McKettrick's Choice (18 page)

“We'll meet right here, the day after tomorrow, at sunrise,” Holt said clearly, while Traveler danced impatiently.
The cowboys gave a communal yelp of exuberance and rode off in all directions, spurring their horses.

The Captain and Rafe sat silently on their mounts, waiting.

John leaned forward in the wagon box, watching Holt.

Out of the corner of her eye, Lorelei saw Tillie kneeling behind the tailgate, clutching the baby to her with one arm and absently petting the dog with the other. Melina sat on her pony beside Lorelei, shading her eyes from the last wicked rays of the sun.

Holt, Rafe and the Captain rode up alongside the wagon, and conferred with John in low voices. Lorelei felt a flash of resentment at being excluded, but she was too trail weary to sustain it.

Presently, Holt approached her and Melina.

“John and the Cap'n will see you to an inn two streets over from here,” he told them. “It's nothing fancy, but it's comfortable. Get as much rest as you can, because the hardest part of the trip is still ahead.” With that, he started to rein the Appaloosa away.

“Wait,” Lorelei heard herself say. Even though she was mortified, she went on. “Where are you and Rafe going?”

Holt grinned, resettled his hat. “We've got some business to take care of,” he said. “Stay out of trouble.”

Lorelei watched him ride away.

Ten minutes later, they arrived at the inn. The structure was of adobe and timber, with a well in the dooryard and a big barn to one side. Lantern-light glowed at the windows.

“I'll see to the mule,” the Captain said quietly, as Lorelei dismounted. “You'd better see that Melina and Tillie will fit in around here, if you know what I mean.”

Lorelei, about to hand over the reins, went absolutely still as his meaning sank in. Melina was Mexican, and Tillie was black. They wouldn't be allowed to set foot in a lot of places, except in the capacity of a servant.

The Captain chuckled at her expression. “Now don't go in there with your feathers all puffed out,” he counseled. “Give these folks the benefit of the doubt—at least until they show they don't deserve it.”

“Holt sent us here,” Lorelei reflected, watching as a rugged-looking woman, probably a mulatto, came out of the inn, wiping her hands on her apron. “Surely—”

“Holt hasn't been in Laredo in a while. Could be the place has changed hands. You need me, you just call my name.” With that, the Captain led Seesaw toward the barn. Tillie went along, in the back of the wagon, and Melina followed on her pony, casting one anxious look back at Lorelei.

Summoning up a smile and wishing she were wearing one of her tea-party dresses instead of trousers and boots and a man's shirt, Lorelei approached the innkeeper. Up close, the woman looked even more intimidating—her masses of iron-gray hair looked as though they'd been commandeered into place, instead of just pinned. Her sandalwood skin was pockmarked, from an old case of smallpox, most likely, and her steely eyes narrowed as she looked Lorelei over.

“You traveling with those men?” the woman asked.

“Yes,” Lorelei said, and stiffened her spine. “We're part of Holt McKettrick's party. On our way to Mexico to buy cattle.”

“I knew a Holt Cavanagh once,” came the unsmiling response. “Never heard the name McKettrick before, as I recollect.”

“It's the same man,” Lorelei said. “He sent us here.”

Instantly, the woman's countenance brightened, and the transformation was startling. “Why'd Holt go and change his name?” she asked. “He in some kind of trouble with the law? Don't seem likely, since he was a Ranger when I knew him, but then, there's a few of them go bad.” She paused, beaming. “Oh, never mind. I'll ask him myself when I see him.”

Lorelei smiled, put out her hand, grimy though it was, and introduced herself.

“I'm Heddy Flett,” was the response. “You bunkin' in with Holt, or will you be requirin' a room of your own?”

Lorelei flushed. “I'll be sharing with my friends, Tillie and Melina.” She gestured toward the barn. The two women stood outside the barn door, with Sorrowful and the baby, and although neither of them glanced in her direction, Lorelei saw by the way they held themselves that they were waiting for a verdict.

“Well, tell 'em to come on in,” Heddy boomed. “I've got a nice room with two big beds in it. The men will have to bunk on the sun porch, with the dog, 'course. You ladies can wash up and rest yourselves a while, while I get supper on.”

“Thank you,” Lorelei said.

“I'm in the business of hirin' out beds,” Heddy stated, in happy dismissal, and turned to trundle back up the dirt path to the porch. There, she paused to call to Tillie and Melina, “You ladies get that baby inside, pronto. Don't want the poor little snippet to take a chill, now do we?”

Tillie and Melina smiled as they hurried over with the baby, and Lorelei felt a pang at their obvious relief. Sorrowful stayed behind, sniffing the grass, and John and the Captain went on tending the stock.

Heddy showed them to the big front bedroom—said she was saving the quiet one at the back for Holt, since she had a soft spot for him—and Lorelei almost wept at the sight of real beds, with sheets and plump pillows and quilts. There were lace curtains at the windows, clean towels hanging over the washstand.

“Settle in, and I'll get you some hot water,” Heddy told them.

“Pearl's wet,” Tillie said. “And we're down to our last bandana.”

“Don't you fret,” Heddy replied, with brisk good cheer, from the doorway. “I've got plenty of clean rags downstairs. I'll bring them up when I come back with the water.” She tilted her head to one side, almost coquettishly. “That's a right pretty little girl,” she added.

“Pearl's a boy,” Tillie pointed out.

Heddy puzzled that one through, and finally dismissed the whole question with a shrug. “I'll be back before you can say ‘flapjack,'” she promised.

Melina tested one of the mattresses with her right hand, rubbing the small of her back with the left. “Featherbeds,” she said softly. “If I didn't want supper so bad, I declare I'd lay myself down right now and sleep until noon tomorrow.”

“I could bring up your supper,” Lorelei volunteered. Melina did look exhausted; her face was drawn, and there was a fitful look in her eyes.

“You'd do that?” Melina asked, almost in a whisper.

“Of course I would,” Lorelei said.

Melina sat down cautiously on the edge of the bed, as though she expected to be expelled at any moment.

“Wouldn't that be something?” she murmured. “An Anglo woman waiting on me.”

Before Lorelei could think what to say to that, Heddy
returned with a stack of neatly folded flannels and a steaming bucket of hot water.

“Found these in the back of the storeroom,” she said, indicating the cloth. “Used to be a nightgown. Knew I'd want them for somethin' one day.”

Tillie laid Pearl down on the nearest bed and took them from Heddy's grasp. “I thank you, ma'am,” she said.

“I don't answer to ma'am,” the older woman replied. “Name's Heddy.”

Tillie smiled shyly. “You sure are bein' nice to us.”

“Any friend of Holt Cavanagh's—or whatever name he's going by now—is welcome in this house. There's a commode through that door there. Just empty the basin into that.” While Tillie changed Pearl into a fresh diaper, Heddy poured hot water into the large china bowl on the washstand, then into the matching pitcher. “Step lively, now,” she said, bustling back to the door. “Supper's cookin'.”

Lorelei's stomach rumbled with anticipation.

Tillie washed up first, then Melina. Pearl was fidgety with fatigue and hunger.

“I ought to help with the baby,” Melina fretted, having just emptied the basin. Her gaze strayed covetously to the featherbed. “Instead of just laying around like I was the lady of the house.”

Lorelei gave her a look of mock sternness.

“It would be something to be the lady of a house like this,” Tillie said, bouncing Pearl against her shoulder.

“Supper's on!” Heddy bellowed, from somewhere down below.

“I'll be back with a tray,” Lorelei told Melina.

She and Tillie descended to the kitchen, a place of bright colors and delicious aromas.

“Where's that pregnant girl?” Heddy asked immediately. “She's got to eat.”

“I thought I'd take her a plate,” Lorelei said.

Heddy's smile broadened. “I'll do that. You sit down and have yourself some of this chicken-n-dumplin's.”

Lorelei sagged gratefully into a chair at the long table, almost overwhelmed with hunger.

Heddy lifted the lid off a massive crock in the center of the table and ladled a generous portion of the steaming delicacy within onto a chipped china plate. She nodded to Tillie.

“You sit down, too, girl. I got some milk heatin' on the stove for the sprout, there. When I get back, I'll take him in hand.” She shook her head. “Pearl,” she muttered to herself, as she headed for the stairs.

The back door opened just then, and John stepped in, followed by the Captain.

“I gather this is a good place,” the Captain said, favoring Lorelei with a little smile.

“Indeed it is,” Lorelei replied, having dished up her own serving of chicken and dumplings. In San Antonio, she'd had meals like this one every evening of her life. It might have been years ago, instead of mere days.

“There aren't any ghosts here,” Tillie announced, shifting Pearl on her lap and filling a plate for herself. She scooped up a spoonful and blew on it before offering the baby a taste.

Heddy returned, greeted the men with a blustery laugh. “Don't just stand there wearin' out my good rug,” she said. “Wash your hands and have some supper.” She nodded toward the ceiling. “It will be a wonder if that girl gets three bites down her gullet before she drops off to sleep.”

“What about Sorrowful?” Tillie asked.

“That the dog?” Heddy countered.

Tillie swallowed, nodded.

Heddy patted Tillie's shoulder. “Got a pan of scraps for him, don't you worry,” she said, and pried the baby out of Tillie's arms. “All of you get to eatin', or I'm going to be insulted. Think you don't like my food.”

“Can we stay here, Pa?” Tillie asked. Heddy was seated in a big rocking chair over by the stove, spooning warm milk into the baby's mouth and crooning to him in her rough, comforting way. “Me and Pearl, I mean? I like this place.”

John cleared his throat. “Tillie—”

“You know how to work, girl?” Heddy broke in, studying Tillie closely. “You don't look afraid of turnin' a hand to what needs doin'. Fact is, I could use some help around here.”

John's eyes widened. Lorelei was as surprised as he appeared to be.

“Please, Pa?” Tillie cajoled. “Maybe just till you come back through with the cattle?”

“I believe this good woman is being polite, Tillie,” John said.

Heddy gave a delighted cackle. “First time I ever been called ‘polite,'” she said. “I'm offerin' room and board and two dollars a week. Take it or leave it.”

“Please?” Tillie whispered.

John shifted on his chair. “I reckon you'd be all right here,” he said, with a note of relief in his voice. “You've got to be sure, though, Tillie. What if you get lonesome when we're gone?”

“I won't get lonesome,” Tillie said, spearing a hunk of dumpling and lifting it to her mouth.

“I promise I'll look after them,” Heddy said, and the note of hopefulness in her voice brought a sting to
Lorelei's eyes. “A cattle drive ain't no place for a young girl and a baby, anyhow.”

“You are right about that, ma'am,” John conceded. “I thank you for your generosity.”

“Heddy,” she said firmly.

“Heddy it is,” John agreed.

After consuming two helpings of chicken and dumplings, Lorelei decided she'd best stop, even though she could have eaten her way to the bottom of that crock.

“I'll tend to the dishes,” she said.

“No, you won't,” Heddy declared. Pearl had fallen asleep against her enormous bosom, and she rocked him with a gentleness that belied her loud voice and straightforward manner. “You go on upstairs and get yourself into bed. You look about to drop.”

Lorelei realized she'd been hoping Holt would arrive, but there was no sign of him or Rafe. John and the Captain had finished their meals and were enjoying coffee. Tillie had gone outside to give Sorrowful the promised scraps.

“Well, good night, then,” Lorelei said. “And thank you, Heddy.”

Heddy merely nodded.

Lorelei half dragged herself up the stairway to the second floor.

She wasn't going to think about Holt, she decided. It was none of her concern if he missed supper and stayed out half the night. For all she knew, he'd never planned to stay at Heddy's in the first place.

She slipped quietly into the front bedroom, saw that Melina had set her half-finished food aside on the nightstand and fallen into a deep sleep.

Lorelei sighed and sat down in a straight-backed chair to pull of her shoes. No, she told herself, she absolutely
did not care what Holt McKettrick did with his free time. He could drink and carouse. He could face down Comanches. He could pass the night with a loose woman.

Well, she didn't care about most of that.

R.S. B
EAUREGARD
was, if his professional reputation could be trusted, the best lawyer in the state of Texas. Given that Holt had to trail the man through three saloons and a brothel before finally running him down in a private dining room at the Republic of Texas Hotel—where he was sharing a meal with two half-dressed women—the veracity of Beauregard's legal talents was a matter of some concern.

“Gentlemen,” he said, with an affable smile, lifting a wineglass in blithe salute, “I don't believe you were announced.”

Holt felt Rafe stiffen beside him, decided his brother was on the verge of saying something better kept to himself and gave him a subtle nudge with his right elbow. If there was one thing Holt didn't suffer from, it was a lack of confidence, but standing on the threshold of that room, with its Oriental carpet, velvet draperies and gas lighting, he was conscious of his trail-worn clothes and dirty boots in a way he normally wouldn't have been.

The women looked him and Rafe over with sultry, kohl-lined eyes. One good pull on their bodices, and they'd leave nothing much to the imagination. Both of
them smiled, as if they'd read his thoughts and found them pleasing.

“We apologize for interrupting your supper,” Holt said, though it seemed a curious thing to him to have that meal at eleven o'clock at night. Hell, in a few more hours, it would be time to roll out of the hay and get to work. “My name is Holt McKettrick. This is my brother Rafe.” He paused. “We've got some business to discuss with you.”

Beauregard couldn't have been over thirty-five, and Holt supposed most women would consider him handsome, in a rakish sort of way, but his eyes belonged in the face of a much older man. His beard was growing in, his clothes, though of good quality, were rumpled and stained and his hair could have used barbering.

“It would seem this is a matter of some urgency,” he remarked, patting his mouth with his napkin and pushing back his chair. He tried to stand, wavered and sat back down again, with a sheepish grin. “As you would know if you visited my office on Travis Street, I keep regular office hours. Ten in the morning until five in the afternoon. When I'm not in court, of course.”

Rafe shifted irritably, fixing to butt in for certain, and Holt elbowed him again.

“Like you said,” Holt told Beauregard evenly, “it's urgent.”

The lawyer ran a shrewd look over both Holt and Rafe. He seemed to notice Rafe's restrained annoyance and find it mildly amusing. “I'm expensive,” Beauregard warned.

“I'm rich,” Holt answered, and felt his boot heels press harder into the floor.

“Well, then,” Beauregard said, still sporting that in
furiating little smile, “perhaps I have time to talk after all.”

“Why don't you cowboys join us?” one of the women trilled, gazing at Holt and Rafe like they were water on a dry trail. Her face was painted, and she looked as if she'd been rode hard and put up wet one too many times. Holt didn't reply.

Lorelei's image flickered briefly in his mind, bright as a candle flame on a dark night, and he squelched it.

Beauregard's mouth tightened. He gripped the edge of the table, which was burdened with food and drink, served up on fine china plates and in crystal glasses, and tried once more to stand. This time, he made it, though just barely.

“Cora,” he said, wobbling a mite, “Maybeline—if you'll excuse us.”

Cora and Maybeline looked pouty, and their cheeks flushed behind thick circles of rouge, giving them a tubercular aspect that Holt found unsettling. Beauregard drew back each of their chairs, in turn, and they grabbed up their beaded handbags and sashayed toward the door.

They way they looked at Holt made him feel as if he'd been gobbled up whole, and he was glad when they went on past.

“Sit down,” Beauregard said, with a grand gesture.

“We've laid the roast duck to waste, I fear, but I'll have another bottle of wine brought in.”

“Looks to me like you've had enough of that already,” Rafe said.

Holt gave him a sidelong glance.

“Ah,” Beauregard replied easily, “but I have an almost boundless capacity.” As if to give the lie to his words,
his knees gave out, and he sank into his cushioned seat. “Usually,” he added, with good-tempered chagrin.

Scowling, Rafe dragged back the chair Cora had occupied, turned it around and sat astraddle, his forearms resting across the back. Holt sat more circumspectly, in Maybeline's place.

With an unsteady hand, Beauregard drained the dregs of the women's wine into his own glass and took a steadying gulp. After a lusty sigh of satisfaction, he turned his gaze on Holt.

“You're not from around here,” he surmised.

“No,” Holt said. With Gabe's life getting shorter by the minute, he was disinclined to clarify his connection with Texas. That could wait.

“You're in some kind of trouble with the law?”

Holt shook his head. “I'm here about my friend, Gabe Navarro. He's in jail up in San Antonio, sentenced to hang on the first of October.”

Something quickened in Beauregard's hooded eyes. “I read about that case in the newspapers,” he said thoughtfully. “First-degree murder, as I recollect. Navarro was a Ranger once, wasn't he?”

Holt nodded grimly. “Gabe and I rode together, under Cap'n Jack Walton. He didn't kill those people.”

“He didn't have to kill anybody,” Beauregard reflected, staring morosely into his empty wineglass. “All he had to do was get on Judge Fellows's bad side for some reason. It wouldn't take much.”

“You're acquainted with the judge, then,” Holt said.

“Only by reputation,” the lawyer answered. “Navarro's a Mexican, right?”

Holt felt his backbone roll out straight. “Part,” he agreed tersely. “His mother was half Comanche.”

Beauregard picked a piece of duck meat off a ravaged
bone and nibbled at it. “Well, then,” he said, “I imagine that was crime enough, from the judge's point of view.” He trained weary eyes on Holt's face. “Your friend is in a peck of trouble, Mr. McKettrick. What is it you'd like me to do?”

“Get him a new trial. Here, or maybe in Austin or Houston. Anywhere but San Antonio.”

“You seem to be a very direct man. I trust you've already approached the governor,” Beauregard ventured, and though his voice was casual, his face indicated that his interest had gone up a notch.

“He's in Washington, politicking,” Holt answered. “He won't be back in time to save Gabe.”

“He could order a stay of execution by wire,” Beauregard answered.

Rafe moved uneasily on his chair. Either he was hungry—they'd missed supper, tracking down the lawyer—or he wanted to say something.

“Certain telegrams don't seem to get through these days,” Holt responded. “Whether they're coming into San Antonio or going out.”

Beauregard nodded knowingly. “They get lost, I imagine,” he said, “if the message is of some concern to the judge.” He smiled. “I wouldn't mind pinning back that old codger's ears, if I got the chance.”

Something tight slackened in Holt. “You'll do it, then?”

“Depends on the money,” Beauregard said. “Like I said, I'm expensive.”

“Name your price,” Holt replied, without looking at Rafe.

“Five thousand dollars, win or lose. Half of it up front, along with the usual expenses.”

“Five thousand if you win,” Holt said. “Half of it when
you file the petition for a new trial, and half when Gabe walks out of that cell a free man. As for the travel expenses, you can go north with us after we pick up a herd south of the border.”

Beauregard rested his forearms on the table and leaned forward. “Suppose I refuse?”

“I don't think you will,” Holt answered. “I expect something for that money.”

“I can name a high price, Mr. McKettrick, because I win my cases.”

“I wouldn't have come to you if you didn't.” Holt looked around the fancy dining room, then at the remains of the feast. “But I'd guess that you spend what you earn, and then some.”

The lawyer gave a hoarse chuckle. “What if your guess is wrong? Are you willing to bet your friend Mr. Navarro's life on it?”

Inwardly, Holt shuddered. The truth was, he'd have sooner faced that Comanche war party outside the mission again than risk Gabe's neck, but he'd learned from long experience to follow up on his hunches, and this one slammed against his gut like a mule's hind foot. So he waited.

Beauregard waited, too.

Rafe helped himself to the last yeast roll in the silver basket at the center of the table.

“All right,” Beauregard said at long last, putting out a hand to Holt to seal the bargain. “I've got a few things to do around town before I leave anyhow. When do you figure on coming back through here with that herd you mentioned?”

“Maybe a week from now,” Holt said.
If we're lucky,
he thought.

“I'll be ready,” the lawyer replied.

“You might want to clean up a little,” Rafe offered, chewing.

Beauregard laughed. “I might at that,” he said. “I've got a few…obligations, though. If you could give me, say, a hundred dollars, I'd be able to leave Laredo in good conscience. Even get up to San Antonio ahead of you, and get this thing started. First thing I need to do is contact a federal judge or two.”

Holt reached for his wallet. God knew, he felt every delay like the lash of a whip, but a man traveling alone could run into a lot of grief between Laredo and San Antonio. Beauregard wouldn't be any good to Gabe with his hair tied to some Comanche's belt.

“I'd just as soon you went with us,” he said. “In the meantime, you ought to be able to petition for that new trial from here as well as there.”

Beauregard scooped up the five twenty dollar bills Holt had laid on the table, folded them neatly and tucked them into his vest pocket. “Which would mean you owed me twenty-five hundred more,” he said.

Holt pushed back his chair and stood. Reluctantly, for he'd been eyeing what was left of a raspberry pie, Rafe did the same.

“I'll be in town all day tomorrow, hiring cowpunchers to drive back that herd. I'll stop by your office—between ten and five, of course.”

“I might not be in,” Beauregard replied smoothly. “Is there somewhere I can leave word, if I need to?”

Holt nodded. “Heddy Flett's putting us up.”

Beauregard smiled. “I know the place,” he said.

Rafe reached for the raspberry pie, and Holt stopped him with a look.

“Good night, Mr. Beauregard,” he said, heading for the door.

“Hell of a lawyer he is,” Rafe grumbled, when they were out in the corridor. “He can't even stand up.”