McKettrick's Choice

She followed him into the cabin, watched as he put the stovepipe back in place.

“That ought to do it, he said, dusting his hands together. He was filthy, covered in grime, and there were little twigs in his hair.

“Look at this mess,” Lorelei fretted.

“You’re welcome,” Holt said.

Sorrowful tried to come inside, but he was still holding the broom handle in his teeth, and it thumped against the door frame, stopping him at the threshold. He looked abashed when several subsequent attempts failed.

Lorelei laughed, and so did Holt.

She went to the door and relieved Sorrowful of the broom. Feeling suddenly shy, she did the obvious thing and began to sweep.

To her surprise, Holt stopped her, gripping the handle.

“Lorelei,” he said quietly. “Go home. There’s trouble coming at you from two directions.”

She looked up into his handsome, earnest face and remembered their conversation at the cemetery behind St. Ambrose’s. He’d been putting yellow roses on a grave when she caught sight of him, his head bowed, but for poor Olivia, it was too little, too late. Holt’s abandoned mistress had been left to raise a child alone—his child—on a dressmaker’s wages.

She’d best not let herself get too taken with this man, Lorelei admonished herself. He might be engaging, and competent, but in the most important sense, he was no better than Creighton.

“Are you threatening me, Mr. McKettrick?”

“Threatening you?” he echoed, in furious amazement.

She stiffened. “This is my land. If you and Mr. Templeton can’t make peace, you’ll have to fight around me.”

“COFFEE’S READY,” Angelina said, from the doorway. The air was charged inside that cabin, and she supposed she should just back away, but something compelled her to stay.

Mr. McKettrick had been holding on to the broom handle. Now, he let it go with a thrusting motion.

The yellow dog whimpered.

“I can’t stay,” McKettrick said, glaring into Lorelei’s pink and stubborn face. “I’ve got a cattle ranch to run.”