Hunter Moon

His boss glanced up, and his flint eyes fixed on Clay.

“We registered fifty-one cows with Nosie’s brand,” said Donner.

“There were four more, but I shooed them back into their pasture. Mr. Donner, those fences on the upper pasture were cut.”

Donner lowered the clipboard. “What do you mean cut?”

“I mean with a wire cutter. Someone came in from the road, parked, cut the fences and left.”

“What about the lower pasture?”

“I didn’t see anything, but I was pretty busy rounding up cattle.”

“Well, heck. We got to call your brother about that.”

“Didn’t he call you?” Had Gabe forgotten to alert his boss?

“Yup. Said you’d been delayed.”

Clay realized Donner didn’t know about what happened with Izzie and the shooters. It took several minutes to relate the story, and his boss’s mouth hung open for most of it. Clay didn’t think he’d ever talked so much in his life. Except that day in court. When he finished, his shoulders sagged.

“Well, a heck of a day.” Donner sat back and scratched his head, sending one of his long graying braids wiggling. “I’ll call Pizzaro and Bustros. Update them and have them take a look at the fences and the cattle.”

Victor Bustros was not technically on the general livestock board, but worked under Pizarro, the livestock coordinator. Bustros’s title was livestock brand inspector. Because of the record keeping of individual brands, Bustros had a clerk who helped him keep up with the paperwork. Bustros’s job also including overseeing the weekly cattle auctions.

Cattle were still the tribe’s main source of income, though tourism was catching up. These four men—Bustros, Pizzaro, Soto and his boss, Donner—held positions of importance in this enterprise overseeing the care, business and health of the tribe’s holdings. Clay felt lucky to work with them. Now Clay hoped that his actions today had not jeopardized that.

“Sir, would you like me to have a look at Nosie’s lower pasture?”

“Leave that to your brothers. If what you say is true, that might be a crime scene.”

If it were true? Clay felt his face heat. Even after six-and-a-half spotless years of work, his boss did not take his word at face value.

If the impounded stock hadn’t belonged to Izzie, then Clay would have let it go. But instead, he opened his mouth again.

“Sir, I could...”

Donner’s gaze snapped to his, and he gave a slow shake of his head. It was a gesture Clay recognized as a warning. Clay closed his mouth.

“You’ve done enough.”

Clay accepted the long, hard look Donner gave him.

“Finish your paperwork before you leave.”

Knowing he’d been dismissed, Clay returned to his desk in the outer office to wake up his ancient computer. An hour later he had his hat back on his head and was leaving for the day.

Clyne and Gabe, his older brothers, still lived in their grandmother Glendora’s place. But he and Kino had a small house outside of Black River, one of four towns on the reservation and the one that housed the tribal headquarters. Since Kino and Lea Altaha would like their own place, Clay planned to move back to his grandmother’s while they waited for placement. It could take over a year for the newlyweds to get their house through the tribe’s housing organization, and Clay recognized that they needed privacy.

Clay climbed into his own truck, which was older, smaller and dustier than the one he used for tribe business. He drove by his grandmother’s house, knowing he was always welcome for dinner. But the prospect of telling his story one more time did not appeal, and so he skipped the chance at the best fry bread in Black Mountain in favor of frozen pizza and privacy. Since Kino would be out, there might still be one last beer in the frig.

When he pulled in the driveway, he realized he wasn’t getting that pizza or that beer or any peace, because Izzie Nosie stood, leaning against her pickup with her arms folded beneath her beautiful bosom. She looked ready for battle.

She lifted her chin as he stepped out of his truck. Was it only a few hours ago that she had clung to him while they raced together across the wide stretch of open pasture?

“Izzie, what are you doing here?”

“I want to know who let my cows out.”

“I’ll bet.”

“You are the best tracker on this reservation. So I want to hire you, Cosen.”

Clay could only imagine how hard it was for her to ask the likes of him for help.

“You might be better to ask Kino or Gabe. They’re the investigators.”

“And they are investigating. But I want someone who is looking out for my interests. That’s you.”

“That’s a conflict of interest, Izzie. Or did you forget that I work for the livestock manager?”

Her eyebrows rose. “Still?”

That stung. “You think he fired me? For what, doing my job?”

She held on to her scowl, but her cheeks flushed a becoming rose. Then she pressed a finger into his chest. “You should have told me that my cows were on the highway, Cosen.”

“They pay me to collect them. Not to contact the owners.”

“Do you know how much it will cost me to get them out?” She ticked off the amounts on her fingers. “Gathering fee, five dollars a head. That’s two-hundred and sixty dollars, and that’s only if I can sell some cows and get that money to them in twenty-four hours, which I can’t. Then it’s two dollars a day per cow for every day you have them. That’s a hundred and four dollars more.”

“Izzie, your strays were scattered all over the highway.”

“Cosen, my fences are good. I need you to help me prove that, so I can appeal.”

He leaned against his truck, trying to think, but his eyes kept dipping to her lovely face and those soft lips. Izzie’s hair was dark brown, and she often wore it pulled back to reveal her small, perfectly shaped ears and long, slender neck. She knew he liked her hair loose; it was loose now and had been recently combed. She wore pink lip gloss that made her full mouth look ripe and tempting.

Clay frowned.

She lifted her pointed chin, and her fine brows rose. She rested a hand on his chest. His heartbeat accelerated and his skin tingled. He had to force himself not to reach out and gather her in his arms.

He stared down at her hand, fingers splayed across his chest, the left ring finger still somehow bare. Then he followed the slim line of her arm to her narrow shoulders. Her soft hair brushed her collarbone, and she wore no jewelry except the gold crucifix about her neck, the one her father had given her at her first communion. Her face was heart-shaped and her upper lip more full than the bottom, giving the impression that she was forever freshly kissed. Her skin was soft brown, and her eyes sloped downward at the corners. He stared a moment at the light brown eyes that were flecked with gold, but it was like looking at the sun—dangerous and alluring all at once.

He knew what she wanted, and it wasn’t him. But his body still remembered her touch. And the memories of her threatened to make him do something stupid, like risk his job for this woman.

“You haven’t spoken to me in seven years,” he said. “Now you’re asking for my help?”

* * *

A STAB OF guilt spiked inside Izzie, and she couldn’t hold his gaze. He was right. She’d avoided him and the scorn she knew would come by association. This was a small community. A person’s place in the tribe depended on many things—character, family and who you chose to love. Loving Clay had cost too much. So she had let him go. Now she wanted a favor. She thought of her two little brothers and stiffened her spine. Then she met the accusation in his gaze.

“I’m asking,” she said.

He exhaled loudly through his nose. “Izzie, I need this job. I won’t do anything to jeopardize it.”

“And I’m not asking you to. Just take a look at the tracks.”

He was staring at her again, debating. She saw it now. The anger in his stance and the unwillingness.

“Call Gabe. He’s the chief of police.”

“I want someone who is working for me—not the tribe. Plus he made it very clear that I’m a suspect in whatever is going on up there.”

“You?” He laughed right in her face. The sound was hard. “Isabella Nosie? The girl with all As in high school. The good girl, sings in the choir, took over for her dad, helps raise her brothers and has never made a mistake in her life?”

That was just one step too far. She planted a fist on her hip.

“I made one.”

His laughter died and their eyes met. She read the hurt in his expression as her words hit their target. They both knew the mistake she meant. She had loved him.

Clay sagged back against the truck bed as if she’d slapped him. Izzie felt terrible.

“I’m sorry, Clay. I didn’t mean it.” Actually, going out with Clay had been the best thing that ever happened to her. Until she’d let her parents run him off. Why hadn’t she stood up for herself?

Because she’d been sixteen with dreams of college and a career, and, after his mom had been killed by that drunk driver, Clay was so angry and reckless, she barely recognized him. Then her father got sick and she’d made that promise. The next thing she knew, she had become responsible for her brothers and mother, and now she might lose it all.

“Will you help me?” she asked.

“No.”

“Fine. Then I’ll just do it myself.”

She turned to go, and he captured her wrist. She paused and he released her.

Clay removed his hat and struck it against his leg. His face went bright, with two streaks of color across his prominent cheekbones. Did that mean he did care what happened to her? Her heart fluttered at the possibility, and she cursed herself for a fool.

Clay regrouped, releasing her as he looked down his broad straight nose at her. He was scowling now and his nostrils flared. He’d never looked more handsome.

Clay didn’t wear his hair long, like his brothers Kino and Clyne. Neither did he wear it buzzed short like Gabe. Clay chose a length that was neither fashionable, functional nor traditional. His black hair ended bluntly at his strong jawline with bangs that he either swept back or let fall over his piercing eyes. His brow was prominent and his eyebrows thick. His black lashes were long and framed his deep brown eyes. She’d always wondered why he didn’t recognize his model good looks, but Clay seemed unaware of how he turned heads.

She met his hard stare, gnawing on her lower lip.

“If you are involved with anything illegal up there, you best tell me right now.”

She gaped as the shock hit her like a slap. He couldn’t really think she had anything to do with this. Could he?

He looked serious enough. “Because I will not be dragged into another mess.”

“I’m not involved with anything illegal.”

He continued to stare, lips pressed thin and colorless.

She threw up her hands in disgust. “Okay! I swear! I’m not involved in anything, and all I know is someone cut my fences, half my herd is gone, I’m missing cattle and now I owe a fine.”

“What is it you want me to do, exactly?” he asked.

“Check the fields for tracks. Tell me everything you can. Maybe poke around in the upper pasture.”

“The crime scene, you mean.”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“Fifty bucks?”

He shook his head. “I want a cow for my sister’s Sunrise Ceremony.”

“Your sister?” Some of the fight drained out of her, replaced by shock. Izzie touched the gold crucifix, rubbing it between her thumb and index finger before letting it drop. “I thought Jovanna was...”

“So did we. She’s not. Just missing. We are going to find her.”

Izzie absorbed that bit of news. It was really none of her business, but she remembered the bright and happy little girl who left with her mother for her first contest and never came back. If they could find her, they’d need every bit of that cow to feed all the company and relatives who would attend. A homecoming and a Sunrise Ceremony. Goodness, there would be hundreds of people.

“She’s been gone a long time,” said Izzie.

Clay said nothing to that.

“All right, then.”

He replaced his hat. They were close to a deal. Once she’d known him intimately. But then he had been a boy. This man before her had become a stranger.

He made a sound of frustration in his throat.

When he met her gaze, she braced, knowing he had reached a decision. And also knowing that once Clay Cosen settled on a course it was nearly impossible to change his mind.

Chapter Three

When he finally spoke, his voice was tight, clipped and frosty as the snow off Black Mountain.

“All right. One cow. My pick.”

It took a moment for Izzie to realize that she had won. She blinked up at Clay, recovered herself and nodded.

“My pick,” he repeated. “And if you are lying to me or dragging me into something illegal, I will turn you over to Gabe so fast, little brothers or no little brothers.”

It was a threat that hit home, for while her mother still ran the household, Izzie owned the cattle. It was a sticking point between her and her mother, for her father had left the entire herd to his eldest daughter instead of his wife. Her mother, a righteous woman with a knack for scripture, also had a habit of spending more than her husband could make. And though her father had had trouble telling his wife no, Izzie did not. Which was why she had increased the herd by forty head and also why her mother was equally furious and proud of her. Izzie planned to keep her promise and pass her father’s legacy to her brothers. Up until today she had done well. Up until today when she had lost fifty-one head. Her shoulders slumped a little, but she managed to keep her chin up.

“That’s a deal.” She stuck out her hand and pushed down the hope that he would take it.

He stared at her hand and then back to her and then back to her hand. Finally he clasped it. The contact was brief. But her reaction was not. She felt the tingle of his palm pressing to hers clear up to her jaw. Why, oh why did she have to have a thing for this man?

Clay broke the contact, leaving Izzie with her hand sticking out like a fool. Clay rubbed his palm on his thigh as if anxious to be rid of all traces of their touch. She scowled, recalling a time when things were different.

“When do we start?” she asked.

“Sooner is better. Tracks don’t improve with time.”

“Let’s go, then. We can take my truck.”

He hesitated, glancing to his vehicle. She followed his gaze, noticing he did not have a gun rack.

“You want to bring your rifle?”

“Don’t carry one.”

She frowned, thinking she had not heard him correctly. Clay hunted. He fished. Surely he had a rifle. It was part of life here. Shooting at coyotes and gophers and rattlesnakes, though she usually took a shovel to the snakes. Everyone she knew carried a firearm. But everyone she knew had not been charged with a crime.

He was allowed to carry one. His rescue earlier today proved that. Was it because he now knew the difference between robbery and armed robbery?

“What did you use earlier?”

“Belongs to the office.”

She eyed him critically. He didn’t just look different. He was different in ways she could only guess at.

“You don’t hunt anymore?”

“Sometimes with my brothers. I mostly fish.” He glanced away, and his hands slid into his back pockets as he rocked nervously from toe to heel, heel to toe.

Finally he looked up. She met Clay’s gaze, and his expression gave nothing away.

“Still want my help?” he asked.

Izzie nodded.

He glanced toward his house, and she realized that he must not have eaten yet, since she’d caught him before he even made it to his front door.

“I’ll buy you a burger after,” she promised.

His mouth quirked. “Okay.”

He strode past his battered pickup toward her newer-model Ram with the double wheels front and back and the trailer hitch behind. Oh, how her mother hated this truck, even though it was a used model.

Izzie watched Clay pass. His easy gait and graceful stride mesmerized her until she realized he was headed toward the driver’s side. For a minute she thought he meant to drive. Izzie still had two years’ worth of payments on her truck, and nobody drove it but her. But instead of taking the wheel, Clay opened her door for her and stepped back.

She felt her mouth drop open but managed to hold on as she nodded her thanks and swept inside the cab. He waited a moment and then closed the door before rounding the hood and removing his hat. Then he slid in beside her, hat in his lap. He fiddled with the seat controls, sending his seat as far back as it would go, and still his knees were flexed past ninety degrees. Then he sat motionless as she headed home.

“Who do you think cut your fences?” he asked as they rolled down the narrow mountain road from his place and toward hers out past Pinyon Lake. Here the forest lined both sides of the road with the pavement creating a narrow gap in the walls of pines.

“I have no idea.”

“Anyone threatening you or trying to buy you out?”

“Buy me out, no.” She remembered something, and she squeezed the wheel. “But my neighbor did ask me out a few times.”

“Who?”

“Floyd.”

Clay straightened. “Floyd Patch? He must be close to forty.”

She and Clay were both twenty-four. He was born in February and she was born on the same day in March. There was a time she had joked that she liked older men. But that didn’t seem funny right now.

“He’s only thirty-six.”

Clay rolled his eyes and brushed the crown of his felt hat, but said nothing. He considered the ceiling of the cab for a long moment. His usual posture, Izzie recalled, when he was thinking.

She smiled at the familiarity. It seemed that so much about him was the same. But not everything. Izzie steered them onto the main road, deciding to take the long way back to keep from the possibility of encountering her mother on the road. Izzie glanced at the clock, realizing her mother would likely be home because the boys should be climbing off the school’s late bus about now. Clay’s voice dragged her back to the present.

“Clyne said he was on the agenda a while back. I saw him talking to my boss a time ago about the tribe’s communal pastures.”

Who was he talking about?

“Which ones to close for renourishment.”

Patch, she realized. Her neighbor.

“I heard Donner say that Patch was asking the council to impose a lottery for grazing permits again.”

Izzie clenched the wheel. “But that doesn’t make any sense. Lotteries mean ranchers might get grazing land clean on the other side of the reservation.”

Clay shrugged. He had no horse in this particular race.

“You think Floyd wants my permits?”

“Don’t know. But if he can’t get the council to change the way permits are distributed, he could get them by marrying you.”

Izzie let out a sound of frustration. “Those permits and the cattle don’t belong to me. They are my brothers’.”

“Whose name is on the permits?”

Izzie said nothing because they both knew that a minor could not own permits. Of course you had to be of age and Apache to even apply. As long as she didn’t miss the October first application date, which she never did, then the permits were hers until her brother Will was old enough to apply in her place. That was the way it had always been. She hadn’t come up with the system, but now she was starting to wonder if Floyd was indeed interested in her permits.

She turned on the cutoff that took her up the mountain, and Clay cast her a glance, wondering, no doubt, about her choice of routes. This way wasn’t faster.

“Daylight is burning,” he said.

“I know.” She increased her speed and leaned forward, as if that would make them climb the hill quicker.

“Did you go out with him?”

She had to think for a minute about who he meant.

“No. No, of course not.”

“He’s got twice your herd.”

“But not enough land to graze them. He’ll have to sell some or apply for another permit.”

“Or add them to the communal herd.”

She and Clay shared a concerned look.

“Can you tell if he is the one who cut the fences?”

“Maybe.” He toyed with his hat. “Let’s start on the lower pasture?”

“Sure.” She’d have to drive by the upper area where the shooting had been. Would the police still be there? “Then I want you to see the road and the place where the tribe is taking fill. They’ve leveled a wide area, for their trucks, I guess.”

“To get at the hillside?”

“All they told me was that pasture permits didn’t keep them from timbering the forest or exercising mineral rights. But this isn’t timbering. Well, some is.”

“What do you mean?”

“They aren’t choosing which trees to take to thin the forest or clear the brush or whatever. They clear-cut a patch in the middle of the forest about fifty-by-fifty feet.”

Clay frowned and rubbed the brim of his hat with his thumb and index finger, deep in thought.

Both she and Clay stretched their necks as they passed the new gravel road leading into the forest, but she saw nothing remarkable and no evidence of police activity. Whoever had shot at them was long gone. They passed the spot where his truck had been parked and arrived a few minutes later at the lower pasture, where most of her remaining cows milled close to the fence.

Izzie wished she had risked the shorter ride, as the sun was already descending toward sunset. It had been hard to give up the long days of August, but the air was already cool up here at the higher elevations, and so she shrugged into her denim coat, then realized Clay did not have one.

Clay pointed at her rifle, hooked neatly to her gun rack behind the seats.

“Take that,” he said.

She did. He had told her to take one of her rifles but left the second firearm in place. Was that because he knew she was a better shot or for some other reason?

“You had a gun earlier,” she said checking the load and adding a box of cartridges to her coat pocket for good measure.

“Have to. Part of my job.” He tried to step past her. She blocked his path. He stopped and faced her.

“Why don’t you own a gun, Clay?”

“No one wants to see an ex-con with a rifle in his hands.”

“But you weren’t charged with a felony. You are allowed to own one, right?”

“Right.”

He raked his fingers past his temples and lowered his hat over his glossy black hair that brushed the collar of his shirt.

“Can we get started?”

She extended an arm in invitation. He continued, walking the highway, scanning the ground.

“Do you think the police are done investigating up there?” she asked, indicating the site of the shooting. “I didn’t see any activity.”

“For the day, maybe. But I’m not poking around in their crime scene.”

Clay already had his eyes on the ground; she kept hers on the trees far above them, perhaps two miles away. For a shot you would need a scope and some luck to make the target. But still she held her rifle ready as she searched for more gunmen.

She followed behind him as he walked the highway. No one drove past. This road was too far from anything or anyone and was rarely used, except for today, of course.

Clay headed toward the pasture, and all the curious cows that had crowded the fence line fled in the opposite direction. She resisted the urge to count them.

He had already stepped through the fencing and stood lifting the upper strand of barbed wire to make her passage less difficult. Then he continued on, following some trail clear only to himself. She could see the routes the cows took along the fence line. She followed until he stopped and then glanced past him at the knee-high yellowing grass. The parallel tracks of a small vehicle were clear even to her.

“What the heck is that?” she said.