Women, Whiskey & Gold

By R. Lilly

A cowgirl needs a smart horse, a good gun and a strong rope. A cowboy needs a faster horse and a head start if he hopes to catch her.

Sometimes even coyote shifters have to work to catch the girl.

Coyote shifter Dakota Eagle only wants one woman, and Charlie’s not interested. She’s got a ranch to run and sisters to wrangle, and no time for Dakota or the Aztec Lord next door. Between rustlers and razor cats, she’ll be lucky to have a ranch come winter, and Dakota’s courtship is the last thing she needs...until a deadly thief stalks her family. Can Dakota get close enough to protect her family before it’s too late?

34,000 words

• Language: English
• Publisher: Autumn Dawn
• Release date: Mar 15, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476400884

Book preview

What a cowgirl needs:

A cowgirl needs a smart horse, a good gun and a strong rope. A cowboy needs a faster horse and a head start if he hopes to catch her.

Sometimes even coyote shifters have to work to catch the girl.

Coyote shifter Dakota Eagle only wants one woman, and Charlie’s not interested. She’s got a ranch to run and sisters to wrangle, and no time for Dakota or the Aztec Lord next door. Between rustlers and razor cats, she’ll be lucky to have a ranch come winter, and Dakota’s courtship is the last thing she needs…until a deadly thief stalks her family. Can Dakota get close enough to protect her family before it’s too late?

Women, Whiskey & Gold

by

R. Lilly

PUBLISHED BY:

R. Lilly on Smashwords

Women, Whiskey & Gold

Copyright © 2012 by R. Lilly

www.autumndawnbooks.com

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

***

Dedication:

To Grandpa Buck, who inspired Harmon’s tough love. I enjoyed watching John Wayne with you.

To my Braham cousins, who I cast as my cowgirls. I’ve never met a stronger, smarter, tougher bunch of women. I love you all.

For Aunt Connie, who shares the things my parents would never tell me. I still maintain that pedestals are pretty tippy.

Thanks to Art Bigelow for the explosives help. Any mistakes are mine.

***

Chapter 1

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