The Texas Guide's Claim

1. Stetson

ONE

Stetson

There was an intruder on my family’s land…

…again.

It felt like this was becoming a thing—I went out to check for dangerous animals, downed trees, any hazards…found people. I didn’t like that this was becoming a thing. I preferred to have the property to myself, just me and my dog.

But here I was.

Absolutely certain there was someone out here who wasn’t supposed to be.

I trekked out toward a remote corner of Holt Creek, Buck up ahead of me, my shotgun slung over my back.

I had picked up the trail about twenty minutes ago—tracks leading out of the creek, human hiking boot prints in the mud.

Whoever it was, they’d dropped a pencil.

Had small shoes too, maybe some troublemaking kid.

Buck’s ears perked up ahead of me.

He hunkered down and let out a low, warning growl.

Then I heard what he’d heard—a splash in the creek ahead, then a muttered curse in a high-pitched voice.

I grumbled my own curse, then slung the gun around just in case. Never knew out here; last year we’d had a bunch of damned human traffickers running around across the property line. I kept my eyes straight ahead, letting Buck lead the way…

…and I found a girl.

She was standing in a wide, sludgy bend where the water ran slow and dropped everything it carried. We’d almost lost a calf in that mud two years back. It looked like nothing, but it ate boots whole.

She was in it up to her shins, one arm braced against a half-submerged log, hauling at her own leg like she could pull it out through sheer stubbornness.

“Shite,” she muttered in a startlingly clear Irish accent. “I just had to…”

“Don’t move,” I said, raising my voice.

She looked up at me, eyes wide. She was pale…

freckled, with dark hair and grey-green eyes.

Her hair was up in a messy bun, pulled away from her face, a floral-print gaiter around her neck.

Hiking pants, the zip-off kind, already undone at the knee.

The finishing touch was a burnt orange UT ball cap, a worn longhorn embroidered in white on the front panel.

“Hi,” she said. “I could use a hand.”

She saw the gun.

“You have a gun.”

I scowled. “You’re on my land. Pretty typical for Texans to show you a firearm when you’re trespassing.”

“I’m not trespassing, I’m—” She yanked at her leg. The mud sucked back. “Okay. That’s not moving.”

“Stop pulling.”

“What else am I supposed to do when the big scary cowboy is brandishing a gun at me rather than helping?”

I grunted and slung the gun off my shoulder, setting it against a rock. Buck sat—good boy, as usual. I took a careful step into the water where I knew I could still get leverage, the cool stream instantly soaking my boot and jeans, then extended my hand.

“Come on, then. Give me your hand.”

She let go of the log…put her hand out and reached across to me.

Took my hand in hers.

Her nails were painted different colors: alternating blue and green.

“Other one too,” I said, gripping her wrist firmly. “When I say pull, you pull straight up. Not toward me.”

“Straight up,” she said. “Got it.”

“And…pull.”

I pulled.

The mud let go all at once, a wet crack, and she came up out of it with one boot and one bare, extremely muddy foot. I hardly got a chance to inspect the damage, though—she jerked forward, lost her balance, balled her fists in my shirt…and we both went down.

Me flat on my back in the damn creek. Her on top of me.

Both of us drenched.

I sat up fast, pushing her off of me and into the water herself. She sputtered, shaking her head and sending a spray of water over me.

Given the May heat, it didn’t feel awful, if I was being honest. Not that I was going to say that to her.

“I am…so sorry,” she said. “My god.”

“You’re fine.”

“You’re soaked.”

“So are you.”

She pushed up to stand, succeeding only in wobbling for a second before sliding on the algae again. Mud caked her pants and one side of her shirt, creek water everywhere, one boot gone.

“This is going great,” she muttered. “You’d think I’ve never been outside before.”

I gave her a look. “Wait—you’ve been outside before?”

“Funny,” she said, barking a laugh. “Very funny.”

I stood, barely managing to keep my footing on the creek bed myself, then extended my hand. She eyed it.

“You sure you want to help me again given what happened last time?”

I shrugged. “I’m already wet.”

Once again, she took my hand.

This time, neither of us went down; we got back to the bank, actually, wobbly but at least not stuck. Buck stayed sat where he was, watching her with that characteristic Heeler stare. She tromped down a ways, then knelt to lift a bag I hadn’t seen from a little way’s downstream.

That was when I noticed she was bleeding.

“You’re hurt,” I said. “Cut on your heel; you should sit down.”

“I’m fine,” she said, not even looking at it. “I’m so sorry—this is extremely embarrassing. Didn’t mean to trespass, I’ve just been following the creek for…well, I’m not sure how long. The fence felt more like an obstacle than any official borderline.”

“Sounds like trespassing to me,” I said.

“I know that now…but there are fences everywhere in this state,” she said.

“Old fences, new—no reason for me to think anyone would even notice me.” She peeled off the bag’s zipper flap and pulled out a hard plastic case.

“Officially, formally, I apologize. Unofficially, the creek doesn’t stop for property lines and neither do the things living in it. ”

“The things living in it?”

She popped the case open. Inside, nestled in wet foam, was the last thing I’d expected to see.

“Things like…frogs,” I said.

Because that was what was in her bag: a little container holding a tiny, spotted frog.

“Mmhm,” she said. “Chirping frogs, specifically. In fact, a very special chirping frog.”

“Don’t seem like anything special to me.”

She glared at me. “This is a unique genus to this creek,” she said. “There are two species of chirping frog in central Texas: the Rio Grande and the cliff chirping frog. But this one…it’s different.”

I pulled off one of my boots to dump out the water, then switched to the other.

“Different how?”

“Smaller. Different call pattern, different markings on the hind legs.” She held the case up, angling it toward the light. “I’ve recorded it three times now and it doesn’t match any other known species. If I’m right, this is the only place on Earth it exists.”

“In my family’s creek,” I said.

“Well, also downstream and up toward the aquifer,” she said. “Thus—why I’m here. I’m mapping their breeding grounds and trying to get a clean recording of their call pattern. This is the only site I’ve found it.”

“Where you stayin’?”

She cocked her head. “Not sure if it’s a good idea to share that information with the man holding a gun…”

I hummed. “If I really wanted to hurt you, I’d’ve done it already.”

“Fair enough.” She paused. “I’ve been camping along the way. I’ve got a one-person tent in there, just…parked in town and started walking.”

“Alone?”

“I can take care of myself.”

I shook my head. “Land’s not always safe. Had trespassers before, worse than a scientist with a frog.”

“I noticed the gun,” she said dryly. “Duly noted on the safety concern.”

I glanced down at her bleeding heel; it hadn’t stopped. “My cousin and his wife are medics and have supplies up at the house,” I told her. “You should let me take you there; my truck’s about a half-mile through the woods.”

“I’m really fine,” she said. “I have another pair of boots in my pack—”

“Don’t know what’s died in that mud,” I said. “If that heel gets infected, gonna get in the way of your frog collection.”

She looked down at her foot…at the blood running into her sock, drying at the edges.

“Fine,” she said. “But only if I get to pet your dog.”

I turned and looked over at him. “Buck?”

Buck responded right away, trotting over to sit at my heel.

“He’s friendly,” I said. “Just plays mean with strangers.”

She leaned forward and extended a cautious hand. “Hi,” she said. “Buck, is it? Nice to meet you.”

He gave her his paw.

“What a gentleman,” she said, glancing up at me. “Didn’t get your name, though.”

“Mph,” I grunted. “Stetson—Stetson Holt. And you?”

“Bryn Donnelly,” she said. “It’s very nice to meet you, Stetson Holt.”