Page 1 of His Texas Claim

ONE

Stetson

There was an intruder on my family’s land…

…again.

It felt like this was becoming a thing—I went out to check for dangerous animals, downed trees, any hazards…found people. I didn’t like that this was becoming a thing. I preferred to have the property to myself, just me and my dog.

But here I was.

Absolutely certain there was someone out here who wasn’t supposed to be.

I trekked out toward a remote corner of Holt Creek, Buck up ahead of me, my shotgun slung over my back. I had picked up the trail about twenty minutes ago—tracks leading out of the creek, human hiking boot prints in the mud. Whoever it was, they’d dropped a pencil. Had small shoes too, maybe some troublemaking kid.

Buck’s ears perked up ahead of me.

He hunkered down and let out a low, warning growl.

Then I heard what he’d heard—a splash in the creek ahead, then a muttered curse in a high-pitched voice.

I grumbled my own curse, then slung the gun around just in case. Never knew out here; last year we’d had a bunch of damned human traffickers running around across the property line. I kept my eyes straight ahead, letting Buck lead the way…

…and I found a girl.

She was standing in a wide, sludgy bend where the water ran slow and dropped everything it carried. We’d almost lost a calf in that mud two years back. It looked like nothing, but it ate boots whole.

She was in it up to her shins, one arm braced against a half-submerged log, hauling at her own leg like she could pull it out through sheer stubbornness.

“Shite,” she muttered in a startlingly clear Irish accent. “I just had to…”

“Don’t move,” I said, raising my voice.

She looked up at me, eyes wide. She was pale…freckled, with dark hair and grey-green eyes. Her hair was up in a messy bun, pulled away from her face, a floral-print gaiter around her neck. Hiking pants, the zip-off kind, already undone at the knee. The finishing touch was a burnt orange UT ball cap, a worn longhorn embroidered in white on the front panel.

“Hi,” she said. “I could use a hand.”

She saw the gun.

“You have a gun.”

I scowled. “You’re on my land. Pretty typical for Texans to show you a firearm when you’re trespassing.”

“I’m not trespassing, I’m—” She yanked at her leg. The mud sucked back. “Okay. That’s not moving.”

“Stop pulling.”

“What else am I supposed to do when the big scary cowboy is brandishing a gun at me rather than helping?”

I grunted and slung the gun off my shoulder, setting it against a rock. Buck sat—good boy, as usual. I took a careful step into the water where I knew I could still get leverage, the cool stream instantly soaking my boot and jeans, then extended my hand.

“Come on, then. Give me your hand.”

She let go of the log…put her hand out and reached across to me.

Took my hand in hers.

Her nails were painted different colors: alternating blue and green.