Familiar Texas. Caroline Burnes

“Call us if you need us. We’re only about five miles down the road.”

      “Thank you,” Stephanie said as she got in the Jeep beside the panting cat.

      STEPHANIE ALMOST RIPPED the door of the Jeep as she got out and stomped—as well as a girl could stomp in high heels—across the ditch to the For Sale sign that was prominently displayed at the gate of McCammon Ranch.

      “Who in the world put this sign up?” she said aloud as she began to wrench the sign from the dry ground. “The will hasn’t even been probated. Nothing can be sold until that’s done.”

      When the sign wouldn’t come up, Stephanie went back to the Jeep, got in and put it in Drive. In a moment there was the sound of splintering wood. She looked in the rearview mirror with satisfaction. The realty sign had been flattened. McCammon Ranch was not for sale. Not for any price, and certainly not until the will left by her aunt and uncle had been thoroughly examined. She glanced at the black cat in the passenger seat. He seemed to have a smirk of satisfaction on his face, too.

      “The people responsible won’t get away with this,” she said aloud.

      The cat turned a penetrating green gaze on her. “Meow.” He nodded once to show he agreed.

      “Thank goodness I heard about your P.I. agency, Familiar. Hiring you to help me unsnarl this whole mess was one of the smartest things I’ve ever done,” she said as she turned the rental down the driveway. Her gaze was critical as she swept it over the graceful oaks that lined the driveway. The fences were good, the pastures as lush as they could be in a heat wave, but there were no cows. Not a single steer or heifer. No horses. Not even a dog. A creepy sensation slipped over Stephanie. Where was all the livestock? She’d talked to her uncle only a week before, and he’d told her the spring calves had arrived without a single loss. So where were they?

      She drove slowly down the winding driveway. The old white farmhouse came into view, and Stephanie again fought back tears. She’d managed to hold herself together at the funeral service because she had no intention of giving the lot of Nosey Parkers the satisfaction of seeing her cry. Now, though, there was no one to see her but the black cat, and Familiar seemed to have a real streak of compassion.

      As soon as she stopped the Jeep, the cat was clawing at the window to get out. She opened her door and he shot out by her feet. “Hey,” she called. “Don’t get lost.” But it was too late—the tip of his tail disappeared in the shrubbery by the front porch.

      For a moment Stephanie indulged her memories. The last time she’d come home, nearly a year ago, Aunt Emily had met her at the door, the wonderful scent of baking apple pies wafting out on the breeze. Uncle Albert had come in from the barn, wiping his hands on an old towel so he could give her a hug without smudging her designer suit. She closed her eyes and relished the memory, determined to hold her aunt and uncle close to her in her heart if not in her arms.

      “Ms. Chisholm?”

      She whirled at the unexpected voice behind her.

      “Who are you?”

      “I’m Rodney Jenkins. I was your uncle’s chief wrangler. I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am for your loss. I didn’t want to go to the funeral.” A frown crossed his face. “I was afraid I’d have to deck some of those folks.”

      “Rodney, where are the cows?”

      His frown deepened. “You don’t know?”

      She shook her head, aware that she dreaded his answer.

      “They were sold at auction yesterday. The whole herd. The man who bought them came and got them this morning.”

      Stephanie felt as if she’d been gut-shot. “Every cow?”

      “And the horses. They were sold as a lot. Even your uncle’s blue heeler. They took old Banjo.”

      The sensation of disbelief was quickly replaced by sheer, unadulterated fury. “Who did this?”

      “It wasn’t the fault of the men who came for the cows,” Rodney said, kicking the dirt with his cowboy boot. “It was Nate Peebles, a local lawyer, who ordered the cows sold. He’s the one put up the For Sale sign you flattened coming in.” He smiled. “Good work.”

      “McCammon Ranch isn’t for sale. Not now. Not ever.” She was surprised at the passion of her words. Not so long ago she’d fled the ranch, terrified that she’d spend her days cooking three meals a day for hungry ranch hands and her nights birthing calves and tending to sick stock.

      Rodney held out his hand. “I’ll shake on that, Ms. Chisholm. Now tell me what I can do to help.”

      Stephanie was about to answer when she heard a long growl and a feline howl of outrage. “What in the world?” She started toward the house with Rodney at her heels.

      The cry came again, this time louder. Stephanie began to run. She rounded the corner just in time to see the rattlesnake lunge at the black cat. Familiar did an amazing leap into the air that ended in a flip on top of a rocking chair on the porch. Stephanie focused on the snake. It was at least six feet long. It moved toward the chair, its focus on the cat.

      “Damn, it’s a timber rattler,” Rodney said as he drew his pistol out of his holster. “How’d it get inside the screen on the porch?”

      “That’s a very good question,” Stephanie said cautiously. The snake had coiled. The tip of its tail, with fourteen rattles, quivered in the air giving the famous warning that the snake was about to strike.

      “Don’t move, Familiar.” Stephanie opened the door and moved slowly onto the porch. “I’m going to distract it, Rodney, and then you shoot it.”

      “I might chip up the porch some.”

      Stephanie shook her head. “Blow the porch up, I don’t care, just kill the snake.”

      As soon as she moved toward the snake, Rodney shot. He caught the snake in the head, and Stephanie scooped Familiar into her arms. She headed to the front door, and to her surprise, it was already open. She pushed the door gently, aware that Familiar was tensing in her arms.

      “Yarrr-rrr.” His fur was standing on end and he hissed into the open doorway, alerting her to the fact another snake—possibly more—was inside.

      “Rodney, I think you’d better bring your gun,” she said, feeling the knot of fear that had lodged in her gut. Rattlesnakes were always a danger, but none were more dangerous than those trapped inside a house.

      “Ms. Stephanie, you come on out of there. I sure wish Banjo was here. He’d know what to do. That dog would ride out with your uncle, and if he came across a snake, he’d snatch it right behind the head and shake it until he broke its neck.”

      “I’ll be getting Banjo back. And the cows. And the horses.” The spur of anger helped her overcome her fear. She walked to the screen and put Familiar out on the grass. “No matter how much you want to help, you’d only be one swallow for a big rattler. Now stay outside. Rodney and I will kill it. You did your job by giving the warning.”

      Rodney lifted his hat and scratched his forehead. “Ms. Stephanie, do you always talk to your cat like that?”

      She laughed. “Familiar isn’t my cat. He belongs only to himself, but I do talk to him.”

      “Well, I can’t speak to his intelligence, but he sure did good to warn us about the snakes.”

      Stephanie didn’t push the issue. If Rodney agreed to work with her, he’d have plenty of opportunity to see how smart the highly-rated feline detective could be.

      “How do you want to handle this?” she asked Rodney.

      He reached into his boot and brought out another gun. “I assume you know how to use this?”

      Stephanie felt the heft of the pistol in her hand. Her uncle had spent a lot of time teaching her to shoot—and not to shoot.