McKettrick's Choice

“We shall have to do without our tea,” Lorelei said bravely.

IN THE DAMP, thin light of dawn, Lorelei gazed up at the cobwebs swathing the ceiling rafters like entangled ghosts. She’d slept in her clothes, on a pallet of blankets, and her skin was peppered with chigger bites. On the other side of the ranch house, which was, she admitted to herself, really just a cabin, Angelina and Raul slumbered on, their soft snores interweaving.

The remnants of last night’s rain dripped through holes in the roof, the chimney was still stopped up with birds’ nests, dirt and layers of soot and she would have sold her soul for a cup of hot, fresh coffee.

By now, her father knew that she’d not only defected from his household and claimed her property and what remained of her funds, but stolen his servants as well. He was probably livid. No, no probably about it, she thought, squaring herself to face reality.

Judge Alexander Fellows was surely in a fury, and even now taking steps to deal with his rebellious daughter.

Isaac Templeton’s vast spread sprawled on one side of her little ranch, and Holt McKettrick’s on the other. For all her brave thoughts to the contrary, a range war was a very real possibility, and if it happened, Lorelei would most likely be caught square in the middle.

She didn’t know how to ride. She didn’t know how to shoot.

She didn’t own a single cow, or a horse.

So why, she wondered, smiling, did she feel so exhilarated?

“GOOD GOD,” said Holt McKettrick, right out loud, when, riding along the creekbank, with Tillie’s dog trotting along behind his horse, he saw Lorelei Fellows kneeling on the other side, splashing her face with water.

She couldn’t have heard him; he was still a hundred yards away, at least, but she looked up, just the same, and took him in with a visible lack of enthusiasm.

The dog, spotting her, barked exuberantly and plunged right into the stream, paddling toward her for all he was worth.

Lorelei’s sour expression turned sweet as she watched Sorrowful make his way across. He came up onto the bank beside her and shook off the creek water with a mighty effort, making her laugh aloud, the sound ringing like church bells of a Sunday morning.

It did something to Holt, hearing her erupt with joy like that. Caused a soft, subtle shift inside him.

That riled him.

Setting his jaw, he urged Traveler into the water and crossed.

Lorelei paid him no notice; she was busy having a reunion with the dog.

He felt a sting, watching them, and this did not have a positive effect upon his disposition.

“What the devil are you doing out here?” he asked Lorelei, getting down from the Appaloosa and leaving the horse to drink from the stream.

Lorelei was nose to nose with that dog, ruffling his ears and laughing, and she took her time answering. Got to her feet, fussed over Sorrowful a while longer and patted her hair. Her fine breasts rose when she did that, and Holt felt another sharp shift, somewhere in his middle.

“I live here,” she said.

Holt scanned the property and found it sorry to behold. The house was on a tilt, and the barn, such as it was, had probably collapsed before Santa Ana massacred one hundred and eighty-five brave men at the Alamo. There were two wagons, one of them stuck axel-deep in drying mud, and the other dripping rainwater through the floorboards. A pair of town horses, pretty but essentially useless, grazed alongside the stream, and there wasn’t a cow to be seen.

“Alone?” he asked, amazed.

Her mouth tightened briefly, and she was sparing with her answer. “Angelina and Raul are with me.”

“Does your father know about this?”

She laughed, more at his consternation, he suspected, than because she had any case for mirth. “No doubt he does.”

“Just what are you planning on doing, way out here?”

“Making a life for myself,” she answered, with a confidence Holt found downright annoying. Didn’t the woman know there were outlaws on the prowl, not to mention renegade Indians, wolves, wild boars and every other kind of bad luck?

Holt remembered his hat and took it off, shoving his free hand through his hair. “This is no place for a lady.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not much of a lady,” Lorelei retorted.

The words struck Holt like a sucker punch, though he was damned if he could think why.

She chuckled at his expression, rocking a little on her heels. “Come now, Mr. McKettrick. Does that really come as such a shock to you? I’m the woman who burned her wedding dress in the town square, after all, and day before yesterday, when we met on the street, I’d just been booted out of the Ladies’ Benevolence Society.”

“So you moved out here, to the middle of nowhere?” Holt challenged, strangely exasperated. What did he care if the damn fool female wanted to make her home on this godforsaken patch of no-account ground? “Seems a mite extreme, to me.”

“I guess it is,” she allowed, obviously enjoying his discomfort. “But I’m here to stay.”

He fiddled with his hat, looked away, looked back. “Damned if you’re not serious,” he marveled.

“I certainly am,” she confirmed.

Over her shoulder, he saw a Mexican man come out of the cabin, rubbing his eyes. Seeing Holt, he ducked back inside, probably to get his rifle.

“At least you’re not alone,” Holt said, as she followed his gaze, but it was precious little comfort—to him at least.

Sure enough, here came the Mexican, rifle in hand, followed by a plump little woman moving at a fast clip. Probably his wife.

“Raul, Angelina,” Lorelei called to them, smiling. The dog was hunkered down beside her, wagging his stumpy tail and gazing up at her face with pure adoration. “I’d like you to meet Holt McKettrick—one of our neighbors.”

CHAPTER 14

LORELEI’S CHIGGER BITES itched something fierce, but she wasn’t about to scratch with Holt McKettrick looking on.

Raul looked the visitor over, then let the rifle dangle at his side. Gave a brief nod of wary greeting.

Holt put his hand out, and Raul hesitated before clasping it briefly.

Angelina smiled. “Welcome,” she said, and she sounded as if she meant it. “Have you had breakfast, Mr. McKettrick?”

“Yes, ma’am,” McKettrick replied. “But I wouldn’t mind some stout coffee.”

“Raul,” Angelina said, “build a fire.”

“The stove isn’t working,” Lorelei felt compelled to explain, and then blushed, wishing she hadn’t said anything.

Holt eyed the crooked chimney, jutting above the roof at an unlikely angle. “I’ll have a look,” he said, and set off in the direction of the house.

Sorrowful immediately got to his feet and followed.

“Fine-looking man,” Angelina commented mildly, watching Holt walk away. Raul occupied himself searching for dry wood. “Might be a match for you.”

Lorelei’s face burned. “Don’t be silly,” she said and, picking up her skirts, hurried over to supervise the chimney project. All she needed was for Mr. McKettrick to fall through her roof and do further damage.

“I don’t suppose you have a ladder,” Holt mused, standing at the western corner of the house, where the log beams met and crossed each other.

Lorelei hated admitting the oversight. For all her list-making and practical purchases at the mercantile, she hadn’t thought of a ladder, nor had Mr. Wilkins suggested one.

“No,” she said, pushing a lock of hair back from her face.

Holt headed for the front door, which stood open, and stepped inside without hesitation.

Lorelei hated for him to see the pallets on the floor, the stacked crates and boxes, the dust and cobwebs, but there was no stopping him.

He stood in the middle of the room, taking it all in. “I’ve seen worse,” he said, and made his way past a variety of obstacles to take hold of the rusted chimney. Before Lorelei could say a word, he’d pulled out the section between the stovetop and the ceiling. A shower of cold ash, dust and soot rained down on both of them.

Lorelei was about to protest when he grinned at her, fair taking her breath away, and carried the stove pipe outside. She followed, dusting off debris from her slept-in dress as she went.

Raul had a fire going on the creek bank, and Angelina went inside, smirking a little as she swept past Lorelei. When she came out, she was carrying the coffeepot and a canister.

Holt raised the stove pipe on end and gave it a couple of good thumps on the ground. Dust, twigs, broken egg shells and a couple of dead mice landed in a heap at his feet. Covered in soot and ash, he looked damnably pleased with himself.

Lorelei felt her heart soften and firmed it right up by an act of will.

Whistling, Holt went back into the house, the dog on his heels.

Fickle creature, Lorelei thought. She’d fed that hound every night for two years, and here he was following a stranger around.

Holt came out again, carrying the broom. Without so much as a glance in Lorelei’s direction, he climbed to the roof, using the ends of the logs for footholds, tested the shingles with one foot and then proceeded to stand upright and pull the chimney free.

Lorelei realized she was holding her breath and drew in some air.

Taking up the broom again, Holt turned the bristle side up and jammed the handle into the hole.

Dust billowed out the front door.

Sorrowful barked joyously.

Holt replaced the chimney, tossed the broom to the ground, and started down. Sorrowful thought it was a game, took the broom handle in his teeth and ran madly around in a circle with it.

“Fool dog,” Holt said affectionately, tousling the animal’s misshapen ears as he passed.

Lorelei had to smile, but she told herself it was the dog’s antics that made her feel suddenly and inexplicably happy. Nothing whatsoever to do with Holt McKettrick.

She followed him into the cabin, watched as he put the stovepipe back in place.

“That ought to do it, he said, dusting his hands together. He was filthy, covered in grime, and there were little twigs in his hair.

“Look at this mess,” Lorelei fretted.

“You’re welcome,” Holt said.

Sorrowful tried to come inside, but he was still holding the broom handle in his teeth, and it thumped against the door frame, stopping him at the threshold. He looked abashed when several subsequent attempts failed.

Lorelei laughed, and so did Holt.

She went to the door and relieved Sorrowful of the broom. Feeling suddenly shy, she did the obvious thing and began to sweep.

To her surprise, Holt stopped her, gripping the handle.

“Lorelei,” he said quietly. “Go home. There’s trouble coming at you from two directions.”

She looked up into his handsome, earnest face and remembered their conversation at the cemetery behind St. Ambrose’s. He’d been putting yellow roses on a grave when she caught sight of him, his head bowed, but for poor Olivia, it was too little, too late. Holt’s abandoned mistress had been left to raise a child alone—his child—on a dressmaker’s wages.

She’d best not let herself get too taken with this man, Lorelei admonished herself. He might be engaging, and competent, but in the most important sense, he was no better than Creighton.

“Are you threatening me, Mr. McKettrick?”

“Threatening you?” he echoed, in furious amazement.

She stiffened. “This is my land. If you and Mr. Templeton can’t make peace, you’ll have to fight around me.”

“COFFEE’S READY,” Angelina said, from the doorway. The air was charged inside that cabin, and she supposed she should just back away, but something compelled her to stay.

Mr. McKettrick had been holding on to the broom handle. Now, he let it go with a thrusting motion.

The yellow dog whimpered.

“I can’t stay,” McKettrick said, glaring into Lorelei’s pink and stubborn face. “I’ve got a cattle ranch to run.”

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