McKettrick's Choice - Linda Lael Miller [139]
Kahill tugged at his dusty hat brim and gave a cocky grin. “Good to see you’re still in the saddle, Boss,” he drawled. “Hope your being on that mule doesn’t mean your horse got killed.”
“Traveler is fine,” Holt said, and shifted his gaze to Frank. “Rafe’s in for a hard time. I mean to go back and make sure the bleeding’s stopped, and get him to that pint-sized doctor in San Antonio first thing.”
Frank nodded, resting on the pommel of his saddle and watching Kahill with narrowed eyes. He was breathing hard, and his shirt was drenched with sweat.
“You hurt, Frank?” Holt asked.
Frank shook his head. Grinned. “No more than I was before this whole thing started,” he said.
Holt turned back to Kahill. “They get any of the herd?”
Kahill shook his head. “Not so much as a hind-hoof,” he said. “Might be they’ll come back and make another try, though. They’ll have blood in their eyes, those Comanches, after losing so many braves.” He looked around, taking in the scattered bodies. “We gonna take the time to bury them, Boss?”
“As far as I’m concerned,” Holt said, checking the position of the sun, “the buzzards can have them. We’ll be lucky to make John’s place before nightfall. Let’s get this herd moving.”
“You’re not worried those red devils will come after us again?” Kahill pressed, though he straightened in the saddle and took a firmer grip on his reins. He didn’t look as if he had an opinion on the prospect, one way or the other, but the fact that he’d asked showed a sensible concern.
“If I thought worrying would get us anywhere,” Holt retorted, “I might take it up.” Kahill rode off to get the wranglers back to their positions and prod the milling cattle into motion, and Holt turned his full attention to Frank. “That kid with the broken leg. He’s got a rough ride ahead of him, like Rafe. John’ll keep an eye on them, but he has the wagon to drive, and a peck of women to boot, so I’d appreciate it if you’d stick close by, in case there’s more trouble.”
Frank nodded, watching Holt closely. “You all right, amigo?” he asked quietly.
Holt met his gaze. “I’m not real sure,” he said. There wasn’t much Frank didn’t know about him, so he saw no point in embroidering the truth. “When that arrow hit Rafe—”
Frank rode near enough to slap him on the shoulder. “Better change horses, Boss,” he said. “Your woman will be wanting her mule back.”
Holt laughed, and it felt good. “If I wring her neck one of these days,” he said, “will you testify that I was with you the whole time?”
Frank’s eyes twinkled. “Swear it on a stack of Bibles,” he said.
HOLT RODE OVER to the wagon and looked inside at Rafe and the young cowboy with the broken leg. Lorelei wanted to tell him to get off her mule, but she didn’t figure she was in any position to issue such a challenge, so she bit her lower lip and held her tongue.
He spoke to the wounded men, Rafe first, and then the wrangler, but his voice was low, and strain though she did, Lorelei didn’t catch a word of the conversation.
Even when the Captain brought the Appaloosa to him, and he moved from one animal to the other without setting foot on the ground, Holt didn’t spare her so much as a glance. She waited until he’d ridden away to stomp over and get on Seesaw. One of the wranglers led Rafe’s horse and the injured cowboy’s, while John drove the wagon, Tillie and Pearl wedged between him and Heddy in the box. Melina reclaimed her pony, and soon joined Lorelei as the party moved forward in a storm of noise and dust.
“Bet Holt could have bitten a nail in two when he saw you in the middle of an Indian fight,” Melina said.
Lorelei would have preferred not to discuss the subject, but there was a long ride ahead before they reached the Cavanagh ranch, and she knew Melina would keep plaguing her until she answered. “He was a little displeased,” she admitted, rather stiffly. Her throat was parched with dust and fear, and her ears were filled, not with the complaints of several hundred thirsty, trail-weary cattle,