was a man of peace. He worked hard and kept to himself. Holt McKettrick, on the other hand, was an unknown quantity. He might or might not make a good neighbor.
“I will not permit a range war,” she said, after due consideration. “Mr. Templeton, Mr. Cavanagh and Mr. McKettrick will simply have to work things out between themselves.”
“But, señorita—”
Lorelei proceeded to the well. Tried in vain to hoist the heavy wooden cover.
Raul moved it for her, and she peered down the shaft.
“I see water down there,” she said. She squinted, and her stomach turned. “And a dead animal of some sort.”
“Madre de Dios,” Raul whispered.
“We’ll need shovels,” Lorelei decided, already making a list in her mind. “Perhaps Mr. Wilkins, at the mercantile, will know of some substance that will purify the water.”
“Ay-yi-yi,” lamented Raul.
“Can you teach me to shoot a gun?” Lorelei inquired, dusting her hands together. “If you can’t, I shall have to learn on my own.”
“A gun, señorita?”
“Yes, Raul,” Lorelei said, waxing impatient. “A gun.”
Raul began to pace, waving his arms and ranting in Spanish.
Lorelei consulted her bodice watch. “I guess we’d better get back to town,” she said. “I have to meet with Mr. Sexton, at the bank, and we must order supplies.” She assessed the sky, which was blue as Angelina’s favorite sugar bowl. “What we need is a tent. Just until the house is habitable. You don’t think it will rain in the next few days, do you?”
Raul stopped his pacing and raving and let his hands fall to his sides. “Sí,” he said hopefully. “There are dark clouds—there in the west.”
Lorelei turned. Sure enough, there were.
“All the more reason to invest in a tent,” she said.
Raul lapsed into Spanish again. Since she suspected he was cursing, Lorelei did not attempt to translate. She made for the wagon, her strides long and purposeful, and Raul had no choice but to follow.
He helped her back into the wagon box, then climbed up beside her, breathing hard, his thin shoulders stooped with defeat.
“We must have chickens, too, of course,” Lorelei said, scrabbling through her bag for a pencil stub and something to write on. “We can probably eat fish from the creek, and a fifty-pound bag of beans would do nicely for provisions. Angelina can do marvelous things with beans.”
The wagon jostled into motion.
“Chickens,” Raul fretted. “Beans.”
Lorelei concentrated on her list. “Coffee,” she said. “And sugar. Flour and yeast—”
Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled.
Lorelei paid it no mind.
What was a little rain?
THEY FOUND Melina Garcia in back of the Parkinson’s rambling log ranch house bent over a tub of hot water, clasping what looked like a shirt in both hands and scrubbing it against a washboard. She was a little bit of a thing, by Holt’s measure, anchored to the earth only by the jutting weight of her lower belly. Her dark hair was twisted into a knot at the nape of her neck and coming loose from its pins, and her brown face gleamed with sweat.
She’d watched them approach, and there was no welcome in her eyes.
“A good day to you, Melina,” the Captain said, resettling his hat.
She spared him an unfriendly nod and left off the washing to set her hands on her hips and look Holt over good. From her expression, he’d have said she found him somewhat short of spectacular.
Holt dismounted, hung his hat on his saddle horn and took a step toward her.
“I’ve met this old coyote once or twice,” she said, with a terse nod in the Captain’s direction, “but who the devil are you?”
Wisely, Holt stopped in his tracks, folded his arms to show he meant no harm and answered her query with his full name.
She mirrored his stance, but there was no promise of peace in her posture or in her face. She was expecting trouble, that was clear. Either she had good instincts where impending misfortune was concerned, or she’d had a lot of experience in that area.
Holt figured it was probably a little of both.
Her dark eyes flashed with wary temper. “What do you want?”
“I’m here to bring you word about Gabe Navarro.”
She stiffened, and he glimpsed a shadow of fear behind her facade, but it was quickly displaced by a wintry fury. She spat fiercely into the hard, hot dirt.
“He’s alive,” Holt felt compelled to say.
“Maybe not for long,” the Captain put in. He hadn’t bothered to get off his horse.
Melina’s eyes widened, and her gaze flickered from Holt to the Captain and back again. “What’s happened?” she asked. She was interested, all right, but she didn’t seem to want anyone to know it.
Holt reached into his pocket, brought out the five twenty-dollar bills he’d threatened and cajoled out of Gabe’s jailer. Extended them. “He sent you this.”
She hesitated, then stepped forward and snatched the bills from his hand. After looking around, she tucked them into the pocket of her apron and patted them, as if to make sure they stayed put. “He’s in trouble,” she surmised.
Holt nodded, rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. “Yes, indeed,” he said. “He’s in jail in San Antonio, sentenced to hang on the first of October.”
Melina reached out, grasped the handle of the water pump to steady herself. Her other hand flew to her belly, as if to protect the babe she was carrying. “That’s impossible.”
“I’m afraid it ain’t,” the Captain said. He took a tin of tobacco and some papers from his shirt pocket and proceeded to roll himself a smoke, still without dismounting.
“Holt here tells me the charges are murder and horse thieving. This is serious business, Melina.”
A middle-aged woman came out of the house to stand on the porch, watching them, shading her eyes from the relentless Texas sun with one hand. “Melina?” she called. “Is everything all right?”
Melina didn’t so much as glance in that direction. “No, ma’am,” she answered, raising her voice just far enough to cover the distance.
The woman, probably Mrs. Parkinson, stepped tentatively off the porch and started toward them. Like Melina, she was clad in practical calico, but she looked a sight cooler. “Who are these men?” she wanted to know.
