McKettrick's Choice - Linda Lael Miller [44]
“Before the war,” Holt said, letting his mind reach back and take hold of what he remembered, “John was a slave. He joined up with the Buffalo Soldiers, and he and two other men came upon a couple of wounded Rebels one day, in a gully. His friends wanted to bayonet them and be done with it. John wouldn’t have it, and when the Yanks rode out, he stayed behind to do what he could for the Rebs. One of them asked him to get word to his folks, out here in Texas, once he died. John stayed with those boys until they’d breathed their last, and then, figuring he’d catch hell from his captain for consorting with the enemy if he went back to camp, he decided to keep his promise in person, instead of writing a letter. Along the way, he met his wife—she was running away from a plantation in Tennessee. When the two of them finally got to San Antonio, the dead Rebel’s mother had already passed on from worry and yellow fever, and his father was sickly. Said the news of his boy’s death would be the finish of him, and it was, but before he gave up the ghost, he deeded his homestead and a hundred head of cattle over to John.” Holt paused. “Is that enough, or would you like to hear something else that’s none of your damned business?”
Rafe laughed. “In the three years I’ve known you,” he said, “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you say that many words all together, let alone at once. I reckon I’ll just content myself with that.”
“Good.” Holt jerked the covers up to his neck and rolled onto his side, turning his back to the other bed.
“There’s one more thing, though,” Rafe said.
“What?” “I snore.”
He sure as hell did.
HOLT, RAFE AND JOHN were on the range the next morning, trying to haul a bawling heifer out of a mud hole with rope and cursing, when the riders appeared. A dozen of them, lining the rim of the nearest hill like a Comanche war party.
“Company,” muttered Rafe, brushing the butt of his .45 with the backs of his fingers.
Three of the riders started down the gentle slope—a fat man in a fancy suit, flanked by two cowhands with rifles resting across the pommels of their saddles.
“Isaac Templeton,” John said quietly. “He’ll be put out that you didn’t go over to his place for a visit, Holt.”
“Will he, now?” Holt breathed, keeping his eyes on the man in the middle.
Templeton stopped a dozen yards away, pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat off his broad, whiskered face. “Holt McKettrick, unless I miss my guess,” he said.
Holt didn’t answer.
“It’s customary for a newcomer to greet his neighbors with a proper how-do-you-do,” Templeton said. His beady gaze drifted to Rafe, who had drawn his pistol. “I’d put that away if I were you. As you can see, my men have the advantage, carrying rifles as they are. You pull that trigger, and you’ll be dead before you hit the ground.”
“Maybe,” Rafe said. “But I’ll put a bullet through your heart on the way down.”
Holt thought of Emmeline, Rafe’s wife, and little Georgia. He stepped between Rafe and Templeton. His brother spat a curse, and Holt knew there would be a row later—if he and Rafe were lucky enough to live that long.
“Your business is with me,” he told the Englishman. The cow bawled, still stuck fast and probably wondering why nobody was doing anything about it.
Templeton gave a slight, vicious smile. His gaze flickered briefly to John, lit on Rafe for a moment, then bored into Holt. “We’ve gotten off to a poor beginning,” the big man said. “I want this land. I’m prepared to pay handsomely for it. Neither I nor my men mean you any harm.”
“Send them away, then,” John said.
Templeton hesitated, then waved the men off.
Reluctantly, they wheeled their horses around and went to join the rest of the bunch, up on top of the hill.
“I’m not selling,” Holt told Templeton.
Templeton wiped his brow again and sighed. “I fear I have offended you, bringing these cowpunchers along,” he said, with a poor attempt at regret.
“Those aren’t cowpunchers,