McKettrick's Choice - Linda Lael Miller [58]
Lorelei stood straight as a broom handle. “I wouldn’t dream of crying to you over anything on this earth, Mr. McKettrick.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Holt saw Rafe fold his arms and rock back on his heels, mighty pleased with himself. “You or me, Big Brother?” he asked, circling around to his original question about breaking the mule to ride.
“You,” Holt bit out. “And I hope he throws you clean over the barn roof.”
Rafe merely laughed again, as if the horse—or mule—he couldn’t ride had never drawn breath. He helped Melina up onto the pony’s back, then mounted Chief and leaned on the pommel of his saddle, waiting. Watching. Grinning that grin that made Holt’s back teeth clamp together.
Holt suppressed an urge to drag his brother down off that fancy gelding, with its fine Mexican saddle, and knock out a few of his perfect McKettrick teeth. He held out a hand, and Lorelei hesitated, then gave him her pack. It still weighed half again too much, but he was all argued out, for the moment at least. He tied it behind his saddle and got on the horse.
Lorelei stood looking up at him, proud and puzzled. Damned if she wasn’t a contrary woman, cussed one moment and vulnerable the next.
He bent, with a creaking of saddle leather, and offered his hand.
Lorelei hesitated, then gripped it, gamely placed a foot in the stirrup, and allowed him to pull her up behind him. She fussed with her skirts a little, and the only indication that she felt any trepidation at all was the way she wrapped her arms around his middle, with a sort of tenuous desperation.
He spurred Traveler lightly with the heels of his boots, and headed for the stream. Melina followed, on her pony, and Rafe brought up the rear, leading that demon mule, Seesaw.
The purple, gold and crimson of a first-class Texas sunset rippled on the water as they made the crossing, and it was full dark when they reached John’s ranch house.
Tillie and the dog came out to meet them, and he’d have sworn that mutt was smiling as broadly as Tillie was.
Holt reined in the Appaloosa and swung a leg over its neck, leaping to the ground. The dog bounded toward them, barking with delight, as he lifted Lorelei down. Her skirts were wet from the creek, and she shivered under her thin shawl, but she’d probably have eaten weevil stew before she complained.
Something in the way she greeted that dog, laughing and ruffling his floppy ears, got to a place in Holt that he usually kept under guard.
“Who are you?” Tillie asked Lorelei, straight out, frowning a little as she watched the reunion between Sorrowful and the stubbornest woman on the face of God’s earth. Maybe she was afraid of losing the critter. Maybe she was just curious. With Tillie, it was hard to tell.
Lorelei smiled warmly and introduced herself.
“That’s my dog,” Tillie said.
“I know,” Lorelei replied.
Tillie considered that. “You can be his friend, if you want to.”
“I would like that very much,” Lorelei said. “Thank you.”
At last, Tillie smiled. “He likes to have his belly scratched.”
Lorelei simply nodded. She looked bone-tired, as well as cold, and watching her with Tillie had taken the edge off Holt’s irritation.
“I hope supper’s on,” he said.
“Fried chicken,” Tillie told him proudly. Then she turned thoughtful. “Pa said you’d come back with cowboys. I don’t see any, except for Rafe.”
“We’ll have to make do,” Holt said. “See the women inside, Tillie. Rafe and I will put away the horses.”
She nodded, and three females and a hound dog disappeared into the house.
Tomorrow, Holt told himself, by way of consolation, as he turned the Appaloosa toward the barn, was a brand-new day.
He sure hoped it would go better than this one had.
CHAPTER 22
IF THERE WAS ONE THING Holt McKettrick knew about himself, for sure and