Secondhand Bride (31 page)

A
UGUST
18, 1887

A
ngus McKettrick stood beside Georgia’s grave, high on the ridge overlooking the ranch they’d built together. A few yards away, Concepcion sat on a blanket spread in the grass, nursing little Katie. The sight of her stung Angus’s eyes and set the back of his nose to burning. For one man to have so much, well, it was past understanding.

He took off his hat, touched the stone angel guarding Georgia’s resting place with the rough tips of his fingers.

“I came to tell you that you don’t need to worry none about any of our boys,” he said quietly. He heard the baby laugh, a sweet sound of celebration, a call to travel on, in good spirits, toward whatever lay in store.

“They’re all three married now, with babes of their own,” Angus went on. “Rafe and Emmeline, they called their girl Georgia, after you. Kade and Mandy’s is Rebecca, and Jeb and Chloe drew a little red-haired bit of a thing. Named her Anne. Said it was as close as they could get to Angus. I just thank God that baby wasn’t a boy.”

He felt Concepcion’s gaze on him, turned his head to acknowledge her.

She smiled, nodded ever so slightly.

“Holt’s come home, too, where he belongs. I know you always wanted that, just like I did. You’d like him, Georgia. He’s strong, maybe because he mostly raised himself once Ellie died and I left him, and he’s good to that little daughter of his. Lizzie, she’s called. She’s a pistol, I’ll tell you. I wish you could have met her.”

A soft breeze ruffled his white hair, thinning now that the years were catching up, and he would have sworn he felt Georgia touch the center of his heart. He used to get the same feeling sometimes, when they were alone and she smiled at him in a private way.

“I reckon you’re wondering about the ranch,” he said, turning his hat in his hands. “Well, I divided it among them, four ways. Equal shares, right down the line. Emmeline and Mandy and Chloe, they wouldn’t have it any other way. Birthed those babies of theirs upstairs at the Arizona Hotel, on Independence Day, mind you, and not a dern one of them will say who crossed the finish line first. Swore Doc and Becky to secrecy, too.” He chuckled, shook his head, put his hat back on. “It devils me considerable, wondering how it all would have turned out if they hadn’t pitched a petticoat rebellion.”

He looked out over the land again, miles of red dirt and sparse grass, land soaked with his own sweat. He loved every grain of it, every rock, rabbit hole, and cactus. It was his legacy, and he was proud to pass it on.

Finally, after some wide traveling, his gaze settled back on Concepcion. She had finished feeding the baby and undertook to fasten her bodice up again, her fingers brown and slender and graceful.

“Finished?” she asked, her eyes tender.

He smiled, loving her, not more than Georgia or Ellie, but not less, either. In a new and different way, that was all.

“Just beginning,” he answered.