Linda Lael Miller - McKettricks Choice

Dear Reader,

By the time in which this story is set, the proud Comanche tribe had, for all practical intents and purposes, been confined to various reservations. I am convinced, however, that a few ragged bands of renegades still pursued the lost dream of regaining their land and I have included them here, for the sake of the tale itself.

Arizona Territory, August 12, 1888

H OLT M C K ETTRICK hooked a finger under his fancy collar in a vain effort to loosen it a little. Wedding guests milled on the wide, grassy stretch of ground alongside the Triple M ranch house, their finery dappled by shivering patches of shade from the young oaks thriving there. Two fiddlers played a mournful rendition of Lorena, and there was a whole hog roasting in the pit Holts three half brothers had dug in the ground and lined with flat rocks from the creek. The wedding cake, baked by Holts sisters-in-law, was the size of a buckboard, and a long tablean improvised arrangement of planks supported by half a dozen fifty-gallon barrelswobbled under the weight of a weeks worth of fancy grub.

The old man and the rest of the McKettrick outfit had spared no effort or expense to make the gathering memorable. Holt reckoned he might have enjoyed it as much as the next fellowif he hadnt been the bridegroom.

A hand struck his back in jovial greeting, and Holt nearly spilled his cup of fruit punch, generously laced with whiskey from his brother Rafes flask, down the front of his dandy suit.

I reckon thats the preacher, yonder, said Holts father, Angus McKettrick, nodding toward an approaching rider splashing across the sun-dazzled creek, driving his horse hard. Bout time he showed up. I was beginning to think wed have to send somebody out to the mission to fetch that crippled-up padre.

Holt swallowed, squinted. Heat prickled the back of his neck. Something stirred in him, a sweet, aching feeling like he got on hot summer nights, when a high-country breeze curled around his brain like a voice calling him back to Texas.

I reckon, he muttered. Holt wondered where Rafe had gotten to with that flask, though he didnt look away from the rider to search the crowd.

The newcomer, his features hidden in the glare of midafternoon light, spurred his horse up the creek bank on the near side, man and mount flinging off diamonds of water as they came.

Margaret is a fine woman, Angus said. He had a way of cutting a statement loose without laying any groundwork first.

Who? Holt asked, distracted. The skin between his shoulder blades itched, and his chest felt wet beneath the starched cotton of his shirtfront.

Your bride, Angus answered, with a note of exasperation. Out of the corner of his eye, Holt saw his father tug at the knot in his string tie. Like as not, his wife, Concepcion, had cinched it tight as a corset ribbon.

The rider gained the edge of the yard and dismounted with the hasty grace of a seasoned cowpuncher, leaving the reins to dangle. He came straight for Holt.

That aint the preacher, Angus remarked unnecessarily, and with concern. Though he had almost no formal education, the old man read till his eyes gave out, and when he let his grammar slip, it meant he was agitated.

Holt glanced toward the house, where Miss Margaret Tarquin, his bride-to-be, was shut away in an upstairs bedroom getting herself gussied up for the wedding, then went to meet the messenger. The fiddle-playing ground to a shrill halt, and a silence settled over the crowd. Even the kids and the dogs were quiet.

Im lookin for Holt Cavanagh, the newly arrived young man announced. His denim trousers were wet with creek water, and he shivered, despite the shimmering heat of that August afternoon. Youd be him, I reckon?

Holt nodded in brusque acknowledgment. It didnt occur to him to explain that hed set aside the name Cavanagh, once he and the old man had made their blustery peace, and went by McKettrick these days.

Angus stuck close, bristly brows lowered, and Rafe, Kade and Jeb, elusive until then, seemed to materialize out of the rippling mirages haunting the grounds like ghosts. Holt and his brothers had had their differences in the three years theyd been acquaintedstill didbut blood was blood. If the rider brought good news, theyd celebrate. If it was bad, theyd do what they could to help. And if there was trouble in the offing, theyd wade right into the fray and ask for the particulars later.

Holts affection for them, though sometimes grudging, was in his marrow.

The visitor handed over a slip of paper. Frank Corrales told me to give you this. He sent you a telegram, and when you didnt answer, he figured it didnt go through and told me to hit the trail. I carried that there letter all the way from Texas.

A shock of alarm surged through Holt, like venom from an invisible snake. He hesitated slightly, then snatched the soggy sheet of brown paper and unfolded it with a snap of his wrist. He felt his father and brothers move a stride closer.

He took in the words in a glance, absorbed the implications, and read them again to make sure he had the right of the situation.