Hunter Moon. Jenna Kernan
uba43d732-28b1-5c40-b272-bee6b2c9688f">
“I got you, Izzie. I’ll get you through this.”
She sagged against him, letting him take her weight and her fear and her sorrow. He took it all, standing solid as Black Mountain as he cradled her. She finally reined herself in and straightened to find both her brothers staring at them from across the yard. She stepped back from Clay and he cast a glance over his shoulder. Then he returned his attention to her.
“You going to be all right?”
She didn’t think so. Everything around her seemed to be breaking loose and she couldn’t hold the pieces together any longer. She should go and reassure the boys. Tell them that everything was all right. But it wasn’t all right. It was so not all right.
Hunter Moon
Jenna Kernan
JENNA KERNAN has penned over two dozen novels and has received two RITA® Award nominations. Jenna is every bit as adventurous as her heroines. Her hobbies include recreational gold prospecting, scuba diving and gem hunting. Jenna grew up in the Catskills and currently lives in the Hudson Valley of New York State with her husband. Follow Jenna on Twitter, @jennakernan, on Facebook or at www.jennakernan.com.
For Jim, always.
Contents
Black Mountain Apache Reservation
Izzie Nosie lay low over the mare’s neck hoping to make herself less of a target for whoever was shooting at her.
Damn, this was her land.
What was going on?
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