CHAPTER 1
Sunlight shifted through the oak canopy above, golden rays glistening on my fingers, slick with blood and gloved in small brown and gray feathers. I picked up another quail from the pile at my feet, popping the head off and snapping the fragile wing bones. As I plucked it clean, small tufts of down sailed away like dandelion seeds, floating with the buzz of locusts and grasshoppers on the summer breeze. The lazy sound reminded me of childhood naps in the shade of the big live oak behind our house, of waking up in a hazy sweat to Mama’s dinner call. My mother lay buried under that tree now, and everything had changed.
Holding the bird’s stiff feet in one hand, I pinched the film of skin around its thigh and peeled it away from the shiny meat underneath. A triangle of shotgun pellets pocked the rose-tinted breast, tiny copper cannonballs that had folded the bird mid-flight and sent it diving to the ground. I picked them out and turned the headless body over to scoop up the wormy intestines, dropping them onto a small mound of guts on the ground. Coyotes were probably circling already, nosing the wind.
I finished cleaning all the birds, shoved them into a bur- lap sack, and wiped my hands on the back of my canvas trou-sers, already soiled from a full day of ranch chores. Gathering my gear, I walked over to Buster. The horse had wandered to
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the edge of a watering hole, grazing on sparse stalks of buffel grass not yet burnt crisp by the July sun.
As I pushed the .410 shotgun into the saddle scabbard, I paused, sensing a subtle change in the air. The insects had fallen silent; even the chortling of the white-winged doves roosting in the high branches had stopped. The hair on the back of my neck prickled. Buster raised his head, ears swiveling.
Turning in a circle, I searched the heat-wobbled horizon. The surrounding mesquite thicket stood waist-high, not tall enough to hide a horsebacker, but several nearby oak mottes, like the one I stood in, could provide plenty of cover for some- one wanting to keep out of sight. A chill ran down my arms despite the near hundred-degree temperature, the four miles to our house seeming to grow longer.
A minute or so passed before the insect noise stutter- started back up. Buster let out a snort, nudging my hip. He was ready to head home to the bucket of oats waiting in the barn. Whatever had caused the hush—a bobcat, a fox—must’ve passed.
I nudged the bird sack into the saddlebags, threw the reins over Buster’s head, and swung up onto his back. Tapping my heels against his sides, we moved out of the tree cover toward the road home. I tried to shake the feeling of being watched. On his morning rounds, Papa had discovered four cut fences and a butchered heifer way up at the north pens, which had me jumpy. He’d taken some ranch hands there to mend the holes and round up the straying cattle. Barbwire might have put an end to the open range for livestock, but trespassers only needed a good pair of wire cutters.
There’d been a surge in activity over the past several months, news of some sort of trouble arriving like the hot gulf breeze, unwanted and inevitable. The threats of cattle rustlers, bandits, and thieves had always existed, but since Prohibition had gone into effect, tequila smugglers had been added to the mix. They seemed particularly brazen, taking
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what they wanted as they crossed ranches north of the Rio Grande, heading to San Diego to sell their loads.
I urged Buster into a gallop, zigzagging through the scrub. As we came over a small rise, my breath caught. A rider was leading an extra horse down the middle of the road. I yanked the reins back, reaching automatically for my gun—then got a better look and settled back in the saddle.
My younger brother sat astride a little dapple-gray horse he was breaking in. When he saw me, he pulled up.
“Hey, Sarita,” JJ called.
His colt pranced impatiently at the end of a lead rope attached to his saddle horn. Twister had been JJ’s payment for working a remuda of wild mustangs for the neighboring Arrowhead Ranch. He didn’t go anywhere without him; he’d have let Twister sleep by his bed if Papa would’ve allowed it.
“You headed home?” I asked, trotting up beside him.
“Not yet. I need to work her a while longer,” JJ replied, referring to the young mare he rode. “They want her ready for round-up next week, and she’s still pretty squirrelly.”
As if to prove him right, the mustang skipped sideways, throwing her head up and down like an impatient child.
“Woah, there, Bluebird,” he soothed, patting her neck.
We’d both been riding since almost before we could walk, but JJ had a way with horses; some even called it a gift. He’d earned quite a reputation breaking wild mustangs and bust- ing broncos even grown men had given up on. The problem was that all JJ ever wanted to do was work horses. Our father didn’t mind the extra money it brought in, so long as JJ’s ranch work got done—which it never did. At least, not by him. His gift was my curse.
“You better be back before Papa gets home,” I said. “You’ve got chores and I’m done covering for you.”
“Yeah, I know.” His eyes fell on the top of the bird sack sticking out of my saddlebag. “How many did you get?”
“Twelve shots, twelve birds.”
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“Guess that’s supper then,” he said.
JJ leaned over to scratch the white star marking the colt’s forehead as Twister nibbled at his leg.
“You treat that horse like an overgrown puppy,” I remarked.
JJ grinned. “He’s a hundred times better than any dumb old dog.”
Despite myself, his love for Twister touched my heart. He’d smiled more in the two weeks since he’d brought the colt home than he had in the whole two years since Mama had died.
“Must be nice messing around with ponies all day,” I teased, slapping the flap of my saddlebag closed. “I, on the other hand, have to get home and do some real work.”
“You got no idea what you’re talking about.” JJ’s blue eyes scowled at me from under his dove-gray Stetson. “Saddle- breaking mustangs is real work.”
“Real or not,” I shot back, “training other people’s horses has got nothing to do with our ranch, which is what you should be concerning yourself with.”
He rolled his eyes, as sick of this argument as I was. In my heart, I wished my father would give in and teach me the cat- tle operation. I was better suited to it than JJ, and Papa needed the help. He’d had two more bad spells over the last several months. Dr. Andrew had told him his heart was getting weak and he needed to cut back, but he was too damn stubborn to listen.
“Sooner or later, you’re going to have to learn how to run La Barroneña like Papa wants,” I said. “You’re thirteen already, and he can’t work as hard as he used to.”
JJ sighed and yanked off his hat, running a hand through sweat-damp hair that had grown so long it curled below his ears.
“You’re pissed no matter what I do; you been mad ever since Jackson left,” he said, not looking me in the eye. “It ain’t my fault he cut and run.”
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Anger crept up my neck. Jackson had vanished about a year ago. Two weeks after he’d asked me to marry him. No one had heard from him since. For a while, it had been good fod- der for gossip—did something happen to him? Did he get cold feet? Eventually people found other things to talk about. In spite of all my efforts, it still hurt.
“It’s ‘isn’t’ not ‘ain’t,’ and you need a haircut before people mistake you for a girl,” I snapped, glaring until a frown pulled at his mouth. “See, I can say hurtful things too.”
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
Bluebird bounced forward like she was playing hopscotch. JJ shoved his Stetson on and pulled the reins in. “We done? She’s getting antsy.”
“Guess so. Don’t go too far off, and don’t be late.”
“Yes, ma’am, Miss Sarita,” he smirked in a singsong voice. Ignoring his taunt, I kicked Buster into a canter. I didn’t
enjoy bossing JJ around any more than he liked me doing it, but Mama’s death had put me in charge of running the house and raising him—whether either of us wanted it that way or not.
I reached the house pasture and unhooked the latch to the wooden gate. It swung open, old rusty hinges groaning the way Papa did first thing in the morning. I didn’t bother to dismount and drag the gate closed since JJ should be back soon. Buster made a beeline for the big oak doors of the barn, which stood open like two arms waiting to embrace the small- est breath of air.
After dismounting, I pulled the shotgun out of its scab- bard, leaning it against the wall, then yanked the birds out of the saddlebags. A pack of black horseflies appeared as soon as I set the bag down, circling like miniature buzzards. I rolled the top of the burlap tighter, then unsaddled Buster and put the rig away in the tack room. After he ate a handful of oats, I walked him out to the corral. He nickered a greeting to the other cowpony in the pen on his way to the water trough. As
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I dragged the gate closed, several loose boards shook along the bottom. Fixing them was on JJ’s to-do list.
I glanced down the road past the gate, surprised to see dust boiling up in front of the brush line less than half a mile away. Maybe JJ would actually be home in time to get some work done. I stepped up on a stump, shading my eyes to get a better look.
Bluebird materialized in front of the dirt cloud, gallop- ing flat-out. JJ bobbed in the saddle with her motion, reins held high. Twister sprinted behind them, long, slender legs flying, loose lead rope sailing next to him. JJ never worked a green-broke horse that hard, and running the colt down the uneven, gravelled road could damage his young bones. JJ slapped Bluebird’s hip with the end of the reins, urging her even faster. Alarm snaked around my chest as the screen of dust behind them parted and two riders charged out. JJ wasn’t running; he was being chased.
I raced for the barn, grabbed the .410, and thumbed off the safety. The riders thundered through the open gate as I came out. I raised the shotgun to my shoulder and pointed it at the strangers. They were more than twenty yards away, but they caught sight of the gun and pulled back.
JJ rode up next to me and yanked hard on the reins. The mare skidded to a stop, hooves spraying pebbles as Twister crashed into her backside.
“Tequileros!” he yelled, leaping out of the saddle.
A tremble ran the length of my spine. I gripped the gun tighter.
“Get behind me,” I said, fighting to keep my voice even. JJ balked and reached for the .410, but I swung it away from him. “For once, do as I say.”
Chest heaving, he grabbed Bluebird’s reins then reached out to catch the lead dangling from Twister’s halter. The excited colt stamped his feet, throwing his head up and down, nostrils flaring.
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“Buenas tardes, señorita,” one of the smugglers called out. “You can put the gun down. We just want the horses.”
Amusement tinged his deep voice, but his hand rested on a revolver holstered at his hip. A black cowboy hat sat pushed back on his head, exposing a hard, lean face. Thick stubble covering his chin matched the red color of the hair sticking out from under his hat. It was his eyes that held my atten- tion, though, glowing pale and cold, like a coyote’s did in the moonlight.
The straw sombrero the other man wore cast a shadow down to the fringe of his bleached-out mustache. A tangled white beard fluttered to his waist. His slender body leaned over the saddle horn, making him seem old and frail compared to his partner, but the gun belt and revolver on his waist made him just as dangerous.
I sucked in air and placed a finger on the trigger.
“Go away or I’ll shoot,” I said.
“Ah, señorita, for such a pretty girl, you are not very polite,”
sneered the man in the black hat. “We will leave, I assure you, but we are taking the horses.”
“I told you, mister,” JJ blurted out, “you ain’t taking my horse!”
The red-haired smuggler slid his revolver out in one smooth gesture, aiming it at JJ. I swallowed hard. I’d lost my advantage in a split second, no longer the only one pointing a gun.
“It has been entertaining chasing you around, niño,” he said, “but I have no more time for this.”
The tequilero urged his horse a step toward us. The instinct to back away was so strong I had to concentrate to keep my feet planted.
“As for you, señorita,” he continued, aiming his stare at me, “if you do not put the gun down, I will shoot the boy. I prom- ise, I can kill him before you pull that trigger.”
I held the gun steady as I weighed his words. He didn’t look like a man who bluffed.
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“If not, my partner will kill you both.” He shrugged, the gesture terrifying in its casualness. “Are the horses worth it?” The air thickened, fighting my lungs. The old man could draw any moment. Between the two of them, they had up to twelve bullets loaded. I had two. I was a good shot, but I couldn’t kill them both at once. Trying to shoot one then the other could throw my aim off, and then I’d just pepper them with birdshot. The .410 was useless at that distance against a pair of six-shooters; I might as well have been holding a
broomstick.
I lowered the gun a few inches.
“Bueno.” The bandit rested the revolver on his thigh, eyes
glittering. “We have a deal: the horses for the boy’s life. Tomás, ándele.”
“Sí, Javier.”
Tomás swung his wiry body out of the saddle and walked over to the horses. He took Bluebird’s reins, then tugged Twister’s lead out of JJ’s fist. As he turned, pulling the horses away, JJ’s face burst open. A bellow exploded from his mouth as he jumped Tomás from behind.
Tomás lurched sideways, his sombrero flying off, a long, white braid tumbling down his back. Panic and anger seeped into my veins. This wasn’t a schoolyard squabble. JJ was risk- ing his life over a horse.
“Stop it!” I yelled.
JJ paid no attention. He grabbed Tomás’s hair like it was the tail of a calf he meant to wrestle to the ground. The old man dropped the leads but held his own, the two of them scuf- fling around in a circle. As Twister and Bluebird shied away, I jerked my eyes to Javier. He’d moved closer, pointing the gun as if waiting for a clean shot.
I held the .410 by the stock and rushed at JJ. Grabbing his arm with my free hand, I yanked as hard as I could. He stum-bled and let go of Tomás’s hair. The old man leapt out of reach then turned back to face JJ.
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“Qué pasó, m’ijo? Please, give us the horses,” he begged, arms outstretched. “Lo vas a enojar!”
“I ain’t your son, and I don’t give a shit if he gets mad!” JJ shouted. He walked over to Twister and grabbed his lead. “You can’t use my horse to haul your goddamn tequila. He ain’t old enough. You’ll break his back.”
The click of the revolver hit my gut like a punch.
“Do not make me kill you, niño,” Javier growled.
“Javier, por favor.” Alarm rang through Tomás’s voice.
“Give him the horses, JJ,” I said through clenched teeth.
“Now.”
JJ’s entire face contorted, his lips pressing together in a
struggle to hold back tears. Twister was the first thing he’d loved since Mama died, but acting like a child hanging on to his favorite toy was going to get him shot.
“Do it!” I shouted.
To my horror, Javier nodded at me, as if we were on the same side. Then his coyote eyes slid down my body and a new fear sliced through me, one that had been hovering just out- side my thoughts.
JJ strode to Bluebird.
“Here, take this one,” he said, holding the mare’s reins out. “Load all the tequila you want on her.” He pointed at the cor- ral. “There’s two more in there. Leave the colt here and you can have them all.”
Javier’s face darkened.
“I will take whatever I want, gringo. I do not need your permission.” No humor left in his tone, his glare moved to JJ’s waist. “Ahorita, I want the horses, all of the horses, and that belt buckle.”
“What the hell?” JJ placed his hand over the silver buckle, but Javier’s focus had turned back to me.
“Maybe I want the pretty girl, too,” he said. “I am fond of the blondes, las rubias.”
His voice rumbled through the thick heat like a boul- der sliding downhill. My stomach knotted, stories banging
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around in my head of kidnapped girls—raped, mutilated, sold into slavery, beaten until nothing remained but empty shells. Ghost girls better off dead.
JJ’s hand fell from his waist.
“Don’t touch my sister.” The bravado had drained from his voice, leaving it raw with fear—fear that boomeranged through me.
Tomás took a tentative step forward.
“Por favor,” he pleaded to Javier, “solomente los caballos, no?” “All that long, yellow hair, Tomás,” Javier mused, nar-
rowed eyes groping every inch of my body. “She would be worth more than the horses.”
JJ threw a chastened look at me, his face the color of cali- che dust. He led both horses over to Tomás.
“Take them,” he said. “Leave her alone. Please.”
My fingers tingled as I gripped the shotgun. Javier was closer now. Maybe I’d hurt him enough to buy us time to run to the house.
“Get the other horses from the pen, viejo,” Javier said to Tomás.
The old man hesitated for a moment, squinting up at Javier like he was trying to discern his next move. Would he stay put and wait, or shoot JJ and grab me?
“Date prisa,” Javier barked.
Tomás handed over the leads and shuffled to the corral. “Hey, niño.” Javier gestured at JJ’s waist with his gun. “You
forget something?”
“Give him the buckle,” I said.
The smile slid back onto Javier’s face.
“You like to tell little boys what to do, rubia?” His sugges-
tive tone, the crawl of those eyes across my skin, sent a frozen stone barreling through my gut. “Wouldn’t you prefer a man to take charge?”
Breathe. If you shoot, aim at his face.
“Look, I’m getting it for you.” A quake shook JJ’s words,
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fingers fumbling to undo his belt.
Tomás came out of the corral with Buster and the other
cowpony. As the horses approached, Twister let out an excited whinny. If JJ heard it, he didn’t react. Yanking the large, silver rectangle free, he walked toward Javier.
“No, no,” Javier said. “I want you to bring it to me, rubia.”
His cold eyes repelled me like flaming torches. I couldn’t move.
“Come on,” he teased, beckoning me with a jerk of his chin. “I won’t bite.”
I stayed still, arm twitching with the weight of the gun.
“So brave before. Now you are being shy, como una virgen.” He cackled—the harsh caw of a green jay. “Has no one been between those white thighs of yours yet? I could be your first. You will not have to tell me what to do, gringa.”
“Go to hell, you piece of shit!”
JJ hurled the buckle. It flew at Javier like a spear, striking his face with a sharp crack.
“Pendejo!” Javier exclaimed, touching the blood already welling up on his cheekbone. “I told you not to make me kill you.”
Javier aimed his revolver.
“No!” Tomás yelled.
“Get down!” I screamed, lunging for JJ.
The explosion ripped through the air, slamming into my
ears, stopping me as if I’d smacked into a wall. JJ shuddered, stumbling backward. He tried to steady himself, but his legs folded. He sank to the ground, wide eyes fastening on mine before he pitched back. His head landed in the loose dirt with a thud, the Stetson lifting from his scalp like a half-open lid.
The earth stopped spinning.
Get up, JJ!
He’d scramble to his feet any second. I’d have to stop him from rushing at Javier like a crazed bull. But he didn’t move. My vision darkened. The outline of his body, sprawled on the
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ground, grew fuzzy. The harder I stared, the less I could see. Everything funneled into the dark spot growing on his chest.
“Ay, Dios mío!”
Tomás’s cry snapped the world into focus. JJ’s wet gasps cut through the ringing in my ears. I dropped to my knees at his side, terrified by the crimson circle widening across his shirt. Too much blood, too fast. I pressed both hands against his chest, trying to staunch the flow. A coughing fit shook his body, red mist spraying across my face and neck.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” I whispered. “You’ll be okay.”
Dusty boots appeared by JJ’s head. I looked up into Tomás’s watery eyes.
“Help me!” I pleaded. “I have to stop the bleeding.”
“Señorita, no se que puedo hacer.” The old man raised his arms, a pained look deepening the creases in his face.
“Basta, Tomás,” Javier snarled from behind him. “Vámanos!” “Pero, el muchacho?” the old man said, a quiver in his voice. “No le hace, the world will not miss another goddamn
gringo.” Javier spat the words out like venom, then pointed the revolver at me. “Bring her.”
My throat closed with terror, but I kept my hands clamped over JJ’s chest. If Javier wanted me, he’d have to rip me off my brother.
“The Rangers could be nearby,” Tomás said in Spanish, shaking his head. “They might have heard the gun.”
Javier paused, scoping the horizon for a moment. Rangers passed through our ranch often. They, or anyone else within a few miles, could have heard the gunshot and be racing this way to investigate. Javier had time to get away with the horses, but trying to wrestle me onto a saddle would be a big risk.
“Basta. This has taken too much of my time already.” Javier exhaled in a long, exaggerated hiss. “Get the goddamn buckle. Let’s go, viejo.”
Javier holstered his gun and reined toward the gate, yanking Twister and the other three horses after him. Tomás
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risked one more furtive glance my way before retrieving the buckle and his hat. He climbed onto his saddle and galloped after Javier.
The drumbeat of retreating hooves was soon lost in the cries I could no longer hold in. I looked down at the pool of thick, dark blood stretching out from under JJ, bile prick- ing the insides of my cheeks. The bullet had gone all the way through his chest. The chances it had not punctured a lung were few. It sounded like he was drowning because he was.
“Hang on, JJ.” I moved my head close to his. “You hear me?”
His eyes fluttered open. A flicker of hope lit my heart as he tried to focus on my face.
“I know I’m always bossing you around,” I said, forcing a grin, “but this time I mean it.”
A smile tugged at his lips, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. I wiped it away, leaving my hand on his cheek. “You know I love you, right?”
“Yeah ... I know,” he wheezed. “Is ... he gone?”
“Yes. He’s gone. You’re safe.”
JJ’s head lolled from side to side.
“Couldn’t let him ... take you,” he mumbled between gasps.
“Papa said ... I’m supposed to watch out for you.”
A small hand slipped through my ribs and grabbed my
heart.
“Twister?” His lips barely moved.
“He’ll be just fine. We’re both okay,” I choked out. “You
did good, JJ.”
I bent, pushing the corona of curls off his forehead to kiss
him. As my lips met his cool, damp skin, his labored breathing calmed. Encouraged, I raised my head, only to find a look of frightened bewilderment hovering on his face.
“JJ?”
His crystal-blue gaze sharpened for a moment, then his eyes rolled back. A loud gush of air escaped his mouth, and his body went limp.
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“No!” I shook his shoulders. More blood welled up from the hole in his chest. “Breathe, damnit!”
Why couldn’t he ever do what he was told? I pressed my ear to his breast. Is that my heart pounding or his? I grabbed his wrist, feeling for a pulse the way Mama had done with her patients. There was nothing, not the slightest tap. I sat back on my heels, hot tears racing down my face.
The .410 wavered on the ground in my blurred vision. I scrambled to my feet and snatched it up, aiming blindly, pull-ing the trigger. Pellets rained down in front of me. I fired again, knowing it was futile, craving the slap of the butt against my collarbone, the explosion in my ears—anything to rid me of the helplessness coiled around my throat. I blinked my eyes clear. The tequileros had disappeared into the thick brush, leav- ing nothing behind, as if they’d never existed.
The caliche road leading away from the house glimmered in the fading light. For a fleeting moment, I wanted to run down it, to disappear forever into the endless sea of mesquite.
I forced myself to look at JJ’s face. His innocent expression made him look even younger than he was. I lowered myself to the ground next to him, reaching out to caress the dirt and blood and my own tears off his face. He’d been so proud of the recent growth of peach fuzz above his top lip, dancing around as he’d informed me that he’d soon be shaving like Papa.
Papa. Thinking about him was like touching hot coal; I couldn’t bear it for more than a second.
With trembling fingers, I pressed JJ’s lids closed. His blood was everywhere—caking in the grooves of my knuck- les, drenching my clothes, speckling my forearms. It glued my hair to my face and neck, tightening my skin as it dried. The raw stench of it drew the horseflies from the barn. They began to circle, the sound growing louder and louder, filling my head with an unrelenting drone. I swatted until my arms grew weak, but it made no difference; insects crawled over the ruin of my brother.
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A void opened within me; a chasm I knew would never close. I pulled JJ’s body into my lap, holding him as I’d done in the days after Mama had died, rocking back and forth while the thirsty soil around us faded from bright ruby red to dull reddish gray.
He was trying to save me.
Time froze, holding me prisoner until the first whispers of evening blew across my slick skin. I’d begun to shiver by the time I heard Papa’s Ford sputtering in the distance. The noise grew louder. The truck came through the gate, brakes squeal- ing as it lurched to a stop by the barn. Papa climbed out of the cab, a ghostly silhouette in the twilight. He let the tailgate down and started pulling his tools out.
I opened my mouth, forcing sound from my lips.
“Papa?”
His eyes searched the dimness until they found us. The
post digger he held dropped to the ground. He stumbled for- ward, stopping at the edge of the stained circle of dirt, his low-pitched cry slugging me in the chest.
“My god! What have you done?”
