McKettrick's Choice by Linda Lael Miller Page A

things, and set down his mug of coffee.
    Captain Jack laughed. “Thought I was dead, didn’t you?” he drawled, taking off his round-brimmed hat and easing himself into the chair across from Holt’s.
    â€œHell, yes,” Holt said, recovering, taking in the Captain’s thinning gray hair and hard, watchful eyes. “Fact is, I’m still not sure you’re real.”
    Walton’s skin was leathery from the Texas sun, and his hands were age-spotted, the fingers clawlike, yet still, Holt would have bet, as quick to the trigger as ever. “I had the same thought about you, when I saw you ride in. That’s a fine-looking Appaloosa you’ve got there.”
    Holt nodded. He didn’t know how to make small talk, not with the Captain, anyhow. “Thanks,” he said, at some length, noting the star pinned to the old man’s vest.
    Walton signaled the waitress, and she hurried over with a blue enamel coffeepot and an outsized cup. Evidently, the Captain still liked his brew.
    â€œWhat brings you to Waco?” he asked, after adding half a pound of sugar and taking an appreciative slurp.
    â€œI’m looking for a woman called Melina Garcia,” Holt said, wondering if the Captain had been the one to put a bullet in that outlaw over at the undertaker’s and then display the corpse as a deterrent to those with criminal inclinations. He was a man to take harsh measures when he deemed them appropriate, which was often.
    The Captain arched one eyebrow. “Gabe Navarro’s woman?”
    Holt’s stomach soured, and he regarded his unfinished breakfast with mournful resignation. “Yes.”
    Walton leaned forward. “You the bearer of bad tidings,Mr. Cavanagh?” he asked. “Last I heard, you was up in the Arizona Territory someplace, building yourself another ranch.”
    â€œGabe’s been tried and sentenced to hang, down in San Antonio,” Holt said. The details about Arizona could wait.
    The Captain narrowed his eyes. “The hell you say.”
    â€œI would have thought you’d have heard about it,” Holt said. “Word like that usually spreads fast.”
    â€œI’ve been in Mexico the last little while. Just came up here to collect a bounty or two.”
    â€œâ€˜The wages of sin is death’?”
    The Captain smiled. He still had all his teeth. “You seen him, did you? Name was Jake Green. Robbed a freight wagon between here and Austin, and shot the driver in cold blood.”
    Holt glanced at the star on Walton’s chest. “Bounty hunters wear badges now?”
    â€œThey do if the money’s right,” the Captain answered. He settled back in his chair, took a thoughtful sip of his coffee. “You gonna eat that grub or leave it sit?”
    Holt shoved the plate across the table, along with his fork and knife.
    The Captain speared a sausage link and ate it in two bites. Still chewing, he said, “Melina’s working on the Parkinson place, about five miles west of town. I’d be careful how you broach the subject of Gabe if I was you. She’s brewing up a baby, and she’s none too happy with him right now.”
    â€œI’ll take my chances,” Holt said.
    The Captain grinned and tucked into the eggs. “You always were a reckless sum-bitch,” he allowed. “It’s good to see you. Brings the good old days to mind.”
    The waitress returned, refilled the coffee cups and left again.
    â€œThe good old days,” Holt reminisced with a wry smile. “Sleeping on the ground. Eating jerky and jackrabbit for every meal. Fighting Comanches for every inch of ground we crossed. And all for less money than Melina probably makes washing Mrs. Parkinson’s bloomers.”
    The Captain gave a hoot of laughter. “Made you tough,” he said.
    â€œYou ever thought of going to San Antonio?” Holt inquired.
    Walton speared another link of sausage.