McKettrick's Choice Read Online Free PDF

hotel.”
    Roy slammed the cell door shut and locked it, while Gabe went for the grub. “I’ll be damned,” he murmured, crouching to toss back the dish towel. It was beef all right, and prime rib to boot. There were potatoes, a mountain of them, swimming in gravy, and green beans cooked up with bacon and onion.
    The blood drained from Gabe’s head.
    Roy tarried. “I wouldn’t have figured you had a friend,” he said.
    Gabe sat on the side of the cot, the tray of food in his lap. His hand shook as he took up a fork. “What are you having for supper tonight, Roy?” he asked.
    â€œWhat I’m having for supper ain’t none of your never-mind,” Roy said, but he still didn’t seem to be in any hurry to go on about his business. Maybe he was sucking in the smell of that feast.
    Gabe cut off a chunk of beef with the side of his fork. Tender as stewed cloud. He damn near swooned when he took that first bite.
    â€œWho is that feller, anyhow?” Roy persisted.
    â€œAin’t none of your never-mind,” Gabe answered with his mouth full.
    â€œYou’re pretty cocky for somebody about to be strung up.”
    Gabe was busy savoring a second forkful of prime rib, so he didn’t bite on the gibe. His stomach seized on the food, growled for more.
    â€œHope you ain’t thinkin’ he can get you out of here. Nobody could do that, short of the governor.”
    The mashed potatoes were as good as the beef, and the gravy—well, it was fare fit for angels. “You’d better get yourself ready for some real trouble,” Gabe said, chewing. “Holt Cavanagh, he’s like a freight train when he sets his mind on something. If I were you, I’d stay off the tracks.”
    Roy paled, which gave Gabe almost as much satisfaction as the food. “Cavanagh? Same name as that rancher, the one who’s been tanglin’ with the Templeton bunch?”
    Gabe smiled, though the mention of the nameTempleton made all his old injuries take to aching again. “Same name,” he said.
    â€œThey can’t be related,” Roy fretted.
    Gabe forked up some beans and a big hunk of bacon.
    â€œCan’t they?”
    Â 
    J OHN C AVANAGH’S old heart nearly stopped when he looked up and saw the rider at the edge of the hayfield, with the last rays of the setting sun framing man and horse. He rubbed his stubbly chin, leaning on the long-handled scythe, and squinted into the glare.
    Tillie, working beside him, let her scythe fall into the grass. “That’s Holt,” she whispered, and began to run, fairly tripping on the hem of her calico skirt. She fell once, got up again and went right on running.
    It couldn’t be Holt, John thought. He was up in the Arizona Territory, helping to run the family ranch and raising up a daughter.
    The rider swung down from the saddle as Tillie barreled toward him, and held his arms out wide. Tillie gave a shout of joy and flung herself into them.
    God in heaven. It was Holt.
    John let his own scythe fall, though he was not a man to be careless with tools, and hurried toward the pair, moving as fast as his rheumatism would allow.
    Holt swung Tillie around in a circle and planted a smacking kiss on her forehead. She was laughing and crying, both at once, and hugging Holt’s neck as if she’d drown if he let her go.
    â€œHolt,” John said, drawing up at the edge of the field and fair choking on the word.
    The familiar grin flashed. “Yes, sir. It’s me, all right.”
    John took a step toward him, still disbelieving. Hisvision blurred, and his throat closed up so tight he couldn’t have swallowed a hayseed, even with good whiskey to wash it down.
    Holt stroked Tillie’s back; she still hadn’t turned loose of his neck. “I see my little sister is all grown-up,” he said.
    Hope swelled up inside John Cavanagh, hope such as he hadn’t felt in a year of Sundays.