McKettrick's Choice. Linda Miller Lael

of that feast.

      Gabe cut off a chunk of beef with the side of his fork. Tender as stewed cloud. He damn near swooned when he took that first bite.

      “Who is that feller, anyhow?” Roy persisted.

      “Ain’t none of your never-mind,” Gabe answered with his mouth full.

      “You’re pretty cocky for somebody about to be strung up.”

      Gabe was busy savoring a second forkful of prime rib, so he didn’t bite on the gibe. His stomach seized on the food, growled for more.

      “Hope you ain’t thinkin’ he can get you out of here. Nobody could do that, short of the governor.”

      The mashed potatoes were as good as the beef, and the gravy—well, it was fare fit for angels. “You’d better get yourself ready for some real trouble,” Gabe said, chewing. “Holt Cavanagh, he’s like a freight train when he sets his mind on something. If I were you, I’d stay off the tracks.”

      Roy paled, which gave Gabe almost as much satisfaction as the food. “Cavanagh? Same name as that rancher, the one who’s been tanglin’ with the Templeton bunch?”

      Gabe smiled, though the mention of the name Templeton made all his old injuries take to aching again. “Same name,” he said.

      “They can’t be related,” Roy fretted.

      Gabe forked up some beans and a big hunk of bacon.

      “Can’t they?”

      JOHN CAVANAGH’S old heart nearly stopped when he looked up and saw the rider at the edge of the hayfield, with the last rays of the setting sun framing man and horse. He rubbed his stubbly chin, leaning on the long-handled scythe, and squinted into the glare.

      Tillie, working beside him, let her scythe fall into the grass. “That’s Holt,” she whispered, and began to run, fairly tripping on the hem of her calico skirt. She fell once, got up again and went right on running.

      It couldn’t be Holt, John thought. He was up in the Arizona Territory, helping to run the family ranch and raising up a daughter.

      The rider swung down from the saddle as Tillie barreled toward him, and held his arms out wide. Tillie gave a shout of joy and flung herself into them.

      God in heaven. It was Holt.

      John let his own scythe fall, though he was not a man to be careless with tools, and hurried toward the pair, moving as fast as his rheumatism would allow.

      Holt swung Tillie around in a circle and planted a smacking kiss on her forehead. She was laughing and crying, both at once, and hugging Holt’s neck as if she’d drown if he let her go.

      “Holt,” John said, drawing up at the edge of the field and fair choking on the word.

      The familiar grin flashed. “Yes, sir. It’s me, all right.”

      John took a step toward him, still disbelieving. His vision blurred, and his throat closed up so tight he couldn’t have swallowed a hayseed, even with good whiskey to wash it down.

      Holt stroked Tillie’s back; she still hadn’t turned loose of his neck. “I see my little sister is all grown-up,” he said.

      Hope swelled up inside John Cavanagh, hope such as he hadn’t felt in a year of Sundays. “You figurin’ on stayin’?” he asked, and ran an arm across his mouth.

      “Until you run me off,” Holt replied, and grinned again.

      “Go ahead and hug him, Pa,” Tillie said joyously. “It’s the only way you’ll believe he’s real.”

      John took another step, stumbling a little, and put his arms around the man he still thought of as his son. The two of them clung for a moment, and John felt tears on his old black face.

      “Come on inside,” he managed when they drew apart again. “With you here, Tillie’s like to cook up a storm.”

      Holt was looking around the place, taking in the sagging barn, the downed fences, the skinny cattle and slat-ribbed horses.

      If John hadn’t been so damn glad to see the boy, he might have felt shame. Time enough later on to answer all those questions he saw brewing in Holt’s face. Tell him how Templeton and the bankers were trying to force him out.

      Right now, there were more important things to be said.

      “You bring me a picture of that little girl of yours?” John demanded, hobbling along between Holt and Tillie as the three of them made for the house.

      Holt took a wallet from his inside pocket and pulled out a daguerreotype.

      John snatched it from his hand and paused, right in the middle of the path, to have himself a look. “She’s the image of Olivia,” he said, just before his throat closed up again.

      “Let me see,” Tillie pleaded. “Let me see!”

      Reluctantly, John handed over the likeness.

      Tillie gave a little cry, drinking in the image with her eyes. “You should have brought her,” she wailed. “Why didn’t you bring her?”

      Holt laid a gentle hand on Tillie’s shoulder. She was twenty-eight years old, but simple-minded as a child. Something to do with the troubles her mother had bringing her into the world.

      “It’s too far,” Holt said quietly. “And she’s going to school.” He glanced toward his horse, grazing happily in the good Texas grass. At least they still had the grass. “I brought you something, though. It’s in my saddlebags—left-hand side.”

      Tillie picked up her skirts and ran for the gelding, supper forgotten, for the moment at least.

      “Frank Corrales sent me a letter,” Holt said, watching as Tillie unbuckled the saddlebag and plunged an eager hand inside. “Said somebody was trying to force you off your land. Looks like he knew what he was talking about.”

      Tillie pulled out a doll with long dark ringlets and skin the same coffee color as her own.

      “Where the devil did you find a colored doll?” John asked.

      “Bought it along the way,” Holt said, watching fondly as Tillie hugged the doll to her flat chest and danced around in a circle. In the next instant, he looked somber again. “Who’s after the land, John? Gabe told me his version, but I want to hear it from you.”

      John rubbed his chin. Once Holt got his mind around something, there was no getting it loose. “Man named Templeton. His place borders this one, and he wants the grass for his fancy English cattle.” Tears welled in John’s eyes as he watched Tillie. Where would they go, if they left this ranch?

      Four of John’s children were buried here, and so was Ella, his angel of a wife. There’d been as much blood and sweat fall on the land as rain, and more than a few tears, too.

      “The banker’s his friend,” John went on, when he could. “They called my loans. Tried to cut off my water supply, too. Even rustled some of my cattle, though I can’t prove it.”

      Holt laid a hand on John’s back. He didn’t speak, but he didn’t need to. John knew his intentions well enough.

      “You can’t fight them, Holt,” John said, because he knew how Holt’s mind worked. “There must be three dozen men riding for that ranch, and they’re fierce as Comanches on the warpath.”

      Tillie was on her way back, beaming and hugging that doll for all she was worth.

      “Maybe,” Holt said. “But I reckon I’m at least twice that ornery.”

      CHAPTER 5

      LORELEI WAITED until after her father had left the house the next morning before unlocking her bedroom door and making for the back stairs. Angelina, the family’s long-time cook and housekeeper, turned from the gleaming