Hunter Moon Page 2

  They had met the authorities at the bottom of the pasture. After the tribal police had cleared the scene and found no sign of the gunmen, one of Gabe’s officers had taken Clay’s rifle, and they had told Izzie that fifty-one of her cows had been impounded for trespass on tribal lands by a representative of the General Livestock Coordinator—in other words, by Clay. After hearing that news, Izzie hadn’t spoken to him once on the long drive to the station, and he expected that she’d never speak to him again. That realization was more disturbing than sitting in this damned room again.

  But he hadn’t done anything wrong. Unless he had. You didn’t have to know it to have done it. He’d learned that lesson well enough. Maybe this was just like the last time, only it was Izzie setting him up. Letting the cows out, calling the manager’s number, drawing him into a gunfight.

  No, that was just crazy, his stupid paranoid fears rearing up like a horse in the shoot at a rodeo. Tighten the cinch. Open the gate. Watch it buck. Eight seconds and all you could do was hold on. Clay held on now. He’d tried to make the right decisions. Tried to think before he acted. Tried not to take everything at face value, not be so gullible. But when he’d seen Izzie running for her life, he hadn’t thought about the consequences. He had just ridden full speed into gunfire.

  Clay rested his head in his hands and drew a deep breath. He still felt sick to his stomach.

  He’d asked Gabe to call his boss and tell him where he was. Clay knew that if there was even a whiff of misdeeds, Donner would fire him. He’d do anything to keep this job. Anything.

  He’d been lucky to get hired in the first place—with unemployment so high on the Rez and so many men searching for honest work, men without his priors.

  His younger brother, Kino, came in to speak to him. Kino had been on the force about a year, acting as a patrolman. It was something Clay could never be. They didn’t take men with criminal records into the police or the FBI, where his uncle Luke Forrest worked. Kino had been surprised that they had let Clay work with the Shadow Wolves on Immigration and Customs Enforcement. But Clay was a special case because he was Native American, which was a requirement, a very good tracker and his conviction was not a felony. Though it nearly had been.

  “So, busy day?” asked Kino, taking a seat and opening his laptop.

  Clay didn’t laugh. The last time he was here, Kino had been thirteen years old.

  What was his boss going to say? He’d sent him to clear strays and he’d ended up in jail, again.

  “Where’s Izzie?”

  Kino thumbed over his shoulder. “Captain’s office.”

  “You mean Gabe’s office.”

  “I call him captain here. We only have one interrogation room.”

  Clay knew that.

  “She says you had no right to impound her cattle.”

  “They were on the road.”

  “She’s claiming that they were released.”

  “Upper fences were cut,” said Clay.

  “Yeah, I heard that.”

  “I saw that. Don’t know about the lower pasture. I didn’t see anything, but I wasn’t looking.”

  “We’ll check. You didn’t cut them, did you?”

  Clay blinked in astonishment, expecting Kino to laugh or smile or say this was some joke. He didn’t. He just sat there, waiting.

  “No.”

  “I think all our guys are up in the woods,” said Kino. “I’ll ask them to run the fence lines.”

  “They’re going to ruin the scene.”

  “You and I are not the only ones who know how to track, brother.”

  Clay nodded.

  “So you want to do this, or would you prefer one of the other guys handled it?”

  “No. Go on.”

  His kid brother asked the questions, and Clay answered. He’d picked up four truckloads of cattle with Roger Tolino. They’d gotten a second call about cattle on the upper road. He’d sent Roger back with the cattle truck. Clay had found the cut fence after Roger left.

  “Clean cut. All three lines, right by the post.” Clay had searched the ground. “One man was wearing boots, weight about two-fifty, judging from the depth of the tracks and recovery of the grass inside the tread.” He had seen the strays and thought it easier to just steer them back into the pasture. He was just repairing the fences when he’d heard the first shots. “I couldn’t call it in because there’s no cell service up there.” So he’d used his radio. Called Veronica in the office and asked her to call Gabe.

  Getting his statement took a while because Kino had to type his replies. Clay waited as Kino pecked away on the laptop, feeling like a damned fool. Eventually, Kino closed the computer and regarded Clay.

  “You didn’t do anything wrong,” said Kino.

  “That’s what I thought the last time.”

  Kino nodded. “You really didn’t know what they were doing?”

  Clay stared at his kid brother in astonishment and then realized they had never spoken of the crime.

  “Who?” asked Clay, making sure he wasn’t talking about today.

  “Martin and Rubin.”

  “Martin said he wanted some pop. I stopped. They went in. I waited. They came out, and I drove away.”

  “Just like that. Didn’t you see the blood on Martin’s shirt?”

  Kino stared. Clay knew what he was thinking. His older brother was guilty or he was a fool. Clay never liked the choice. He lowered his head. “Are we finished?”

  Kino stood. “Yeah. Sure. So, I’ll see you Saturday?”

  Clay rose. “Saturday?”

  Kino’s voice held impatience. “The wedding?”

  Clay’s mouth dropped open as he realized he’d forgotten. His kid brother was getting married and then honeymooning in the Badlands of South Dakota, so he could pick up the trail of their missing little sister.

  “Yeah, of course. Sorry. My mind is just... Like you said, long day.”

  Kino walked him out.

  “Want to go for a beer after work?” asked Clay.

  Kino rubbed his neck. “Sorry. Can’t. Wedding stuff.”

  “Oh, right. Well, see you Saturday.”

  “Don’t forget the barbecue. Thursday night. Rehearsal and dinner at Salt River on Friday.”

  Clay nodded and left the station, shedding the stale heated atmosphere for the crisp air of a perfect September day. Relief poured down on him with the sunshine. He looked to the west, to Black Mountain. Emerald-green Ponderosa pines that were broken by patches of brilliant yellow aspen ringed the base. Nearer the top, forest gave way to the browning grass. The crown looked as if someone had scraped away all vegetation. This was where the reservation got its name, from the dark of the tallest mountain in Arizona. Eleven thousand two hundred and twenty feet. On this cool day, the crown looked black against the bright blue sky, but soon the snow would cover it again. He’d been to the windy peak. All Apache boys climbed it. There, on the top the Crown Spirits lived. The Gaan, as his people call them, had been sent by the Creator to teach them to live in harmony.

  When Clay told outsiders he was Black Mountain Apache, they assumed he lived in the desert and wore a red head scarf and a long belted shirt. The truth was that he did wear a red kerchief, but about his neck, and his reservation was mountainous with a ski resort in addition to a casino. They had plenty of lakes and some of the best trout fishing and elk hunting anywhere. But mostly what they had was the grassland, and much of it had been broken into permitted grazing areas. Raising cattle was still big business here. Some pastures had been in certain families for generations. Like Isabella Nosie’s grazing rights. It had been her grandfather’s and her father’s—William’s—and now it was hers for as long as she kept filling out the application.

  Some folks thought that system unfair. That they should
have a lottery. Clay had no cattle, so he stayed out of the debate.

  He took one final look back at the station. Was she still in there?

  Clay had missed Isabella more than he’d ever admit. She came to him in dreams sometimes, and on a good day he might see her in town. He’d caught her looking back at him once, but she never spoke to him. He didn’t blame her. Lots of folks looked right through him now. Or they hurried the other way as if he was contagious.

  Clay recovered the truck he drove for his job, headed back to the offices and checked in with Dale Donner. Besides managing the communal cattle and horse herds, Donner’s offices collected fines, cared for impounded livestock and sold unclaimed stock at auction. That meant showing up in tribal court and dealing with the tribe’s various livestock associations over disputes. Donner was also on the tribe’s general livestock board, along with Boone Pizzaro, Franklin Soto and two members of the tribal council. Boone Pizarro was the general livestock coordinator, in charge of managing the tribe’s cattle holdings including all grazing permits issued to ranchers on the reservation. Franklin Soto oversaw the health of the herds on the Rez and made sure all Black Mountain cattle complied with regulations with the state’s livestock sanitary board.

  Clay drove the two blocks, parked and entered Donner’s office. He felt as if he had been away for a week.

  Donner did not glance up as Clay came to a stop before the battered wooden desk littered with piles of paper. His boss was a barrel-chested Apache with dark braided hair that framed a face deeply lined and aged by the sun to the color of a well-oiled saddle. He seemed perpetually impatient with the stupidity of both his cattle and his men. Behind him, various clipboards hung on nails beside a calendar featuring a large longhorn steer’s photo. On the lower half of the calendar, Donner had crossed off all the days in the month up to and including today, Monday, September 7.

  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 ne
ck. 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.”