Free Secondhand Bride by Linda Lael Miller Page B

backs, and secured them with rope from their own saddles.
    “Mister?” Lizzie said.
    Jeb turned to see the child standing close by, waited for her to go on.
    “Can I ride with you?”
    He smiled, for the first time in what seemed like days. “Sure,” he said. He scooped her up and set her in his saddle, then climbed up behind her and took the reins in one hand. Sam handed him one end of a lead rope, mounted his own horse, and they started back toward Indian Rock, the two team horses trotting behind them, bearing their grim burdens.
    Lizzie turned in the saddle. “Do I have to call you Mr. McKettrick?” she asked.
    He shook his head. “Uncle Jeb will do,” he replied.

12
     
     
    N aturally, their arrival in town drew a lot of attention.
    Chloe, Becky, and Emmeline were among the first to approach them.
    “Good heavens,” Becky blurted. “What happened?”
    “Stagecoach was robbed,” Sam answered. “Two people shot to death. This little girl here, she saw it all.”
    Becky stepped forward, extended her arms to the child. Lizzie stiffened, took a grip on Jeb’s coat sleeve, and wouldn’t let go.
    “Poor little thing,” Emmeline whispered, shading her eyes from the sun as she looked up. “You must be frightened half to death.”
    Jeb’s gaze met Chloe’s and locked with it. “She’s a brave one,” he said. “And she’s a McKettrick.”
    “I’m not a McKettrick,” Lizzie said, turning a challenging look on him, even as she clutched his coat for dear life. “My name is Cavanagh.”
    “Land sakes,” Becky exclaimed.
    “Holt’s?” Emmeline wanted to know.
    “Evidently so,” Jeb said, tearing his gaze from Chloe. “You’d better send somebody to fetch him.”
    Emmeline nodded and turned away to recruit a bystander for the job, and Becky stepped forward again, speaking quietly to the child.
    “Come along now, sweetheart. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”
    Lizzie consulted Jeb with another glance, and, “Is she a straight shooter?”
    Jeb chuckled. “Yes,” he said.
    She deliberated, then let go of his arm and allowed Becky to help her down from the horse. They were already inside the hotel, with Emmeline right behind them, having dispatched her messenger, before it came to Jeb that he ought to dismount himself. When he did, he just stood there, feeling sad for Lizzie and envious of Holt.
    Chloe laid a tentative hand to his cheek, and it scared him, how good it felt. “Was it bad?” she asked.
    “Worse than bad,” he admitted. He didn’t want to leave her, but the work wasn’t finished. “I’ve got to help Sam get these bodies over to Doc Boylen’s office,” he said.
    She nodded, studied his face for a long moment, and turned to follow the others into the hotel.
    Word traveled fast in a place like Indian Rock, and by noon, Angus and Concepcion rolled into town in a buckboard, driving the horses hard. They’d barely stepped into the hotel when Holt rode in at a gallop and left his gelding with its reins dangling.
    Jeb, seeing the whole show from the bench out front, got to his feet and went inside.
    “Where,” Angus demanded, in a Zeus-like voice, “is my grandchild?”
    “She’s upstairs, sleeping,” Becky said calmly, stationed like a sentry at the foot of the stairs, “and you will not disturb her, Angus McKettrick.”
    Holt, it appeared, would not be so easy to dissuade. He strode right over to Becky and stood toe-to-toe with her. “Which room?”
    To everybody’s surprise, Becky stepped aside. “Number seven,” she said. “But don’t wake her up. She’s been through enough for one day.”
    Holt took the stairs two at a time. Angus looked like he wanted to follow, but Concepcion gripped his arm, and he let himself be restrained.
    Five minutes passed, then ten. The only sound in the room, as far as Jeb noticed, was the ticking of the long-case clock on the lower landing.
    Finally, Holt appeared at the top of the stairs, looking like a man who’d just been dragged