McKettrick's Choice. Linda Miller Lael
“Can you teach me to shoot a gun?” Lorelei inquired, dusting her hands together. “If you can’t, I shall have to learn on my own.”
“A gun, señorita?”
“Yes, Raul,” Lorelei said, waxing impatient. “A gun.”
Raul began to pace, waving his arms and ranting in Spanish.
Lorelei consulted her bodice watch. “I guess we’d better get back to town,” she said. “I have to meet with Mr. Sexton, at the bank, and we must order supplies.” She assessed the sky, which was blue as Angelina’s favorite sugar bowl. “What we need is a tent. Just until the house is habitable. You don’t think it will rain in the next few days, do you?”
Raul stopped his pacing and raving and let his hands fall to his sides. “Sí,” he said hopefully. “There are dark clouds—there in the west.”
Lorelei turned. Sure enough, there were.
“All the more reason to invest in a tent,” she said.
Raul lapsed into Spanish again. Since she suspected he was cursing, Lorelei did not attempt to translate. She made for the wagon, her strides long and purposeful, and Raul had no choice but to follow.
He helped her back into the wagon box, then climbed up beside her, breathing hard, his thin shoulders stooped with defeat.
“We must have chickens, too, of course,” Lorelei said, scrabbling through her bag for a pencil stub and something to write on. “We can probably eat fish from the creek, and a fifty-pound bag of beans would do nicely for provisions. Angelina can do marvelous things with beans.”
The wagon jostled into motion.
“Chickens,” Raul fretted. “Beans.”
Lorelei concentrated on her list. “Coffee,” she said. “And sugar. Flour and yeast—”
Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled.
Lorelei paid it no mind.
What was a little rain?
THEY FOUND Melina Garcia in back of the Parkinson’s rambling log ranch house bent over a tub of hot water, clasping what looked like a shirt in both hands and scrubbing it against a washboard. She was a little bit of a thing, by Holt’s measure, anchored to the earth only by the jutting weight of her lower belly. Her dark hair was twisted into a knot at the nape of her neck and coming loose from its pins, and her brown face gleamed with sweat.
She’d watched them approach, and there was no welcome in her eyes.
“A good day to you, Melina,” the Captain said, resettling his hat.
She spared him an unfriendly nod and left off the washing to set her hands on her hips and look Holt over good. From her expression, he’d have said she found him somewhat short of spectacular.
Holt dismounted, hung his hat on his saddle horn and took a step toward her.
“I’ve met this old coyote once or twice,” she said, with a terse nod in the Captain’s direction, “but who the devil are you?”
Wisely, Holt stopped in his tracks, folded his arms to show he meant no harm and answered her query with his full name.
She mirrored his stance, but there was no promise of peace in her posture or in her face. She was expecting trouble, that was clear. Either she had good instincts where impending misfortune was concerned, or she’d had a lot of experience in that area.
Holt figured it was probably a little of both.
Her dark eyes flashed with wary temper. “What do you want?”
“I’m here to bring you word about Gabe Navarro.”
She stiffened, and he glimpsed a shadow of fear behind her facade, but it was quickly displaced by a wintry fury. She spat fiercely into the hard, hot dirt.
“He’s alive,” Holt felt compelled to say.
“Maybe not for long,” the Captain put in. He hadn’t bothered to get off his horse.
Melina’s eyes widened, and her gaze flickered from Holt to the Captain and back again. “What’s happened?” she asked. She was interested, all right, but she didn’t seem to want anyone to know it.
Holt reached into his pocket, brought out the five twenty-dollar bills he’d threatened and cajoled out of Gabe’s jailer. Extended them. “He sent you this.”
She hesitated, then stepped forward and snatched the bills from his hand. After looking around, she tucked them into the pocket of her apron and patted them, as if to make sure they stayed put. “He’s in trouble,” she surmised.
Holt nodded, rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. “Yes, indeed,” he said. “He’s in jail in San Antonio, sentenced to hang on the first of October.”
Melina reached out, grasped the handle of the water pump to steady herself. Her other hand flew to her belly, as if to protect the babe she was carrying. “That’s impossible.”
“I’m afraid it ain’t,” the Captain said. He took a tin of tobacco and some papers from his shirt pocket and proceeded to roll himself a smoke, still without dismounting.
“Holt here tells me the charges are murder and horse thieving. This is serious business, Melina.”
A middle-aged woman came out of the house to stand on the porch, watching them, shading her eyes from the relentless Texas sun with one hand. “Melina?” she called. “Is everything all right?”
Melina didn’t so much as glance in that direction. “No, ma’am,” she answered, raising her voice just far enough to cover the distance.
The woman, probably Mrs. Parkinson, stepped tentatively off the porch and started toward them. Like Melina, she was clad in practical calico, but she looked a sight cooler. “Who are these men?” she wanted to know.
“Holt McKettrick,” Holt said, with a slight inclination of his head. “And this is Captain Jack Walton.”
The Captain troubled himself to tug at the brim of his dusty hat. “Mrs. Parkinson,” he said politely.
“You,” she said, looking up at Walton and lining up shoulder to shoulder with Melina. In that moment, Holt decided he liked the woman. She was obviously nervous of strangers, and with good reason given the state of affairs in modern Texas. It seemed there were no men around to protect her if things should take an ugly turn, but she was willing to stand toe-to-toe with whatever came. “If you came here looking to collect some bounty, you can just ride on out right now. All our men are honest.”
Captain Jack leaned forward, resting on arm on the pommel of his saddle, and smiled. “I’ve got no business with any of your men, Mrs. Parkinson. I just came along with my friend, Holt, here, to bring Melina some news.”
Mrs. Parkinson looked down at Melina. “What kind of news?”
Melina didn’t turn her head. She was still watching Holt, with an occasional glance at the Captain. “I’ve got to go to San Antonio,” she said.
“Gabe doesn’t want you to do that,” Holt said, though he’d already guessed there was little hope of convincing her.
“I’ll get my things,” Melina said.
“Melina,” Mrs. Parkinson protested. “You can’t just leave! How will I get the washing done?”
At last, Gabe’s woman faced the boss lady. “I’m sorry about the washing,” she said directly, “but I still have to go.”
“But the baby—what will you do in San Antonio? How will you live?”
“I’ll see that she’s taken care of,” Holt said, for Melina’s benefit more than Mrs. Parkinson’s. “I have friends she can stay with.”