McKettrick's Choice - Linda Lael Miller [136]
“’Course I do,” Tillie answered. “I’d like a black man, but I ain’t seen many of them lately. I heard once that there’s some in Austin. I might go up there and find me one.”
Lorelei laughed. “You’ve been with Heddy too long,” she said.
Tillie looked puzzled at that. Her gaze shifted to Pearl’s blond head, and she frowned. “You don’t reckon it’ll matter if I get him a daddy that ain’t the same color, do you?”
Lorelei’s heart ached. She put an arm around Tillie’s shoulders and hugged her. “No,” she said. “No, I don’t.”
“Heddy says folks will give me trouble about it,” Tillie confided.
Lorelei thought it was unlikely that Tillie would ever travel to Austin or anywhere else to find a husband. Mr. Cavanagh probably wouldn’t allow it. But she saw no reason to throw cold water on the young woman’s hopes, fragile as they were. Since leaving her father’s house, she’d learned that, sometimes, hope was all a person had to keep them going.
“I think you’ll be very, very happy,” she said gently, praying it was true.
At noon, they stopped at a deserted homestead, the herd streaming past on both sides, to draw up water from the well so the horses could drink. Lorelei used the time to saddle Seesaw, and climbed onto his back to ride astraddle, her calico skirts drawn up to reveal her trousered legs, her hat offering scant protection against the relentless sun. Soon, they were moving again, everyone gnawing on hardtack and jerky as they made their way to the front of the herd.
Rafe, riding with Holt, reined his horse around and galloped back to keep Lorelei company a while, and she was poignantly grateful for his company. She couldn’t see any sign of Indians, but she knew they were close by, watching, because the little hairs on her nape stood up.
“Tell me about the Triple M,” Lorelei said presently, like a child asking for a bedtime story.
Rafe gave her a sidelong look. “Maybe you’ll see it yourself, one day,” he said.
“That’s not very likely,” Lorelei answered. “Start at the very beginning.”
Rafe chuckled, but there was a certain sadness in the sound. “Once upon a time,” he began, “a real mean hombre named Angus McKettrick said goodbye to Texas and headed north….”
CHAPTER 35
THEY WERE LESS than a day out of San Antonio when the attack finally came, and it was almost a relief to Holt. Waiting for that first skin-peeling shriek had his nerves jangling and his belly clenched, and he was ready for the fight. What he wasn’t ready for was Rafe taking the first arrow, straight through his left arm.
The two of them had ridden ahead of the herd, to scout a rocky area for Comanches, and they found them, all right. The bastards had left their ponies out of sight somewhere, crouching behind boulders, and now that Rafe was hit, they came screaming from their hidey-holes, shrill enough to split a man’s eardrums. Knife blades glinted in the dusty heat.
Rafe sprang off his horse, arrow and all, and his .45 was already spitting smoke and bullets before he hit the ground. Holt stayed right with him; they dove for cover and kept shooting. The panicked geldings took off on a dead run for the party traveling behind them, and Holt spared a breath to pray they’d make it.
An Indian leaped up onto the rock in front of them, blade raised, face contorted with the kind of reckless rage Comanches were noted for. Rafe put a bullet through his stomach while Holt reloaded his pistol. A slight sound behind him made him whirl and fire twice. Two dead braves fell on top of them, one with the top of his head gone, the other shot through the heart.
Rafe gritted his teeth from the pain as he shook free of the bodies, but he didn’t favor his wounded arm. He didn’t seem aware of it.
War cries ripped the air, underlaid by the thunder of approaching hooves and the hiss and ping of rifle shells. Holt would welcome any help he could get, but he hoped to hell the whole crew wasn’t riding to the rescue, leaving the herd unprotected. There were bound to be more Comanches closing in from the rear, and they would be on horseback,