Excerpt of Prodigal Gun by Kathleen Rice Adams

Jessamine Caine latched the corral gate and stooped to grab the bucket of oats. A click of teeth, a tug, and Will’s old slouch hat disappeared from her head. The long, thick braid that had been confined within the crown flopped across her shoulder. Pressing a palm against her lower back, she straightened up with a groan. Caliente backed away, nodding, the hat caught between her teeth. Where the black-and-white paint found the energy for horseplay, Jessie hadn’t a clue. She wanted nothing more than to peel off her smelly clothes, fall into bed, and sleep for a solid week. Thank goodness the spring gather was finished. One more day of flushing mulish cattle from deep scrub, and she might have disintegrated. Even her aches had aches. She raised the pail of oats. “Trade you.” The mare sauntered to the bare-plank fence and dropped the battered slouch, barely waiting until Jessie hung the bucket before shoving her muzzle into the grain. While she bent to retrieve the hat, Jessie gave her scalp a vigorous scratching. Dried mud fell in chunks. Lord, she’d be forever washing the sweat and filth from her tangled curls. She slapped at her trousers and chaps, raising a cloud of dust fit to choke the Almighty Himself. Slinging a grip around the fence rail, she dragged herself upright…or as close to upright as she could manage. Race you to the creek, Jess. The words whispered across the years, hanging in the still evening air. There had been a time when she couldn’t wait to accept that challenge from Mason and Will. After a week of wrestling and branding ornery cattle, she’d have been the first to dive into the chilly water…until Ma Caine put a stop to her swimming with the boys, even fully clothed. She adjusted the Remington on her hip. Where had that carefree girl gone? To the war. To the pains in her heart that outdid the ones in her body. To the Hard Eights, the longhorns, and the Angus- longhorn crossbreeds Will christened Langus. A bittersweet breath trickled into the darkness. Her husband had been so darn proud of those critters. No horns. Beefier, and just as hardy. She shook the thought from her head, wincing when her neck popped. Starting down that path would serve no purpose. The ranch’s foreman trudged up beside her, one hand balancing a shotgun atop the saddlebags slung over his shoulder. With the other, he mopped the back of his neck with a faded kerchief. Dust caked the weathered seams in Luis’s face. “You will rest now, no?” Jessie forced a wan smile. “No. Not yet.” He eyed her with gentle disapproval. “Señora…” “Noah needs the count. I’ll bring the ledger up to date tonight, and then tomorrow we’ll be able to figure out where we stand.” “Señor Noah, he will be pleased. The herd grows.” “Yes, it does.” But not fast enough. God bless Noah for his enthusiasm about the breeding program. Out of desperation, Will had forged more than a business partnership. With a carpetbagger. Plopping her hat back where it belonged, Jessie allowed a small grin. Texas could use more carpetbaggers like Noah and Annie Boone. “Good night, Luis. Tell Consuela I’ll see her bright and early in the morning.” The foreman chuckled. “Earlier than you may wish. Sleep fast.” Pressing both palms to her lower back, Jessie groaned through a stretch and passed a glance over the structures scattered around the edges of the ranch yard. Sheer stubbornness held the buildings upright…but then, pigheadedness was a proud tradition in the Caine family. Her gaze strayed to the top of the nearest hill, where the spare light of the new moon limned a small army of crosses and granite stones. So many losses, yet the Eights persevered, wobbling but too ornery to fall. While Jessie breathed, the ranch would continue. Somehow. She may have married into the family, but by God she had earned the Caine name. She plodded across the dooryard toward the house. One foot in front of the other, no matter how much each stride hurt, and sooner or later she would reach the steps. Her bed waited beyond them, the wraparound porch, the front door, the entry hall…and two long flights of stairs. Crap. Maybe she’d work up the energy to face the climb by the time she finished with the ledger. At least the heat had departed with the sun. As the cool evening breeze whispered over her skin, the scent in the air promised rain. So did the rowdy cricket chorus. “I hope y’all are right,” she told the insects. April had been darn stingy with the showers. With her daughter away visiting San Antonio for another week, the house loomed dark and silent. A loose board on the first step bowed and nearly snapped under her boot. The redbone hound that had wandered up to the door two winters past crawled from under the porch, shook himself, and nearly toppled. Missing one eye and battle-scarred, the dog was too old to do much more than give the occasional desultory bark, but he was company. And Lily loved him. Heaven knew her daughter needed something to love, something to help her get over losing Will. The hound nudged Jessie’s hand. She scratched his half ear. “She’ll be home soon, Jethro. I miss her, too.” Stiff fingers protested when she gripped the whitewashed handrail and dragged her weary bones onto the porch. An owl hooted in the barn, and a chill shot up her spine. On the owl’s second hoot, gooseflesh chased the chill. Death or misfortune. The eerie sound always, always heralded bad news. Unperturbed, Jethro scooted under the steps. Wrapping an arm around an upright beam, Jessie scanned the dark windows, imagined a mourning wreath on the door. The Eights had seen too many losses, yet she loved this old place. For more than half of her thirty-one years, the house had been her sanctuary —especially in times of death and misfortune. Shoving away from the beam, she clicked the latch and stepped inside. She had barely cleared the jamb when an arm cinched her waist and yanked her backward into a wall of solid muscle. Her hat tumbled to the floor, and Jessie’s throat seized around an audible gasp. A choked grunt escaped whoever held her as a leather-gloved palm clamped over her mouth. A bristly jaw scraped her temple. “Not a sound.” The stranger’s raspy whisper bore traces of whiskey and tobacco; they overrode the sweat and trail dust clinging to the rest of him. Another scent lay beneath—sharper, metallic. Blood? The rasp came again. “Lose the gun. Now.” Heart pounding a hole through her ribs, Jessie nodded. With slow, careful movements, she unbuckled her belt and lowered the Remington to the floor. The man relaxed his grip enough for her to squirm. When her elbow dug into his side, a breath hissed between his teeth and he turned her loose. Fool. She was no helpless waif or half- grown boy. Jessie whirled to face a broad expanse of chest; tipped back her head, then farther, seeking features within the shadows of a hat pulled low to hide the stranger’s eyes. He kicked the door shut and backed against the wall. With a halfhearted flick of his fingers, he knocked up the black hat’s wide brim… …and Jessie stared into the face of a ghost.