McKettrick's Choice (25 page)

“Damn fool Indian,” the Captain muttered.

“I'd say it was the rancher who was the fool,” Frank replied. “He made it mighty convenient for Templeton's men to cut him and the wife up and call it Gabe's handiwork.”

Holt frowned. “According to the court records, when the marshal and his men rode out there and found the bodies, they found Gabe's knife, too.”

“Wasn't Gabe's knife,” Frank said. He was still sweating, but with every step the Captain's horse took, he seemed to sit a little taller, and he was sucking in fresh air like he'd been starved for it. “I've got it in my saddlebags. That's what I used to cut the rope when those murdering bastards were dragging me through the sagebrush.”

Holt had been riding ahead. Now, he drew back on the reins, fell in alongside the Captain and Frank. “It's a pretty unusual blade, Frank,” he said. “I remember when Gabe got it. He had it made special.”

Frank looked impatient, which meant he wasn't as banged up as he looked. It was usual for Frank to be testy, especially when he thought somebody was challenging his word. “Get it out and look at it, if you don't believe me.”

“Hell,” Holt rasped, “I didn't say that.”

“It's on the left side,” Frank pressed. “Wrapped in a bandana. Get it out, Holt, and then tell me it isn't Gabe's knife.”

Holt sighed. “If you say it's Gabe's, you ornery cuss, then it's Gabe's.”

Frank smiled, but he was supporting his rib cage with one arm now, and clasping the front of the Captain's shirt with the other. “How've you been faring, up there in the Arizona Territory?” he asked, with the geniality of a man who has just won an argument. “You got a wife yet?”

“No,” Holt said, but he couldn't help thinking of Lorelei, back at the inn. Most likely, she'd had herself a bath by now, and maybe even put on a dress. He knew she had one stashed in that too-heavy pack of hers. It made his groin hurt, just to imagine the ordinary things she might be doing. “No wife.”

“He's got a woman, though,” the Captain said, and spared Holt a half grin. “Pretty thing. She's got a gift for poker.”

Frank gave a hoot of delight at that, though Holt wasn't sure whether it was her being pretty that pleased him so much or her affinity for poker. “What's her name?” Frank demanded.

“Lorelei,” the Captain drawled, when Holt set his jaw and said nothing.

Frank's grin broadened. “Fancy,” he said.

“Oh, Lorelei's fancy, all right,” the Captain allowed, as if Lorelei was any of his damn business. “Whenever the two of them get within six feet of each other, the sky splits open and the rest of us have to dodge the blue lightning.”

“With all due respect, Captain,” Holt said evenly, “that's more bullshit than the herd left behind between the
rancho
and Reynosa.”

Frank threw back his head and gave another hoot of laughter. “She's got you riled,” he told Holt, when he'd settled down again. “That's a bad sign,
amigo.
A very bad sign.”

Holt stood in the stirrups, and not because he needed to stretch his legs. “If your ribs weren't cracked already, Frank,” he said, “I believe I'd drag you through the sagebrush a ways myself.”

Frank just smiled.

“He wants her,” the Captain said.

Holt scowled. “I've heard about enough out of you two,” he said.

“You haven't heard the half of it,” said the Captain, and his mustache twitched. “Has he, Frank?”

 

L
ORELEI TOOK ONE BATH
, then had the water emptied out and the tub filled again, so she could take a second. After that, she put on a white cotton dress, which Melina had borrowed from the mistress of the inn, and sat alone in the inn's small garden, combing the tangles out of her freshly washed hair. She was winding it into a single thick plait when Melina appeared with a bowl of fruit, and sat down beside her on the stone bench.

“It's lovely here, isn't it?” Melina said, with a little sigh. “If it wasn't for Gabe, I think I'd stay.”

Lorelei helped herself to a fig. The sweetness of it made her close her eyes and nearly swoon. “Don't say anything about leaving,” she said dreamily. “I'm pretending we won't have to drive those blasted cattle straight through Indian country and deal with Mr. Templeton when we get there.”

Melina laughed softly. “I didn't think you ever pretended anything, Lorelei,” she said, “for all you claim you've been play-acting all your life.”

Lorelei opened her eyes, because all of a sudden Holt's image had taken shape in her mind. “Well,” she said, taking another bite of the fig, “I do. When I'm riding that cussed mule, I pretend I'm in a fancy surrey instead,
wearing a ruffled dress and carrying a parasol. When I have to sleep on the ground, I make believe I'm at home, in my own bed.” Tears gathered in her throat, thick and unexpected. Her comfortable life in San Antonio was over for good, and even though she wouldn't have gone back to it for anything, that didn't stop her from mourning the good parts.

Clean, crisp sheets.

A wardrobe full of pretty clothes.

More books than she could read in a thousand years.

Melina took her free hand, squeezed it.

Lorelei swallowed hard, and blinked. “I wish I knew if Raul and Angelina were all right,” she said, very quietly.

Melina let go of her hand. “What about your father?” she asked gently. “Do you think about him?”

Lorelei nodded. “Yes,” she said.

“He probably misses you.”

“No,” Lorelei said, and she was as sure of that as anything in the world. She knew the judge. She'd stepped over the line, and as far as he was concerned, she was as dead as William. The difference was, he wouldn't grieve for her. “If I ever have a daughter,” she told Melina, listening to the distant bellowing of Holt McKettrick's cattle, “I'm going to love her as much as any son.”

Melina didn't answer, maybe because she knew Lorelei hadn't intended to say what she had. She'd been thinking out loud, that was all.

Lorelei finished the fig and took another one. She was wildly hungry, now that she'd washed off at least two pounds of trail dirt. Once she'd appeased her stomach, she meant to shut herself in her room, strip to her camisole and bloomers and stretch out on her bed. She would
sleep and sleep, and sleep some more, until it was time to saddle Seesaw and start back to San Antonio.

Unless…

Melina peered at her. “What's the matter, Lorelei?”

Lorelei blinked, sitting up very straight, the fig forgotten in her hand. Holt
wouldn't
actually come to her room that night. He'd been tormenting her, that was all.

But suppose, when everyone else was asleep, he
did
knock at her door, and the moon was high and the inn was quiet?

Well, she decided, he'd find the door latched against him, that's what.

Yes, she meant to lock it.

She almost certainly did.

 

F
RANK AND THE
C
APTAIN
were downstairs, playing poker with two
federales
and a
vaquero.
John had turned in hours ago, directly after supper, and Rafe was where Holt figured
he
should be—out with the herd.

Feeling downright conspicuous lurking in the upstairs corridor, like a skulker, Holt glanced in one direction, then the other. Nobody in sight.

Lorelei hadn't come down to supper with the rest of them. Thinking she was sick, he'd approached Melina and asked after her.

Melina had smiled, in that way women had when they wanted to let a man know they were smarter than he was, and said Lorelei was just fine.

Holt reached for the door handle, drew his hand back as quickly as if the thing had suddenly turned molten.

It would be locked.

He ought to walk away, while he could still lay claim to his pride. Just walk away.

He muttered a curse. Hooked his thumbs under his
belt and pondered his situation. He'd had a bath before supper, down the street, in back of one of the saloons. He'd had himself barbered, too, and he was wearing his last set of clean clothes.

Frank and the Captain had given him no end of grief about it, downstairs. Frank had gone so far as to sniff the air when he passed, and ask if Holt was wearing cologne.

He reached for the knob again and brushed it with his fingertips.

It didn't make sense to waste a bath, a haircut and a shave. That would be a poor use of time and money.

He swallowed, closed his hand around the knob and turned it.

His heart shot up into his throat and got stuck there. He heard it pounding in his ears, and for a moment he thought he would never draw another breath. He'd just turn up his toes and die, right there in the hallway, outside Lorelei's room.

He gave the door a push.

It opened.

Glory be and God help him, it opened.

“Holt?” It was Lorelei's voice, soft as a spring breeze and a little on the shaky side. “Is that you?”

He'd been struck dumb. He tried his damnedest to say something, but not a word came out. He could just make her out in the darkness, sitting up in bed, peering at him.

“Come in,” she said, very quietly, “before I lose my courage.”

He stepped over the threshold, closed the door behind him, lowered the latch.

“Suppose there's a child?” he managed, after standing there, still as a statue, for what seemed like ten minutes.
It wasn't in him to go back, but he couldn't seem to move forward, either.

Thin moonlight played on her perfect features. He thought she smiled a little, but that was probably wishful thinking, or his nerves.

“There won't be,” she said, and she sounded sure.

“I won't hurt you,” he heard himself say.

“You'd better not,” she replied, watching him.

He approached the bed. Started to unbutton his shirt. At least he'd had the good sense to leave his gun-belt down the hall, in his own room. Nothing romantic about a Colt .45.

He sat down on the edge of the mattress to pull off his boots, and she made room for him, a heartening thing given all the hard words that had passed between them. “Have you ever done this before?” he asked.

“No,” she said.

He closed his eyes, dealing with her answer. On the one hand, he was relieved. On the other—well—she'd been engaged twice, and she was nearly thirty. He'd considered the possibility that she had already been introduced to the experience and was just being coy. Now, he knew different. There would be pain, no matter how gentle he was, and that might scare her off for good.

“If you want me to leave,” he said, “now's the time to say so.”

She touched his back, tentatively, and he felt the heat of her hand right through his clean shirt. “And have you call me a coward? Not a chance, Holt McKettrick.”

He turned to look at her. “I wouldn't do that, Lorelei. I swear I wouldn't.”

“I believe you,” she said, and stroked his hair. “You smell good.”

He relaxed a little, even smiled. “So do you,” he said.
Then he stood and shrugged out of his shirt, hanging it on the bedpost.

Lorelei's eyes widened, shining with moonlight. She was wearing a white flannel gown, buttoned clear to her chin.

“Take that off,” he said. “Let me look at you.”

She hesitated, then wriggled out of the nightgown.

Holt stared at her, stricken. She might have been made of alabaster except that she looked warm, and supple to the touch of a man's hands.

He unfastened his belt, then his trousers.

She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again. Wide. One hand went to her mouth.

“Still want to go through with this, Lorelei?” he asked, suppressing a smile.

“I don't see how it's anatomically possible,” she said.

He laughed. “Trust me,” he told her. “It is.”

She sat up to take a closer look. “Tarnation,” she whispered.

He pressed her gently back onto the pillows and lay down beside her. Cupped one of her full, warm breasts in his hand.

She shivered. “Mercy,” she said.

“Nope,” he answered, and bent to tease her nipple with the tip of his tongue.

She gasped, and her body arched. He would have lifted his head, but she stopped him, plunging both hands into his hair, holding him close.

He took his time, sliding a hand down over her quivering belly, to the nest of moist silk between her legs.

“Holt,” she said. That was all, just that one word, but it held a whole dictionary's worth of meaning.

He burrowed through, teased her with a plucking motion of his fingers.

She let out a strangled groan.

“Stop?” he asked, making his way over satin terrain to her other breast.

She shook her head violently.

“More,” she pleaded. “Please—more.”

L
ORELEI CLUNG DESPERATELY
to her reason, but her hold was slippery, especially when Holt kissed his way down to where his fingers played. When he took her into his mouth—boldly, brazenly
took
her—her response was involuntary, and at the same time powerful. It thrust through her like some furious and deafening wind, driving out her breath, made the whole of her body throb with a single thrumming pulse.

She turned her head into the pillow to stifle the primitive cries rushing up from that place where he feasted. She wasn't asking for quarter; she knew he would not grant it anyway. With every sound she uttered, he was more relentless, more demanding.

She began to plead, in small, ragged gasps—for what, she did not know. Her flesh was on fire, her skin moist with perspiration. Her spine arched, in a spasm of instinctive surrender, and still he would not let her go. He drove her harder, faster—draped her trembling legs over his shoulders and cupped his hands under her, raising her high off the bed.

She quivered, on the precipice of some terrible joy,
and he paused just long enough to flick at her with the tip of his tongue.

She came apart in that moment, like a star exploding in the distant heavens, hurling fire in every direction. That would be the end of it, she thought, in the grip of ferocious bliss—she would dissolve now into shimmering particles, like so much dust, and finally vanish.

Except that he caught her again, and drove her far beyond the first cataclysmic release, straight into the heart of an even greater one. In that place, there was no sound and no silence, no thought or image—only the blaze that burned away everything but her essence.

She was still buckling in the midst of the tumult when he lowered her to the mattress and entered her in one powerful motion of his hips.

The pain was a mere twinge in a maelstrom of sensation.

Her brain reeled as he delved to her core, withdrew and delved again. She clung to him fiercely, rose to meet him, compelled by some ancient, she-wolf part of herself. What was she striving for, with all the forces of her being? It couldn't happen again—it couldn't….

But it did.

They collided at the top of some invisible arch, and something seized inside of Lorelei, and then seized again. In those moments, she died and was reborn, fragmented and then came together again, a new creature, forever changed.

Holt's powerful frame stiffened; she felt the strain ripple through him, felt it under her hands and against her skin and most especially inside her. She raised herself to him, a tiny motion made at the limits of her strength, and he gave in at last, gave himself to her, all the heat and the wildness, all that he was or ever would be.

The descent began—physically, it was no more than a few inches, but to Lorelei, it seemed that only that feather-stuffed mattress kept her from falling and falling, forever and ever, through some endless inner sky.

They lay entangled, neither one speaking. Lorelei had lost the capacity for language; her mind was too vast for thought, and her body had dissipated to such an extent that she was a part of everything, and a part of nothing at all.

Gradually, though, she began to funnel back inside her own flesh, becoming aware of her toes first, then, oddly, her elbows. It was as if, one by one, she
remembered
the scattered parts of herself back into being. And she began to weep.

Holt raised his head from the curve of her neck, cupped her chin in his hand, whispered her name.

She cried harder.

“Did I hurt you?”

She shook her head.

“Then why are you crying?”

“Because—because I'm never go-going to be the same!”

“Lorelei, if there's a child—”

“It's not th-that! B-before, I
didn't know
—”

He frowned. “Didn't know what?”

“That it could be like that!” Lorelei sobbed. “I've m-missed so much—”

Holt kissed her, very lightly. Kissed her mouth, and kissed away her tears. When he looked into her eyes again, he was smiling. “So, I can conclude that you're crying because I didn't make love to you sooner?”

She felt a flash of glorious rage, singing in the very marrow of her bones. “Why, you
arrogant
—”

He laughed, kissed her again. “Or maybe it's because
you think it would have been like that with any other man besides me.”

Her eyes widened, and if it weren't for the weight of his body half-covering hers, she might have battered him with her fists. “Of all the—”

He caught her wrists in his hands, pressed them with gentle force into the pillows. “Settle down,” he said, still grinning. “It's never been anywhere near that good for me, either.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

He ducked his head, still holding her wrists, and nuzzled his way to one of her nipples. “No,” he said. “
This
is.”

 

S
HE WAS ALONE
in the bed where she had either found the lost parts of herself or made the most spectacular mistake of her life. She felt Holt's absence even before she opened her eyes.

She should have been exhausted, given that she'd spent most of the night bucking under Holt McKettrick like a horse that wouldn't take the saddle, but she felt strangely exultant instead. As if she'd been trapped inside herself all her life, and he'd set her free—though not by wooing, not by cajoling or persuading. Oh, no. He had
driven
her out of her hiding place, and there was no going back.

Somewhere in the dooryard, a rooster crowed.

Lorelei sat up, biting her lower lip.
What now?
she asked herself. Would anything be different, between her and Holt, outside this room? Would they still be uneasy allies? Sworn enemies?

He hadn't said he loved her.

She certainly felt something—but was it love? It was peculiar, but before last night, she would have said she knew precisely what she thought about everything from
shoe-blacking to sailing ships. Love? Why she'd have recognized it instantly. She'd loved Michael Chandler.

Hadn't she?

A light rap sounded at her door, and Lorelei scooted up against the headboard of the bed and wrenched the covers to her chin. “Who's there?”

“It's John Cavanagh, Miss Lorelei,” came the shy response. “The rest of us, we're saddled up and ready to ride. Holt says you'd better come along, if you don't want to get left behind.”

Lorelei flung back the covers and shot out of bed, snatching up her trousers and shirt. “Why didn't someone call me sooner?” she fretted, hopping awkwardly about as she struggled into her clothes.
Like Holt McKettrick, for instance!

“I can't say, Miss Lorelei,” John answered, through the door. “All I know is, Holt's got the bit in his teeth this morning. You hurry yourself up now. I'll stall him as long as I can.”

Crimson-faced, Lorelei sat down on the edge of the mattress—where she'd behaved like a wanton fool the night before—and yanked on her shoes. She'd have blisters by the end of the day, but she couldn't take the time to put on stockings. “Thank you,” she said ungraciously, and stuffed her hair up inside her hat. She'd braid it properly once she was on Seesaw, plodding along behind that dirty, noisy herd.

Within five minutes, she was downstairs. Rafe had saddled her mule, and he gave her a sympathetic glance as she rushed toward him, her bundled belongings bumping pitifully against her side.

“Guess you missed breakfast,” he said, once she'd mounted.

Missing breakfast wasn't the half of it. She hadn't had
a chance to use the outhouse, or brush her teeth. And if John Cavanagh hadn't lit a fire under her, she'd still be up there in that featherbed, mooning like a befuddled schoolgirl. “I'll be fine,” she said.

Rafe tied her pack in place, behind the saddle. “Melina's got some food for you, wrapped up in a dish towel,” he said. Then he tugged at the brim of his hat, turned and walked toward his own horse.

Holt, meanwhile, was riding back and forth on that big Appaloosa of his at the front of the gathering, like Santa Ana about to overrun the Alamo. In that moment, Lorelei, born and raised a Texan, liked him just about as much as she liked the Mexican general.

Holt assigned riders to their positions, and the cowboys rode off to take their places—point, swing, flank and, of course, drag. Lorelei fully expected to bring up the rear again, as she had the day before, coming back from Reynosa. Well, let him do his worst. She'd swallow an
acre
of dirt before she'd let him know how she felt.

Two by two, the wranglers left, but Lorelei's name wasn't called. She sat there on Seesaw, her backbone stiff with pride, and waited. John was nearby with the wagon, and Melina sat beside him on the seat, but they might as well have been in Kansas City. That was how alone Lorelei felt.

To her surprise, Holt rode over to her, swept off his hat and regarded her with sun-narrowed eyes. “I'm glad you could join us, Miss Fellows,” he said cordially.

Lorelei didn't dare speak. She'd make a blithering fool of herself if she did, so she just sat there, on that stupid mule, wishing she'd cuddled up with a rattlesnake before letting Holt McKettrick into her bed.

“Holt,” John called, maybe out of mercy, “we'd best get that herd moving.”

Holt straightened, made a show of putting on his hat. Taking his time, as much for her benefit as Mr. Cavanagh's. “Stay with the wagon,” he said mildly. “John'll pull up at the first sign of Indians. If that happens, he'll give you a rifle. Get under the buckboard and shoot if you have to.”

Lorelei wanted to cry, and not just because she was afraid of Comanches. Holt McKettrick had made love to her for most of the night, explored every inch of her person and turned her inside out, and now he was acting as if they were barely acquainted. She was damned if she'd let him think it bothered her.

“Holt,” John repeated, more forcefully this time. “Stop devilin' that girl and take charge of this herd!”

Holt turned easily in the saddle and saluted Mr. Cavanagh. “Yes, sir,” he said good-naturedly, and rode away.

Lorelei didn't move until the wagon started rolling. Then she prodded Seesaw to catch up, being careful to ride on Melina's side.

Her friend's brown eyes were luminous with understanding. Clasping the edge of the seat with one hand, Melina leaned out to offer Lorelei the food Rafe had mentioned.

Lorelei was starved, but she also feared she'd gag if she tried to swallow so much as a bite. She took the cloth-wrapped offering more because she was afraid Melina would tumble out of the wagon trying to give it to her than because she wanted it.

“Thanks,” she managed.

“Eat, Lorelei,” Melina urged, raising her voice to be heard over the cattle. “It's going to be a real long day.”

Glumly, Lorelei nodded. The moment she uncovered the buttered bread and fresh goat cheese, a layer of dust
settled on it. “I guess we'll be following the herd,” she said, making a face and then taking a gritty bite. Even as she said the words, Holt and Rafe galloped ahead, side by side, to lead the way. The Captain and another man, slightly bent in the saddle, kept pace, one to the far right, one to the left.

John drove the wagon in behind them, and Lorelei looked back over one shoulder to see the point riders traveling about a hundred yards back. The herd was a bellowing sprawl of hide and horns, seeming to go on forever and raising plenty of dust.

“Won't we slow them down?” she asked Melina, wiping off her cheese with the sleeve of her shirt. “Riding at the front like this?”

“You want to be in back?” Melina retorted. “Where the Comanches could pick us off and nobody'd even know we were gone?”

Lorelei hadn't thought of that; she'd been too busy hating Holt McKettrick for using her and then casting her aside like an old boot. She shook her head and forced herself to finish off the food, trail dust and all. As unpalatable as it was, she needed the sustenance.

Half an hour later, she worked up the nerve to start another conversation. “Why didn't you wake me up this morning?” she asked Melina. John might have heard the question, but he gave no sign of it. Just looked straight ahead and kept the team moving, the reins resting easily in his gloved hands. The dog, riding in the back with the supplies, perked his ears up, as though he found the topic to be of interest.

“I figured Holt would have done that,” Melina said, after mulling things over for a while.

Lorelei wilted inside. So everyone knew she'd squandered her virtue last night. Maybe they'd even heard her
carrying on while Holt pleasured her. She could avoid most of them now, but when they stopped to make camp, she'd have to face at least some of those cowboys. She'd see the reflection of a fallen woman in their eyes.

She wished she could just topple off that mule and let the herd trample her, but she was either too brave or too cowardly—no telling which—to do that. So she just rode, miserable, ashamed and furious, all of a piece.

She took off her hat, let her hair tumble to her waist and reached back with both hands to gather and plait it. Melina handed over a little strip of rawhide to serve as a tie, but she didn't say anything.

She'd been partially right, Melina had, Lorelei conceded, about how things would turn out between Holt and herself, but at least Melina wasn't gloating. At the moment, Lorelei had to be content with small favors.

The sun was brutal, and even with the brim of her hat shading her face, Lorelei felt her nose and cheeks burning. Her milky skin had always been a secret vanity with her; now, even that was in jeopardy.

The herd traveled with excruciating slowness, and it was long past noon when Holt sent Rafe and the Captain back to ride on either side of the wagon.