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“Lots of the descendants of the original fighters are. The Highwaters, the Herdmanns, the Raffertys, the—”
“Rafferty?”
The woman nodded. “Also one of the founding families, and they still live on their ranch a ways out of town.”
It wasn’t that common a name—it had to be the same family. And they were supposed to go to his studio, on a ranch nearby. “Is that…Rylan Rafferty’s family?”
“Yes, it is,” she answered. “You know him?”
“Only his work. I’m here to help do a story on him forTexas Artworks.”
“I heard about that. I was surprised he agreed to it. He usually avoids the limelight.”
Kaitlyn smiled at the oddity of that in this day and age of revolving fifteen minutes of fame. It was another reason she’d agreed to come do the shoot for the article, to meet an artist who didn’t want publicity. “Rumor has it someone in Austin put in a call to suggest it to the magazine, and the magazine in turn dropped that name when they contacted him.”
“Ah. A little famous person pressure. The former gov, maybe. Rylan likes the guy, and not just because he was a real boost to his career.”
And she liked this woman, Kaitlyn decided. Friendly yet professional, and that crayon-red streak in her hair suggested she wasn’t the stereotypical librarian. She led Kaitlyn to the library wall just inside the front doors, where there were three shelves labeled “Local Interest.” Along with tourist guides and biographies of famous people from the town there were paper copies of what appeared to be the local paper, titledThe Defender, which she supposed hearkened back to the battle the statue commemorated. The next two shelves were full of history books both old and new, first shelf Last Stand, second shelf Texas.
“If you want the most concise history of what happened at the last stand, this is your best bet,” Joella said, pulling out a slim volume bound with a cover that was a facsimile of the famous Lone Star flag. “It covers only Last Stand and was co-written by one of our history teachers at the high school, whose family was also there. Her co-writer was Shane’s—the current chief you just met—father, who was also our police chief before his death, and a very knowledgeable history buff as well.”
Kaitlyn hesitated about offering commiseration on the death, but it didn’t seem expected and might be out of place under the circumstances, so she didn’t.
“Now, if you prefer your learning live,” Joella went on, “and since you’ll be out at the ranch anyway I assume?” Kaitlyn nodded. “Then you’ve got a built-in source for all the history you could want. In fact, if you want every little detail of what happened here, Maggie Rafferty, Ry’s mom, is the one to ask. She knows our history inside and out.”
“Good to know,” Kaitlyn answered with a smile. “Thanks.”
“I’ll leave you to it, then.”
The book was quite readable and infused with the great respect the authors had obviously felt for their town’s history. Occurring between the Alamo and San Jacinto, chronologically if not geographically, it had happened when a wandering contingent of Santa Anna’s troops had decided to widen their reach and take the little outpost, which at the time consisted of a blacksmith, a trading post, and the saloon. The saloon being the only structure offering any chance of survival—by then the locals knew about the slaughter of the defenders at the Alamo—those who could get there holed up in the stone building and made their stand. Thanks to the likes of Asa Fuhrmann, and those other names Joella had mentioned, including the Raffertys, those Texian fighters had held out long enough that the far bigger and better-armed troop decided the small outpost wasn’t worth any more lives. And after winning, those fighters had decided to stay and make lives on the ground they’d fought for.
It was the kind of history that made her proud to be a Texan.
It was the kind of history that made her sometimes doubt if she was up to the standard.
Chapter Two
Rylan Rafferty openedhis eyes with a start, just as he was about to slide off his workbench stool and hit the floor. He jerked upright, one arm knocking his small sketch pad to the floor, the other hitting the toolbox on his workbench. The sharp, quick pain snapped him fully awake. He had no idea what time it was and wasn’t sure he knew where his phone was to check. He’d done away with the clock that had been on the far wall long ago; his work didn’t run on a schedule, and it was just another distraction.
As was his hair, which he now shoved back, stifling a yawn. It was time for a haircut. He tended to ignore it until it got to be annoying, getting in his way, and that tickle on his forehead was the first sign. Last night that errant strand had distracted him just as the solution to a design he’d been working on had flitted into his mind, and he’d lost it. He’d been up until the wee hours trying to recapture it. Unsuccessfully.
He picked up the sketch pad from the floor. It was bent a little at the corners, but that was more from carrying it around in his pocket than anything. Then he found his phone buried under a pile of discarded pages from the pad. Nine a.m. Late, for ranchers. He was lucky his family cut him slack. It was—he looked again—Monday, so he hadn’t lost a day. That had happened a time or two and reorienting himself was an effort.
He was even aware it was a new year, which only three days into it was a minor miracle. Although it would be hard to forget that party at the Last Stand Saloon New Year’s Eve. He’d imbibed more than usual in the process of toasting his two older brothers and their ladies, and then had collided with that woman outside the restrooms. She had turned…predatory, and only what little sobriety he’d held on to allowed him to extricate himself.
And he wondered what he’d have done if she hadn’t had that wedding ring on her left hand. It had been a while, after all.
He shook off the admittedly cloudy memories. He walked over to his small kitchen setup, which consisted of a few feet of counter and cupboards, a small refrigerator, a microwave, toaster and coffeemaker. The coffeepot was down to the dregs and looked suspiciously thick when he swirled what was left. Wondered if there was any left at the big house. Decided, given his state, it was worth a try.
He blinked, then squinted as he stepped outside, pondered if it was worth it to go back for his sunglasses. It was Texas-sunny out, already too warm for a jacket. And a far cry from the rare bout of snow they’d had, fittingly, on Christmas Eve just ten days ago.
The day his brother Chance had truly come home.
That thought put a smile on his face and he decided he didn’t need the shades.
Further proof of the miracle that had occurred was the fact that Chance and his redhead were at the house. He spotted Chance’s palomino Dorado, and the ranch’s docile guest horse, Latte, at the rail next to the front porch. His brother at the house, on a day that wasn’t Sunday, the one day their mother’s strict orders brought them all together. His smile widened.
That redhead, Ariel Larson, happened to be just inside the door when he opened it. Impulsively he pulled her into a fierce hug.
