McKettrick's Choice

“Navarro was tried and found guilty,” Fellows put in. “He won’t be missed around here.”

Holt set his back teeth, pulled hard on the reins of his temper. Gabe was behind bars, and if he, Holt, got Fellows’s back up, Gabe would suffer for it. He’d sent a wire to the governor after leaving the courthouse, but there was no telling how long it would be before he got an answer.

“I won’t take up any more of your time,” he said.

The judge nodded.

Holt reclaimed his hat from its hook on the coat tree, where the maid had hung it after admitting him, and opened the door. There were still several hours of daylight left; he could reach the Cavanagh ranch before sunset if he rode hard. In the morning, he would return to San Antonio, look in on Gabe and find a lawyer with some backbone.

Deep in these thoughts, he was taken by surprise when Bannings followed him onto the porch.

“Leave this alone,” the lawyer said, in an anxious whisper, after glancing back at the closed door. He must have seen the judge looking out at him through that long window, because he paled a little. “You’ve got no idea what kind of man you’re dealing with.”

“Neither have you,” Holt said, and kept walking.

CHAPTER 4

GABE FIGURED he must be hallucinating. Roy, the jailer, was standing just on the other side of the cell doors with a covered tray in his hands, and the savory smells coming from under that checkered dish towel made Gabe’s mouth water and his belly rumble.

He sat up, blinking, and swung his legs over the edge of the cot.

Grumbling, the jailer set the food down on the floor and fumbled with his keys. Not for the first time, Gabe considered overpowering him—which would be easy—and taking his chances getting past the guards outside—which would not be so easy. He’d most likely get himself gut-shot if he tried.

“That friend of yours must have himself quite a bank account,” Roy muttered, pushing the door open cautiously and shoving the tray inside with his foot. “That there’s a fancy dinner from over the hotel.”

Roy slammed the cell door shut and locked it, while Gabe went for the grub. “I’ll be damned,” he murmured, crouching to toss back the dish towel. It was beef all right, and prime rib to boot. There were potatoes, a mountain of them, swimming in gravy, and green beans cooked up with bacon and onion.

The blood drained from Gabe’s head.

Roy tarried. “I wouldn’t have figured you had a friend,” he said.

Gabe sat on the side of the cot, the tray of food in his lap. His hand shook as he took up a fork. “What are you having for supper tonight, Roy?” he asked.

“What I’m having for supper ain’t none of your never-mind,” Roy said, but he still didn’t seem to be in any hurry to go on about his business. Maybe he was sucking in the smell of that feast.

Gabe cut off a chunk of beef with the side of his fork. Tender as stewed cloud. He damn near swooned when he took that first bite.

“Who is that feller, anyhow?” Roy persisted.

“Ain’t none of your never-mind,” Gabe answered with his mouth full.

“You’re pretty cocky for somebody about to be strung up.”

Gabe was busy savoring a second forkful of prime rib, so he didn’t bite on the gibe. His stomach seized on the food, growled for more.

“Hope you ain’t thinkin’ he can get you out of here. Nobody could do that, short of the governor.”

The mashed potatoes were as good as the beef, and the gravy—well, it was fare fit for angels. “You’d better get yourself ready for some real trouble,” Gabe said, chewing. “Holt Cavanagh, he’s like a freight train when he sets his mind on something. If I were you, I’d stay off the tracks.”

Roy paled, which gave Gabe almost as much satisfaction as the food. “Cavanagh? Same name as that rancher, the one who’s been tanglin’ with the Templeton bunch?”

Gabe smiled, though the mention of the name Templeton made all his old injuries take to aching again. “Same name,” he said.

“They can’t be related,” Roy fretted.

Gabe forked up some beans and a big hunk of bacon.

“Can’t they?”

JOHN CAVANAGH’S old heart nearly stopped when he looked up and saw the rider at the edge of the hayfield, with the last rays of the setting sun framing man and horse. He rubbed his stubbly chin, leaning on the long-handled scythe, and squinted into the glare.

Tillie, working beside him, let her scythe fall into the grass. “That’s Holt,” she whispered, and began to run, fairly tripping on the hem of her calico skirt. She fell once, got up again and went right on running.

It couldn’t be Holt, John thought. He was up in the Arizona Territory, helping to run the family ranch and raising up a daughter.

The rider swung down from the saddle as Tillie barreled toward him, and held his arms out wide. Tillie gave a shout of joy and flung herself into them.

God in heaven. It was Holt.

John let his own scythe fall, though he was not a man to be careless with tools, and hurried toward the pair, moving as fast as his rheumatism would allow.

Holt swung Tillie around in a circle and planted a smacking kiss on her forehead. She was laughing and crying, both at once, and hugging Holt’s neck as if she’d drown if he let her go.

“Holt,” John said, drawing up at the edge of the field and fair choking on the word.

The familiar grin flashed. “Yes, sir. It’s me, all right.”

John took a step toward him, still disbelieving. His vision blurred, and his throat closed up so tight he couldn’t have swallowed a hayseed, even with good whiskey to wash it down.

Holt stroked Tillie’s back; she still hadn’t turned loose of his neck. “I see my little sister is all grown-up,” he said.

Hope swelled up inside John Cavanagh, hope such as he hadn’t felt in a year of Sundays. “You figurin’ on stayin’?” he asked, and ran an arm across his mouth.

“Until you run me off,” Holt replied, and grinned again.

“Go ahead and hug him, Pa,” Tillie said joyously. “It’s the only way you’ll believe he’s real.”

John took another step, stumbling a little, and put his arms around the man he still thought of as his son. The two of them clung for a moment, and John felt tears on his old black face.

“Come on inside,” he managed when they drew apart again. “With you here, Tillie’s like to cook up a storm.”

Holt was looking around the place, taking in the sagging barn, the downed fences, the skinny cattle and slat-ribbed horses.

If John hadn’t been so damn glad to see the boy, he might have felt shame. Time enough later on to answer all those questions he saw brewing in Holt’s face. Tell him how Templeton and the bankers were trying to force him out.

Right now, there were more important things to be said.

“You bring me a picture of that little girl of yours?” John demanded, hobbling along between Holt and Tillie as the three of them made for the house.