Page 3 of His Texas Claim

Because that was what was in her bag: a little container holding a tiny, spotted frog.

“Mmhm,” she said. “Chirping frogs, specifically. In fact, a very special chirping frog.”

“Don’t seem like anything special to me.”

She glared at me. “This is a unique genus to this creek,” she said. “There are two species of chirping frog in central Texas: the Rio Grande and the cliff chirping frog. But this one…it’s different.”

I pulled off one of my boots to dump out the water, then switched to the other.

“Different how?”

“Smaller. Different call pattern, different markings on the hind legs.” She held the case up, angling it toward the light. “I’ve recorded it three times now and it doesn’t match any other known species. If I’m right, this is the only place on Earth it exists.”

“In my family’s creek,” I said.

“Well, also downstream and up toward the aquifer,” she said. “Thus—why I’m here. I’m mapping their breeding grounds and trying to get a clean recording of their call pattern. This is the only site I’ve found it.”

“Where you stayin’?”

She cocked her head. “Not sure if it’s a good idea to share that information with the man holding a gun…”

I hummed. “If I really wanted to hurt you, I’d’ve done it already.”

“Fair enough.” She paused. “I’ve been camping along the way. I’ve got a one-person tent in there, just…parked in town and started walking.”

“Alone?”

“I can take care of myself.”

I shook my head. “Land’s not always safe. Had trespassers before, worse than a scientist with a frog.”

“I noticed the gun,” she said dryly. “Duly noted on the safety concern.”

I glanced down at her bleeding heel; it hadn’t stopped. “My cousin and his wife are medics and have supplies up at the house,” I told her. “You should let me take you there; my truck’s about a half-mile through the woods.”

“I’m really fine,” she said. “I have another pair of boots in my pack⁠—”

“Don’t know what’s died in that mud,” I said. “If that heel gets infected, gonna get in the way of your frog collection.”

She looked down at her foot…at the blood running into her sock, drying at the edges.

“Fine,” she said. “But only if I get to pet your dog.”

I turned and looked over at him. “Buck?”

Buck responded right away, trotting over to sit at my heel.

“He’s friendly,” I said. “Just plays mean with strangers.”

She leaned forward and extended a cautious hand. “Hi,” she said. “Buck, is it? Nice to meet you.”

He gave her his paw.

“What a gentleman,” she said, glancing up at me. “Didn’t get your name, though.”

“Mph,” I grunted. “Stetson—Stetson Holt. And you?”

“Bryn Donnelly,” she said. “It’s very nice to meet you, Stetson Holt.”