McKettrick's Choice - Linda Lael Miller [153]
She began to tremble. She knew only too well what might happen if Holt and his friends went after Kahill and the others. She could already hear the gunfire in her head.
Holt moved away.
She rose out of her chair, grabbed at his arm. Missed.
Angelina, standing behind her now, eased her back into the chair.
The constable tossed a set of keys to Holt. They jangled ominously as he caught them.
“Tell Roy I said to let the Indian go,” the constable said. “And have him send the undertaker back here.”
Holt nodded, and they were gone—Holt, the Captain and Frank. The constable and Mr. Beauregard stayed with the body.
Lorelei was careful not to look at Mr. Templeton. He’d done so much harm, and he would have killed her if Holt hadn’t come in when he did, but she was still sorry that he was dead.
“I think I have to throw up,” she said.
Angelina nodded and provided a waste basket for the purpose.
WHEN HOLT unlocked the cell door, Gabe shot through it like a circus performer hurtling from the mouth of a cannon. “I’ll explain on the way,” Holt said.
“On the way where?” Gabe asked, cheerfully baffled, but plainly ready to do whatever needed to be done.
Nobody answered, and nobody slowed their steps.
There were three horses waiting in the street. Frank borrowed another, with a toss of a coin and a few hasty words to the rancher who owned it, and Gabe swung up onto the animal’s back, Indian-style.
“Templeton’s place?” the Captain asked, as the four of them rode out of town at top speed.
Holt shook his head. “John’s,” he said. “Kahill’s there. When he hears what happened to his boss, he’ll send somebody to Templeton’s ranch for firepower. We’ll be there to greet them.”
The Captain nodded. “I reckon you’re right about that.”
Gabe bent low over his pony’s neck, his wild Indian hair flying behind him. Whatever lay ahead, he was free, and he was glorying in that. Holt and the others played hell keeping up with him, even though they were all riding better horses. Every once in a while, Navarro threw back his head and let out a whoop, just because the wind was in his face and there were no bars, around his body, or his spirit.
An hour of hard travel brought them to the Cavanagh ranch.
The cattle grazed peacefully on the grassy range, their long journey over. Cowboys rode herd, easy duty, after the rigors of the trail.
The Captain turned to Holt. “How many men you figure we’ll need, back at the house?”
“All we can get,” Holt replied. “Leave five of them with the cattle, and tell them to be ready for anything.”
Captain Jack nodded, and veered off to palaver with the cowpunchers.
Holt, Frank and Gabe kept going, Gabe still far in the lead. He had cause to hurry. His woman and his baby were waiting for him.
“Like the old days, amigo,” Frank said. “Gabe racing the wind, you and me a few lengths behind, getting our brains ready for a fight.”
Holt nodded. He’d left a part of himself behind in San Antonio, with Lorelei. He hoped what remained would be equal to all that was ahead.
Gabe’s borrowed horse stood in the front yard when they arrived, placidly nibbling grass, reins dangling.
“Seem a little quiet to you?” Frank asked thoughtfully.
The hairs on the back of Holt’s neck were standing up like bristles on a boar. “Yeah,” he said grimly. The place looked deserted, as if some great wind had blown through, carried everybody away.
They left the horses with Gabe’s, drew their pistols as they went inside.
Silence.
“Rafe!” Holt called, from the foot of the stairs. His voice echoed through the familiar rooms.
No response.
Gabe appeared on the landing, pale under all that jailhouse grime. Shook his head. “Nobody around,” he said.
“Shit,” Frank muttered. “You suppose we’re too late?”
A faint whine reached Holt’s ears. The dog? “Sorrowful?”
A yip.
Holt called again, raising his voice, barely catching the responding yelp. He followed the sound, Frank and Gabe right behind him.
Melina’s cot was still in the kitchen,