McKettrick's Choice - Linda Lael Miller [130]
“You sound like a man about to propose something,” he told his foster father. It was too hot for a fire, so they were gathered around a flat rock, by the light of a kerosene lantern. After the chin-wagging, there would be a poker game, if Frank and the Captain had their way.
Even that made Holt think of Lorelei. She didn’t know a damn thing about five card stud, but what she lacked in skill, she made up for in reckless audacity. He smiled, and wondered what she was doing right then—reading a book? Sitting down at Heddy’s table for supper?
Taking a bath?
Oh, God. Don’t think about Lorelei naked, her skin slick with water and soap….
“I won’t feel right about this until I know you’re going to recover every nickel you put into those cattle, and the land, too,” John said. The dog huddled close beside him, and he stroked the critter’s long yellow back as he spoke. “I say we make an agreement and sign papers so it’s legal. I even have a name for the outfit— The McKettrick Cattle Company.”
“I like that,” Holt allowed, with a slight grin. “But the ranch is still yours, John. You built it, you fought for it. You did the sweating and the bleeding.”
“I meant to leave it to you anyway,” John insisted, “because I know you’ll take care of Tillie if anything happens to me.”
Holt met the old man’s gaze, glittering in the flickery light of that kerosene lantern. “You planning on dying right away?” he asked, with a lightness he didn’t feel. Holt had been born independent, and he knew he could make it on his own, but there were two pillars supporting his concept of the man he wanted to become—Angus McKettrick and John Cavanagh. If either of them fell, he’d go on from there, having no other choice, but the idea of it shook him to his boot soles.
“It could happen any time,” John said, quietlike.
“That’s so,” Holt admitted, surprised at the way his throat tightened. “But the same goes for the rest of us. Nobody here can swear he’ll wake up tomorrow morning and saddle his horse.”
“Just the same,” John insisted, in a way that let Holt know he’d made up his mind, “I want the papers drawn up. That way, if some Comanche puts an arrow through my chest, I’ll rest easy, knowin’ two things…Templeton won’t be running his fancy red cattle on my land, and Tillie will be all right.”
“You’d best agree, Holt,” the Captain said, leaning back on his elbows in the grass, booted feet crossed at the ankles. “I don’t reckon John’s going to pull his teeth out of this subject until you do.”
“All right,” Holt said, looking at John, remembering when he was a scared, defiant kid, with a chip on his shoulder. John had taken him in, straightened him out. Taught him to work and keep his word, and a thousand other things that went into the making of a man. “But I can’t run that spread from Arizona, and I mean to go back there with Rafe, as soon as Gabe’s free and Templeton’s been dealt with.” He shifted his gaze, took in Frank and the Captain. “I’ll need partners, besides the old man, here. You two willing to help run this ‘McKettrick Cattle Company’ for a share in the profits?”
The Captain thrust himself upright, to a sitting position. “You mean that, Holt? Hell, I don’t have a nickel to throw into the pot, and I’m getting on in years myself.”
“You’ve got gumption, you’re good with a gun and you know how to handle men like Isaac Templeton. That’s good enough for me.” Holt turned to Frank, who looked thoughtful. “What about you, Corrales? Will you throw in with us?”
“I think I’d rather have me a look at the Arizona Territory,” he said. “You need any hands up there?”
“Always,” Rafe threw in, before Holt could answer.
“What about Gabe?” the Captain asked.