Free McKettrick's Choice by Linda Lael Miller

McKettrick. Is he really your son?”
    â€œGood as,” John said.
    â€œI’ve been expecting him to pay me a call.”
    â€œHe’s had better things to do.”
    With a mocking air, Templeton put a hand to his heart, fingers splayed, as though to cover a fresh wound. The rifle barely moved. The Englishman’s smile sent that prickle rolling along John’s spine again. “Now that was an unkind thing to say,” Templeton drawled. His gaze moved past John, tracking Tillie and the mule in the distance, like a snake about to spring at a field mouse. John’s aging heart lurched over a beat. “Looks as if you’re pretty hard up for ranch hands.”
    John sat up straighter in the saddle and fondled the handle of the .45 strapped to his hip just to draw Templeton’s eyes back to him and, therefore, off Tillie. “That’s the truth,” he allowed. “Holt’s hiring, though. Like as not, he’ll have that bunkhouse filled in no time.”
    â€œYou tell your… son that I’d like a word with him. I’ll be receiving whenever he chooses to make a visit.” Templeton paused, smiled at John’s .45, like it was a toy whittled out of wood instead of a Colt, and sheathed his rifle. “Best if it’s soon, though. I’m an impatient man.”
    â€œâ€˜Receiving,’ is it?” John countered lightly. “Sounds pretty fancy.”
    Templeton was watching Tillie again. “Just tell him what I said.”
    â€œOh, I surely will.” John maneuvered his horse to block Templeton’s view of the girl. “I doubt Holt’ll take kindly to it, though. My guess is, he’ll wait for you to come to him.”
    Templeton reined his fine Irish horse away, towardhome. “He won’t like it if I do,” he said, and before John could answer, he rode off into the trees.
    John gulped back the bile that rose into his throat, then turned and headed down the hillside, toward the draw. “Tillie!” he called. “You get yourself back to the house now, and start supper!”
    Â 
    G ABE STOOD with his back to the bars of the new cell, staring out the window. The rasping of a saw rode the air, along with the steady tattoo of hammers. The gallows was well underway.
    â€œI don’t suppose you’ve heard back from the governor,” Gabe said, without turning around.
    Holt took off his hat, ran a hand through his hair. “No,” he admitted. “I stopped by the telegraph office on my way here.”
    â€œMost likely that wire never went out, any more than the one Frank sent to you did.”
    â€œI’ll ride up to Austin if I don’t hear by tomorrow,” Holt said. He felt every blow of those hammers as if they’d struck his bare bones instead of the new and fragrant lumber of a hangman’s platform.
    Gabe didn’t speak. It was clear he wasn’t holding out much hope.
    â€œIs there anything in particular you want me to do?” Holt asked quietly. “Besides get you out of here, I mean?”
    At last, Gabe faced him. “I’ve been worrying about Melina. Somebody ought to tell her that I’m not staying away on purpose.” He paused, rubbed his chin with one hand. “She’s carrying my baby, Holt.”
    Holt wanted to avert his eyes, because his friend’s pain was a hard thing to look upon, but he didn’t. “Where will I find her?”
    â€œWaco,” Gabe answered, relaxing a little. “Her last name is Garcia. Last I knew, she was doing laundry for a rich rancher’s wife. Parkinson, I think they call themselves.”
    â€œDone,” Holt said.
    Gabe’s throat worked. “If anything happens—”
    â€œNothing,” Holt interrupted, “is going to happen. But I’ll tell her, Gabe.”
    â€œShe’ll want to come here, to San Antonio. You’ve got to talk her out of that.”
    Holt’s