Linda Lael - Mckettrick's Choice

Lorelei lifted the china tea cup in both hands, fearing she’d spill it if she didn’t take a firm hold. “I don’t want anything to eat,” she said, after a restorative sip.

“I don’t care what you want,” Angelina replied crisply, and went back to the stove. “Your papa, he is very angry. You will need all your strength to deal with him.” She paused in her deft labors, regarding Lorelei as though she were a jigsaw puzzle with one piece missing. “Why did you do it? Why did you burn your wedding dress for all of San Antonio to see?”

“You know why, Angelina,” Lorelei said.

“I am not asking why you did not marry Mr. Bannings,” Angelina pointed out. “He is a coyote dropping, not a man. What I want to know is, if you had to burn the dress, why do it in front of the whole town? Now, all the women will be gossiping, and all of the men will avoid you.”

Lorelei took another sip of tea, then sighed. “The men would do well to avoid me,” she said, with a trace of humor, “and the women would gossip, one way or the other.”

“It was a foolish thing to do,” Angelina maintained, setting the plate of hotcakes and scrambled eggs down in front of Lorelei with an eloquent thump. “People will say you are loco in the head.”

Lorelei twisted her hands in her lap. Her father’s words echoed in her mind. I fear you are not quite sane. Would he actually go so far as to commit her to an asylum? Surely not—she’d defied him many times in the past, and he’d never sent her away. On the other hand, he’d never threatened to, either, and there was no question that he had the judicial power to do it. As a female, she had about as many legal rights as the old hound that slept behind the Republic Hotel, waiting for scraps from the kitchen.

“Is that what you think, Angelina? That I’m a madwoman?” She held her breath for the answer.

Angelina spat a Spanish expletive. “Of course not,” she added, when she’d stopped sputtering. “But I know you, Conchita. These others, they do not. They will talk about this for years!”

Lorelei took up her fork, only to push her rapidly cooling eggs apart into little, unappetizing heaps. “I was just so—angry.”

“Sí,” Angelina agreed, laying a hand on Lorelei’s shoulder. “This temper of yours, it will bring you to grief if you do not learn to control it.” She gave a gusty sigh.

“It is done now, and there is no changing it. We will have to deal with the consequences.”

“Father is furious,” Lorelei said, with resignation. “He threatened to have me locked away in a madhouse, and I’m fairly certain he wasn’t joking.”

Angelina blinked, and in that instant her whole demeanor changed. “Madre de Dios,” she muttered, and crossed herself again, and then twice more for good measure. “This is more serious than I thought.”

Lorelei’s mouth went dry. She’d spent much of the night in frantic speculation, but she’d expected Angelina to soothe her fears, not compound them. “What am I going to do?” she murmured, more to herself than the housekeeper.

“For the time being, you must stay out of your father’s way,” Angelina counseled gravely. She paused, thinking, then shook her head. “No,” she reflected. “I do not think he would actually do this thing. The scandal would be too great. After yesterday, he will not be looking for more of that.”

The clatter of horses’ hooves and the rattle of carriage wheels rolling up the driveway silenced them both.

Angelina rushed to the bay window overlooking the long crushed-shell driveway. “Vaya!” she cried. “Go. It is the judge, and Mr. Bannings is with him!”

Lorelei nearly overturned her chair in her haste to be gone, but then her pride got the better of her good sense, as it so often did.

“No,” she said. “I will not run away like some rabbit startled in the carrot patch.”

“Lorelei,” Angelina whispered, her eyes pleading.

Lorelei planted her feet. “No,” she repeated, but her heart was hammering fit to shatter her breastbone, and she felt sick to her stomach.

She heard the carriage doors closing, heard her father and Creighton talking in earnest tones. Oddly, though, another voice supplanted those, an echo rising suddenly in her brain.

It belonged to Holt McKettrick.

Are you crazy?

HOLT TOOK PLEASURE in the look of surprise on the banker’s face when he looked up and saw him standing there, with John Cavanagh beside him.

A moment too late, the man shoved back his swivel chair and stood, extending a hand in greeting. The fancy name plate on his desk read G. F. Sexton. He was probably no older than Jeb, but already developing jowls and a paunch. That was a banker’s life for you, Holt thought. Too easy.

“Mr. Cavanagh!” Sexton cried, fixing his attention on John. “It’s good to see you.”

John regarded the pale, freckled hand for a long moment, then shook it. “Under the circumstances,” he said, “it’s good to see you, too.” Sexton’s gaze shifted to Holt, full of wary curiosity.

Holt didn’t offer a handshake, or an explanation. “We’re here about those loans you called,” he said.

A flush stole up Sexton’s neck, if that narrow band of pallid flesh could be called a neck, and pulsed along the edge of his jaw. “You understand, of course, that business is business—”

“I understand perfectly,” Holt said.

Sexton tugged at his celluloid collar. A fine sheen of sweat glimmered on his forehead. His gaze kept flitting back and forth between Holt’s face and John’s, skittish about lighting too long on either one. “I’m afraid the foreclosure is quite legal, if you’ve a mind to discuss that,” the banker said. He consulted the calendar on the wall behind his chair. “In two weeks, the ranch will be sold for outstanding debts.”

Holt indulged in a slow smile. “Will it?” he asked softly.

Sexton took a half step back. “Mr. Cavanagh owes—”

“Ten thousand dollars,” Holt interrupted, and laid a telegram from his bank in Indian Rock on the desk.

“They’re sending a draft by wire. You should have it by tomorrow morning.”

Sexton got even redder. He fumbled in his breast pocket for spectacles, put them on, read the telegram and blanched. “My God,” he said, and sank heavily into his chair.

“There’ll be another draft sent to First Cattleman’s, up in Austin,” John put in. “You see, my son here just bought my place, lock, stock and barrel. I could have deposited the money here, I reckon, but—you’ll understand, business being business—that I had some concerns about its safekeeping.”

The banker was a few horse-lengths behind. “Your son?” he squeaked.

Holt swallowed a laugh.

“Foster son,” John relented, having had his fun. “Holt’s taken his real daddy’s name—McKettrick—but he went by Cavanagh for a good part of his life.” He braced his work-worn hands on the edge of Sexton’s desk and leaned in. “You tell Mr. Templeton he’ll find Holt a sight harder to deal with than an old black man and a slow-witted girl.”

“Mr. Templeton?” Sexton croaked. “What does he have to do with this?”

“A whole lot, I reckon,” John said smoothly. “You ever think about punchin’ cattle for a livin’, Mr. Sexton? Mr. McKettrick, here, he’s hirin’. Lookin’ for thirty men or so. A season in the saddle might put some color in your cheeks.”

“My knees are bad,” Sexton said fretfully.

“I reckon your conscience smarts some, too,” John replied. “If you’ve got one, that is.” He turned to Holt, his eyes gleaming with the old spirit. “Best we be goin’. Tillie’ll be through at the general store, and there’s Gabe to be looked in on before we head back out to the ranch. Make sure he’s getting the meals my son arranged for, over to the Republic Hotel.”