McKettrick's Choice - Linda Lael Miller [46]
Out front, with the rope in both hands, John laughed. “She’s a mighty pretty one,” he said. “Make you a fine wife.”
Holt cursed. The cow came loose with a sucking sound and an infuriated squall, and he and Rafe both tumbled into the mud. They sat there like a couple of fools, staring at each other, and then Rafe threw back his head and gave a shout of laughter.
Holt did his best to stay angry, but it was a wasted effort. He gave a delighted howl of his own.
John stood watching them, his hands on his hips, and shook his head.
“Must be somethin’ about that Arizona sun,” he said.
“Bakes a man’s brain.”
CHAPTER 18
LORELEI HAD NEVER had to deal with problems before—not practical ones, at least. Her father had provided food, shelter, clothing and a modicum of education, if little else. She had never had to do physical labor of any sort— Angelina, Raul and a variety of housemaids had done that. She didn’t know one end of a cow from the other—much less how to buy, husband and sell the creatures—and she had never once ridden a horse. And now she had to sort through the brutal truth about her mother.
She was daunted, that steaming morning, as she watched the freight man at work. Now that the mud had dried up, he’d come back to reclaim his wagon, leading a team of sturdy-looking mules behind him.
She was also strangely exhilarated, as if she’d just been rehearsing all these years and now her life had truly begun.
That’s what I need, she thought, with resolution. A mule.
Intending to ask Raul to approach the freight man and ask if he would sell one of the animals, she turned and scanned the property. Raul was on top of the roof, nailing the tent tarp in place. Angelina was downstream, trying to catch fish for their supper.
If the mule was to be purchased, it was up to her to initiate the process.
The driver was a surly sort. He smelled, he cursed and he was constantly spitting a stream of disgusting tobacco into the grass.
After drawing a deep breath and holding it for a moment, Lorelei employed her exhalation to thrust her into motion.
“Excuse me, sir,” she said.
The driver ignored her, but spat again, narrowly missing the hem of her ready-made calico dress.
Lorelei bristled and held her skirts aside. “Sir,” she repeated.
At last, the man stopped, studying her with amused contempt. Then he executed a mocking bow. “Yes, ma’am,” he drawled. “What is it?”
“I would like to buy one of these mules, if you have a mind to sell.”
He took a round tin from the pocket of his sweat-soaked shirt and grubbed out a pinch of snuff with one filthy fingertip. “That right?”
Lorelei cringed inwardly as he poked the tobacco into his mouth. Because she wanted to retreat, she forced herself to take one step forward. “How much?”
The freight man rubbed his stained and stubbled chin, chewing and spitting again before he answered, “These are fine mules. Hardworking. Stubborn, though. Right stubborn.” He ruminated, both on the snuff and his decision. “I reckon I could hand over old Seesaw here for, say, fifty dollars.” He laid one hand on the flank of a pitiful-looking beast with patches of his mud-brown coat missing.
“Fifty dollars seems excessive,” Lorelei said, peering at the animal.
“Whatever that means,” said the driver, with a desultory shrug.
“It means I think it’s too much,” Lorelei replied, though in truth she had no idea what a mule—stubborn, mangy or otherwise—should cost. For all she knew, she was getting a bargain.
“All right,” came the reply, after more rumination and spitting. “Thirty-five dollars, and that’s as low as I’m willing to go.”
Lorelei approached the mule, reached out a tentative hand to touch his rough, dusty coat. Seesaw turned his head and brayed, causing her to start. “Can he be ridden?” she inquired uncertainly.
“Yes,” said the freight man. “But he does have his own set of ideas about some things.”
“Then we ought to get along,” Lorelei decided.
“Thirty-five dollars,” reiterated the driver.
“Does that include a saddle and bridle?”
The freightman