"A powerful tale of revenge and perseverance in the face of danger." -Kirkus Reviews
In the summer of 1920, nineteen-year-old Saritaâs younger brother, JJ, is murdered by a ruthless tequila smuggler. The Texas Rangers have their hands full with Prohibition and border issues. Still, Sarita is stunned when they refuse to help.
JJâs death devastates her father. Without a male heir, will he give in to the oil prospector intent on buying their ranch? Even in his despair, he yearns for justice, but is too ill and weak to seek it.
Sarita isnât.
Determined to prove herself and change her fate, she crosses the Rio Grande into a world of deadly threatsâârattlesnakes, Pancho Villaâs rebels, and the killer sheâs hunting. Quickly, Sarita stumbles into a web of danger far bigger and more sinister than sheâd imagined. If she's caught, the consequences could jeopardize innocent lives and put her fatherâs safety at risk.
In a tumultuous landscape of social and political upheaval, what lines will Sarita cross to survive? Will her relentless pursuit of justice exact a price too steep to bear? If she succeedsââif she gets homeââwill she have earned her fatherâs respect? Will she have secured her familyâs future?
"A powerful tale of revenge and perseverance in the face of danger." -Kirkus Reviews
In the summer of 1920, nineteen-year-old Saritaâs younger brother, JJ, is murdered by a ruthless tequila smuggler. The Texas Rangers have their hands full with Prohibition and border issues. Still, Sarita is stunned when they refuse to help.
JJâs death devastates her father. Without a male heir, will he give in to the oil prospector intent on buying their ranch? Even in his despair, he yearns for justice, but is too ill and weak to seek it.
Sarita isnât.
Determined to prove herself and change her fate, she crosses the Rio Grande into a world of deadly threatsâârattlesnakes, Pancho Villaâs rebels, and the killer sheâs hunting. Quickly, Sarita stumbles into a web of danger far bigger and more sinister than sheâd imagined. If she's caught, the consequences could jeopardize innocent lives and put her fatherâs safety at risk.
In a tumultuous landscape of social and political upheaval, what lines will Sarita cross to survive? Will her relentless pursuit of justice exact a price too steep to bear? If she succeedsââif she gets homeââwill she have earned her fatherâs respect? Will she have secured her familyâs future?
CHAPTER 1
Sunlight shifted through the oak canopy above, golden rays glistening on my fingers, slick with blood and gloved in small brown and gray feathers. I picked up another quail from the pile at my feet, popping the head off and snapping the fragile wing bones. As I plucked it clean, small tufts of down sailed away like dandelion seeds, floating with the buzz of locusts and grasshoppers on the summer breeze. The lazy sound reminded me of childhood naps in the shade of the big live oak behind our house, of waking up in a hazy sweat to Mamaâs dinner call. My mother lay buried under that tree now, and everything had changed.
Holding the birdâs stiff feet in one hand, I pinched the film of skin around its thigh and peeled it away from the shiny meat underneath. A triangle of shotgun pellets pocked the rose-tinted breast, tiny copper cannonballs that had folded the bird mid-flight and sent it diving to the ground. I picked them out and turned the headless body over to scoop up the wormy intestines, dropping them onto a small mound of guts on the ground. Coyotes were probably circling already, nosing the wind.
I finished cleaning all the birds, shoved them into a bur-Â lap sack, and wiped my hands on the back of my canvas trou-sers, already soiled from a full day of ranch chores. Gathering my gear, I walked over to Buster. The horse had wandered to
1
NATALIE MUSGRAVE DOSSETT
the edge of a watering hole, grazing on sparse stalks of buffel grass not yet burnt crisp by the July sun.
As I pushed the .410 shotgun into the saddle scabbard, I paused, sensing a subtle change in the air. The insects had fallen silent; even the chortling of the white-winged doves roosting in the high branches had stopped. The hair on the back of my neck prickled. Buster raised his head, ears swiveling.
Turning in a circle, I searched the heat-wobbled horizon. The surrounding mesquite thicket stood waist-high, not tall enough to hide a horsebacker, but several nearby oak mottes, like the one I stood in, could provide plenty of cover for some-Â one wanting to keep out of sight. A chill ran down my arms despite the near hundred-degree temperature, the four miles to our house seeming to grow longer.
A minute or so passed before the insect noise stutter- started back up. Buster let out a snort, nudging my hip. He was ready to head home to the bucket of oats waiting in the barn. Whatever had caused the hushâa bobcat, a foxâmustâve passed.
I nudged the bird sack into the saddlebags, threw the reins over Busterâs head, and swung up onto his back. Tapping my heels against his sides, we moved out of the tree cover toward the road home. I tried to shake the feeling of being watched. On his morning rounds, Papa had discovered four cut fences and a butchered heifer way up at the north pens, which had me jumpy. Heâd taken some ranch hands there to mend the holes and round up the straying cattle. Barbwire might have put an end to the open range for livestock, but trespassers only needed a good pair of wire cutters.
Thereâd been a surge in activity over the past several months, news of some sort of trouble arriving like the hot gulf breeze, unwanted and inevitable. The threats of cattle rustlers, bandits, and thieves had always existed, but since Prohibition had gone into effect, tequila smugglers had been added to the mix. They seemed particularly brazen, taking
2
SARITA
what they wanted as they crossed ranches north of the Rio Grande, heading to San Diego to sell their loads.
I urged Buster into a gallop, zigzagging through the scrub. As we came over a small rise, my breath caught. A rider was leading an extra horse down the middle of the road. I yanked the reins back, reaching automatically for my gunâthen got a better look and settled back in the saddle.
My younger brother sat astride a little dapple-gray horse he was breaking in. When he saw me, he pulled up.
âHey, Sarita,â JJ called.
His colt pranced impatiently at the end of a lead rope attached to his saddle horn. Twister had been JJâs payment for working a remuda of wild mustangs for the neighboring Arrowhead Ranch. He didnât go anywhere without him; heâd have let Twister sleep by his bed if Papa wouldâve allowed it.
âYou headed home?â I asked, trotting up beside him.
âNot yet. I need to work her a while longer,â JJ replied, referring to the young mare he rode. âThey want her ready for round-up next week, and sheâs still pretty squirrelly.â
As if to prove him right, the mustang skipped sideways, throwing her head up and down like an impatient child.
âWoah, there, Bluebird,â he soothed, patting her neck.
Weâd both been riding since almost before we could walk, but JJ had a way with horses; some even called it a gift. Heâd earned quite a reputation breaking wild mustangs and bust-Â ing broncos even grown men had given up on. The problem was that all JJ ever wanted to do was work horses. Our father didnât mind the extra money it brought in, so long as JJâs ranch work got doneâwhich it never did. At least, not by him. His gift was my curse.
âYou better be back before Papa gets home,â I said. âYouâve got chores and Iâm done covering for you.â
âYeah, I know.â His eyes fell on the top of the bird sack sticking out of my saddlebag. âHow many did you get?â
âTwelve shots, twelve birds.â
3
NATALIE MUSGRAVE DOSSETT
âGuess thatâs supper then,â he said.
JJ leaned over to scratch the white star marking the coltâs forehead as Twister nibbled at his leg.
âYou treat that horse like an overgrown puppy,â I remarked.
JJ grinned. âHeâs a hundred times better than any dumb old dog.â
Despite myself, his love for Twister touched my heart. Heâd smiled more in the two weeks since heâd brought the colt home than he had in the whole two years since Mama had died.
âMust be nice messing around with ponies all day,â I teased, slapping the flap of my saddlebag closed. âI, on the other hand, have to get home and do some real work.â
âYou got no idea what youâre talking about.â JJâs blue eyes scowled at me from under his dove-gray Stetson. âSaddle- breaking mustangs is real work.â
âReal or not,â I shot back, âtraining other peopleâs horses has got nothing to do with our ranch, which is what you should be concerning yourself with.â
He rolled his eyes, as sick of this argument as I was. In my heart, I wished my father would give in and teach me the cat-Â tle operation. I was better suited to it than JJ, and Papa needed the help. Heâd had two more bad spells over the last several months. Dr. Andrew had told him his heart was getting weak and he needed to cut back, but he was too damn stubborn to listen.
âSooner or later, youâre going to have to learn how to run La BarronenÌa like Papa wants,â I said. âYouâre thirteen already, and he canât work as hard as he used to.â
JJ sighed and yanked off his hat, running a hand through sweat-damp hair that had grown so long it curled below his ears.
âYouâre pissed no matter what I do; you been mad ever since Jackson left,â he said, not looking me in the eye. âIt ainât my fault he cut and run.â
4
SARITA
Anger crept up my neck. Jackson had vanished about a year ago. Two weeks after heâd asked me to marry him. No one had heard from him since. For a while, it had been good fod-Â der for gossipâdid something happen to him? Did he get cold feet? Eventually people found other things to talk about. In spite of all my efforts, it still hurt.
âItâs âisnâtâ not âainât,â and you need a haircut before people mistake you for a girl,â I snapped, glaring until a frown pulled at his mouth. âSee, I can say hurtful things too.â
âSorry,â he mumbled.
Bluebird bounced forward like she was playing hopscotch. JJ shoved his Stetson on and pulled the reins in. âWe done? Sheâs getting antsy.â
âGuess so. Donât go too far off, and donât be late.â
âYes, maâam, Miss Sarita,â he smirked in a singsong voice. Ignoring his taunt, I kicked Buster into a canter. I didnât
enjoy bossing JJ around any more than he liked me doing it, but Mamaâs death had put me in charge of running the house and raising himâwhether either of us wanted it that way or not.
I reached the house pasture and unhooked the latch to the wooden gate. It swung open, old rusty hinges groaning the way Papa did first thing in the morning. I didnât bother to dismount and drag the gate closed since JJ should be back soon. Buster made a beeline for the big oak doors of the barn, which stood open like two arms waiting to embrace the small-Â est breath of air.
After dismounting, I pulled the shotgun out of its scab-Â bard, leaning it against the wall, then yanked the birds out of the saddlebags. A pack of black horseflies appeared as soon as I set the bag down, circling like miniature buzzards. I rolled the top of the burlap tighter, then unsaddled Buster and put the rig away in the tack room. After he ate a handful of oats, I walked him out to the corral. He nickered a greeting to the other cowpony in the pen on his way to the water trough. As
5
NATALIE MUSGRAVE DOSSETT
I dragged the gate closed, several loose boards shook along the bottom. Fixing them was on JJâs to-do list.
I glanced down the road past the gate, surprised to see dust boiling up in front of the brush line less than half a mile away. Maybe JJ would actually be home in time to get some work done. I stepped up on a stump, shading my eyes to get a better look.
Bluebird materialized in front of the dirt cloud, gallop-Â ing flat-out. JJ bobbed in the saddle with her motion, reins held high. Twister sprinted behind them, long, slender legs flying, loose lead rope sailing next to him. JJ never worked a green-broke horse that hard, and running the colt down the uneven, gravelled road could damage his young bones. JJ slapped Bluebirdâs hip with the end of the reins, urging her even faster. Alarm snaked around my chest as the screen of dust behind them parted and two riders charged out. JJ wasnât running; he was being chased.
I raced for the barn, grabbed the .410, and thumbed off the safety. The riders thundered through the open gate as I came out. I raised the shotgun to my shoulder and pointed it at the strangers. They were more than twenty yards away, but they caught sight of the gun and pulled back.
JJ rode up next to me and yanked hard on the reins. The mare skidded to a stop, hooves spraying pebbles as Twister crashed into her backside.
âTequileros!â he yelled, leaping out of the saddle.
A tremble ran the length of my spine. I gripped the gun tighter.
âGet behind me,â I said, fighting to keep my voice even. JJ balked and reached for the .410, but I swung it away from him. âFor once, do as I say.â
Chest heaving, he grabbed Bluebirdâs reins then reached out to catch the lead dangling from Twisterâs halter. The excited colt stamped his feet, throwing his head up and down, nostrils flaring.
6
SARITA
âBuenas tardes, senÌorita,â one of the smugglers called out. âYou can put the gun down. We just want the horses.â
Amusement tinged his deep voice, but his hand rested on a revolver holstered at his hip. A black cowboy hat sat pushed back on his head, exposing a hard, lean face. Thick stubble covering his chin matched the red color of the hair sticking out from under his hat. It was his eyes that held my atten-Â tion, though, glowing pale and cold, like a coyoteâs did in the moonlight.
The straw sombrero the other man wore cast a shadow down to the fringe of his bleached-out mustache. A tangled white beard fluttered to his waist. His slender body leaned over the saddle horn, making him seem old and frail compared to his partner, but the gun belt and revolver on his waist made him just as dangerous.
I sucked in air and placed a finger on the trigger.
âGo away or Iâll shoot,â I said.
âAh, senÌorita, for such a pretty girl, you are not very polite,â
sneered the man in the black hat. âWe will leave, I assure you, but we are taking the horses.â
âI told you, mister,â JJ blurted out, âyou ainât taking my horse!â
The red-haired smuggler slid his revolver out in one smooth gesture, aiming it at JJ. I swallowed hard. Iâd lost my advantage in a split second, no longer the only one pointing a gun.
âIt has been entertaining chasing you around, ninÌo,â he said, âbut I have no more time for this.â
The tequilero urged his horse a step toward us. The instinct to back away was so strong I had to concentrate to keep my feet planted.
âAs for you, senÌorita,â he continued, aiming his stare at me, âif you do not put the gun down, I will shoot the boy. I prom- ise, I can kill him before you pull that trigger.â
I held the gun steady as I weighed his words. He didnât look like a man who bluffed.
7
NATALIE MUSGRAVE DOSSETT
âIf not, my partner will kill you both.â He shrugged, the gesture terrifying in its casualness. âAre the horses worth it?â The air thickened, fighting my lungs. The old man could draw any moment. Between the two of them, they had up to twelve bullets loaded. I had two. I was a good shot, but I couldnât kill them both at once. Trying to shoot one then the other could throw my aim off, and then Iâd just pepper them with birdshot. The .410 was useless at that distance against a pair of six-shooters; I might as well have been holding a
broomstick.
I lowered the gun a few inches.
âBueno.â The bandit rested the revolver on his thigh, eyes
glittering. âWe have a deal: the horses for the boyâs life. TomaÌs, aÌndele.â
âSiÌ, Javier.â
TomaÌs swung his wiry body out of the saddle and walked over to the horses. He took Bluebirdâs reins, then tugged Twisterâs lead out of JJâs fist. As he turned, pulling the horses away, JJâs face burst open. A bellow exploded from his mouth as he jumped TomaÌs from behind.
TomaÌs lurched sideways, his sombrero flying off, a long, white braid tumbling down his back. Panic and anger seeped into my veins. This wasnât a schoolyard squabble. JJ was risk-Â ing his life over a horse.
âStop it!â I yelled.
JJ paid no attention. He grabbed TomaÌsâs hair like it was the tail of a calf he meant to wrestle to the ground. The old man dropped the leads but held his own, the two of them scuf-Â fling around in a circle. As Twister and Bluebird shied away, I jerked my eyes to Javier. Heâd moved closer, pointing the gun as if waiting for a clean shot.
I held the .410 by the stock and rushed at JJ. Grabbing his arm with my free hand, I yanked as hard as I could. He stum-bled and let go of TomaÌsâs hair. The old man leapt out of reach then turned back to face JJ.
8
SARITA
âQueÌ pasoÌ, mâijo? Please, give us the horses,â he begged, arms outstretched. âLo vas a enojar!â
âI ainât your son, and I donât give a shit if he gets mad!â JJ shouted. He walked over to Twister and grabbed his lead. âYou canât use my horse to haul your goddamn tequila. He ainât old enough. Youâll break his back.â
The click of the revolver hit my gut like a punch.
âDo not make me kill you, ninÌo,â Javier growled.
âJavier, por favor.â Alarm rang through TomaÌsâs voice.
âGive him the horses, JJ,â I said through clenched teeth.
âNow.â
JJâs entire face contorted, his lips pressing together in a
struggle to hold back tears. Twister was the first thing heâd loved since Mama died, but acting like a child hanging on to his favorite toy was going to get him shot.
âDo it!â I shouted.
To my horror, Javier nodded at me, as if we were on the same side. Then his coyote eyes slid down my body and a new fear sliced through me, one that had been hovering just out-Â side my thoughts.
JJ strode to Bluebird.
âHere, take this one,â he said, holding the mareâs reins out. âLoad all the tequila you want on her.â He pointed at the cor- ral. âThereâs two more in there. Leave the colt here and you can have them all.â
Javierâs face darkened.
âI will take whatever I want, gringo. I do not need your permission.â No humor left in his tone, his glare moved to JJâs waist. âAhorita, I want the horses, all of the horses, and that belt buckle.â
âWhat the hell?â JJ placed his hand over the silver buckle, but Javierâs focus had turned back to me.
âMaybe I want the pretty girl, too,â he said. âI am fond of the blondes, las rubias.â
His voice rumbled through the thick heat like a boul-Â der sliding downhill. My stomach knotted, stories banging
9
NATALIE MUSGRAVE DOSSETT
around in my head of kidnapped girlsâraped, mutilated, sold into slavery, beaten until nothing remained but empty shells. Ghost girls better off dead.
JJâs hand fell from his waist.
âDonât touch my sister.â The bravado had drained from his voice, leaving it raw with fearâfear that boomeranged through me.
TomaÌs took a tentative step forward.
âPor favor,â he pleaded to Javier, âsolomente los caballos, no?â âAll that long, yellow hair, TomaÌs,â Javier mused, nar-
rowed eyes groping every inch of my body. âShe would be worth more than the horses.â
JJ threw a chastened look at me, his face the color of cali-Â che dust. He led both horses over to TomaÌs.
âTake them,â he said. âLeave her alone. Please.â
My fingers tingled as I gripped the shotgun. Javier was closer now. Maybe Iâd hurt him enough to buy us time to run to the house.
âGet the other horses from the pen, viejo,â Javier said to TomaÌs.
The old man hesitated for a moment, squinting up at Javier like he was trying to discern his next move. Would he stay put and wait, or shoot JJ and grab me?
âDate prisa,â Javier barked.
TomaÌs handed over the leads and shuffled to the corral. âHey, ninÌo.â Javier gestured at JJâs waist with his gun. âYou
forget something?â
âGive him the buckle,â I said.
The smile slid back onto Javierâs face.
âYou like to tell little boys what to do, rubia?â His sugges-
tive tone, the crawl of those eyes across my skin, sent a frozen stone barreling through my gut. âWouldnât you prefer a man to take charge?â
Breathe. If you shoot, aim at his face.
âLook, Iâm getting it for you.â A quake shook JJâs words,
10
SARITA
fingers fumbling to undo his belt.
TomaÌs came out of the corral with Buster and the other
cowpony. As the horses approached, Twister let out an excited whinny. If JJ heard it, he didnât react. Yanking the large, silver rectangle free, he walked toward Javier.
âNo, no,â Javier said. âI want you to bring it to me, rubia.â
His cold eyes repelled me like flaming torches. I couldnât move.
âCome on,â he teased, beckoning me with a jerk of his chin. âI wonât bite.â
I stayed still, arm twitching with the weight of the gun.
âSo brave before. Now you are being shy, como una virgen.â He cackledâthe harsh caw of a green jay. âHas no one been between those white thighs of yours yet? I could be your first. You will not have to tell me what to do, gringa.â
âGo to hell, you piece of shit!â
JJ hurled the buckle. It flew at Javier like a spear, striking his face with a sharp crack.
âPendejo!â Javier exclaimed, touching the blood already welling up on his cheekbone. âI told you not to make me kill you.â
Javier aimed his revolver.
âNo!â TomaÌs yelled.
âGet down!â I screamed, lunging for JJ.
The explosion ripped through the air, slamming into my
ears, stopping me as if Iâd smacked into a wall. JJ shuddered, stumbling backward. He tried to steady himself, but his legs folded. He sank to the ground, wide eyes fastening on mine before he pitched back. His head landed in the loose dirt with a thud, the Stetson lifting from his scalp like a half-open lid.
The earth stopped spinning.
Get up, JJ!
Heâd scramble to his feet any second. Iâd have to stop him from rushing at Javier like a crazed bull. But he didnât move. My vision darkened. The outline of his body, sprawled on the
11
NATALIE MUSGRAVE DOSSETT
ground, grew fuzzy. The harder I stared, the less I could see. Everything funneled into the dark spot growing on his chest.
âAy, Dios miÌo!â
TomaÌsâs cry snapped the world into focus. JJâs wet gasps cut through the ringing in my ears. I dropped to my knees at his side, terrified by the crimson circle widening across his shirt. Too much blood, too fast. I pressed both hands against his chest, trying to staunch the flow. A coughing fit shook his body, red mist spraying across my face and neck.
âItâs okay, itâs okay,â I whispered. âYouâll be okay.â
Dusty boots appeared by JJâs head. I looked up into TomaÌsâs watery eyes.
âHelp me!â I pleaded. âI have to stop the bleeding.â
âSenÌorita, no se que puedo hacer.â The old man raised his arms, a pained look deepening the creases in his face.
âBasta, TomaÌs,â Javier snarled from behind him. âVaÌmanos!â âPero, el muchacho?â the old man said, a quiver in his voice. âNo le hace, the world will not miss another goddamn
gringo.â Javier spat the words out like venom, then pointed the revolver at me. âBring her.â
My throat closed with terror, but I kept my hands clamped over JJâs chest. If Javier wanted me, heâd have to rip me off my brother.
âThe Rangers could be nearby,â TomaÌs said in Spanish, shaking his head. âThey might have heard the gun.â
Javier paused, scoping the horizon for a moment. Rangers passed through our ranch often. They, or anyone else within a few miles, could have heard the gunshot and be racing this way to investigate. Javier had time to get away with the horses, but trying to wrestle me onto a saddle would be a big risk.
âBasta. This has taken too much of my time already.â Javier exhaled in a long, exaggerated hiss. âGet the goddamn buckle. Letâs go, viejo.â
Javier holstered his gun and reined toward the gate, yanking Twister and the other three horses after him. TomaÌs
12
SARITA
risked one more furtive glance my way before retrieving the buckle and his hat. He climbed onto his saddle and galloped after Javier.
The drumbeat of retreating hooves was soon lost in the cries I could no longer hold in. I looked down at the pool of thick, dark blood stretching out from under JJ, bile prick-Â ing the insides of my cheeks. The bullet had gone all the way through his chest. The chances it had not punctured a lung were few. It sounded like he was drowning because he was.
âHang on, JJ.â I moved my head close to his. âYou hear me?â
His eyes fluttered open. A flicker of hope lit my heart as he tried to focus on my face.
âI know Iâm always bossing you around,â I said, forcing a grin, âbut this time I mean it.â
A smile tugged at his lips, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. I wiped it away, leaving my hand on his cheek. âYou know I love you, right?â
âYeah ... I know,â he wheezed. âIs ... he gone?â
âYes. Heâs gone. Youâre safe.â
JJâs head lolled from side to side.
âCouldnât let him ... take you,â he mumbled between gasps.
âPapa said ... Iâm supposed to watch out for you.â
A small hand slipped through my ribs and grabbed my
heart.
âTwister?â His lips barely moved.
âHeâll be just fine. Weâre both okay,â I choked out. âYou
did good, JJ.â
I bent, pushing the corona of curls off his forehead to kiss
him. As my lips met his cool, damp skin, his labored breathing calmed. Encouraged, I raised my head, only to find a look of frightened bewilderment hovering on his face.
âJJ?â
His crystal-blue gaze sharpened for a moment, then his eyes rolled back. A loud gush of air escaped his mouth, and his body went limp.
13
NATALIE MUSGRAVE DOSSETT
âNo!â I shook his shoulders. More blood welled up from the hole in his chest. âBreathe, damnit!â
Why couldnât he ever do what he was told? I pressed my ear to his breast. Is that my heart pounding or his? I grabbed his wrist, feeling for a pulse the way Mama had done with her patients. There was nothing, not the slightest tap. I sat back on my heels, hot tears racing down my face.
The .410 wavered on the ground in my blurred vision. I scrambled to my feet and snatched it up, aiming blindly, pull-ing the trigger. Pellets rained down in front of me. I fired again, knowing it was futile, craving the slap of the butt against my collarbone, the explosion in my earsâanything to rid me of the helplessness coiled around my throat. I blinked my eyes clear. The tequileros had disappeared into the thick brush, leav- ing nothing behind, as if theyâd never existed.
The caliche road leading away from the house glimmered in the fading light. For a fleeting moment, I wanted to run down it, to disappear forever into the endless sea of mesquite.
I forced myself to look at JJâs face. His innocent expression made him look even younger than he was. I lowered myself to the ground next to him, reaching out to caress the dirt and blood and my own tears off his face. Heâd been so proud of the recent growth of peach fuzz above his top lip, dancing around as heâd informed me that heâd soon be shaving like Papa.
Papa. Thinking about him was like touching hot coal; I couldnât bear it for more than a second.
With trembling fingers, I pressed JJâs lids closed. His blood was everywhereâcaking in the grooves of my knuck-Â les, drenching my clothes, speckling my forearms. It glued my hair to my face and neck, tightening my skin as it dried. The raw stench of it drew the horseflies from the barn. They began to circle, the sound growing louder and louder, filling my head with an unrelenting drone. I swatted until my arms grew weak, but it made no difference; insects crawled over the ruin of my brother.
14
SARITA
A void opened within me; a chasm I knew would never close. I pulled JJâs body into my lap, holding him as Iâd done in the days after Mama had died, rocking back and forth while the thirsty soil around us faded from bright ruby red to dull reddish gray.
He was trying to save me.
Time froze, holding me prisoner until the first whispers of evening blew across my slick skin. Iâd begun to shiver by the time I heard Papaâs Ford sputtering in the distance. The noise grew louder. The truck came through the gate, brakes squeal-Â ing as it lurched to a stop by the barn. Papa climbed out of the cab, a ghostly silhouette in the twilight. He let the tailgate down and started pulling his tools out.
I opened my mouth, forcing sound from my lips.
âPapa?â
His eyes searched the dimness until they found us. The
post digger he held dropped to the ground. He stumbled for-Â ward, stopping at the edge of the stained circle of dirt, his low-pitched cry slugging me in the chest.
âMy god! What have you done?â
In the eponymous novel by Natalie Musgrave Dossett, Sarita and her brother JJ are putting their horses away in the barn when two tequileros approach. A fight for the horses ensues, and when JJ is fatally shot, Saritaâs desire for justice ignites. She also hopes to prove to her father that she is capable of running the ranch, and she needs to do it before he gives up and decides to sell to a local smarmy oil-prospector. With a missing fiancĂ©, a severely ill and depressed father, and Texas Rangers too busy to look into the case, Sarita has no one to turn to but herself. Inspired by her friend Maude Langley, a no-nonsense, highly capable, and modern frontierswoman, Sarita takes off for Mexico. On the journey, she experiences unspeakable violence and danger at every turn, and she may even be forced to commit atrocities of her own.
As Sarita travels through Mexico, the experiences she has are life-changing. She starts out with a simple worldview and a childâs conception of justice. Her search for justice for JJ will require her to make difficult and sometimes questionable decisions, and she will have to confront death face to face many times. Reuniting with old friends and meeting new people, she discovers that not everyone is who they seem and that their choices are not always theirs to make. Musgrave Dossetâs tale is exquisitely written. She brings her characters to life, and her prose never gets in the way. From page one, we are emotionally invested, and her masterful pacing keeps us turning the pages. Maude, TomĂĄs, Alicia and Griselda, and even Patricio and Katarina are all brought to life and feel less like minor characters than the protagonists whose stories we just havenât read yet.
Sarita is an exciting twist on a Wild West tale that will leave you wishing it would never end. This is a book you donât want to miss and one that youâll keep coming back to.