Extract
My name is Kate Rebel. I married John Rebel when I was eighteen years old and then bore him seven sons. We worked the family ranch, which John later inherited. We put everything we had into buying more land so our sons would have a legacy. We didn’t have much, but we had love.
The McCray Ranch borders Rebel Ranch on the east and the McCrays have forever been a thorn in my family’s side. They’ve cut our fences, dammed up creeks to limit our water supply and shot one of our prize bulls. Ezra McCray threatened to shoot our sons if he caught them jumping his fences again. We tried to keep our boys away, but they are boys—young and wild.
One day Jude and Phoenix, two of our youngest, were out riding together. When John heard shots, he immediately went to find his boys. They lay on the ground, blood oozing from their heads. Ezra McCray was astride a horse twenty yards away with a rifle in his hand. John drew his gun and fired, killing Ezra instantly. Both boys survived with only minor wounds. Since my husband was protecting his children, he didn’t spend even one night in jail. This escalated the feud that still goes on today.
The man I knew as my husband died that day. He couldn’t live with what he’d done, and started to drink heavily. I had to take over the ranch and the raising of our boys. John died ten years later. We’ve all been affected by the tragedy, especially my sons.
They are grown men now and deal in different ways with the pain of losing their father. One day I pray my boys will be able to put this behind them and live healthy, normal lives with women who will love them the way I loved their father.
Egan: the third son—the loner
A cowboy’s work was never done.
Holidays, weekends, in bitter cold and extreme heat, Egan Rebel was in the saddle on Rebel Ranch, herding cattle, branding, tagging, vaccinating, fixing fences and feeding. It never ended. But that’s who he was—a cowboy. It was a whole lot better than staring at cell bars in front of his face.
Freedom was free, or so they said, but for Egan it came with a price. One he paid every day of his life. He meandered his horse through a herd of red-and-white cattle, forcing the thoughts away. His dog, Pete, trailed behind, on watch in case a moody cow decided to charge.
The vast Texas ranch stretched across miles and miles of gently rolling hills dotted with oak, elm, yaupon, cedar and mesquite, then down into lush valleys of coastal hay fields, prairies of wildflowers and woods so thick only daylight could squeeze through. Two creeks and various natural springs flowed on the property. No place on earth could compare to the spectacular sunrises or the awe-inspiring sunsets. This was paradise on earth to Egan. Fresh air, blue skies and freedom. He’d left here once to his peril, but he would never leave again.
Buzzards circled overhead. He pulled up. A cow bellowed in distress at the edge of the woods. He kneed his horse, Gypsy, in that direction. When he saw the problem he swung from the saddle, the leather creaking as he did. A baby calf lay dead in the grass.
Jericho Johnson rode in and surveyed the scene. “What happened?” Jericho was Egan’s best friend. He’d saved Egan’s life in prison and for that Egan would always be grateful. Egan’s mother, Kate, had given Jericho a job and a home for his actions. They didn’t know much about the man, but Egan knew what was important.
He squatted by the red-and-white calf and pointed. “Teeth marks around its neck. A fun kill. Probably by a pack of feral dogs or wolves. This makes the eighth calf this month.”
Pete sniffed the ground and barked.
Egan followed the dog into the woods. “Come back, boy,” he called, and Pete trotted to his side.
“There are tracks leading to the McCray property.” Egan walked toward his horse. “The woods are too thick for a horse. Take the horses and Pete back to the ranch. I’m going to keep tracking on foot.”
Jericho removed his hat and scratched his head. He was a big man, about six-four. His nationality was unknown, but he’d once told Egan he was a little bit white, Mexican, Indian and black. With his long hair and a scar slashed down the side of his face, he was known to scare the strongest of men.
“Do you think that’s wise?”
Jericho knew of the feud with the McCrays and that avoiding them was always the best policy.
Egan removed his rifle from the saddle scabbard. “Crazy Isadore McCray has dogs and I just want to see if they’ve crossed over onto Rebel land. If Izzy has been killing our calves, I’ll call the sheriff. I don’t plan on being stupid and confronting him. Stupid once in a lifetime is all I can handle.”
“If the two of us track—”
Egan cut him off with a dark stare. “I know these woods like the back of my hand and I don’t need any help tracking. Tell Mom and Falcon I’m on it.”
Jericho inclined his head. “You got it.” He reached for the reins of Egan’s horse. “But if you’re not at the ranch by tomorrow, I’ll come looking.”
Egan nodded to his friend and squatted in front of Pete. “Go back to the ranch with Rico.” He rubbed the dog’s head. He didn’t want the feral dogs to kill him. Pete was an Australian blue healer, a cow dog, but if it came to a fight, he would be right in the middle of it.
Tipping his hat, Jericho rode away, Pete trotting behind. The dog stopped once to look back, but Egan didn’t motion for him to come, so he continued his journey behind the horses.
Egan shoved his hand into the pocket of his dark duster and pulled out his phone. No signal. He was alone, but it had been that way most of his life, even with six brothers.
Following the trail into the woods, he pushed through yaupons and mesquite. He kept his eyes focused on the ground. From the tracks, there had to be at least six dogs and one man. The woods grew thicker and the tracks disappeared, almost into thin air. He was close enough to the McCray property line to know Izzy had been up to no good. Egan may have told Rico he wouldn’t do anything stupid, but he wasn’t about to let Izzy kill any more calves on Rebel Ranch.
* * *
RACHEL HOLLISTER WAS LOST.
For over an hour, she’d been traveling this country back road and the scenery had changed from mesquite and scrub to thick woods. She cursed herself for being a coward and taking the long way home. She’d been away twelve years and still she was stalling, avoiding the moment she would walk in the door of the home she’d shared with her mother and family. The mother who had died because of her. Twelve years was long enough to deal with the guilt. The grief. Or maybe not. It was part of her now.
Every morning when she looked in the mirror she saw herself, but she also saw a young girl who’d been spoiled, pampered and far too used to getting her own way. Rachel didn’t like that girl
