Liam or anyone else, besides Keely and Marie Everton, her she-dragon of a grandmother.
How was he going to say all this to a seven-year-old who wore his heart on his sleeve? What could he say— without saying that Waverly had slept with another man while she was still married to his dad? That she’d done it out of meanness and spite, because she’d wanted to hurt Liam as badly as possible?
For all that, what mattered was this: he, Liam McKettrick, was Cavan’s dad, and that was the reality. Period.
After twenty minutes or so, Keely emerged from the therapist’s inner sanctum, looking chagrined rather than smug, like before.
What had gone on in there?
Angela Winston crooked a finger at him.
He hesitated, looked at his kids again, each in turn.
“I really need to speak to you privately, Mr. McKettrick,” the therapist said.
Liam gave Keely a look full of warning, and once again, she ducked her head.
“Sherilyn will look after the children,” Ms. Winston assured him, nodding to indicate the receptionist, who looked up from her monitor and smiled. Then, with more import, she added, “They’ll be fine.”
Liam stepped into the office, and Ms. Winston closed the door.
“Sit down,” she said.
“I’d rather stand, thanks,” Liam replied.
Ms. Winston sighed patiently, nodded, and stepped behind her desk. Took a seat in her swivel chair. “Keely is very troubled,” she said.
Now there’s an insight worth two hundred dollars an hour , Liam thought, impatient. “Yes,” he said, keeping his voice moderate, though he knew he probably wasn’t fooling the elegant shrink behind the immaculate desk. “I know.”
“She’s furious with you.”
“I know that too. What I don’t know is how to get through to her. She’s had a lot of upheaval in her short life, and that kills me. I’d do anything to help her.” And anything to see that she doesn’t hurt her brother.
Or turn out like Waverly.
“Keely is a very intelligent, resilient child,” Winston went on. “And, believe it or not, she doesn’t hate you. She’s simply testing you—that’s my theory at least, and I’ve seen this a lot in my years of practice. She wants to see if you’re cut out to be the kind of father she needs.”
“Did she tell you what she said to me, about Cavan?”
“She did,” Winston confirmed. “I must admit, I fail to understand why any responsible person would say such a thing to a child. It’s a terrible burden for Keely to bear.”
“If you’d known her mother, you would understand completely.”
Winston merely nodded.
Liam shoved a hand through his hair. Hoped he wasn’t coming off as intimidating, though in all fairness, this woman didn’t seem open to intimidation of any kind, even if it was accidental. “I guess I shouldn’t have said that,” he admitted.
“Was it true?”
“Yes.”
Ms. Winston spread her smooth, manicured hands. “All right, then. We can explore that another time. But we do need to explore it, Mr. McKettrick. The children aren’t the only ones who’ve been wounded, and if you really want to raise them in a happy, healthy home, as I’m convinced you do, you’re going to have to work through some things. So, can I expect your cooperation?”
“Yes,” Liam said for the second time.
“You’re still worried?”
He nodded, tired of the verbal version. “Cavan isn’t ready to hear the truth, but Keely seems bound and determined to tell him.”
“I’m afraid there’s a real danger of that,” Winston agreed. “Keely is very angry right now, with just about everyone, not just you. The obvious answer to the most pressing problem, of course, is the wisest one as well—you need to tell Cavan the truth, in a way he’ll understand, and you need to do it soon.” She paused, considering. “I can say for certain that Keely loves her brother, and she realizes how much an outburst could hurt him. She and I have an agreement, for the time being, that she’ll stand back and let you handle the problem. That said, she’s nine, which means she may have a lot of trouble controlling her impulses.”
“I haven’t seen her try,” Liam admitted, with a slight grin.
“I will need to meet with her again, of course. And you. Cavan, as I’ve said, is in remarkably good shape for a seven-year-old who’s lost his mother.”
“Thank you,” Liam said, and he meant it, although he couldn’t wait to get out of that office and back to the ranch, where he could breathe.
First, though, he had to stop in at Bitter Gulch, find Landon Reece, and invite him to that night’s poker game.
He might have to back out himself, of course, because Keely might strike out at Cavan, tell him what she knew.
His daughter was subdued when he returned to the waiting room, where he made appointments for her and for himself for the following week.
Cavan got a pass.
Somehow, in spite of everything, the kid wasn’t messed up.
He would be, though, if Keely felt the need to strike out at somebody.
They took the elevator downstairs, left the building, got into the truck.
Cavan sat in his booster seat, Keely quiet and introspective beside him.
Liam hesitated, then climbed behind the wheel.
It was time to head back to Painted Pony Creek. He’d speak to Reece about the poker game, then make a quick stop at the grocery store for things they were running low on, like milk, bread and eggs.
After that, Liam decided, he’d have a word with Keely.
Remind her that she was a McKettrick, and he expected her to act like one.
Especially with Cavan.
Keely was silent on the way back from Silver Hills; periodic glances in the rearview assured Liam that she was pondering something deeply.
Cavan, on the other hand, chattered constantly, exuberantly, as if he’d just been baptized in the Jordan River and was out to spread the gospel, far and wide.
Presently, they reached home.
Liam changed into work clothes and went out to the barn to tend to the end-of-day chores, and Cavan stuck to his side like a burr to Velcro.
When they returned to the house, Keely was sitting in the kitchen, scrolling through images on her iPad. She looked up as they entered, her eyes solemn, and when Cavan had raced off to clean up and change clothes, she said quietly, “You think you need to save him from me.”
Liam paused, crossed the room, and crouched in front of Keely’s chair, took her hands in his. “Do I?” he asked gruffly.
Tears filled her luminous violet-blue eyes, and she bit her lower lip, shook her head. “No,” she said. “No.”
“I got a different impression from what you said today, in Angela Winston’s waiting room.”
One tear escaped the barrier of Keely’s thick lashes and raced, zigzag, along her cheek, and Liam brushed it away with the side of one thumb.
“I’m sorry,” Keely whispered. “It’s just—”
“It’s just what, Keely? That you think I love your brother more than I love you, maybe because he’s a boy, and you feel the need to punish him for that?”
Keely just stared at him for a long time. Then she asked a question so poignant that it nearly knocked Liam off his feet. “ Do you love me, Dad?”
Dad. It was the first time she’d ever called him that; she’d skipped from “Daddy,” when she was little, to what amounted to a disdainful “hey you” during and after the divorce.
He cupped her small, wet, earnest face in both hands. “Keely McKettrick,” he said, “I love you more than I love my next breath. I always have. And if you’ll give me a chance, I promise I’ll prove it.”
She threw her arms around his neck then, and sobbed into his shoulder while he held her.
He cried, too, but silently. Carefully, so she wouldn’t see.
He wasn’t naive enough to think the gulf between him and his daughter had been bridged, once and for all, but they’d made progress, and the relief he felt nearly undid him.