Western: Revenge at Snake Bend (#1, Texas Frontier Riders Historical Romance)

Prologue

1858, Snake Bend, Texas

Clayton Wallace looked up at Bessie's sorrel snout as she brayed and jerked her head to the side, knocking the brush out of his hand and into the dirt.

"What's wrong?" he asked, keeping his voice soft as he stroked her muzzle and tried to calm her. "See a snake or something?" He scanned the ground around her feet.

His brother-in-law's voice rose up behind him, giving Clay his answer. "What're you doing?" August Graves' voice croaked like a bull frog's.

Clay felt August's dark eyes on his back, and his shoulders tensed. He kicked himself for not feeling those eyes sooner. Even at fourteen, he should have sensed someone standing behind him. Should've heard him come up.

His father and brothers teased him all too often about losing himself in the horses. Maybe they were right. A man ought to be aware of his surroundings, always. Even a young man.

Bessie brayed again, louder this time, and dug her feet into the dirt as she took two steps back. Her eyes showed fear, all too similar to his sister's eyes over the last three weeks.

"I asked you a question," August said.

Clay turned around. August's black hair whipped around in the light breeze that also sent a tiny spiral of dirt flying up at his boots. His 1842 Colt Paterson lay against his hip, always within easy reach. That revolver was August's pride and joy, the first repeating firearm with a revolving cylinder and multiple chambers aligned with a single, stationary barrel. According to August, it didn't matter how many newer guns came out, this was the only gun that mattered.

August arched an eyebrow, waiting for Clay's answer.

"I was just brushing Bessie," Clay said.

"We've got ranch hands to do that for us. Men who know what they're doing."

Clay rolled his shoulders back. "I know what I'm doing. Brushing horses is easy; even a girl could do it." He'd actually thought August would be happy that Clay was making himself useful during his visit. He should have known better.

"Go inside and help Sara with dinner."

"She told me I could stay out here a while longer yet."

"Did she?" August tapped his fingers against the butt of his Paterson. A threat that even a child could not mistake.

August's face tightened. He was only twenty-five, but with the late afternoon sun beating down on him like it was and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, Clay could see the old, angry man he would become. What had Sara been thinking when she married him?

"I'll go in," Clay said and picked up the brush, giving Bessie's muzzle one last stroke before he headed for the house. The whole time he felt August's eyes on him.

Sara was in the kitchen when he came in, her light blond hair pulled back from her face and twisted into some sort of knot. She looked up, surprised. "I thought I'd have to drag you in by your teeth. There's daylight left yet; what are you doing in here?"

"August told me to come in and help you."

She frowned. There was a splotch of flour on her cheek, almost enough to cover the large purple bruise that peeked out from under it. She'd told him she got it walking into a door in the middle the night. He'd acted like he believed her because he knew that was what she wanted, but deep down, he knew better. And he hated August for it.

She set down the wooden spoon she'd been using to stir whatever was in the pot and lay her hand gently on her rounded belly. Two more months and his oldest sister would be a mother. And he'd get to be an uncle. He was excited by the idea. Finally, he'd have someone younger than him to boss around. His baby sister Mollie didn't count. She was a girl.