McKettrick's Choice - Linda Lael Miller [125]
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,