Sierra's Homecoming. Linda Lael MillerЧитать онлайн книгу.
sighed, setting a bowl of soup in front of him. “Because you don’t know how.”
Liam’s sigh echoed her own, and if they’d been talking about anything but the endangerment of life and limb, it would have been funny.
“How am I supposed to learn how if you won’t let me try? You’re being overprotective. You could scar my psyche. I might develop psychological problems.”
“There are times,” Sierra confessed, sitting down across from him with her own bowl of soup, “when I wish you weren’t quite so smart.”
Liam waggled his eyebrows at her. “I got it from you.”
“Not,” Sierra said. Liam had her eyes, her thick, fine hair, and her dogged persistence, but his remarkable IQ came from his father.
Don’t think about Adam, she told herself.
Travis Reid sidled into her mind.
Even worse.
Liam consumed his soup, along with a second sandwich, and went off to explore the rest of the house while Sierra lingered thoughtfully over her coffee.
The telephone rang.
Sierra got up to fetch the cordless receiver and pressed Talk with her thumb. “Hello?”
“You’re there!” Meg trilled.
Sierra noticed that she’d left the china cabinet doors open and went in that direction, intending to close them. “Yes,” she said. Meg had been kind to her, in a long-distance sort of way, but Sierra had only been two when she’d last seen her half sister, and that made them strangers.
“How do you like it? The ranch house, I mean?”
“I haven’t seen much of it,” Sierra answered. “Liam and I just got here, and then we had lunch….” Her hand went, of its own accord, to the teapot, and she imagined she felt just the faintest charge when she touched it. “Lots of antiques around here,” she said, thinking aloud.
“Don’t be afraid to use them,” Meg replied. “Family tradition.”
Sierra withdrew her hand from the teapot, shut the doors. “Family tradition?”
“McKettrick rules,” Meg said, with a smile in her voice. “Things are meant to be used, no matter how old they are.”
Sierra frowned, uneasy. “But if they get broken—”
“They get broken,” Meg finished for her. “Have you met Travis yet?”
“Yes,” Sierra said. “And he’s not at all what I expected.”
Meg laughed. “What did you expect?”
“Some gimpy old guy, I guess,” Sierra admitted, warming to the friendliness in her sister’s voice. “You said he took care of the place and lived in a trailer by the barn, so I thought—” She broke off, feeling foolish.
“He’s cute and he’s single,” Meg said.
“Even the teapot?” Sierra mused.
“Huh?”
Sierra put a hand to her forehead. Sighed. “Sorry. I guess I missed a segue there. There’s a teapot in the china cabinet in the kitchen—I was just wondering if I could—”
“I know the one,” Meg answered, with a soft fondness in her voice. “It was Lorelei’s. She got it for a wedding present.”
Lorelei. The matriarch of the family. Sierra took a step backward.
“Use it,” Meg said, as if she’d seen Sierra’s reflexive retreat.
Sierra shook her head. “I couldn’t. I had no idea it was that old. If I dropped it—”
“Sierra,” Meg said, “it’s not china. It’s cast iron, with an enamel overlay.”
“Oh.”
“Kind of like the McKettrick women, Mom always says.” Meg went on. “Smooth on the outside, tough as iron on the inside.”
Mom. Sierra closed her eyes against all the conflicting emotions the word brought up in her, but it didn’t help.
“We’ll give you time to settle in,” Meg said gently, when Sierra was too choked up to speak. “Then Mom and I will probably pop in for a visit. If that’s okay with you, of course.”
Both Meg and Eve lived in San Antonio, Texas, where they helped run McKettrickCo, a multinational corporation with interests in everything from software to communication satellites, so they wouldn’t be “popping in” without a little notice.
Sierra swallowed hard. “It’s your house,” she said.
“And yours,” Meg pointed out, very quietly.
After that, Meg made Sierra promise to call if she needed anything. They said goodbye, and the call ended.
Sierra went back to the china cabinet for the teapot.
Liam clattered down the back stairs. “I told you this place was haunted!” he crowed, his small face shining with delight.
The teapot was heavy—definitely cast iron—but Sierra was careful as she set it on the counter, just the same. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“I just saw a kid,” Liam announced. “Upstairs, in my room!”
“You’re imagining things.”
Liam shook his head. “I saw him!”
Sierra approached her son, laid her hand to his forehead. “No fever,” she mused, worried.
“Mom,” Liam protested, pulling back. “I’m not sick—and I’m not delusional, either.”
Delusional. How many seven-year-olds used that word? Sierra sighed and cupped Liam’s eager face in both hands. “Listen. It’s fine to have imaginary friends, but—”
“He’s not imaginary.”
“Okay,” Sierra responded, with another sigh. It was possible, she supposed, that a neighbor child had wandered in before they arrived, but that seemed unlikely, given that the only other houses on the ranch were miles away. “Let’s investigate.”
Together they climbed the back stairs, and Sierra got her first look at the upper story. The corridor was wide, with the same serviceable board floors. The light fixtures, though old-fashioned, were electric, but most of the light came from the large arched window at the far end of the hallway. Six doors stood open, an indication that Liam had visited each room in turn after leaving the kitchen the first time.
He led her into the middle one, on the left side.
No one was there.
Sierra let out her breath, admiring the room. It was spacious, perfect quarters for a boy. Two bay windows overlooked the barn area, where Baldy, the singularly unattractive horse, stood stalwartly in the middle of the corral, looking as though he intended to break loose at any second and do some serious bucking. Travis was beside Baldy, stroking the animal’s neck as he eased the halter off over its head.
A quivery sensation tickled the pit of Sierra’s stomach.
“Mom,” Liam said. “He was here. He had on short pants and funny shoes and suspenders.”
Sierra turned to look at her son, feeling fretful again. Liam stood near the other window, examining an antique telescope, balanced atop a shining brass tripod. “I believe you,” she said.
“You don’t,” Liam argued, jutting out his chin. “You’re humoring me.”
Sierra sat down on the side of the bed positioned between the windows. Like the dressers, it was scarred with age, but made of sturdy wood. The headboard was simply but intricately carved, and a faded quilt provided