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

Charlie McAllister doesn’t need a man. She needs her cattle back, her sisters in line, and the razor cats off her land. Romance? That’s about as useful as a screen door on a submarine.

Coyote shifter Dakota Eagle disagrees. He’s got charm, loyalty, and a stubborn streak that matches hers. He’s not just chasing tail—he’s chasing her. And he’s not giving up.

Between cattle rustlers, supernatural threats, and one relentless cowboy, Charlie’s about to learn that sometimes love is the wildest ride of all.

Contains no graphic love scenes. Expect reasonable amounts of gore as razor cat heads explode and plenty of action. (Oh, and that poor horse...)

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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 in blazes do you think I'm doing?" Charlie snarled, fighting to keep her spooked horse under control. Her plasma rifle hummed as she charged another shot, the weapon's targeting display flickering across her vision through her scope. Dust from the milling herd dulled the flash of overlapping silver scales and made her eyes water, but the rifle's heat signature locked onto the critter's vital spots.

The razor cat shrieked as her first shot scorched its armored eye ridge, the plasma bolt leaving a molten dent in the living metal. Agitated and half-blind, it whipped around and headed for the canyon wall, spiked tail lashing like a furious whip. Seven feet of enraged, armored death raced up the nearly sheer walls, its cruel claws digging into sandstone like it was plaster.

Charlie's horse—a grizzled buckskin named Rust—shifted beneath her. His cybernetic left hind leg whined softly as servos adjusted for balance, the mechanical limb a stark contrast to his three natural legs. The old boy had tangled with a razor cat himself two years back, and Gabe's engineering had saved his life. Now he was steadier than most horses, even if he did sound like a coffee grinder when he walked.

Charlie narrowed her eyes and waited for her shot. The moment the unprotected thermal vent under the cat's tail came into view, she squeezed the trigger. The plasma bolt hit true, and there was a terrible shriek as the beast scrambled for purchase and tumbled down into the canyon, trailing sparks where the superheated metal of its hide met stone.

Alex rode closer but kept her distance, her own pulse rifle at the ready. She whistled in appreciation. "You shot it up the grease pipe, Charlie girl! Wicked shot."

The wounded beast twitched once, twice, then went still. Charlie aimed at its head and fired a mercy shot, the plasma bolt punching clean through its skull in a brief, brilliant flare. She sighed and holstered the rifle, pushing her hat back from her sweat-streaked brow as she scanned the canyon walls. "Must have been my lucky day. Let’s get the herd to the new pasture before its mate comes looking."

The cattle, spooked by the smell of burned metal and ozone, were already moving. Charlie urged Rust forward, his cybernetic hoof clicking rhythmically against the stone as they herded the animals toward safety.

An hour after dusk, they rode back to the ranch house. There wasn't much to see—just a small, tightly built cabin with a privy out back and Harmon's place barely one hundred yards away. Solar collectors glinted on both roofs, feeding power to the modest energy grid that kept their plasma weapons charged and ran Gabe's workshop. Chickens ran free over the dirt yard, keeping down the ticks and bugs, while a mechanical scarecrow's arms moved in slow, hypnotic circles to ward off the more persistent pests. Once in a while a crow would approach, only to be zapped with a burst of compressed air.

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. The cow wore a tracker collar—one of Gabe's inventions that would also alert them if the cow were in distress. Three cybernetic cattle dogs patrolled the perimeter with tireless precision, their metal and flesh forms moving with uncanny intelligence as they checked for threats.

Willy Harmon had promised their mother a good life when he'd married the southern belle and brought her and the daughters from her first marriage from Kentucky to Willy's father's ranch in New Texas. Their mother often said she'd been so in love she hadn't even noticed the heat and desolation at first.

Charlie snorted as she dismounted in front of the house, Rust's cybernetic leg clicking against the hardpan. She would have noticed. In fact, she'd have run screaming back to Kentucky after the first razor cat sighting.

They rubbed their horses down and turned them out in a pen already set up with hay and water, bless Harmon's thoughtfulness. Rust's mechanical leg required a quick inspection—Charlie checked for damage and wiped dust from the joints while the old horse stood patiently. The cybernetics were Gabe's finest work, all custom servos and reinforced struts that could take a beating and keep going.

Hefting saddles and gear, they stored them in the breezeway and cleaned up at the outdoor pump.

Max poked her head outside and looked them over with critical blue eyes. "Don't forget to..."

"...take your boots off," Alex finished with good-natured sarcasm, already doing it.

Max blew a lock of black hair out of her eye and ducked back into the house, calling, "Supper's ready."

Sixteen and the unofficial housekeeper, she had a talent 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 cantankerous, 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 speak up. "Had to take down a razor cat. It scattered the herd."

He scowled over his mashed potatoes. "Blasted cats. I swear the Aztecs breed them on purpose." The Aztec Federation was known for siccing technological monsters 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, the Aztecs might have already invaded.

Charlie looked down, but instead of her plate, she saw the past. Their mother died from injuries sustained in a raid when Charlie was sixteen. The funeral was held on a Tuesday morning, when the wildflowers their mother had loved were in full bloom across the prairie.

Charlie stood at the head of the grave, wearing her mother's good blue dress that hung loose in the chest and tight in the shoulders. She'd grown since Mama had last been well enough to take in the seams. The morning sun caught the colors of their mother's favorite quilt—the one they'd wrapped her in because a pine box seemed too cold and impersonal for someone who'd always been warm hugs and gentle laughter. The lid was nailed on, the box lowered into the waiting earth. It had only been one day, but the hot summer forced them to move quickly. It felt surreal.

The circuit preacher's voice carried across the small gathering as he spoke of eternal rest and heavenly rewards. His words were meant to comfort, but Charlie found herself thinking about how Mama used to hum while she worked, how she'd braid wildflowers into their hair when they were small, and how she'd never stopped waiting for their stepfather even after the first year passed without a word.

Her mother was the only one surprised when he'd announced he was leaving for "a few months" to search for gold. He'd promised his wife riches, seemingly unable to hear her gentle protests that all she needed was him.

The months stretched into years, yet their mother still spent her sunrises and sunsets leaning in the open doorway, a cup of coffee in one hand as she watched for a man who never returned.

"Anne Lions was a woman of great faith," the preacher was saying, "who faced hardship with grace and raised her daughters to be strong, capable young women..."

Mrs. Eagle had come, along with the Hendersons from the neighboring ranch and a handful of folks from town. They'd brought covered dishes and gentle words, but Charlie could see the worry in their eyes as they looked at the five orphaned girls.

Sydney clung to Charlie's hand, her small fingers sticky with tears she kept wiping on her sleeve. At eight, she still asked every night if Mama was happy in heaven.

Eleven-year-old Gabe stood ramrod straight, trying to be brave, but her chin kept trembling. She'd been Mama's shadow in the kitchen and the workshop, learning to can preserves and tinker with circuit boards. Now who would teach her the delicate balance between art and engineering?

Max, at thirteen, clutched a handkerchief edged with the lace Mama had taught her to tat. Her dark eyes were bright with unshed tears and something that looked like determination. She'd already started taking over the household duties without being asked, as if keeping busy could fill the hollow ache in her chest.

Alex, fifteen and practical, had her arm around Gabe's shoulders. She'd been the one to hold the family together during Mama's illness, making sure the younger ones ate and slept and didn't give up hope. Now she stood steady as a rock, but Charlie could see the exhaustion in the set of her shoulders. Who was going to give her hope?

Charlie's gaze met Harmon's. He never cried. He was as tough as old boot leather and ornery as a coyote. If he'd been there the day the raiders came, they'd never have lost their mother.

His eyes swept over her face, noting the absence of tears.

She couldn't cry. The pain ran too deep; tears wouldn't have been enough.

He nodded gruffly and left them to grieve.

Chapter 2

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 entirely.

"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 growled at Alexandra as if she were personally at fault.

Charlie 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 mighty 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 things herself rather than have her daughters underfoot, though she had been forced to show Charlie enough to keep them from starving during her difficult pregnancy.

Maxine could build a fine fire, though. The blackened biscuits were proof of that.

"Is there any money for clothes?" Maxine asked hopefully, examining her sleeves. She was growing again and her wrists stuck out. Her hand-me-down dress wasn't fit for company, let alone passing down to Gabrielle.

Charlie angrily stabbed the chunks in her watery soup. If her worthless stepfather had stuck around, if the raiders hadn't come... "Unless we're all willing to wear dish towels, no, there's not enough for all of us, not if we want to eat." Her sister's face fell, twisting something painful in Charlie's chest.

"Are you going to marry to put food on the table like Mama did?" Sydney suddenly piped up.

"No! Why would you ask such a thing?" Charlie's tone was sharp with surprise.

Sydney's lip trembled.

Charlie shifted uncomfortably. "Surely things aren't that desperate."

"You ain't marrying some no-account drifter to keep holding on to this worthless hunk of land," Harmon declared, breaking his customary silence. "Besides, there isn't anything worth marrying within fifty miles of the place anyway, unless you fancy rattlesnakes and cattle rustlers."

"There's the Eagle boys," Maxine said defensively, trailing off at Harmon's withering look.

"Old man Eagle is a land-hungry snake, and his boys aren't any better. If I catch them within twenty miles of here, I'll send them home walking funny." The shifter clan had earned his everlasting disgust when they'd bought up the land he'd used to graze his herd.

Satisfied he had their attention, he tilted his chair back and crossed his arms. Warming to his favorite subject, he went on, "This ain't farming land, it's cattle country. I tried to get it through my boy's thick skull that he'd never make a living plowing dirt, but Willy never listened. He stubbornly lost money year after year, proving me right. Then he up and left me with you girls!"

He glared at them, pinning them one by one with his fierce, pale blue eyes. "You should have been named Syd," he grumbled at the big-eyed Sydney. His eyes narrowed on the others. "Gabe. Max."

Maxine gasped. She'd fought for years to avoid that boyish nickname.

"Alex. And you..." he pointed accusingly at Charlie, who shrank back in surprise, "You should have been a real Charlie." He shook his head in disgust. "I could have done something with you then. Could have rounded up my cows and made a decent living instead of watching that boy of mine mess up his life."

As he looked at Charlie, a thoughtful expression came into his eyes. He rubbed his bristled chin, staring at her as if she were a poker hand and he was calculating the odds.

She dropped her eyes and swirled her spoon in her soup. Whatever wheels were turning in Harmon's head, she didn't want to oil them.

"Why not a Charlie?" he muttered. "I've taught enough green boys to be wranglers. I always said a girl could do better than some of them."

Charlie stared, wondering if Harmon's age had finally caught up with him. "Girls can't be cowboys, Harmon."

He eyed her like a horse trader considering a purchase. "Not much to you, and you can't ride worth beans. A good cow pony could make the difference, though."

Alexandra exchanged a panicked look with Charlie. "We don't have split skirts, and we'd have to ride astride."

"So long as you get the cattle going in the right direction..."

"I don't like cows," Maxine wrinkled her nose. "They smell terrible."

"It doesn't take much muscle to fire a gun."

"I like Bossy," Sydney observed helpfully. "She's nice."

"Dairy cows are completely different," Charlie snapped. "Longhorns are mean and nasty. Mama would have switched us if we'd thought of herding them." Western cattle were a different breed from their chubby, gentle dairy cow. Six legs that could twist on a dime supported a half-ton of menacing, twisted horns. Four eyes made it nearly impossible to sneak up on them, and a single twist of their head could hook a rider right off a horse. The cowboys who worked with them were a breed apart.

Harmon was still musing aloud. "Branding shouldn't be a problem, though roping..." He shook his balding head. "We'll see."

"No, Harmon!"

Harmon looked at Charlie calmly. "You'll have to wear pants."

She gritted her teeth. "I will not wear pants, Harmon, and I'm not going to be a cowboy."