McKettrick's Choice - Linda Lael Miller [26]
Lorelei took a step toward him. “You don’t look well. Perhaps I should ask Angelina to send Raul for the doctor.”
“Never mind the damn doctor!” the judge shouted, collapsing back into his chair. “Sign the papers!”
Lorelei bit her lower lip. Sometimes, she wished she were more tractable.
“No,” she said. “Absolutely not.”
HOLT RODE INTO Waco about an hour after sunup. A freight wagon jostled by, and the driver touched his hat brim in greeting. Two prostitutes gossiped in front of the Blue Bullet Saloon, pausing to regard Holt through a haze of tobacco smoke, and a Chinaman trotted along the sidewalk, a broomstick braced across his narrow shoulders, yokelike, with a huge covered basket suspended from either end. A dead man—shot through the chest if the pattern of dried blood was any indication—leaned against the wall beside the undertaker’s door, strapped to a board. A crude sign dangled from a nail above his head. The Wages Of Sin Is Death.
Holt had seen worse things, especially while riding with the Rangers, but the sight sent a shiver down his spine just the same. He couldn’t help thinking of Gabe.
He spotted a livery stable and headed in that direction. Gabe had said Melina was working for a rancher’s wife, which meant he wasn’t likely to find her in town, but his horse was played out, in need of water, feed and a few hours’ rest. He would see to the Appaloosa first, then scare up some breakfast for himself. With any luck, the folks in the restaurant would steer him in the right direction.
He’d just taken a chair by the window and ordered up a plate of eggs, fried potatoes and sausage when Captain Jack Walton himself ambled in. Grizzled and wiry, the man was deceptively small. Holt had seen him take on Comanches two at a time and come out of it with his hair still on and his hide unmarked.
Holt blinked, sure he was seeing things, and set down his mug of coffee.
Captain Jack laughed. “Thought I was dead, didn’t you?” he drawled, taking off his round-brimmed hat and easing himself into the chair across from Holt’s.
“Hell, yes,” Holt said, recovering, taking in the Captain’s thinning gray hair and hard, watchful eyes. “Fact is, I’m still not sure you’re real.”
Walton’s skin was leathery from the Texas sun, and his hands were age-spotted, the fingers clawlike, yet still, Holt would have bet, as quick to the trigger as ever. “I had the same thought about you, when I saw you ride in. That’s a fine-looking Appaloosa you’ve got there.”
Holt nodded. He didn’t know how to make small talk, not with the Captain, anyhow. “Thanks,” he said, at some length, noting the star pinned to the old man’s vest.
Walton signaled the waitress, and she hurried over with a blue enamel coffeepot and an outsized cup. Evidently, the Captain still liked his brew.
“What brings you to Waco?” he asked, after adding half a pound of sugar and taking an appreciative slurp.
“I’m looking for a woman called Melina Garcia,” Holt said, wondering if the Captain had been the one to put a bullet in that outlaw over at the undertaker’s and then display the corpse as a deterrent to those with criminal inclinations. He was a man to take harsh measures when he deemed them appropriate, which was often.
The Captain arched one eyebrow. “Gabe Navarro’s woman?”
Holt’s stomach soured, and he regarded his unfinished breakfast with mournful resignation. “Yes.”
Walton leaned forward. “You the bearer of bad tidings, Mr. Cavanagh?” he asked. “Last I heard, you was up in the Arizona Territory someplace, building yourself another ranch.”
“Gabe’s been tried and sentenced to hang, down in San Antonio,” Holt said. The details about Arizona could wait.
The Captain narrowed his eyes. “The hell you say.”
“I would have thought you’d have heard about it,” Holt said. “Word like that usually spreads fast.”
“I’ve been in