Secondhand Bride (13 page)

C
oncepcion sat up in bed, holding the small, fitful bundle in both arms. She looked serene to Angus, if tired, a Spanish Madonna with her braid coming undone, her face and eyes glowing.

“How does it feel, Angus McKettrick,” she asked quietly, “to be a new father again, after so many years?”

He hadn’t slept a wink, and he needed to shave. “Damned odd,” he admitted. He’d never had a way with words, and Concepcion knew it. She wouldn’t expect him to spout poetry. He rubbed his chin and smiled. “But good.”

She laughed softly. “It was an exciting night,” she said.

He nodded his agreement. “You made sure of that.” He glanced at the window, saw the dawn shining there, pink and gold and fresh as a new-minted coin. “While I was waiting for our little gal there to make her appearance,” he reflected, “I put the fear of God into those boys of mine.”

“Angus,” Concepcion said warily, opening the bodice of the nightgown to let the child suckle. Something stirred inside Angus, then resolved into weary contentment. “What have you done now?”

“Rafe made some smart remark about having to wait for little Kate to grow up before I made a decision about who would run the ranch, and I just couldn’t let it pass. I told them I might give the place to Holt, lock, stock, and barrel, since he was the first one to give me a grandchild.”

“You didn’t,” Concepcion scolded, but gently.

“I did,” Angus replied, with relish. He chuckled at the memory. “You should have seen their faces. Like as not, all three of them sired a baby last night, soon as they got their women alone.”

A pretty flush lit Concepcion’s flawless complexion. “
Angus
,” she protested.

“Kade and Mandy couldn’t seem to see anything but each other, when they went back upstairs to their room. Same with Rafe and Emmeline—they practically ran out of here, making for their own place. And Jeb—” Angus paused, smiled again. “Jeb headed straight for the barn, saddled a horse, and rode out. Like as not, he spent the night in town, with Chloe.”

Concepcion made a soft clucking sound with her tongue, stroking the baby’s downy head with one tender hand. “You are impossible, Angus McKettrick. You think every man is like you.”

“I wouldn’t know about every man,” Angus said. “But I do know my sons.” He stopped, speculating. “It’d be a hell of a thing if all three of my daughters-in-law got pregnant at the same time, wouldn’t it? Sure make the race to win the ranch more interesting.”

Concepcion’s dark eyes were troubled. “When will you learn, Angus? It is wrong to set your own children against each other. I will not let you do that with Kate.”

His chair creaked as he rose, went to the window. The lamps were lit in the bunkhouse, and there was smoke curling from the chimney. The Triple M was stirring, getting ready for a new day. He felt the same quiet excitement at the prospect that he always had. “I had to do it, Concepcion,” he said. “The three of them were too damned comfortable. Spoiled. Their mother never let me lay a hand on them, but they were prime candidates for the woodshed all the time they were growing up. If I’d taken the strap to them a few times, they’d have been fit to run this place long before now.”

“Their mother was right,” Concepcion maintained, as he’d known she would. They’d had similar conversations before. “They’re fine men, Angus. All of them.”

He nodded, but he had reservations. Rafe and Kade were well married, and they were a credit to the ranch. Ran it better than he ever had, if the truth be told. But Jeb, now—Jeb was still a worry. He’d found the right woman, but Angus wondered if he knew what to do with her, besides roll in the hay whenever he got the chance. One day, he claimed he was married. The next, he swore up and down he’d been hornswoggled. He wouldn’t bring Chloe to live at the ranch, where she belonged, but he couldn’t seem to stay away from her, either.

She’d be the making of him, Chloe would. Or the breaking.

“I admit that I worry about them myself,” Concepcion said. “I ask myself, what will happen next? They all want this ranch—it is their birthright. They did not know Holt existed until a year ago, and they do not trust him. He feels the same way about them. Rafe, Jeb, and Kade are all hot-tempered, and there is no telling what Holt might do if they push him into a corner.”

Angus wasn’t accustomed to being wrong about much of anything. Just then, though, looking out that window at the land he’d fought so hard to get and hold, he wondered if there wasn’t a first time for everything.

L
izzie Cavanagh tried not to think too much about the shootings, when the bad man robbed the stagecoach, and the long night she’d spent being scared, but it crept into her mind if she didn’t concentrate real hard. She cried when she was alone, and she had bad dreams even when she was awake.

She was certain of very few things, being only ten years old, after all, and in a new place, with a stranger for a father, but she knew for sure that she missed her mama, and her aunt Geneva, too. And she knew she didn’t like the lady.

Her name was Sue Ellen, but she insisted on being called “Miss Caruthers,” like she was a teacher or something. She had one of those sharp-edged faces, and quick little eyes, always watching for an offense, but that wasn’t really why Lizzie disliked her. It was because she’d heard them talking in the kitchen at the Circle C, her papa and Miss Caruthers, not an hour after they arrived the night before.

“I agreed to keep house for you,” Miss Caruthers had said, in a withering voice, “but I didn’t bargain for a child getting underfoot.”

Lizzie’s heart had practically stopped, hearing that from her hiding place in the hallway. She was lonesome, and still scared, and she kept thinking about the blood all over the ground and worrying that the masked man would come after her, some dark night, and shoot her dead.

“Lizzie is my daughter,” Holt had answered, his voice low and honed to a fine edge. “If you don’t want to look after her, then I guess you’d better pack your bags. They’ll have that stagecoach back on the road by tomorrow.” That had made Lizzie feel a little better, but then Miss Caruthers spoke again.

“I thought we were getting married.”

Lizzie felt the same chill she had when Roberto Vasquez spilled his lemonade down her back last summer at the church picnic. She wanted a mother, all right, but she’d hoped for a nice, pretty one. Somebody like Becky, at the hotel maybe, or Miss Emmeline.

“I never promised you that, Sue Ellen.”

Right then, Miss Caruthers commenced to crying, and she was loud about it, too. “You McKettricks are all alike,” she wailed. “Drag a woman halfway across the country, trifle with her feelings, then just turn her out.”

Holt’s reply was cold. “First of all, you asked for this job. Second, I am
not
a McKettrick, and third, I did not ‘trifle’ with you or anybody else.”

Lizzie wondered at his tone, wondered if he’d turn
her
out one day, if she crossed him. She thought of Jeb, who’d smiled at her and let her ride in front of him on his horse, said she could call him “Uncle,” and she wanted to ask her papa what was so bad about being a McKettrick. The big, white-haired man she’d met in town—Angus—he’d said he was her grandfather, and she ought to come straight to him if she ever had a problem.
He
was a McKettrick.

Where, exactly, was his house? Could she walk there, or would she have to get one of the cowboys to take her?

She’d been pondering those questions when suddenly the kitchen door had popped open, and Miss Caruthers was right there, her nose and eyes all red, her mouth pinched up like a tobacco sack with the string pulled tight.

“Well!” she’d crowed. “A little snoop!”

Horrified, Lizzie had pressed herself back against the wall of the corridor, wishing she could melt right into it. For one terrible moment, she thought Miss Caruthers meant to slap her. In the whole of Lizzie’s life, nobody had ever laid a hand on her in anger.

But then her papa was there, big as her grandfather, and just as strong. “Leave her alone, Sue Ellen,” he’d said.

Lizzie had been hard put not to slide right down the wall. She’d hurried away, locked herself in her room, and refused to come out even when her papa knocked on the door, later on, and asked if she was all right. She’d hardly slept that night, either, between listening for the outlaw and fearing that Miss Caruthers would come into her room, yank her right out of bed to box her ears, and tell her she’d spoiled all her plans.

Lizzie might have been a kid, but she knew when she’d gotten in the way of something.

Now, it was morning, and she hadn’t seen the outlaw, but Miss Caruthers was on the porch, with all her bags and bundles, and there was a buckboard right in front of the house, hitched up and ready to go. A cowboy held the reins, staring straight ahead, with his hat pulled low over his eyes. Lizzie got a peculiar, trembly feeling in the pit of her stomach, just looking at him.

“You’ll regret this, Holt Cavanagh,” Miss Caruthers said stiffly, as Lizzie’s papa helped her into the wagon.

“I doubt it,” Holt replied, though he had his back to Lizzie, and she couldn’t see his face. She wished she could have, because then she might know if Miss Caruthers was right. Regret was something she’d learned to recognize, having seen it in her mother’s eyes so often.

Miss Caruthers squirmed on the wagon seat and looked like she wanted to clobber Lizzie’s papa over the head with her parasol, but in the end, she didn’t. She elbowed the cowboy driver, and he started the team going.

They hadn’t even gotten to the big gate that said

CIRCLE C
across the top when a rider came in, from the other direction, tipped his hat to the travelers, and made for the house.

Lizzie’s spirits rose when she recognized the man. “Uncle Jeb!” she cried, and bounded down the steps to run out and meet him.

He grinned at her, though he looked a little peaked. She hoped he wasn’t sick or something. “Morning, Miss Lizzie,” he said.

Holt walked up behind her, laid his hands on her shoulders. There was no friendliness in his voice when he greeted her uncle, and she didn’t have to look back to know he wasn’t smiling.

“
Now
what am I supposed to have done?” he asked. He sounded like a man who’d been falsely accused one too many times and held a sore grievance because of it.

Jeb’s grin held steady. “I don’t reckon you had anything whatsoever to do with this,” he said, swinging a leg over the horse’s neck and jumping to the ground. “Pa figured you ought to know, though I can’t rightly say why.” He patted Lizzie on the head, something she wouldn’t have tolerated from anyone else; but he was looking straight into Holt’s face, and even though he was still smiling with his mouth, his eyes were somber. “You’ve got a baby sister.”

H
olt hooked his thumbs under his gun belt and shifted on his feet, holding Jeb’s gaze with his own. There was a ruckus from the corral, but he didn’t let it distract him from the subject at hand. “I suppose I’m expected to put in an appearance.”

Jeb shrugged. “Your choice.”

Holt tightened his grasp on Lizzie’s shoulders, then let go, afraid he’d hurt her. “Concepcion’s been good to me,” he said, begrudging every word. “I’ll be there.”

Jeb’s attention had strayed to the corral, and the demon spawn he saw there. “That’s quite a horse,” he said.

Holt sighed. Because of that paint stud, three of his best men were laid up with broken bones. If the animal hadn’t been so valuable, practically perfect in its conformation, he’d have turned it out to run wild, like it was born to do. “He’s first cousin to Lucifer himself,” he admitted.

“That so?” Jeb said, still watching the fracas. He’d looked downcast when he rode up, for all his ready grin, but there was something different in his face now, a narrow-eyed speculation. “Anybody ride him yet?”

Holt would have lied if his daughter hadn’t been standing right there, listening to everything like it was gospel. He reckoned the least he could do was set a decent example, whether it went against the grain or not.

“Nope,” he said.

He felt the quickening in his half brother before he saw it play out in his features. “I can ride him,” he declared.

“Fifty dollars says you can’t,” Holt replied.

“You’re on,” Jeb said, and started toward the corral, where there was already a whole lot of dust-raising and cussing going on. His own horse had wandered over to the nearest water trough, oblivious to everything but thirst.

Holt reached out, stopped Jeb. “Wait a minute, little brother,” he drawled. “I don’t trade in charm. I’m putting up fifty dollars here. Let’s see your money.”

Jeb’s grin was audacious, as usual. He patted his pockets—his clothes looked like he’d kicked them around on the floor a while before putting them on—and spread his hands. “Seems like I left it at home,” he said. “If I lose— which I won’t—you’ll just have to collect your winnings at the Triple M.”

Holt looked down, saw that Lizzie was staring adoringly up at Jeb, and softened a little, despite another flash of resentment. He could barely get the kid to talk to him, but she seemed to think her uncle had wings on his feet.

“All right,” he agreed. “Lizzie, you wait in the house.”

The child’s face, filled with hero worship a moment before, was transformed into a study in rebellion. “No, sir,” she said, folding her arms. “You can whup me if you want to, but I’m not going to miss this!”

Jeb laughed. “She’s a McKettrick, all right,” he said.

“She’s a Cavanagh,” Holt insisted coldly. Then he turned an irritated scowl on his daughter. “And nobody’s going to ‘whup’ you, anyhow, so just put that idea out of your head for good.”

“Can I stay?” she pleaded.

Jeb arched an eyebrow, waiting.

“Oh, hell,” Holt spat, that being as close as he could get to a yes, and the three of them headed for the corral.

The paint was in fine form that bright fall morning, red-eyed and snorting, looking for somebody to stomp the life out of. Lizzie scrambled onto the first rung of the fence; Holt warned her, with a glance, to go no farther.

Jeb rolled his shoulders, resettled his hat, watching the horse the whole while. The paint planted his hind legs, watching him back. The air felt charged to Holt, and heavy, like there was a storm brewing. A couple of cowboys meandered over, dust-coated and curious.

“You might as well shoot that sumbitch,” one of them said, gesturing toward the paint. “He can’t be rode.”

Holt indicated his daughter’s presence with a slight inclination of his head and glared the man back a step or two. “Get the gear,” he said. “My brother is feeling lucky today.”

A rope, saddle, and bridle were fetched from the barn.

Jeb, having walked around to the opposite side of the corral and climbed up onto the highest rail, took the rope, made a deft loop in one end, and lassoed that four-legged fury in one try. The horse, ready for a fight, shuddered and blew, but he didn’t move.

It seemed to Holt that every cowpuncher on the ranch had drawn nigh to watch the spectacle—they lined the fence, silent and watchful.

Holt imagined himself carrying Angus’s youngest pup back to the Triple M in bloody chunks, and laid a hand on Lizzie’s small, stiff back, as though she were a touchstone.

After the rope came the bridle, made special for cussed broncs. Jeb walked right up to that horse, slipped the rigging over his head, set the bit. The stallion nickered and tossed his head, as if to say,
Bring it on, cowboy.

“Careful,” Holt breathed, and only realized that he’d spoken aloud when Lizzie turned to look at him.

The saddle came next. The brute hung his head, and another shudder, this one ominously rhythmic, flowed visibly through his powerful body, muscle by muscle. Nonetheless, he let Jeb tighten the cinch and buckle it fast.

“Whoa, now,” somebody said, though Holt wasn’t sure whether the words had come from another onlooker, Jeb, or his own mouth.

Jeb planted a foot in the stirrup, the horse sidestepped and quivered again. Everything was dead still, it seemed to Holt; even the birds had stopped singing.

In the next instant, Jeb was in the saddle, and all hell broke loose. Old Demon Spawn turned himself inside out, flinging out his hind legs, then going into a spin. Jeb let out a Rebel yell and held on.

The stallion tried to sunfish—turn his belly to the sky— but Jeb was still with him, one hand in the air, though whether he was trying to keep his balance or just showing off, Holt couldn’t say. The kid went right on spurring with his bootheels, and the horse went right on bucking.

The spectators seemed to let out one and the same breath, and a few cackles of delight went up. Holt glanced down at Lizzie and saw that she was beaming with excitement. Damned if she
wasn’t
a McKettrick, whether he liked it or not.

Jeb’s hat sailed off on the breeze; his bright hair gleamed in the sunshine. He hollered again, a purely exuberant sound, but the horse wasn’t ready to give up yet. He flattened himself out in midair, and came down in a wicked whirl of horseflesh and foam, this time in the opposite direction.

Jeb gave another shout—the damn fool, the rougher the ride got, the better he seemed to like it—and gripped that horse’s sides with his thighs like a banker holding on to a dollar. The dust flew, the cowboys cheered, and the horse kicked and twisted and hurled himself at the sky.

The struggle went on for some ten minutes, by Holt’s watch, ten of the longest minutes of his life.
You see, old man,
he heard himself telling Angus contritely,
this whole thing was Jeb’s idea, God rest his soul. I tried to talk him out of it, I surely did. Oh, well, you’ve got other sons.

“Ride him, Jeb!” Lizzie called out, her voice pure and sweet. Jesus, he should have made her go into the house, like he’d planned. She’d already experienced more tragedy, in her short life, than most people ever had to endure— she didn’t need to see this. Besides, she was
his
daughter, and it didn’t sit well that she was so taken with Jeb.

The devil’s saint had one last trick in him, it turned out, and it was a dandy. The horse pitched forward onto his knees, and Holt closed his eyes. When he opened them, he fully expected to see his half brother either rolling end over end over the paint’s head, or already sprawled in the dirt, fixing to get himself stomped to blood and splintered bone.

Instead, he was sitting there in the saddle, his body relaxed, waiting for more action. Holt was embarrassed to find himself on the top rail of the fence, ready to run for the center of the corral, if necessary, and drag the damn idiot clear of the stallion’s hooves.

The paint shivered, nickered, and jostled to his feet. He stood stock-still then, and, once again, Holt held his breath. In the next instant, he knew the battle was over. Jeb’s grin was a white flash of victory in his dirty, arrogant face.

“I’ll be damned,” Holt muttered.

Jeb reined the stallion to the right, then to the left, then around in a circle. If the demon had any bucking left in him, he was saving it for another day, and another cowboy. He’d conceded the contest to this one.

Jeb rode to the fence, a wrangler handed up his hat, and he replaced it with a decisive motion of one hand. “You owe me fifty dollars,” he told Holt.

Holt’s belly unclenched, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to smile. His jaw was clamped down tight as a bear trap. He took out his wallet, extracted the money, and handed it over.

Jeb folded the bills with an air of satisfaction and tucked them into his pocket, standing in the stirrups to stretch his legs. “Thanks,” he said affably. “It’s a start.”

“A start to what?” Holt asked, irritated. Life had been so much simpler before he’d known these brothers of his—they were nothing but trouble, all three of them.

“A bank account,” Jeb replied. He leaned in the saddle to ruffle Lizzie’s hair with one gloved hand. “Thanks for cheering for me, kid.”

A crazy thought struck Holt, right out of the blue. “You want a job?”

Jeb chewed on the offer, one forearm resting on old Demon Spawn’s sweaty neck. “Depends on how much it pays,” he said, in his own good time.

In seven years with the Texas Rangers, Holt had never seen anybody ride like Jeb McKettrick, Comanches included, but there was no sense in inflating the kid’s head by going on about it. “I think we can come to terms,” he said moderately.

Jeb’s grin flashed again.
Hide the women
, Holt thought. “It’ll piss Pa off for sure.”

At last, Holt smiled. “Yup,” he said, with grim pleasure. “It surely will do that.”