Free A Lawman's Christmas: A McKettricks of Texas Novel by Linda Lael Miller Page A

them folded in his travel trunk, there in the back room, where the bed was. Most of his books hadn’t arrived yet—he had a passel of them and they had to be shipped down from Indian Rock in crates—and he couldn’t seem to settle down to read the one favorite he’d brought along on the train, Jules Verne’s Around the World in Eighty Days. He must have read that book a dozen times over the years, and he never got tired of it, but that night, it failed to hold his interest.
    He kept thinking about Dara Rose Nolan, the gold of her hair and the fiery blue spirit in her eyes. He thought about her shapely breasts and small waist and smooth skin and that flash of pride that was so easy to arouse in her.
    And the same old question plagued him: Why in the devil would a man with a wife like that squander his time in a whorehouse, the way her husband had done?
    Nobody could help dying, of course, but they had at least some choice about where they died, didn’t they? It was simple common sense—folks didn’t turn up their toes in places they hadn’t ventured into in the first place.
    Knowing he wouldn’t sleep, anyhow, Clay strappedon his gun belt, shrugged into his duster and reached for his hat.
    He was the marshal, after all.
    He’d just take a little stroll up and down Main Street and make sure any visiting cowpokes or drifters were minding their manners. If anybody needed arresting, he’d throw them in the hoosegow and start up a conversation.
    What he really needed, he supposed, stepping out onto the dark sidewalk, was a woman. Someone like Dara Rose Nolan.
    Maybe he’d get himself a dog—that would provide some companionship. He’d have to do all the talking, of course, but he liked critters. He’d grown up with all manner of them on the ranch.
    Yes, sir, he needed a dog.
    He hadn’t even reached the corner when he heard the first yelp.
    He frowned, stopped to pinpoint the direction.
    â€œDutch, you kick that dog again,” he heard a male voice say, “and I’ll shoot you, ’ stead of him!”
    Clay, having located the disturbance, pushed his coat back to uncover the handle of his .45 and stepped into the alley.
    It was dark, and the snow veiled the moon, but light struggled through the filthy windows of the buildingson either side, and he could make out two men, one holding a pistol, standing over a shivering form huddled close to the ground.
    â€œHold it right there,” Clay said, in deadly earnest, when the man with the pistol raised it to shoot. “What’s going on here?”
    The dog whimpered.
    â€œNothin’, Marshal,” one of the men answered, in a drunken whine. “The poor mutt’s half-starved, just a bag of bones. We figured on putting it out of its misery, that’s all. Meant it as a kindness.”
    â€œGet the hell out of here,” Clay said. He could not abide a bully.
    The two men responded by turning on their heels and running in the other direction.
    Clay waited until they were out of sight before he put the .45 back in its holster and approached the dog. “You in a bad way there, fella?” he asked, crouching to offer a hand.
    The animal sniffed cautiously at his fingers and whimpered again.
    â€œWhere’d you come from?” Clay asked, gently examining the critter for broken bones or open wounds. He seemed to be all right, though his ribs protruded and his belly was concave and he stunk like all get-out.
    The dog whined, though this time there was less sorrow in the sound.
    â€œYou know,” Clay told the animal companionably, “I was just thinking to myself that what I need is a dog to keep me company. Now, here you are. How’d you like to help me keep the peace in this sorry excuse for a town?”
    The dog seemed amenable to the idea, and raised himself slowly, teetering a little, to his four fur-covered feet. He had burrs stuck in his coat, that poor cuss,