McKettrick's Choice. Linda Miller Lael

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      Sexton flushed. Whatever he’d been laughing about earlier must have been far from his mind, because he looked miserable, and not just from the cloying heat.

      “It’s about the property you inherited,” he said.

      “What property?” Lorelei asked.

      “Why, the ranch,” Sexton replied, after a quick glance at the judge. “The hundred acres downriver.” He fiddled with his collar again. “An offer of purchase has been made.”

      Lorelei was confounded. She looked at her father, but his face gave away nothing, as usual. “It’s mine to sell?” she asked.

      The judge cleared his throat. “Not precisely. But your signature is required. Just a formality.”

      “I want to see the place first.”

      Her father sighed. “There is no point in that, Lorelei,” he said. “It’s just an old cabin, surrounded by scrub brush and rattlesnakes.”

      “Mr. Templeton is prepared to be very generous,” Sexton put in nervously, and got a quelling glare from the judge for his trouble.

      “I’m sure he is,” Lorelei said, “but I’m not signing anything until I see that land with my own eyes.”

      The judge pinched the bridge of his nose. “I should have known you would be difficult about this,” he said.

      “Yes,” Lorelei agreed. “You should have.”

      He glowered at her. “Will you excuse us for a few moments, Mr. Sexton?”

      Sexton fled with such haste that Lorelei half expected to see a little cloud of dust trailing behind him. The study door closed with a crisp catch of the latch.

      “Why didn’t you tell me about this land?” Lorelei asked.

      “You are a woman,” the judge replied wearily. “It was of no concern to you.”

      “Until you decided to sell it,” Lorelei pointed out.

      “The sale will provide a substantial dowry,” the judge reasoned, but with an edge of impatience in his voice.

      “God knows, you’ll need one to get a husband.”

      “I don’t want a husband.”

      “You have made that quite clear. Nonetheless, my dear, you will have one.”

      “Tell me about the ranch.”

      Another sigh, this one long-suffering. “It belonged to your mother’s family. If William had lived, the place would have gone to him. Your grandfather’s will stated that, should William fail to survive, the land would be yours.”

      “I’m not surprised that I wasn’t consulted,” Lorelei said glumly. “After all, I am only a woman.” The judge would simply have appropriated the estate if he’d been able to do so, which meant there was something he wasn’t telling her.

      Her father hoisted himself from his chair. His lips had a bluish tinge, and there was a strange pallor to his face. “Please, Lorelei. For once in your life, do not argue with me. Mr. Sexton has brought the documents.” He shoved a pile of papers toward her without lifting them from the desktop.

      Lorelei took a step toward him. “You don’t look well. Perhaps I should ask Angelina to send Raul for the doctor.”

      “Never mind the damn doctor!” the judge shouted, collapsing back into his chair. “Sign the papers!”

      Lorelei bit her lower lip. Sometimes, she wished she were more tractable.

      “No,” she said. “Absolutely not.”

      HOLT RODE INTO Waco about an hour after sunup. A freight wagon jostled by, and the driver touched his hat brim in greeting. Two prostitutes gossiped in front of the Blue Bullet Saloon, pausing to regard Holt through a haze of tobacco smoke, and a Chinaman trotted along the sidewalk, a broomstick braced across his narrow shoulders, yokelike, with a huge covered basket suspended from either end. A dead man—shot through the chest if the pattern of dried blood was any indication—leaned against the wall beside the undertaker’s door, strapped to a board. A crude sign dangled from a nail above his head. The Wages Of Sin Is Death.

      Holt had seen worse things, especially while riding with the Rangers, but the sight sent a shiver down his spine just the same. He couldn’t help thinking of Gabe.

      He spotted a livery stable and headed in that direction. Gabe had said Melina was working for a rancher’s wife, which meant he wasn’t likely to find her in town, but his horse was played out, in need of water, feed and a few hours’ rest. He would see to the Appaloosa first, then scare up some breakfast for himself. With any luck, the folks in the restaurant would steer him in the right direction.

      He’d just taken a chair by the window and ordered up a plate of eggs, fried potatoes and sausage when Captain Jack Walton himself ambled in. Grizzled and wiry, the man was deceptively small. Holt had seen him take on Comanches two at a time and come out of it with his hair still on and his hide unmarked.

      Holt blinked, sure he was seeing things, and set down his mug of coffee.

      Captain Jack laughed. “Thought I was dead, didn’t you?” he drawled, taking off his round-brimmed hat and easing himself into the chair across from Holt’s.

      “Hell, yes,” Holt said, recovering, taking in the Captain’s thinning gray hair and hard, watchful eyes. “Fact is, I’m still not sure you’re real.”

      Walton’s skin was leathery from the Texas sun, and his hands were age-spotted, the fingers clawlike, yet still, Holt would have bet, as quick to the trigger as ever. “I had the same thought about you, when I saw you ride in. That’s a fine-looking Appaloosa you’ve got there.”

      Holt nodded. He didn’t know how to make small talk, not with the Captain, anyhow. “Thanks,” he said, at some length, noting the star pinned to the old man’s vest.

      Walton signaled the waitress, and she hurried over with a blue enamel coffeepot and an outsized cup. Evidently, the Captain still liked his brew.

      “What brings you to Waco?” he asked, after adding half a pound of sugar and taking an appreciative slurp.

      “I’m looking for a woman called Melina Garcia,” Holt said, wondering if the Captain had been the one to put a bullet in that outlaw over at the undertaker’s and then display the corpse as a deterrent to those with criminal inclinations. He was a man to take harsh measures when he deemed them appropriate, which was often.

      The Captain arched one eyebrow. “Gabe Navarro’s woman?”

      Holt’s stomach soured, and he regarded his unfinished breakfast with mournful resignation. “Yes.”

      Walton leaned forward. “You the bearer of bad tidings, Mr. Cavanagh?” he asked. “Last I heard, you was up in the Arizona Territory someplace, building yourself another ranch.”

      “Gabe’s СКАЧАТЬ