Texas Lover

"Sons of thunder."

Rorie stomped her foot.  She rarely resorted to such unladylike outbursts, but the strain of her predicament was beginning to wear: She had privately conceded she could not face Hannibal Dukker with the same laughable lack of shooting skill she had displayed before Wes Rawlins.  So, swallowing her great distaste for guns, and the people who solved their problems with them, she had forced herself to ride out to the woods early, before the children arrived for their lessons, to practice her marksmanship yet again.

It was a good thing she did.

She had just fired her sixth round--her sixth round--and that abominable whiskey bottle still sat untouched on the top of her barrel.  If she had been a fanciful woman--which she most assuredly was not--she might have imagined that impudent vessel was taking great pains to provoke her. Why, it hadn't rattled once when her bullets whizzed by.  A ... read full excerpt from Texas Lover ebook