High Moon

by Kati Wilde

  I deliberately steer away from the people killed and toward the bear, hoping it’ll bring her back in. But her smile remains fixed and her tone frosty as she tells me, “Outside of Fortune City? That’s outside my sphere of knowledge, I’m afraid.” Briskly she stands. “And look at the time. It’s after five, so I’ve got to lock up and get going.”

  “All right.” I can take a hint. “Thank you for your time, ma’am.”

  “No problem. Monday morning, you can apply for access to the archives at city hall. Or if you’re in a rush, you could always contact the county sheriff’s office. Someone there might be able to tell you more about that bear.”

  Somehow, I get the feeling that won’t be the case. That she’s only sending me that direction because she knows the sheriff won’t give me any more than I got here. But no matter. I’ve still got taverns and loose lips to try.

  And one more question now. “What about the little girl? Was she hurt, too?”

  “Little girl?” The perplexed frown she gives me appears genuine. “What little girl?”

  “The one mentioned in that article. It says the couple left behind a young daughter.” The news item from the Boise paper doesn’t give her name—I’m guessing because she’s a minor.

  I don’t intend to talk to the girl. Asking a kid how her parents were killed? I’m not that much of an asshole. But maybe she’s got family who took her in. Someone who’s more willing to talk than this woman is.

  “I don’t know anything about that.” Her steady gaze holds mine. “And I don’t know any little girl.”

  She’s lying. But aside from turning into a giant werewolf and scaring the shit out of her, I don’t see any way to persuade her to talk. So I thank her again, slip my hat back on, step out into the glare of the sun.

  And I don’t even have to draw a breath. The scent wraps around me, strong and fresh. As if she walked past the library while I was inside.

  Or drove past it. Maybe in one of the vehicles parked along the street now. Without a breeze, I can’t tell which direction she’s in. The odor’s no longer a faint thread in the hot afternoon air, but a thick rope made up of her own fragrance and woven through with all the other scents she carries with her—coffee and coconut oil, horses and cattle, golden hay and green grass….and frustration, anger.

  She’s good and pissed. Whoever this woman is, I’ve got a feeling someone’s about to catch some serious shit from her.

  I’d like to see that. And to be there if she needs someone to have her back. It’d be a simple thing to find her. Just let that rope of scent pull me in.

  But I can’t, goddamn it. I can’t. Because my instincts are telling me that once I’m pulled in, I’ll be wrapped up tight. My instincts also say that’s all right, that it’s exactly where I should be. But my head and my heart don’t agree, because my family deserves more than that. They deserve more than me basking in her scent like I am now. They deserve more than me thinking about finding her, seeing her, tasting her. I’ve got to track down their murderers first. I’ve got to see justice done.

  The hard lump I’ve got in my throat and the harder cock I’ve got in my jeans aren’t any good for sitting around in taverns, though. But it’s only early evening, so I’ve got all night to talk up the locals. And if she is in town, filling the air with her scent, making it damn near impossible to resist hunting her down…then I probably ought to be anywhere else.

  Breathing through my mouth, I head for my truck. I leave the windows rolled up as I drive out of town. Hiding from that scent. Not so much a proud warrior now, not one of powerful wolfkin, but a weakling too scared to meet a human woman who poses as much danger to me as a flea.

  I’m chasing after murderers who managed to kill kin even stronger than I am, yet not once in eleven years have I worried what might happen when I locate them. Instead I dream of ripping out their throats, tearing them apart with my claws. Yet this woman sends me running the other way. It’s fucking ridiculous.

  Yet even knowing that, I keep driving. A few hours spent in the mountains and wearing my other skin will clear my head. Then I’ll come back, buy a few rounds of drinks, find out what I need to know from whoever’s willing to talk, and hightail it out of Fortune City first thing tomorrow.

  In and out. That’s still the plan. There’s nothing that can keep me here.

  No matter how damn good she smells.

  2

  Makena

  Kyle McKinley was the first boy I ever kissed. He was also the first boy I ever wanted to strangle. He probably won’t be the last but—considering that he’s now the local sheriff—the satisfaction of choking him would be more trouble than it’s worth. I’ve got too much work waiting for me at home to waste time sitting in the county jail.

  But I still picture my fingers wrapped around his beefy neck as he says, “Without any solid evidence, my hands are tied. And you know if there was a damn thing I could do about it, Makena, I would. As it is, MDC is threatening to slap the county with a harassment suit.”

  I gape at him. “Are you serious?”

  If anyone deserves to be charged with harassment, it’s Mercoire Development Corp. Hell, if I could afford a lawyer, I’d look into it. Ever since the company set its sights on my land, not a day goes by that my phone doesn’t ring and someone’s on the other end asking me to consider selling. Not a day goes by without receiving another registered letter with a new offer, and the amount keeps getting bigger.

  All that would be easy enough to ignore. But now MDC is running off my employees. And although I can’t prove it—yet—they’ve been trashing my fences. We haven’t had any animals go wandering off into the river or the hills behind my spread, because every morning we move the herd to graze a new part of the pasture, and each time we quickly discovered the damage. So we haven’t lost any head—yet—but repairing high-tensile wire fencing isn’t cheap. Given the kind of operation I’m running, promising grass-fed beef raised in a stress-free environment, any suggestion that things aren’t going smoothly can put off paying customers. And my ranch can’t take much hurt. My bank account sure as hell can’t take much hurt, either. Yet MDC doesn’t seem to be letting up. Instead they’re digging in.

  Now Kyle holds my gaze and solemnly swears, “We’re on your side, Makena. We’ll keep an eye out. If we find anything solid, we’ll do everything we can to get these guys off your back.”

  I know he will. Kyle was a lousy kisser, but he’s a good sheriff. And he’s already been to MDC’s office out at their construction site several times on my behalf. I guess that’s why he’s about to be hit with a harassment suit.

  Despite his assurances, my anger hasn’t lessened any as I slam out of the county building. If anything, it’s hotter, because now I’m not the only one getting fucked by MDC. My friends are, too.

  Except for one. And when I texted Carrie last night, agreeing to meet for a drink at the Silver Dollar, I’d been looking forward to a break away from the ranch. That was before my last remaining employee said he was leaving. Now I ought to get back home, but I can’t blow her off. Carrie would understand if I did, and she’d forgive me. I wouldn’t forgive myself so easily.

  And, hell. I can still use that break. Not to mention a drink.

  So instead of heading toward my truck, I skip down the stairs to the sidewalk and hang a right on Main. It’s about fifteen minutes past five but the sun is still glaring down, heat shimmering off the concrete. On blistering days like these, I wish I could prance around in sandals and a sundress instead of cowboy boots and sturdy jeans. But my tank top is the only concession to the hot weather, because I’m not risking my toes beneath a steer’s hoof, and I prefer to have horse hair clinging to denim rather than clinging to my bare, sweaty skin.

  From the outside, the only indication of life coming from the Silver Dollar is a neon beer sign shining through a small, dingy window. I suppose it’s happy hour, but Fortune City isn’t really a ‘city’ in anything but name—and it definitely isn’t t
he kind of town where professionals congregate after work. Instead the main street is a long stretch of highway that the town grew up around during a mining boom, way back in the day. It’s not even a one-stoplight town; there’s no stoplight at all. Most people drive straight through, but for those who live here, it’s got everything anyone needs—a doctor’s office, a lawyer’s office, a salon, a few churches, and a few more bars. A small, overpriced grocery shares a block with a hardware store. The high school and the elementary school butt up right against each other, but the official football field and track is a mile down the road, because the field next to the school is big enough to practice in but not big enough to host a game.

  Inside the tavern, the lighting’s dim and the air’s cool. A few regulars sit at the bar, mostly men I’ve known by sight or by name my entire life. Or almost my entire life. I was three years old when my mom and dad bought Riverbend Ranch, and that was twenty-five years ago. You’d think a quarter century would be long enough to live in a town and not be considered an outsider, but to some of the people here, I still am. Not to anyone I went to school with, because our class size was so small that by the time we graduated, we knew each other so well they could have all been my brothers and sisters. But from some of the other townspeople, yeah—I still get the side-eye.

  I guess you might say that girls with Norwegian daddies and French-Somalian mommies are a little rare around these parts. Especially if that girl had a daddy and mommy who were brutally killed eleven years ago in what the local investigators concluded was a bear mauling. Especially if that girl insisted that it couldn’t have been a bear, because bears don’t have conversations with people before killing them. Especially if she’s been considered a little bit traumatized and touched in the head ever since her parents died.

  But I say, fuck ’em all. Fuck anyone who still looks at me as if I don’t belong. Fuck anyone who thinks I’m crazy. I know who I am.

  And I know who I’m not. His weatherbeaten face a collection of wrinkles, Sam Rudder tips his drink in my direction as I head to the booth where Carrie’s waiting. I offer a wave in return. The Rudder place sat just up the river from my family’s property until two years ago, when Sam sold the acreage to MDC for a tidy sum—far more than the place was worth. Afterward, he bought a house in town and he’s been drinking through the rest of the money ever since.

  As much as I hate MDC, I can’t blame Sam for selling. Earning a living on this land can be exhausting, heartbreaking. And though a lot of people don’t want to admit it, this town is hanging on by its fingernails. About a half century ago, the mining operations in the region shut down. Then ten years ago, the lumber mill closed. Most of the remaining jobs in the town went with it.

  So did all four of Sam Rudder’s kids. Not one of them wanted to stay and try scratching out a living on his farm, so they moved on. And after Sam’s wife passed, I guess he didn’t want to keep scratching either, and decided to take life easy.

  But that’s not who I am. I never take it easy. I’ll keep scratching even after my fingertips are raw and bloody down to the bone.

  Right now, my fingernails are only a bit ragged. So MDC has a long way to go.

  Carrie’s eyebrows shoot high when she gets a look at my face. “You look like you’ve been chewing iron spikes.”

  “Just chewing Kyle’s balls,” I say as she rises from her seat, wearing exactly the kind of colorful and flirty sundress I envy. I used to envy more—the shiny blond hair that a comb slides through like a hot knife through butter, her petite height that doesn’t tower over most of the men we know, her generous boobs and curvy hips—but somewhere around high school, maybe even somewhere around the moment I realized how much I resembled my mother, I grew out of my awkwardness and learned to appreciate my height. I began to appreciate the black curls that spring and twist instead of lying flat. I even began appreciating my little boobs and lean build, because they reflected all the hours and hard work I put into the ranch. I burn calories like a furnace, so the only plump part of my body is my lips—and there’s no way I’m complaining about those.

  And the envy has never been one-sided. Carrie has sighed over my lips and hair the same way I’m sighing over her cute dress now. So I figure that’s just the way it is. Something else always looks easier, looks better—until you get that thing you’re envying. Then you realize what you had was perfectly fine.

  “You’re just trying to make me jealous,” she says blithely. Carrie was the second girl to kiss Kyle McKinley. Probably the first to get anywhere near his balls. And now she’s married to him. “But I know for a fact that if you’d really been chewing them, you’d still be picking hair out of your teeth.”

  I snort out a laugh and drop into the opposite side of the booth, where she has a bottle of beer waiting for me. The lacquered tabletop is scarred from decades of use. The benches used to be padded, but when Larry Wilks took over the place a few years ago, he ripped out the peeling vinyl upholstery, replaced it with hardwood seats, and told his customers to get accustomed to discomfort.

  “So why’d you end up talking to Kyle?” she asks, bringing her wineglass to her lips. “Trouble again with the fences?”

  I shake my head. “Mercoire Development got to Julio.”

  Her blue eyes widen. “They offered him a job? And he went?”

  Like two of my other ranch hands did. Steve was offered a foreman’s position at their new construction site and a hefty bonus. But, hell. Who can blame him, either? He’s got a family to feed, two little girls and a newborn baby boy. Of course he jumped at the opportunity.

  I hired a new kid after Steve quit—and before MDC really started applying the heavy pressure. And, whaddya know, pretty soon that kid had a job offer from MDC, too.

  That was my first clue the development company wasn’t going to play nice. Instead they were going to push as hard as they could to get what they wanted.

  I didn’t think they’d get to Julio, though. He’s been with us almost ten years. And he loves the ranch as much as I do.

  So MDC didn’t go after his wallet. Instead they went after his family. The guy running the show at MDC, a dead-eyed dickwad named Luc Fauconnier, stopped Julio for a quick, friendly chat at the feed store yesterday. Asked Julio how he was doing, then Fauconnier said he’d recently had the pleasure of meeting Julio’s sister and her children. He even had a picture of them to show Julio.

  And that fucker was damn slick. Julio got his message loud and clear, though Fauconnier never uttered a single threat.

  That’s what Kyle told me today, after I went in to make a complaint. Since nothing overt happened, and Fauconnier’s manner had been so friendly, there was nothing to pin on him.

  But Julio knows. Kyle knows.

  Now Carrie does, too, when I lay it out for her. Disbelief and anger swirl into a thunderstorm on her face. “Those assholes. Julio’s sister is in Boise, right? And Fauconnier just happened to run into her? No way.”

  I raise my eyebrows in silent agreement and take a swig of my beer.

  Regret joins the storm in her eyes. “I wish I hadn’t urged my folks to take the offer, too.”

  Because they also sold to MDC, the last parcel of land around my spread to go. But who could have known? MDC talked a good game, promised jobs and all kinds of shit when they moved in. The mining’s not coming back, the mill’s not coming back, so both the city and the county are looking at bringing in tourists to the area, taking advantage of our proximity to Coeur d’Alene and a handful of ski resorts. MDC swooped in with the same vision, talking about a big lodge and a golf course—and Carrie, who practically runs the town from the mayor’s office, was among those who were excited about the development.

  Hell, everyone was. Even I thought it sounded like a great idea. And if MDC comes through, it’ll be a heck of a boon to the people around here. They’ve got enough land to make it happen.

  So I don’t know why they’re still going after mine. They probably thought I’d take the money
and run. Maybe my refusal to fall in line pissed them off. Maybe they’re just greedy. Who knows.

  Carrie’s troubled gaze searches my face. “Do you think they’d have actually done anything to Julio’s sister?”

  I shrug. Because the truth is, I don’t know that, either. A few months ago, I’d have laughed off the question. Running people off their land is some Old West, cowboys-and-robber-barons shit. But then they started ripping my fences out of the ground and now they’ve scared off a loyal ranch hand. So I don’t know how far it’ll go. I’d like to think that Fauconnier and his cohorts, whoever they are, wouldn’t actually harm a human being. And if they did, I’d like to think they wouldn’t get away with it.

  But that’s not the world we live in. Big business smashes the little guy all the time. I wish it wasn’t true. But it is.

  “What about Jonas?” she asks. “Have they approached him?”

  My uncle—and the man who raised me after my parents were killed. “No,” I tell her. “He’s worried, though.”

  Surprise rounds her lips. Jonas is about as easygoing as a man can be. Not lazy, though. Not a bit. He works as hard as I do, but when he runs into a problem, he doesn’t get upset. He just straightens his shoulders and continues forward. The only time his blood gets boiling is…well, I haven’t really seen it boil. Not in my lifetime.

  Carrie’s shock melts into disbelief. “He actually said he’s worried?”