McKettrick's Choice - Linda Lael Miller [42]
“Six months or so,” Angelina said, watching the stream again. “Then one day a letter came, saying she was gone.”
Lorelei leaned forward, spilling her tea to the ground, and pressed her face to her knees. She was full of sorrow, fair bursting with it, but no tears would come. Angelina stroked her back.
“There, now,” she said.
“Maybe that’s why I’ve never married,” Lorelei said, straightening as she drew a deep breath. “Maybe I’d go crazy, too, if I had babies.”
“Child,” Angelina scolded tenderly. “There is no reason to think such a thing.” But when she met Lorelei’s gaze, her eyes were worried.
CHAPTER 17
HOLT TOOK CARE to go around Lorelei’s place, lest he run into her again. The decision, though prudent, left him feeling oddly disjointed. He’d seen that buggy racing along the trail earlier, after his bath in the creek, and guessed who was driving it: the judge, mad as a wet cat.
Holt and Rafe crossed the creek more than a mile downstream, the dog still riding with Holt. When they rode into the dooryard at John’s place, Tillie appeared on the porch, and her face lit up when she saw Sorrowful. He let out a yelp of delight and loped toward her.
Rafe looked on curiously as Tillie knelt, so she and the hound could wrestle in the tall grass. John came out on the porch and raised a tentative hand to Holt. No doubt he figured Rafe for a cowboy, hired in town.
“Where’s Mr. Cavanagh?” Rafe asked.
“That’s him,” Holt answered.
Old Angus McKettrick had done one thing right; he’d raised his three younger sons to measure a man by what he did, not the color of his skin. Rafe, Kade and Jeb were equally ornery to just about everybody.
“I’ll be damned,” Rafe said. “You never said he was a black man.”
“You never asked,” Holt replied, dismounting. By then, Holt’s foster father was within earshot. “John, meet my brother, Rafe McKettrick.”
Rafe nodded. “Mr. Cavanagh,” he said.
A broad smile broke over John’s face. He thrust out a hand, and Rafe shook it.
“There’s a powerful resemblance,” John said.
Rafe’s grin was even broader than John’s. “Since I don’t reckon you really intended to insult me right out of the chute like that,” he said, “I will not take that remark to heart.”
John laughed, hooked his thumbs under his suspenders. “You come all the way from the Arizona Territory?”
“Yes, sir,” Rafe said. “I did.”
“I’ll show you to the bunkhouse,” Holt told him.
“You can’t put your own brother in the bunkhouse,” John protested. “There’s a spare bed in your room. He can sleep there.”
Rafe passed Holt a sidelong glance. “Thanks,” he said.
John turned to address his daughter. “Tillie, stop messin’ with that dog and put on some coffee. Get them peach pies out of the pantry, too.”
Tillie scrambled to her feet, rubbing her hands off on her skirts and looking Rafe over. “Who’s that man?” she wanted to know.
“Rafe McKettrick, ma’am,” Rafe said, taking off his hat and giving a polite nod. “Pleased to meet you.”
She took a wary step toward them. “You bring me anything from town, Holt?” she wanted to know.
Holt pulled a penny bag of gumdrops from his shirt pocket and held it out to her. “You save those until after supper,” he said, knowing she wouldn’t. Ever since Tillie’d been no taller than the pump handle, she’d had a penchant for gumdrops.
“She’s not quite right in the head,” John said regretfully, after she dashed into the house to make the coffee and get out the pies.
“If she can bake a peach pie,” Rafe reasoned, “she’s right enough.”
At that, John smiled again. “She’s a good girl,” he said fondly.
Right about then, Kahill came out of the bunkhouse. Holt wondered why he wasn’t out looking for strays with the other six men he’d hired. Hoped Mac hadn’t grown up to be a slacker.
“You sick or something?” Holt asked.
Rafe looked on, pulling off his leather gloves. He didn’t introduce himself.
Kahill responded with a crooked grin. “No, sir, Mr. McKettrick. I only came back because my horse threw a shoe.” He looked up, checking the sky. “It’s about quitting time anyhow, so I just stayed.”
John