McKettrick's Choice - Linda Lael Miller [11]
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