McKettricks of Texas: Austin by Linda Lael Miller

was the jeans.
    â€œHow can things like this happen?” she muttered, staring at poor Molly.
    Austin knew Paige didn’t expect an answer; she was thinking out loud, that was all. He wanted to put an armaround her shoulders right about then and just hold her against his side for a little while, but he wrote it off as a bad idea and kept his distance—insofar as that was possible in an eight-by-eight-foot stall.
    A silence fell between the two of them, but it was a comfortable one. Austin moved out into the breezeway, and he and Paige stood side by side in front of the half door of the stall, both of them focused on the mare.
    Soon, Doc Pomeroy’s old rig rattled up outside, backfired, then did some clanking and clattering as the engine shut down.
    Austin and Paige exchanged glances, not quite smiles but almost, and turned to watch as the old man trundled into the barn, carrying his battered bag in one gnarled hand. Probably pushing eighty, Doc still had powerful shoulders, a fine head of white hair and the stamina of a much younger man.
    â€œCome on in here, Clifton,” he said, half turning to address the figure hesitating in the wide, sunlit doorway. “I might need a hand.”
    Clifton Pomeroy, Doc’s only son, hadn’t shown his face in or around Blue River in a long time. Not since Jim and Sally McKettrick’s funeral, in fact.
    As kids, Cliff and Jim McKettrick had been the best of friends. Later on, they’d been business partners. When Jim had shut down the oil wells on the Silver Spur, though, Cliff had objected strenuously, since he’d been making a lot of money brokering McKettrick crude to various small independents. The association—and the friendship—had ended soon after that.
    Austin’s dad had never said what happened—giving reasons for things he regarded as his own business had not been Jim McKettrick’s way. On the rare occasionswhen Cliff Pomeroy’s name had come up, Jim had always clamped his jaw and either left the room or changed the subject.
    Now, finding himself back on a ranch he’d left on bad terms, Cliff hung back for a few moments, sizing things up. Then, in that vaguely slick way he had, he strolled easily into the barn, approaching Austin with one hand extended in greeting. His smile was broad and a little too bright, reminiscent of Garrett’s late boss, Senator Morgan Cox.
    Because there was no way to avoid doing so without hurting Doc’s feelings, Austin shook hands with Cliff and said hello.
    By then, Doc was in the stall with Molly and Garrett. Tate and Libby were entering the barn.
    Everybody clustered in front of the stall door.
    Doc, crouching next to the mare, looked up and frowned. “What is this?” he demanded. “Some kind of convention?”
    Doc had always been a cranky old coot, but he knew his business.
    Cliff chuckled nervously, took off his baseball cap and ran a hand through his thinning brown hair. “You want a hand or not, Dad?” he asked, his tone falsely cheerful.
    Austin recalled his mom saying that Clifton Pomeroy must have taken after his mother’s people, since he looked nothing like his father.
    Doc opened his bag and rooted around inside with one of his pawlike hands. Brought out a round tin and a packet of gauze. Catching Austin’s eye, he said, “You’ll do. The rest of you had better occupy yourselves elsewhere and give this poor horse room to breathe.”
    They all stepped away from the door, so Austin could go through.
    Garrett struck up a conversation with Cliff, and the whole bunch receded, including Libby and Paige.
    By then, Doc had filled one large syringe, set it carefully aside and filled another, and his expression was so grim that Austin was momentarily alarmed.
    â€œWhat is that stuff?” he rasped, kneeling next to the veterinarian, near Molly’s head.
    Doc’s mouth twitched, but he probably hadn’t smiled, or even