McKettrick's Choice (Hqn) by Linda Lael Miller

Author:Linda Lael Miller [Miller, Linda Lael]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Harlequin Enterprises
Published: 2010-12-01T05:00:00+00:00

AROUND NOON, they came upon another homestead. This one, blessedly, was still standing, and there were welcome signs of life everywhere.

Chickens, pecking at the dirt.

A black and white milk cow, grazing on lush green grass.

A man came out of the shed that probably served as a barn, carrying a rifle and looking earnest. He gestured at the house with a stay-back motion of his hand—a warning, no doubt, to his wife.

“Howdy,” he said cautiously, looking the party over with measuring eyes.

Holt swung down off Traveler’s back and pushed his hat to the back of his head. “Holt McKettrick,” he said, though he didn’t put out his hand. “We’re on our way to pick up some cattle, by way of Laredo.”

The man nodded, lowered the rifle and introduced himself, cautiously friendly. “My name’s Bill Davis,” he said. “You can water your horses if you like. Let them graze a while.”

“Thanks,” Holt said, and turned to signal the riders to dismount.

When he faced Mr. Davis again, he cleared his throat. “You know your neighbors, over on the other side of that valley?” he asked.

Mr. Davis smiled. “Good people. Don’t know them too well, though. Proving up on a homestead doesn’t leave much time for socializing.”

Lorelei stayed close, trying to pretend she wasn’t listening as she let Seesaw slurp from the Davis’s water trough.

Holt looked down at his boots, then met the other man’s gaze again. “They’re all dead, except for the baby,” he said. “Comanches.”

Davis paled. Turned toward the house, where a slender woman in a calico dress, washed so often it had no discernible color, hovered in the doorway, looking on. A little boy, no older than two, clung to her skirts, his thumb jammed into his mouth.

“Mary,” he called hoarsely. “Those folks that settled over yonder, last spring? They’ve been kilt by Comanches.”

Mary put a hand to her mouth.

“Like I said,” Holt went on quietly, “we found the baby alive. We don’t know what to call him.”

Davis frowned. “I reckon their name was…Johnson, or Jefferson, something like that.” He looked back at his wife. “Mary?”

The woman hefted her little boy into her arms, scanned the horizon, probably for Comanche war parties, and came out to stand next to her husband. “Jackson,” she said, pale behind a spattering of delicate freckles. “Horace and Callie Jackson.” She blinked. “The children…?”

“These folks found the baby,” Davis explained, putting a hand on her shoulder. “You happen to know his name?”

“It’s Pearl,” Tillie put in fiercely, from behind the wagon seat. She was holding onto the baby with both arms, like she thought someone would try to wrench him from her.

Mary glanced at Tillie, obviously confounded, then shook her head. “I only met them a couple of times—the first time was when they came over in the wagon to ask to buy some milk. Their cow went dry. Callie was still carrying the boy then.” Tears filled her faded blue eyes, and she held her son a bit more tightly. “Those little girls were such good children.

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