McKettrick's Choice (24 page)

Holt lost his sense of humor right then. “No woman is going to give me orders,” he vowed. And he was dead serious.

Rafe shook his head. “You poor fool,” he lamented, and gave Holt a sympathetic slap on the back.

L
ORELEI HAD NEVER
seen so many bawling, whirling, dust-raising cattle in her life. There must have been a thousand of them, churning about within the walls of a canyon on the Rancho Soledad, some spotted, some plain, and
all
bad-tempered.

“I don't want to buy any of the ones with horns,” she said resolutely, sitting up straight in her saddle. “Merciful heavens, some of them must measure six feet across!”

Holt, beside her on his fitful gelding, grinned through the shifting swell of dirt billowing up around the whole party. “You won't have much of a herd,” he told her. “They
all
have horns.”

Lorelei blushed, and not only because she'd just betrayed her ignorance of livestock. Holt's proposition, made the night before, had taken her over like a fever, with all the attendant aches and tensions. “Oh,” she said.

Holt watched her, resting a forearm on the saddlehorn. “Rivera wants ten dollars a head,” he told her. “I think it's robbery, and I told him so, but in this case, he's holding all the cards.”

Mentally, Lorelei counted her money. “I want two
hundred head,” she decided, and then felt the sickening backlash of her pronouncement, like a punch in the stomach.

“Your place isn't big enough to run that many cattle,” he said reasonably. “They need a lot of grass.”

Lorelei tried to look more confident, and more knowledgeable, than she felt. “How many are you taking?”

“Five hundred,” Holt answered matter-of-factly. “The Cavanagh spread amounts to almost twenty-five hundred acres.” He grinned again; evidently, he'd guessed by her expression that arithmetic wasn't her subject. “You have about a hundred, give or take,” he told her. “That means you can run maybe fifty head.”

“How do you know how many acres I have?” Lorelei asked, raising a little dust of her own. Seesaw was getting impatient, like the gelding. Tired of standing still.

Holt's grin didn't falter, which only made it more irritating. “John's had his eye on that patch of ground ever since I met him,” he said. His gaze glided over her, easy and smooth. “It makes sense to find out everything you can about what you want. You're more likely to get it that way.”

Lorelei's cheeks burned. She knew he wasn't talking about land or cattle then, and she was both infuriated and intrigued. “Nobody gets everything they want, Mr. McKettrick,” she said tightly, and rode past him to join Rafe and the Captain at the base of the canyon. She thought she heard Holt laugh, but she couldn't tell over the bawling of all those poor beasts.

An hour later, when the deal had been made and she'd parted with a considerable portion of her personal funds, it was time to head back to Reynosa.

Holt traveled at the front, like the head of some conquering army, with Rafe on his left and the Captain on
his right. Kahill and another cowboy rode point, keeping the animals funneled into forward motion, with other riders behind them, on both sides, riding swing at the widest part of the herd. Still others took the flank position, bringing up the rear.

And even farther back, with a bandana over her mouth, lest she choke on the blinding dust, Lorelei and the least competent of the cowboy contingent served as drag riders. It was their job to chase any strays back into the herd.

Reynosa was only five miles from the Rancho Soledad, and they were the longest, loudest, dirtiest five miles Lorelei had ever traveled. The thought of driving those animals all the way to San Antonio, on the lookout for Comanches at every turn in the road, seemed almost impossible.

At last, the town came into view and, at Holt's instructions, the wranglers contained the herd in a grassy clearing next to a stream. This took “some doing,” as John Cavanagh put it when he rode out on one of the wagon horses to look the animals over. The cowboys darted back and forth on their deft ponies, whistling and shouting at every stray, and finally the critters settled down to graze and quench their thirst.

Lorelei felt light-headed, as if she might topple out of the saddle at any moment, and clung to Seesaw with both legs and both hands. Rafe caught her by surprise when he rode up from behind, reining in next to her and the mule.

“Holt says you ought to go to the inn and get some rest,” he said, and pointed one gloved hand. “That's it, over there.”

Too weary, dirty and overwhelmed even to speak, Lorelei found the place with her eyes. It was a white adobe
structure with a sloping red tile roof, surrounded by low walls. She just sat there, for a long moment, staring at it, riding herd on her thoughts, picking up the strays. She yearned for a hot bath and a soft bed and a meal that didn't include pinto beans, but she wouldn't let herself think beyond those things.

“You all right?” Rafe prodded, when she didn't move.

“Fine,” she lied, and tapped at Seesaw's heaving sides with the heels of her inappropriate shoes. He took a few tentative steps toward the inn, then brayed and broke into a bone-jostling trot.

Lorelei used the last of her endurance merely to stay in the saddle.

 

A
S SOON AS
the herd was secure, Holt set out for the Corrales place, two miles west of town. He'd asked directions at Soledad and would have preferred to make the trip alone, but the Captain insisted on riding along. He'd been Frank's commander in the Rangers, and that entitled him to go by his own reckoning and, though grudgingly, by Holt's.

The farm consisted of a crumbling mud hut, a couple of skinny milk cows and a vegetable patch stripped to stubble. An old man in a sombrero, flour-sack shirt, worn trousers and sandals came out to greet them as they rode up. He was unarmed, but he didn't look very hospitable.

Holt and the Captain reined in at a distance of a dozen yards or so and took off their hats to show they were respectful.

“What do you want?” the old man demanded in rapid-fire Spanish, and spat to let them know he didn't
think two white men on good horses were necessarily a promising sign.

Replying slowly, because he hadn't had much call to speak Spanish in some time, Holt introduced himself, then the Captain, and asked for Frank.

The ancient Mexican's leathery face cracked into a smile wide enough and white enough to dazzle the eye. “You are friends of Francisco?” he asked, tossing in an English word or two.

Holt nodded. “Is he here?”

Frank's father looked back at the hut, and two yellow chickens waddled over the threshold. His gaze swung to Holt's face again, narrowed. The smile was gone.
“Sí,”
he said.

Holt and the Captain exchanged glances and dismounted simultaneously. Holt started for the hut, his strides long. The old man tried to grab his arm as he passed, but Holt shook him off.

At the doorway, he stopped, letting his eyes adjust to the dim interior. He made out a fireplace, a table and, finally, in the far corner, a narrow cot. Frank Corrales lay there, still as death.

“Frank?” The name came out of Holt's throat sounding rusty.

“Shit,” muttered the familiar voice, as ragged and raw as Holt's own had been. “Am I out of my head from the pain, or is that Holt Cavanagh?”

Holt gripped the wooden frame, weak with relief. “It's me, all right,” he said, and stepped inside when he figured he could trust himself to let go of the doorway. “What are you doing, laying around on your ass, you lazy Mexican?”

Frank laughed and tried to sit up. “Just resting up for the next fight, you sorry white man,” he answered. He
was soaked with sweat and his black hair was matted, but he was alive. Sweet Jesus, he was
alive,
and just then, that was all that mattered. “Christ, I thought you'd never get here. How's Gabe? Did they hang him yet?”

Holt crouched beside the cot, laid a hand on Frank's arm. Behind him, the Captain shooed away the chickens and came inside, his boot heels clunking on the packed-dirt floor.

“Gabe's still in jail, up in San Antonio,” Holt said quietly. “What happened to you?”

Frank's fevered gaze strayed past Holt to the Captain. He executed an awkward salute before replying, “The bastards dragged me behind a horse. Must have traveled a mile or better before I managed to get to my knife and cut the rope.”

“Who did it?” the Captain asked, and even though he spoke quietly, his tone was deadly.

“Templeton's bunch,” Frank said. “Gabe and me, we were out hunting, and we'd just made camp for the night when they jumped us—took us by surprise. I reckon they thought they killed me, or they'd have come back when they realized I'd cut myself loose.”

The Captain took his flask from the pocket of his shirt, unscrewed the lid and held it out to Frank.

Frank accepted the whiskey and drank deeply. Took a minute or so to settle back into himself after the jolt to his system. “Some Rangers found me, alongside the trail, and hauled my beat-up, dried-out carcass to Laredo. I wrote you that message, Holt, and hired a rider to carry it to you. I'm glad to see he got through—up until you showed up in the doorway just now, I wondered.”

“How'd you get here to Reynosa?” the Captain asked.

“My old papa out there, he heard what happened
and came to get me. You ever ride that far in a donkey cart?”

The Captain chuckled, but it was a gravelly sound. Holt knew he wanted to find Templeton and the rest and rip their gizzards out, just like he did. “If that didn't kill you, Corrales, I reckon nothing would.”

Frank laughed and took another draught of the whiskey. “I don't suppose you've got an extra horse,” he ventured. “I love
mi padre,
but I'll go
loco
if I have to stay here with him and the chickens.”

“I didn't come all this way to leave you behind,” Holt said gruffly. “You got any broken bones?”

“A few cracked ribs,” Frank admitted. “I'd mend a lot faster on the back of a horse, though. Help me to my feet, will you, Holt?”

Holt stood, feeling uncertain. It wouldn't surprise him if his old friend had a few internal injuries to go along with those cracked ribs, and he didn't want to make matters worse. “You sure?”

“Yes, dammit,” Frank said, struggling to get up on his own.

Holt stepped in, draped Frank's arm around his neck and hoisted.

Frank gritted his teeth and groaned, but he was upright, anyway.

His pa had slipped inside the hut at some point, and he looked mighty worried. Holt didn't blame him for that.

“All right,” Frank gasped. “Let's see if I can do this without hanging off of you.”

Reluctantly, Holt withdrew, but he stayed within grabbing distance, and so, he noticed out of the corner of his eye, did the Captain.

Frank teetered, then swayed, but he finally found his
balance. “Damn,” he breathed. “It's going to be good not to piss in a jug anymore.”

Up until that moment, the air in that gloomy little hut had been thick with tension. Now Holt laughed, and so did the Captain, and even old Frank, Sr., cracked a smile.

“What about your pa?” the Captain asked. “He want to go with us?”

Frank put the question to his father, in Spanish.

The old man shook his head. Said something about looking after his chickens. There was a look of sorrow in his eyes, along with a glint of pride.

“Adios, papacito,”
Frank said. He gestured toward a bedroll and some saddlebags in the corner. “That's my gear. I'd be obliged if you'd carry it a ways for me, Cap'n.”

This time, it was the Captain who saluted. He gathered Frank's things, and the old man produced a battered rosary, which he pressed into his son's palm. Seeing that made Holt's throat tighten; he wondered how his own pa was faring, up there on the Triple M.

They made their slow way out to the horses, Holt and the Captain walking on either side of their friend. Frank's pa had led the animals to the water trough, and they'd drunk their fill.

“Best you ride behind me, Frank,” the Captain said, gathering the reins. “That gelding of Holt's thinks he's still a stallion, and he comes unwrapped once in a while.”

“Any horse Holt can ride,” Frank said, “
I
can ride—sir.”

“You're going to have to choose between your pride and your ribs,” Holt put in, meeting Frank's gaze and
holding steady. “If I were you, I'd favor the ribs, and prove up on the pride later.”

Frank grinned, still a little wobbly on his feet. “Because I'm so damn glad you finally got here,” he said magnanimously, “I'm going to let you have this one.”

The Captain swung up into the saddle, slipped his left foot out of the stirrup and held out a hand to Frank. Holt helped him mount up, waited till Frank was situated, with a good grip around the Captain's middle.

“Vaya con Dios,”
Frank's father said, looking up at his son.

Frank nodded, but he didn't speak. Maybe he couldn't, just then.

They set off at a walk, and Frank didn't look back, but Holt noticed he was clasping that old rosary in one hand. “My
papacito
's donkey moves faster than this,” Frank complained. “At this rate, Gabe'll be dead and buried before we get back to San Antonio.”

Neither Holt nor the Captain applied the heels of his boots.

“Holt hired a lawyer,” the Captain said, as they ambled along. “Gabe's getting a new trial.”

Holt was thoughtful. “You mentioned John Cavanagh in your letter. How'd you know he was in trouble?”

“I heard Templeton's bunch talking about it, while they were trussing me up like a Christmas goose,” Frank answered.

“What was their beef with you and Gabe?” the Captain wanted to know.

“They killed those settlers so Templeton could have their land. They needed somebody to blame, and Gabe probably seemed a likely choice since he'd had a run-in with the dead folks maybe a week before we got jumped. The rancher sold him a wind-broke horse, and when
he went back to make it right, some heated words got swapped. Gabe, being Gabe, helped himself to a different horse, leaving the bad one behind, and the homesteader, he went to town and filed a complaint. Said Gabe was a horse thief.”