McKettrick's Choice. Linda Miller Lael

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      He swore under his breath. If his hat hadn’t been with the horse, he’d have wrenched it off his head and slapped it against one thigh in sheer aggravation.

      CHAPTER 9

      JOHN CAVANAGH felt a prickle trip down his spine, the same one he’d felt back in ’64, just before a rebel cannonball took off a piece of his thigh. He looked around for Tillie—saw her on the other side of the draw, bouncing along on the back of her mule, with that worthless yellow dog bringing up the rear.

      She was probably out of rifle range, so he didn’t shout a warning, though one sure as hell surged up into the back of his throat, bitter and raw.

      Holt was in town, trying, among other things, to hire a lawyer for Gabe and the new man, Kahill, was rounding up strays. The herd, once two hundred head of cattle strong, had dwindled down to less than fifty, by John’s reckoning, and they needed every one they could drive out of the brush.

      The prickle came again. Somebody was watching him, from someplace nearby, and probably looking down the barrel of a gun.

      He drew back on the reins, looked around.

      The rider sat at the top of the draw, under a stand of oak trees.

      He recognized the man by his shape and bulk. Templeton.

      John spat, ran one arm across his mouth and headed straight for the trespassing sum-bitch.

      Templeton waited, the barrel of his rifle resting easy across the front of his saddle. He wore a fancy bowler hat and the kind of duds a Texan would get married—or buried—in but never take out of mothballs otherwise. His sandy mustache twitched slightly, and he shouldered away the fly buzzing around his muttonchop whiskers. Something meant to pass as a smile played on his bow-shaped mouth.

      “Afternoon, John,” he said. His accent was English, and right fancy. Better suited to a tea party in some castle than the Texas range.

      John let his gaze travel to the rifle. “You hunting something?” he asked.

      “This is rough country,” Templeton replied smoothly.

      “A man can’t be too careful.”

      “That’s for sure and certain,” John answered, resettling his hat. The band itched, soaked with sweat. “I don’t reckon you’d mistake any of my cattle for game. Fine sportsman like you.”

      Templeton heaved a great sigh. “The poor beasts look pretty scrawny to me,” he said, with mock regret. “Hair, hide, hooves and horns, that’s about all you’ve got here. Not worth driving to market, as far as I can see.”

      “Then I reckon you ain’t looked far enough,” John replied evenly.

      The Englishman spared a thin smile. “I hear you sold out. I’m disappointed, John. I would have given you a good price.”

      John smiled back and spat again. “I’d sooner deed this place over to the devil,” he said. “And you were planning on buying this spread from the bank, pennies on the dollar.”

      Templeton shifted in the saddle. Cradled the rifle as gently as a babe just drawing its first breath. “That fellow McKettrick. Is he really your son?”

      “Good as,” John said.

      “I’ve been expecting him to pay me a call.”

      “He’s had better things to do.”

      With a mocking air, Templeton put a hand to his heart, fingers splayed, as though to cover a fresh wound. The rifle barely moved. The Englishman’s smile sent that prickle rolling along John’s spine again. “Now that was an unkind thing to say,” Templeton drawled. His gaze moved past John, tracking Tillie and the mule in the distance, like a snake about to spring at a field mouse. John’s aging heart lurched over a beat. “Looks as if you’re pretty hard up for ranch hands.”

      John sat up straighter in the saddle and fondled the handle of the .45 strapped to his hip just to draw Templeton’s eyes back to him and, therefore, off Tillie. “That’s the truth,” he allowed. “Holt’s hiring, though. Like as not, he’ll have that bunkhouse filled in no time.”

      “You tell your…son that I’d like a word with him. I’ll be receiving whenever he chooses to make a visit.” Templeton paused, smiled at John’s .45, like it was a toy whittled out of wood instead of a Colt, and sheathed his rifle. “Best if it’s soon, though. I’m an impatient man.”

      “‘Receiving,’ is it?” John countered lightly. “Sounds pretty fancy.”

      Templeton was watching Tillie again. “Just tell him what I said.”

      “Oh, I surely will.” John maneuvered his horse to block Templeton’s view of the girl. “I doubt Holt’ll take kindly to it, though. My guess is, he’ll wait for you to come to him.”

      Templeton reined his fine Irish horse away, toward home. “He won’t like it if I do,” he said, and before John could answer, he rode off into the trees.

      John gulped back the bile that rose into his throat, then turned and headed down the hillside, toward the draw. “Tillie!” he called. “You get yourself back to the house now, and start supper!”

      GABE STOOD with his back to the bars of the new cell, staring out the window. The rasping of a saw rode the air, along with the steady tattoo of hammers. The gallows was well underway.

      “I don’t suppose you’ve heard back from the governor,” Gabe said, without turning around.

      Holt took off his hat, ran a hand through his hair. “No,” he admitted. “I stopped by the telegraph office on my way here.”

      “Most likely that wire never went out, any more than the one Frank sent to you did.”

      “I’ll ride up to Austin if I don’t hear by tomorrow,” Holt said. He felt every blow of those hammers as if they’d struck his bare bones instead of the new and fragrant lumber of a hangman’s platform.

      Gabe didn’t speak. It was clear he wasn’t holding out much hope.

      “Is there anything in particular you want me to do?” Holt asked quietly. “Besides get you out of here, I mean?”

      At last, Gabe faced him. “I’ve been worrying about Melina. Somebody ought to tell her that I’m not staying away on purpose.” He paused, rubbed his chin with one hand. “She’s carrying my baby, Holt.”

      Holt wanted to avert his eyes, because his friend’s pain was a hard thing to look upon, but he didn’t. “Where will I find her?”

      “Waco,” Gabe answered, relaxing a little. “Her last name is Garcia. Last I knew, she was doing laundry for a rich rancher’s wife. Parkinson, I think they call themselves.”

      “Done,” Holt said.

      Gabe’s throat worked. “If anything happens—”

      “Nothing,” Holt СКАЧАТЬ