McKettrick's Choice by Linda Lael Miller

and got a quelling glare from the judge for his trouble.
    â€œI’m sure he is,” Lorelei said, “but I’m not signing anything until I see that land with my own eyes.”
    The judge pinched the bridge of his nose. “I should have known you would be difficult about this,” he said.
    â€œYes,” Lorelei agreed. “You should have.”
    He glowered at her. “Will you excuse us for a few moments, Mr. Sexton?”
    Sexton fled with such haste that Lorelei half expected to see a little cloud of dust trailing behind him. The study door closed with a crisp catch of the latch.
    â€œWhy didn’t you tell me about this land?” Lorelei asked.
    â€œYou are a woman,” the judge replied wearily. “It was of no concern to you.”
    â€œUntil you decided to sell it,” Lorelei pointed out.
    â€œThe sale will provide a substantial dowry,” the judge reasoned, but with an edge of impatience in his voice.
    â€œGod knows, you’ll need one to get a husband.”
    â€œI don’t want a husband.”
    â€œYou have made that quite clear. Nonetheless, my dear, you will have one.”
    â€œTell me about the ranch.”
    Another sigh, this one long-suffering. “It belonged to your mother’s family. If William had lived, the place would have gone to him. Your grandfather’s will stated that, should William fail to survive, the land would be yours.”
    â€œI’m not surprised that I wasn’t consulted,” Lorelei said glumly. “After all, I am only a woman.” The judge would simply have appropriated the estate if he’d been able to do so, which meant there was something he wasn’t telling her.
    Her father hoisted himself from his chair. His lips had a bluish tinge, and there was a strange pallor to his face. “Please, Lorelei. For once in your life, do not argue with me. Mr. Sexton has brought the documents.” He shoved a pile of papers toward her without lifting them from the desktop.
    Lorelei took a step toward him. “You don’t look well. Perhaps I should ask Angelina to send Raul for the doctor.”
    â€œNever mind the damn doctor!” the judge shouted, collapsing back into his chair. “Sign the papers!”
    Lorelei bit her lower lip. Sometimes, she wished she were more tractable.
    â€œNo,” she said. “Absolutely not.”
    Â 
    H OLT RODE INTO Waco about an hour after sunup. A freight wagon jostled by, and the driver touched his hat brim in greeting. Two prostitutes gossiped in front of the Blue Bullet Saloon, pausing to regard Holt through a haze of tobacco smoke, and a Chinaman trotted along the sidewalk, a broomstick braced across his narrow shoulders, yokelike, with a huge covered basket suspended from either end. A dead man—shot through the chest if the pattern of dried blood was any indication—leaned against the wall beside the undertaker’s door, strapped to a board. A crude sign dangled from a nail above his head. The Wages Of Sin Is Death.
    Holt had seen worse things, especially while riding with the Rangers, but the sight sent a shiver down his spine just the same. He couldn’t help thinking of Gabe.
    He spotted a livery stable and headed in that direction. Gabe had said Melina was working for a rancher’s wife, which meant he wasn’t likely to find her in town, but his horse was played out, in need of water, feed and a few hours’ rest. He would see to the Appaloosa first, then scare up some breakfast for himself. With any luck, the folks in the restaurant would steer him in the right direction.
    He’d just taken a chair by the window and ordered up a plate of eggs, fried potatoes and sausage when Captain Jack Walton himself ambled in. Grizzled and wiry, the man was deceptively small. Holt had seen him take onComanches two at a time and come out of it with his hair still on and his hide unmarked.
    Holt blinked, sure he was seeing