My name is Kate Rebel. I married John Rebel when I was eighteen years old and then bore him seven sons. We worked the family ranch, which John later inherited. We put everything we had into buying more land so our sons would have a legacy. We didn’t have much, but we had love.
The McCray Ranch borders Rebel Ranch on the east and the McCrays have forever been a thorn in my family’s side. They’ve cut our fences, dammed up creeks to limit our water supply, and shot one of our prize bulls. Ezra McCray threatened to shoot our sons if he caught them jumping his fences again. We tried to keep our boys away, but they are boys—young and wild.
One day Jude and Phoenix, two of our youngest, were out riding together. When John heard shots, he immediately went to find his boys. They lay on the ground, blood oozing from their heads. Ezra McCray was astride a horse twenty yards away with a rifle in his hand. John drew his gun and fired, killing Ezra instantly. Both boys survived with only minor wounds. Since my husband was protecting his children, he didn’t spend even one night in jail. This escalated the feud that still goes on today.
The man I knew as my husband died that day. He couldn’t live with what he’d done, and started to drink heavily. I had to take over the ranch and the raising of our boys. John died ten years later. We’ve all been affected by the tragedy, especially my sons.
They are grown men now and deal in different ways with the pain of losing their father. One day I pray my boys will be able to put this behind them and live healthy, normal lives with women who will love them the way I loved their father.
Elias: the fourth son—the fighter.
The cowboy’s last fight.
If hell froze over, Elias Rebel would be standing right there enjoying the cool breeze. Just about every woman in Horseshoe, Texas, over the age of eighteen and under the age of forty, had said those words to him at one time or another.
Work. Beer. Women. That defined Elias. A lot of people said he was different than his brothers. But he didn’t care what people thought. He was who he was, doing things his way and on his terms.
After a full day of work, Elias was dog tired and headed for Rowdy’s beer joint, his favorite place to unwind. He sat at a table with his booted feet propped on a chair, a cold Bud Light in his hand. With anticipation, he contemplated the bleached blonde in a corner booth. Tight skinny jeans clung to her rounded hips and long legs. A low-cut knit top hugged her breasts and he could see cleavage all the way to Dallas. Yep. Just his type.
There was just one small problem: the Dwayne Johnson–type guy sitting across from her. In jeans, boots, a leather vest and a T-shirt with a pack of cigarettes rolled up in a sleeve, the biker dude had tattoos running up his arms that made his bulging muscles more pronounced. With one blow the guy could probably kill him.
There was nothing Elias liked more than a good fight, especially if the prize was the blonde. But sometimes common sense prevailed, even with Elias.
She glanced his way and smiled. He lifted his beer in response. Things were looking up.
Just then the front door opened and the six o’clock June sunlight bolted into the dark bar like a flash of lightning. It was blinding. Elias blinked and turned his head toward the door. The woman silhouetted there had strawberry blonde hair and he would have known her anywhere. She sashayed her pretty butt to the bar to talk to Bob, the owner of Rowdy’s.
Forgetting the blonde, Elias got to his feet and made his way over to her. “Well, well, if it isn’t the long-lost Maribel McCray.”
“Go away, Elias,” she replied without even looking at him, the way she used to do in high school.
“Oh, she remembers my name and even my voice.”
“Go away, Elias,” she said again, still not looking at him. Her full attention was on Bob.
“Are you sure you haven’t seen him?” she asked Bob.
“No, Maribel. Young boys don’t come in here.”
Digging in the big purse slung over her shoulder, she pulled out a pen. She reached for a napkin and wrote on it, and then pushed it toward Bob. “That’s my number. Please call if you see him.”
“Sure thing, Maribel.” Bob eased the napkin toward himself. “It’s nice to have you back in Horseshoe.”
She turned and walked out without another word. If there was a sexier woman, Elias hadn’t met her. In school, with thick hair hanging down to her hips and a figure that was made for a young boy’s dreams, she had personified hotness. She hadn’t changed, except her hair was shorter and in a ponytail.
“What did she want?” Elias asked.
“She’s looking for her son.”
Elias rested his forearms on the bar, twirling his can of beer. “She has a son. She must’ve gotten married. Wonder where she’s been all these years.”
“I didn’t ask, Elias.”
In high school, Elias had had a big crush on Maribel, but she hadn’t given him the time of day, which was just as well since she was a McCray and he was a Rebel. There was something about attraction, though, that transcended family feuds.
She’d left school mysteriously in April before graduation and everyone had wondered what had happened to her. The rumor was she had gotten pregnant and her dad, Ira McCray, had kicked her out of the house. The other rumor was she’d run off to get married. The rumor mill in Horseshoe was alive and buzzing like bees around a honeypot. A lot of people had felt its sting. Even though Elias didn’t listen to rumors, he knew certain women thrived on them. That’s the way it was in a small town. But soon everyone had forgotten about Maribel McCray. What was she doing back in town?
Then it hit him. Elias’s brother Phoenix had married Rosemary McCray and Rosemary, or Rosie as everyone called her, was having a difficult pregnancy. She was confined to bed until the birth in late August. Maribel must’ve come home to help