“Get it, GET IT!” Alex yelled, circling around the herd, trying to get close enough for a shot at the razor cat.
“What the blazes do you think I’m doing?” Charlie said between her teeth, trying to keep her frenzied horse under control as she fired at the hungry cat. Dust from the milling herd dulled the flash of overlapping silver scales and got in Charlie’s eyes, making it harder to keep a bead on the critter. The thing was fast, and her only hope was to be faster.
It screamed as a shot bounced off its armored eye ridge, denting the living metal. Agitated, it whipped around and headed for the canyon wall, spiked tail lashing. Seven feet of angry, armored cat raced up the nearly sheer walls, its cruel, sharp claws digging into the sandstone.
Charlie narrowed her eyes and waited for her shot. The second the unprotected vent under its tail came into view, she fired. There was a terrible howl as it scrambled for purchase and tumbled down into the canyon, loosening small rocks that rattled off its armored hide like dry beans in a can.
Alex was nearer and cautiously rode closer to it, waiting for Charlie to join her. She whistled in awe. “You shot it up the grease pipe, Charlie girl. Wicked shot.”
The wounded beast twisted in pain and Charlie took careful aim at its eye, putting it down permanently. She sighed in relief, thumbing her hat off her brow as she looked carefully around. “Must have been a charmed bullet. Let’s get the herd to the new pasture while the luck holds.”
An hour after dusk, they rode to the ranch house. There wasn’t much to see; just a small, tightly built cabin with a privy around back and Harmon’s place barely one hundred yards away. Chickens ran free over the dirt yard, keeping down the ticks and bugs. A rough corral held their mule and horses, and in the distance the goats and dairy cow worked on the tough prairie grass and scrub.
Willy Harmon had promised her mother a good life when he’d married the southern belle and brought her and the daughters from her first marriage from Bluegrass to Willy’s father’s ranch in New Texas. Her mother had often said she’d been so in love she hadn’t even noticed the heat and desolation.
Charlie snorted as she dismounted in front of the house. She’d have noticed.
They rubbed their horses down and turned them out in a pen already set up, bless Harmon, with hay and water. Hefting saddles and gear, they stored them in the breezeway; using the dishpan of clean water their sister Max had set out.
Max poked her head into the breezeway and looked them over with critical blue eyes. “Don’t forget to…”
“…take your boots off,” Alex finished sardonically, already doing it.
Max blew a lock of black hair out of her eye and ducked back in the house, muttering, “Dinner’s ready.”
Sixteen and the de facto housekeeper, she had a penchant for mothering that especially got on Alex’s nerves, but they couldn’t run the place without her.
“You’re late,” Harmon said as they entered the kitchen and sat on benches at the long table. “I was getting ready to look for you.” Tough and cranky, he was in his seventies and still fit enough to ride all day. His weathered, pale blue eyes demanded an explanation.
The table was set and they were starved, so Charlie waited until after grace to comment. “Had to shoot a razor cat. It scattered the herd.”
He scowled over his mashed potatoes. “Damn cats. I swear the Aztecs breed them.” The Aztec Federation was known for siccing tech abominations on its neighbors. Ever since the Aztecs had conquered the Incan Republic in ’47, they’d done what they could to weaken the New Frontier. Raiders were a common hazard, and razor cats had appeared in the last few years. If it wasn’t for the wealthy and powerful Native American shifters, they might have already invaded.
Their mother died from complications sustained in a raid when Charlie was sixteen. They’d buried her on a Tuesday, and they’d been dressed in their frayed Sunday best, lined up on the grassy knoll behind their house. Harmon leaned stoically on his shovel as the circuit preacher finished saying the last words over her mother’s grave.
It hadn’t shaken her so badly when her step-daddy had taken off to search for gold; she’d hardly known him. How could she when he was forever off in the hills prospecting? Her mother was the only one shocked when he’d announced he was leaving for “a few months” to search for a mine. He’d promised his wife the moon when he struck it rich, seemingly unable to hear her gentle protests that all she needed was him. The siren call of gold had been too loud.
The months stretched into years, yet her mother still spent her sunrises and sunsets leaning in the open doorway, a cup of coffee or tea in one hand as she watched for a man who never returned.
The few neighbors who’d come to the funeral murmured condolences and regrets, gave them baked goods and got on with their own lives. Charlene wrapped her arms around her two littlest sisters, Gabrielle and Sydney. At eleven and eight, they were too young to worry about hiding their sadness.
Sydney rubbed her nose on Charlene’s skirt, making her grimace. She handed Sydney a handkerchief, trying to forget about the wet streak on the worn muslin.
Wiping her blue eyes with her own handkerchief, the thirteen year old Maxine still tried to act grown up even as she sniffled. Covetous of all things elegant, she would have been infuriated to know that her glossy black braids made her look more like an Cheyenne princess than a southern belle.
At fifteen, Alexandra, the second born, handled their mother’s death with quiet grief. Tears fell, but silently. Only when they were alone would she share her thoughts with Charlene.
Charlene’s gaze met Harmon’s. He never cried. He was as tough as old boot leather and cranky as a starving coyote. If he’d been there the day the raiders came they’d have never lost their mother.
His eyes swept over her face, marking the absence of moisture.
She couldn’t cry. The pain ran so deep; tears wouldn’t have been enough.
He nodded gruffly and left them to grieve.
Two days later, she sat at the dinner table in their one room cabin and poked at Maxine’s mystery soup. An odd chunk of something purplish floated to the top. She considered retiring to the loft and skipping dinner.
“What are we going to do about the corn, Harmon?” Alexandra asked. “It’s not doing any better this year than last.”
“Texas wasn’t made for corn.” He glowered at Alexandra as if she were personally at fault.
Charlene snorted softly and toyed with her soup. Helpful. That certainly solved the problem.
“If the garden doesn’t start doing better, we’re going to be awfully hungry this winter,” Alexandra persisted.
Harmon grunted, doggedly chewing one of the brick-like biscuits. Maxine aspired to be a ‘real lady’ but her cooking skills suffered from their mother’s lack of patience. She’d always preferred to do it herself rather than have her daughters underfoot, although she had been forced to show Charlene enough to keep them from starving during her difficult pregnancy.
Maxine could build a mighty fine fire, though. The black biscuits attested to that.
“Is there any money for cloth?” Maxine asked hopefully, examining her sleeves. She was growing again and her wrists stuck out. Her hand-me-down dress wasn’t fit to shine boots, let alone pass down to Gabrielle.
Charlene angrily stabbed the chunks in her watery soup. If her worthless stepfather had stuck around, if the raiders hadn’t come... “Unless we’re all willing to wear hankies, no, there’s not enough for all of us, not if we want to eat.” Her sister’s face fell, twisting the rusty screw in Charlene’s belly.
“Are you going to marry to put food on the table like Mama?” Sydney suddenly piped up.
“No! Why would you ask?” Charlene’s tone was sharp with surprise.
Sydney’s lip trembled.
Charlene shifted uncomfortably. “Surely things aren’t that bad.”
“You ain’t marrying no two-bit loser to keep holding on to this worthless hunk of land,” Harmon said, breaking his customary silence. “Isn’t anything worth marrying within fifty miles of the place anyway, unless you fancy rattlesnakes and cattle rustlers.”
“There’s the Eagle boys,” Maxine said defensively, trailing off at Harmon’s withering look.
“Old man Eagle is a land hungry boot-licker, and his boys aren’t any better. If I catch them within twenty miles of here I’ll send them home with their nuts in a sack.” The shifter clan had earned his everlasting disgust when they’d bought up the land he’d used to graze his herd.
Satisfied he had their attention, he tilted his chair back and crossed his arms. Warming to his favorite subject, he went on, “This ain’t farming land, it’s cattle country. I tried to get it through that boy of mine’s thick skull that he’d never make a living plowing dirt, but Willy never listened. He stubbornly lost money year after year, proving me right. Then he up and left me with you!”
He glared at them, pinned them one by one with his fierce, pale blue eyes. “You should have been named Syd,” he grouched at the big-eyed Sydney. His eyes narrowed on the others. “Gabe. Max.”
Maxine gasped. She’d fought for years to avoid that boyish nickname.
“Alex. And you…” he pointed accusingly at Charlene, who shrank back in surprise, “You should have been a Charlie.” He shook his head in disgust. “I could have done something with you then. Could have rounded up my cows and made a decent living instead watching that boy of mine muck up his life.”
As he looked at Charlene, a speculative look came into his eyes. He rubbed his bristled chin, staring at her as if she was a poker player and he was calling her bluff.
She dropped her eyes and swished her spoon in her soup. Whatever wheels were squeaking in Harmon’s head, she didn’t want to add grease.
“Why not a Charlie?” he muttered. “I’ve taught enough limp-wristed boys to be wranglers. I always said a girl could do better than some of ‘em.”
Charlene goggled, wondering if Harmon’s age finally caught up to him. “Girls can’t be cowboys, Harmon.”
He eyed her like an uncertain tempered mule he was thinking of buying. “Not much to you, and you can’t ride worth jack. A good cow pony could make the difference, though.”
Alexandra exchanged a panicked look with Charlene. “We don’t have split skirts, and we’d have to ride astride.”
“So long as you get ‘em going in the right direction…”
“I don’t like cows.” Maxine wrinkled her nose. “They smell.”
“Doesn’t take much muscle to fire a gun.”
“I like Bossy,” Sydney observed. “She’s nice.”
“Dairy cows are completely different,” Charlene snapped. “Longhorns are mean and nasty. Mama would have whipped us if we’d thought of herding them.” Western cows were a different breed from the chubby, gentle dairy cow. Six zebra striped legs that could twist on a dime supported a half ton of menacing, twisted horns and tusks. Four eyes made it hard to sneak up on them, and a single twist of its head could hook a rider off a horse. The cowboys who worked with them were a breed apart.
Harmon was still musing aloud. “Branding shouldn’t be a problem, though roping…” Harmon shook his balding head. “We’ll see.”
“No, Harmon!”
Harmon looked at Charlene calmly. “You’ll have to wear pants.”
She grit her teeth. “I will not wear pants, Harmon, and I’m not going to be a cowboy.”
Charlene stood awkwardly in the corral, looking at a horse that regarded her with contempt. His four eyes squinted as his ears pinned back, and he snorted as if she smelled bad. They wanted no part of each other.
“I don’t know, Harmon. This horse looks awfully mean.”
She’d been balking ever since they returned from town, and Harmon was losing patience. “Of course he’s mean; he’s a cow pony. Now get on!” Charlene hesitated a moment too long, feeling awkward in her new pants. Harmon booted her rear, using the momentum to boost her into the saddle.
The rangy buckskin sidled, his six legs dancing agilely. Charlene clung to the saddle horn and prayed.
“Hold him steady, Charlie!” Harmon groused as he threw her the reins. She obeyed as best she could, and the ornery beast subsided…until he suddenly shied and sent her flying. Stunned, she lay in the dirt and blinked away stars.
“Well? Don’t just lie there! Get up and show him who’s boss,” Harmon barked.
Hours later she wished she’d never heard of horses. She, Alexandra and Maxine were all limping. Charlene felt as if the seams of her pants were permanently impressed into her inner thighs. Her bottom felt as if someone had doused it with chili sauce, and it throbbed to the rhythm of her heartbeat.
Maxine had been allowed to slip away and direct Gabrielle’s cooking, but Harmon bellowed for her when he felt she was dallying, so lunch consisted of half burnt, half raw potatoes and onions. Since Maxine was hardly a culinary authority, the results might have been the same if she’d actually supervised the preparation.
Harmon announced, “Time to learn how to use a gun.”
“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” Maxine moaned. She’d broken down and bawled like a calf earlier, and she was still sulking.
“We could ride some more,” Harmon suggested evilly.
Maxine shut up.
Leaving Gabrielle and Sydney to wash the dishes and tend the garden, they followed Harmon out behind the house. Charlene sullenly watched Harmon load his rifle and chamber a bullet. He explained how to aim and fired. A tin can went flying.
“Your turn.” He handed the rifle expectantly to Charlene. She took it gingerly, as if it might turn and bite her.
“Hold it right,” he said gruffly and adjusted her stance.
She squeezed her eyes shut and fired.
“Stop wasting my bullets and watch what you’re doing!”
Charlene tugged at the brim of her new, flat leather hat in annoyance. The only thing she could say for the outfits he’d bought was that they fit. He’d made them try them on in the store’s back room. It was humiliating, watching the shopkeeper stare. The thought made her actually want to shoot something, and her aim improved.
After dinner he demonstrated how to properly clean a gun. He also produced three gun belts and handed them to his pupils.
Charlene stared at hers in horror. “Where did you get the money for these?” And she had been worried about the money he spent on clothes! For the price of these guns they could have purchased an entire wardrobe for each of them.
“Same place the other stuff came from, girl. I’ll spend my money how I like,” he said sternly. “You three are to strap these guns on every time you ride out, understand? You’ll be shooting enough snakes and coyotes, and I wouldn’t doubt a rustler or two. I don’t aim to see all of my hard work going for nothing.”
“I don’t want to shoot rustlers,” Maxine said in a small voice.
“If you see a rustler after my cows, you damn sure better shoot him! It’s either him or you, understand?” When they all nodded, he grunted. “Now get to bed. It’s up at first light tomorrow. If I can get you to stay in the saddle, we might even ride out.”
“But what about the Gabrielle and Sydney?” Alexandra asked.
Harmon glanced dismissively at the younger children. “They can work on dinner, do some chores.”
“They’re too little to be left alone,” Charlene argued. “What if the raiders come back?”
Oppressive silence descended. Harmon had been off working his beloved cattle when the raiders had come the first time. Charlene had hidden the girls in the root cellar under the house, but their mother hadn’t made it there in time. She’d covered the trapdoor with a rug and gone for the shotgun. They’d been forced to listen in horror as the Aztecs raped their mother, right above their heads.
No one ever talked about it, but the anger in the house grew palatable as months later, their mother swelled with child.
Sometimes Charlene thought her mother wanted to die to avoid birthing the evidence of her attack; the second she’d endured. The first one resulted in Sydney and had happened when her husband was off panning for gold. Shortly after that, he’d left for good.
When the fever came, she went down in days. She didn’t even fight it.
“So we’ll take them with,” Harmon said after an uncomfortable pause.
“It’s too dangerous, and they can’t ride.”
“Then one of you can baby-sit and I’ll get some cattle dogs,” he snapped, losing patience. “Now get to bed! Last one up rides an extra half hour.”
If possible, the second day was worse. Charlene felt stiff as a post, and the sores on her bottom bred like locusts.
Maxine had been the last to rise, and she grew sullen and teary about the extra riding Harmon punished her with. “You’re a hateful old goat!” she yelled, rebelling as she fell off for the third time. Clouds of dust rose around her, making her cough. “I won’t do it again. I won’t!”
“Get back in the saddle before I nail you there!” Harmon chased her back up on her horse with a persistence born of herding stubborn cows for decades.
Charlene shook her head as she watched through the bars of the corral. Harmon was crazy, and not just a little. Still, a part of her admired him. This was never going to work, but he didn’t care, wasn’t about to give up. Life had given him a basketful of roses instead of the tough hickory whips he’d ordered, but he was determined to make those flowers sprout thorns.
Maybe he should have done it sooner, a rebellious part of her murmured. She’d recognized the futility of breeding belles in the desert and quietly chafed at her mother’s genteel lessons. Harmon could have saved them a lot of grief if he’d been willing to offend her mother. They ought to have learned how to shoot and ride before now.
He’d tried after their stepfather left, but Anne stubbornly refused to let him teach the girls “manly things”. Instead they’d learned to crochet lace doilies and embroider samplers; which were all very well, but it hadn’t given them the skills to stop the raiders, or to run the farm after their mother’s death.
Something shifted inside Charlene, a rebellion that had been a long time coming. Suddenly she wanted to learn everything Harmon could teach, because it was painfully clear that their entire future rested on it. Harmon was old. Accidents happened around cows; failure to learn what he could teach could be fatal.
Charlene tugged her hat down and moved toward her horse. She had a sudden urge to practice riding.
One year later.
“I’m in love,” Dakota Eagle said, his sky-eyes riveted on Charlie Lions. He watched in awe as she roped a calf and swiftly tied its legs. Her sister Max stepped in to brand while Harmon and Alex cut cows from the herd.
“Bit young for you,” his cousin Levi observed. They watched from the canyon top on the Eagle side of the boundary.
Dakota shifted as his body reacted to Charlie’s display of athletic prowess. “She’s seventeen, I’m twenty-two. Some would say that was good enough.” He’d known she was his since they were kids, though they’d been too young until now to pursue mating rituals. The coyote shifter’s need to claim his mate was growing daily, and he took every opportunity to press his suit. Unfortunately, she either didn’t share the attraction or was better at hiding it.
Levi smirked. “Not Harmon.” Harmon couldn’t look at them without a silent death threat. Thanks to him, the Lions girls treated Dakota and Levi like snake oil salesmen. They blamed Dakota’s father for buying up old Harmon’s territory. The move had been completely legal and sound business. Dakota wasn’t about to apologize, but he ruefully acknowledged it had complicated his love life.
Charlie pulled off her hat and put her hands on her lower back in a stretch. The move did interesting things to Dakota’s pulse. “I’m going to marry that girl one day.”
Levi grinned and turned his horse. “That I’d like to see.”
Max was sick with red fever the spring Gabe turned twelve. Max was well enough to direct Sydney, so she stayed home during her lengthy recovery and Harmon drafted Gabe as his latest apprentice. She begged him to reconsider.
“Let me make you some cattle dogs,” she begged as he shooed her out to the corral. “I’ve got great parts in the shed.”
He grunted as he selected a horse. “Your inventions never work. Besides, your sisters need the help.” He was slowing down as he approached 80, though he was still heavily involved in the day to day operation. His eyes weren’t as good as they’d been and he didn’t have his old strength, but he’d seen to it the ranch was bringing in a profit.
“That’s not true! My windmill keeps the waterhole filled in the summer,” she protested hotly.
“Yeah, and your boiler blew up the first shed,” Harmon shot back. As punishment, Gabe had to help build a new one.
Gabe grumbled the entire morning, and it got worse on Sunday when Maxine joined in.
Gabe banged the door shut on the chill and went to stoke the stove. Her sisters followed, carrying supplies from the trip to town. Harmon rolled in a small barrel of salt pork and left to put up the horses. He’d bellyached about bringing all the girls, grumbling about the chores that would go undone, but Charlie had been stubborn. “The girls hardly ever get to go to town. They’d be disappointed.”
He rolled his eyes, exasperated. “All they do is moon around the shops and buy foofaraw.”
“Girls like foofaraw.” she informed him firmly. “And they hardly ever go on holiday.”
They’d taken the wagon so the girls could wear dresses; not that it mattered.
The men who saw them castrating and branding cattle had spread the tale far and wide. The girls were too busy to go to town and hadn’t known about the talk. Harmon hadn’t mentioned anything.
Gabe slammed a cast iron pan on the stove and Sydney jumped. The others looked at her, and Charlene cleared her throat. “Well, at least we know we aren’t a queer bunch.”
Gabe viciously shoved a log into the firebox she’d rigged with mechanical legs so it could carry a load of wood inside. It walked like a drunk and occasionally shuddered for no reason. The sisters agreed it was creepy, but no one wanted to hurt Gabe’s feelings by removing it. “Everyone was staring!”
Alex put away the supplies with great concentration. “It’s new to them. We’re not doing anything bad. Other girls help their fathers.”
“Other girls don’t wear pants. They might know how to shoot and ride, but they don’t wear pants and they don’t cut cattle.” Gabe got out bowls and slammed them on the counter with unnecessary force. “I heard a woman say Harmon was turning us into a bunch of wild tomboys.” Gabe put her hands on her hips and scowled. “The women were gossiping in the pews behind us, too. They said that no man would ever marry a Charlie.”
Charlie straightened and said defiantly, “I wouldn’t have any of the men around here, anyway. Someday I’m going home to Bluegrass to find a real gentleman. I won’t be stuck on a dirt farm all my life.” The idea had just occurred to her, and it suddenly sounded good. Escape. Respect. No one would know how she was raised. She’d never have to chase another cow.
Gabe looked at her with new respect. “Really? I’m coming, too,” she said, determined.
“I want to come,” Maxine announced, looking excited. “When can we go?”
Charlie blinked and looked around. She took stock of reality. They needed money. To do that, they had to work cattle for a little while longer. Her jaw firmed. They could manage. “We’ll save up for a couple of years and see about it then.”
Alex caught her eye and shook her head, but she didn’t say anything. Maybe she didn’t approve of setting Gabe dreaming. No doubt Gabe would talk of nothing else for weeks.
It seemed she was right. Gabe was full of talk about Bluegrass the next morning as they rode off. “Someday I’ll be a grand lady. I’ll wear nothing but silk and satin and dance all night. I’ll have servants to do the dishes and laundry.”
She chattered on and on until Charlie was forced to tune her out. Finally, after a long morning and afternoon of listening, Charlie finally peered at the sun and said, “You know, I think you could go in early today. Help the girls get dinner on. I’ll finish riding this section and be in soon.”
Gabe sent her a grateful grin. She wasn’t one to question good fortune. “Thanks, Charlie!” She rode off, the glimmer of daydreams still in her eyes.
Charlie shook her head. In her present state, they'd be lucky if Gabe didn't rub down the cow and milk her horse. The girl never could concentrate when she had an idea.
Harmon stormed in the next morning, ready to kick butt. Like twin rifle sights, his glare fixed on Gabe, who was waiting for him at the breakfast table with her sisters. “Did you notice anything wrong with your horse when you put it up last night?” he asked in a low growl.
“Nooo. Why?”
“Your horse is down with colic. He’s down in the corral, rolling around, nipping at his flanks…and you know nothing about it?”
Mouth open, Gabe shook her head and ran past Harmon, followed closely by her sisters.
Charlie pulled up at the rail and hissed in sympathy. Gabe’s ugly little roan was lying on the ground, occasionally nipping at its hindquarters. Before anyone could ask any more questions, Gabe rounded on Sydney.
“What did you do to my horse?” Gabe demanded, looking as if she wanted to shake poor Sydney.
Sydney darted behind a confused Charlie. “Nothing! I gave him a drink like you said.”
Harmon’s voice broke through the argument like a cracking whip. “What do you mean, you gave him a drink? Why didn’t Gabe put him up?”
Guilt and defensiveness flashed across Gabe’s face as she retreated a step. “I wanted to check on the house. I thought Sydney might be burning dinner again and I wanted to save it.”
“So you made Sydney put your horse up.” The quiet fury in Harmon’s expression boded ill. “Get out there and walk your horse, girl. We’ll give him a drench. He might yet come around. If not, I’m taking his suffering out on your hide.”
Chagrined, Gabe grabbed a rope halter and a lead line and ducked through the rails.
It took all day, but at last the horse recovered. Harmon finally grunted his satisfaction and supervised as Gabe made the horse comfortable for the night.
Then he took his belt to Gabe.
Charlie flinched as she sat in the house, listening to the crack of leather on denim. It didn’t last long, but Gabe howled enough to make those inside cringe. None had ever been spanked, even Gabe, often richly deserved it. It was too savage, their mother said, too rough a method of discipline for gentle young girls.
Obviously Harmon never heard that philosophy.
About the time when Charlie thought about stopping things, Gabe stormed in and scurried up the ladder to the loft. The sound of muffled sobs drifted down.
Harmon strode in the door and yelled up to the loft, “You got ten minutes, girlie, so get that bawling out of your system. I hear it all day from calves and I won’t put up with it from you.”
Charlie cringed in sympathy. It was apparent that management had changed at the Lions’s residence.
Charlie sat stiff in the saddle, holding her rifle steady on the man in front of her. The winter wind chapped her face, and she shivered from cold and nerves. They’d ranged far off the usual grazing grounds, tracking the rustler. Unfortunately, they’d found him.
The rustler thought he had her measure. “You going to shoot me, boy?” At her silence, he sneered and started to lower his hands.
“Make one move and it’s your last.”
His hands inched back up.
They’d found the camp before sunset. His fellow rustlers fled, pursued by Harmon and Alex. When this man’s horse stumbled and he fell, she stayed behind, thinking to capture him. Now she wished she’d allowed him to escape.
Cold sweat trickled down her back as she considered what to do. She was lucky he’d taken her for a boy in her bulky winter clothes and concealing hat. She had no illusions about what a man like him would do to a woman he caught alone.
“Keep your right hand on your head and remove your gun belt, nice and slow.” He glared at her, and that’s when she saw it.
His eyes flashed before he threw himself forward and down, rolling toward her horse’s hooves. At the same time, he drew his gun. She fired her rifle and the concussion rocked her in the saddle, causing her horse to sidle. The raider slumped like a sack of flour.
Harmon found her dry heaving. “You hurt, Charlie?” He dismounted, sounding worried. She shook her head, and he glanced at the body with the gory hole where once a heart had beat. “Good shooting.”
She gagged again. He gave her his canteen to rinse her mouth. As soon as she wiped her lips on her handkerchief, he handed her a battered hip flask. “Drink up. It’ll steady your nerves.”
Charlie took a swig and gasped as the liquid burned a trail down her throat and lit up her belly. She pulled back and stared at the flask.
“What is it?” she croaked. “Lye?”
He snorted and saw to the body. By the time they reached home, Charlie was weaving in the saddle, drunk as a squirrel. She fell on Alex when she tried to help her down, landing on her sister with a hard thump.
“Gol ding it,” Alex muttered breathlessly as she shoved her off. Charlie giggled helplessly at the forbidden swear words.
“What’s wrong with Charlie?” Max demanded, drying her hands on a dishtowel as she came outdoors.
“Too much Southern Comfort,” Alex grunted, blinking at the fumes. She had Charlie’s arm slung over her shoulders, so she got a good whiff. “Here, take her other arm.” Together they dragged her into the house and got her into bed, pulling off her boots and leaving the rest. She grumbled once and passed out cold.
Harmon took a swig of whiskey and glanced at Alex, who was also at the kitchen table. Everyone else was asleep. “You want some?” he asked, gesturing with his glass to the half full whiskey bottle. The seventeen year old, who’d killed two men today, shook her head and went back to staring at the table. The clock ticked and the fire crackled, filling the silence.
“It could have been me,” she whispered, and he looked at her sharply. “It could have been you or Charlie.”
“You can bet your boots it was almost you! I told you what would happen if you ever let a rustler take off with my cows.” He frowned. She barely heard him. “Go to bed, Alex.”
She obediently stood up, but as she turned to go, he added one more thing. “God won’t hold it against you, girl, for defending what’s yours.” She looked at him, a touch of hope in her eyes. He nodded. “Go on, now.” Then he took another swig of whiskey.
Alone, he sat and wondered, not for the first time, what he was doing. What did he know about coddling a bunch of girls? He didn’t know a thing about women, and all he knew was to raise them the way he’d raised his son and his daddy raised him.
Of course he knew that the town folk thought he was doing wrong by them, but at least he was providing a roof over their heads and keeping worthless cowboys from sniffing around the place. Someday, they’d find decent men of their own to see to that, and that day couldn’t come too soon.
He shook his head and took another swig of whiskey.