Hunter Moon. Jenna Kernan

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      Her legs flapped as she kicked her chestnut quarter horse, Biscuit, to greater speeds. Who was up there shooting at her?

      She leaned to the right, touching the leather bridle to her horse’s strong neck. The signal was received, and Biscuit darted between two pines, jumping the downed log that blocked escape. She knew her pursuers were not on horseback, so she did her best to take the route hardest to maneuver on foot. Still, she couldn’t outrun a bullet. The next shot hit the tree to her left, sending shards of bark and splintered wood flying out against her cheek, barely missing her eye. She ignored the sting, focusing on flight.

      Just a little farther and she’d be below range. She knew the terrain as well as she knew the layout of her barn. Fifty feet more and she could cut down a sharp hill and be clear. It’d take them a few minutes to reach the embankment for another shot, and she meant to be long gone by then. She broke from the woods and right into the path of another gunman. This one was mounted on a tall buckskin.

      She drew up short, causing poor Biscuit to rear back as her mare tried to go from a gallop to a stop and nearly made it. The rider was Indian, big, lean and aiming a rifle. She used a trick of her ancestors, throwing her near leg over the pommel and falling until she lay pressed to Biscuit’s opposite side. Her fingers gripped the coarse hair of her mare’s neck, and she squeezed the pommel with her upper knee to keep from tumbling to the ground.

      “Izzie. It’s me. Clay Cosen.”

      She felt her already galloping heart pound painfully as emotion bled through her. What was Clay doing here? Was he one of them?

      No. Never. But the doubt lifted its head like a rattlesnake in a bed of bluebonnets. Her mother’s words echoed in her mind.

      He’s a convicted criminal.

      “This way,” he called. “I’ve got a truck.”

      She hesitated just long enough to cause him to look back. She saw his face go hard. Somehow he knew at a glance that she no longer trusted him. His tight, guarded expression filled her with regrets. So many regrets.

      “You coming?”

      Emotion paralyzed her, and she lost her balance, slipping from her saddle and tumbling along the ground. The jolt of pain made her suck wind between her teeth. She fell, rolling to her feet. Clay was there, rifle gripped in one hand and the other extended out to her, as he guided his horse with only the pressure of his legs. She knew the man could ride. His rodeo titles proved that, and he was a sight to see approaching at a full gallop. She didn’t think. She just acted, grasping his gloved hand as he charged by and leaped into the air as he pulled. He swung her up behind him. His horse never broke stride as he continued on, down the embankment. Behind them one more shot sounded.

      Then they were racing over her pasture and down the steep incline. She could not see past his slate-gray cowboy hat and broad shoulders sheathed in a navy blue gingham check. He wore a battered leather vest the color of his horse, work gloves and faded denim jeans over cowboy boots that had seen better days.

      Izzie wrapped her arms about his narrow waist and glanced behind them. There came Biscuit, galloping after her mistress. Izzie looked beyond but saw no one step from the cover of the aspen and pines and heard no more gunshots.

      Her ears buzzed, and she trembled as the adrenaline ebbed. Izzie gave herself permission to hold him again and pressed a cheek to Clay’s back. The horse’s breath sounded like a great bellows as they charged on and on through the tall, yellowing grass. She held tight, feeling the taut muscles of his abdomen beneath her splayed fingers. Their bodies moved together with the horse, rocking, and Izzie closed her eyes and savored this moment, because, regardless of the reason, it had brought Clay back into her arms again.

      It wasn’t until his mount began to slow and Clay’s posture became more erect that her mind reengaged.

      Why was Clay Cosen here in her pasture? How could she know that he was not with them? But instead of thinking, she had just jumped right into his arms like the damn fool she always was every time she got around this particular man.

      Poison, that’s what her mother, Carol Nosie, called him. The kind of man to ruin a girl and not just her reputation. Look what Clay’s father had done to his poor mother. A cautionary tale of the consequences that came of choosing the wrong kind of man. This one would take everything, her position in the community, her self-respect, her obligations to her family and, most importantly, her heart.

      So why did holding him again feel so right?

      Izzie’s hands slipped from his middle, paused for one instant on his hips and then let go.

      Clay twisted and glanced back at her.

      “You okay?”

      What kind of a question was that? She’d been shot at, lost her seat and then her horse and now sat tucked against his body as if she belonged to him.

      “Hell, no, I’m not all right.”

      Clay made a sound that might have been a laugh. Then he turned the horse, so they could see the way they had come. Biscuit was trailing her at a trot.

      “I don’t see any sign of them.” He glanced back at her, giving her an enticing view of his strong jawline and the slight stubble that already grew there. His russet skin was so beautiful, taut and tanned. Izzie lifted her hand and had it halfway to his cheek when she realized what she was doing and forced it back down.

      “Who were they?” asked Clay.

      “No idea. I noticed I was missing cattle and thought they got up into the woods. There’s another small pasture up in that draw. But the next thing I know, I see someone on foot, and when I called out, the idiot started shooting at me.”

      “I’d say at least two idiots from the sound of the shots. One was using a semiautomatic weapon.”

      Her body went cold at that news.

      He scowled at her, and still he was a welcome sight. His expression was a mix of concern and aggravation, as if she had intentionally put herself in danger.

      Clay had been born a month earlier to the day, but at twenty-four, she no longer needed him shepherding her, did she?

      “You’re bleeding,” he said and leaned in her direction. She held still as he removed one glove and swiped a thumb gently over the crest of her cheek. She felt the sting of pain, and his fingers came away bloody. He held her chin and tilted her head as if she were a child. Well, they weren’t thirteen anymore, and he was not hers. So why was it so hard to draw back?

      “It’s fine.”

      Clay motioned with his head. “Let’s go.”

      They rode at a canter across the pasture, and she noted her herd had moved far down field. Good, she thought. Farther away from the bullets. That’s all she needed—dead cows. It was hard enough to make ends meet with the water restrictions.

      “Why are you here, Cosen?” she asked, refusing herself the intimacy of his first name.

      He pointed to a truck parked along her fence line. “Collecting strays.”

      Clay worked for Dale Donner, the general livestock coordinator. СКАЧАТЬ