Page 88 of Adam's Rising

Adam froze.

“Rattlesnake?”

She nodded. “Clear as day. He was wearing a fancy stiff shirt and tie, unusual for ’round here, but his sleeves were rolled up.”

He slid a few dollars onto the counter. “Thanks.”

As he stepped back outside, Adam’s stomach turned.

A rattlesnake.

That was the symbol Thomas had absently drawn once on a napkin, about a year ago. “Cut off the head,” he’d muttered, “or it grows another.”

Adam had thought it was a joke. After all, snakes’ heads don’t grow back.

But… maybe it was a warning.

Boyd had saidThe snake.

If the guy with the rattlesnake tattoo was the one who wanted the stash, and they thought Peter had it…

Peter might not have much time.

Adam headed back to the truck, gripping the wheel with white knuckles.

They’d taken the wrong brother.

But Adam would find him.

23

Claire stayed busy.

When she wasn’t brushing Buttercup, she was sweeping the porch, scrubbing the kitchen, or checking on Clara Mae — as best she could while hobbling on crutches.

The older woman claimed to be fine, but Claire knew she hadn’t eaten more than a few bites since Peter vanished. She just sat in her chair with her shotgun close, pretending to knit.

But Claire couldn’t just sit. Not when Adam was out there alone. Not when her cousin had vanished without a trace.

She fed the horses, checked the hands’ work, the fencing out back… Anything to stay distracted.

Grams had stopped by several times to check on her, but instead of upsetting Grams by talking about Lala’s part, Claire focused on the fact that she was helping Clara Mae and Peter.

The sound of tires crunching gravel reached her. Not fast, like someone in a rush. Slow. Deliberate.

She stood on the porch, a crutch under one arm, her gun slung over the other. A big black truck pulled into the drive.

Boyd.

He staggered out of the cab, clearly drunk, his boots dragging like anchors. A cigarette dangled from his fingers, and he wore the same leather jacket he’d had since high school.

Claire didn’t move. Unlike last time, she was holding a gun. If he came within twenty feet of her or pulled a weapon, she’d use it after what his partners put her through.

Boyd looked worse than ever — eyes bloodshot, face pale, hands shaking. Whatever confidence he used to carry had vanished. Replaced by something feral. Desperate.

“Where is he?” he slurred.

Claire didn’t flinch. “Who?”

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