High Moon

by Kati Wilde

  Sliding his hat back over his brown hair, he closes the distance between us in a few long strides. For an instant everything feels just as it did last night, when I teased him and turned around to find him coming after me, intent on a kiss. Awareness prickles my skin, heat rolling through my belly—and I don’t even think of stopping him. He halts an arm’s length away, so big, his roughly hewn features shadowed by his hat brim, and he reaches for me with his right hand.

  Automatically I lift my hand toward his, then realize he’s holding a folded sheet of paper that he must have pulled from his back pocket.

  Not reaching for me. Giving me his references.

  I pray he doesn’t notice how hot my cheeks are as I take the paper, careful not to touch his fingers. I don’t need any more touching between us. Not when I react like this simply because he comes close.

  But even if I don’t touch, it’s hard not to look. The sleeves of his flannel shirt are rolled back, revealing steely forearms dusted with dark hair. Calluses roughen his broad palms and his long, blunt fingers. His nails are clipped short—and he must have spent some time scrubbing them, because not a trace of last night’s engine oil remains. Everything about him seems clean, as if before coming here he carefully showered and shaved and made certain to pick the freshest clothes out of whatever luggage he’s got.

  Yet here I am with fresh cow shit on my boots—and if I’m not mistaken, he just took a long, deep breath, like he was scenting something. Maybe me.

  Not that it matters. Because if I hire him, there’ll be nothing else between us. There can’t be.

  But I’m still rattled and far too aware of his gaze on my face as I unfold the paper—not even seeing what he’s written. Just trying desperately to pull myself together.

  Luckily, the motel he stayed at makes it easy. “The Ponderosa’s classier than I gave them credit for,” I tell him drily. “They’ve even got their own stationary.”

  Which looks like somebody pasted a plain address label over the logo that was originally printed onto the notepaper—a logo that isn’t the Ponderosa’s.

  Ethan’s rumbling chuckle rolls out. “If there’d been anywhere to print those references from my laptop this morning, I would have given you something a little more professional. Instead I had to write it by hand.”

  Neat block letters create a list of names, dates, and phone numbers. My attention catches on the first name—and a job he left less than a week ago.

  “You worked for Bill Weathering?”

  “A couple of times over the past ten years,” he says. “Mostly seasonal work.”

  I scan the other names. Some are familiar, but that first one will matter most. Bill’s beef operation is similar to ours, though his is a lot bigger. “And what’s he going to say about you? You might as well be upfront about it now, because he’s a good friend of ours.”

  “He’ll say that he offered to double my pay if I took on a permanent position there,” Ethan says bluntly. “But if we’re being upfront, then let me tell you that I’m not here for the job, Makena. I’m here for you.”

  My mouth drops open. That was really upfront. But despite the way my blood starts simmering when his gaze falls to my parted lips, I shake my head. “That’s no good, then. I don’t need someone to mess around with in bed. This month alone I’ve got my fall-calving cows ready to drop, my spring calves to wean, almost fifty head to finish and get out to buyers, and a garden and an orchard full of produce that needs harvesting and preserving. And that’s in addition to all the usual labor we do around here. So I need help and someone who’ll work.”

  “That’s what you’ll get. I didn’t say I was here for sex. I’m here for you.” And he looks at me again in the way that promises far too much. “Sure, I’d like to have both. But if you put up fences between me and your bed, I’ll stay on the side you tell me to—though I can’t promise I won’t spend some time sitting up on the top rail of that fence and looking over.”

  Like he’s doing right now. Not standing too close, but somehow still invading every inch of space surrounding me, as if his physical presence extends beyond his actual body. God knows, that big body takes up enough space on its own.

  Doing my best not to appear at all overwhelmed by him—or turned on—I primly fold the sheet of references and tell him, “All right. Consider that fence erected.”

  Oh shit. My face catches fire the moment erected leaves my tongue. Ethan’s eyes start dancing, but his mouth flattens and his jaw clamps, as if he’s doing his best not to laugh or he’s biting back a smart-ass comment. Good choice, considering he came here looking for a job.

  I decide my best option is to pretend it didn’t happen. I start off toward the back of the house, since my boots are too dirty to take him through the front. “Come on, then. I’m running late with breakfast”—and calling Bill Weathering will put me behind a few more minutes—“but the coffee’s ready.”

  I could also use another cup before I tell him about MDC. I wouldn’t feel comfortable hiring anyone without warning them first. And Ethan might not be so eager to work here if he knows why Julio had to leave. He’s got family obligations, so that means he has a family to protect. So I’ll lay it all out over breakfast.

  A few steps later, I realize Ethan’s not behind me. Every cowboy I know jumps at an offer of coffee. Yet he’s still standing by the front porch, his head cocked and staring off into the distance.

  I frown at him. “You have something against breakfast?”

  As if it’s some kind of explanation, he says, “A breeze started up.”

  Barely. In the nearby cherry tree, the leaves are hardly even moving…and those happily tweeting birds have gone silent. Suddenly uneasy, I realize the dogs are doing the same thing Ethan is—lifting their heads into the wind, their attention focused in the same direction. A low growl from Thelma sends shivers running down the back of my neck.

  Quietly Ethan asks, “Do you do your own slaughtering here on the ranch?”

  “Rarely.” At least not since my mom died, because she used to handle it. So unless a buyer makes different arrangements, we send livestock to the local butcher, who ships the meat out to our customers. “Why?”

  “I caught a whiff of blood. Have you checked on your herd yet this morning?”

  Blood? I can’t smell anything but the dew on the grass and the faint odors coming from the barn. Unable to make sense of what he’s saying, I shake my head. “Julio and I usually move the herd after breakfast—”

  Oh god. And Julio’s gone because MDC threatened his sister. What if they decided ripping out my fences and chasing off my employees weren’t enough?

  Gripped by sudden dread, I take off at a sprint, hauling ass toward my truck. Behind me, Ethan curses and orders the dogs to stay. My heart’s pounding so hard in my ears that I don’t hear him coming after me—and then passing me. He’s so fast it’s like he’s simply there, standing at the side of my truck with his big hand flattened against the driver’s side door, as if to prevent me from opening it.

  His voice is low and urgent. “Let me go first and see what it is, Makena. Then I’ll—”

  “Ethan.” Barely holding onto my temper, I grind out his name through gritted teeth. “Get in the truck or get the fuck out of my way.”

  A muscle works in his jaw. Then he hauls open the door. “How many gates between here and there?”

  “Two.” I slide in and stab my key into the ignition.

  Over the low growl of the engine comes the heavy thunk of boots as Ethan vaults up into the truck bed. The second he raps his knuckles against the side panel, telling me he’s ready, I peel out of the carport and head for the pasture.

  Tension rolls my gut into a sick knot. I can’t see the herd yet. Our ranch sits on the narrow plain between the river and the surrounding hills; on a map, the overall shape of our spread is like a big, squished U, courtesy of a bend in the river. But even if the land lay in a straight line instead of following the river’s course, I would
n’t see them yet. We rotate the herd through sections of the pasture, moving them to a new grazing patch each day. This time of year, they’re at the far end of the property—almost a mile and a half away from the house.

  Ethan jumps out of the truck bed as I approach the first gate, and he opens it so quickly I barely have to slow down. As soon as he’s back in, I speed down the cattle alley that runs through the center of the pasture. My hands ache from gripping the steering wheel so tight. Sour fear coats my tongue, and I tell myself that I’m just overreacting. Worry about MDC has stressed me out and now I’m seeing threats everywhere. Because there’s no way Ethan could smell blood from over a mile away. Sure, the dogs smelled something, too. But maybe it was a deer brought down close to the house. We’ve got cougars and bears around here—

  It’s not a deer. As soon as we round the curve, I know something’s wrong. We’re still too far away to see exactly what, but everything about the way the herd is bunched up toward one end of their grazing patch sets off alarms in my head.

  Most of them are standing, though. So it can’t be too bad. It can’t be too bad. I tell myself that over and over, praying that it’ll be true.

  But I know it’s not true even before Ethan swings open the gate into that section of the pasture. In the dim morning light, I still can’t see many details, but by the time we reach the electric fence that contains the herd within their grazing patch, I’ve counted two dozen carcasses lying in the grass ahead.

  Two dozen. No bear or cougar would do that. Only people would.

  My stomach begins heaving the moment I get out of the truck. Not because of the blood, though Ethan was right—it smells like a slaughter. Rage and fear boil up inside me so hard that I barely swallow the urge to vomit. I’ve been around animals all my life, and that includes seeing them butchered. Yet this is so wasteful. And so cruel. And so fucking terrifying. What kind of psychopath would do this? Is getting my land really worth this? And how the hell can I stop it?

  “Makena.” Beside me, Ethan’s voice is low and soothing, but with an undercurrent of rough, hot anger. “You okay?”

  “No,” I say and let my own anger take hold, because otherwise I might start bawling. “But we need to move the herd. Can you handle the electric fence up ahead? There are insulated gloves on the front seat.”

  “I’ll get it done.”

  My throat’s too tight now to do more than nod a thanks. Grabbing a flashlight from my truck, I duck under the electric wire and make my way toward the first carcass. Vaguely I’m aware of the cattle lowing uneasily as Ethan walks through the pasture, trotting away from him instead of trying to rush the temporary fence and get to the fresh grass like they normally do. As if they’re still spooked by the scent of blood or simply wary of any stranger now.

  Because last night someone—or a couple of someones—must have terrorized them. My heart stops in my chest when the flashlight reveals the damage done. I don’t know exactly what I was expecting. Maybe that someone came out here with a bolt stunner and a blade. But I didn’t expect a dead steer that appears mostly unharmed…except for where its skull is caved in, head smashed and brain splattered across the grass.

  What the hell could do that? A shotgun? Except I didn’t hear a thing last night—and I was lying awake for most of it. But even if I’d been sound asleep, two dozen shotgun blasts would’ve had the dogs barking up a storm.

  There’s a few more nearby, all killed the same way. The others are more scattered, as if the herd began fleeing the massacre. But whoever it was caught up to them. And it must have been over quick. Some of them appear to have been killed mid-run. That’s the only bright spot in all this horror—none of them suffered.

  But if I find out who did this, there’s going to be a hell of a lot of suffering. Rage and grief thrum an alternating beat through my veins, but I keep a lid on both as I head over to help Ethan with the stragglers who are refusing to go anywhere near the gate into the next grazing area. All calves, I realize—waiting on the cows that aren’t coming. I meant to wean them this month. But not like this.

  By the time I make it over there, Ethan’s circling around behind them. They dash in the opposite direction—the direction he wants them to go. I hold open the temporary gate while Ethan rounds up the last one. It races ahead of him, bawling. Still afraid of a stranger in their midst.

  His gaze searches my face as I reconnect the cross fence. “They’ll be used to me in a day or two,” he says gruffly.

  “Probably just spooked,” I agree.

  He gives me another searching look. Then he glances back at the bloodied pasture, his jaw hardening as his gaze scans the field. “You want me to roll up that back fence?”

  Which we’d usually do, then put it into place as tomorrow’s front fence. But I shake my head. “I’ll leave it up until Kyle gets here. Maybe someone was stupid enough to leave fingerprints on a post when they went through. I haven’t touched anything yet…though we need to get that water tub moved.”

  I start in that direction, and he falls in beside me.

  “Kyle?”

  “The sheriff.”

  “Do you know who did this?”

  A shiver races down my spine at the flat, deadly edge in his voice. He’s studying a downed heifer and his profile looks carved from stone.

  I’ve got a damned good idea who did it. Or not exactly who, but why. But I know better than to sling around accusations without any evidence.

  If Ethan’s going to be working here, though, he deserves to know what’s going on. “Maybe,” I finally say. “I’ve had some trouble with a development company pressuring me to sell the ranch. Though I didn’t expect anything like this. So this might be someone else. Maybe some locals.”

  “Locals?” He slashes a frown my way. “Is it some racist shit?”

  “No,” I say, then a bitter laugh escapes me. “Well, maybe. Most people in town are all right. Or at least they have good intentions, even if they say some really stupid things now and then. And I suppose some people keep quiet about what they truly think about anyone who isn’t white. But there are also some who aren’t so quiet. Maybe they’d use this whole thing with MDC as an excuse to hurt me, and tell themselves it’s not because I’m the brown daughter of immigrants, but because they believe I’m preventing all those new jobs from coming into town.”

  “And which way are you leaning?”

  “MDC. Because look at what they did…” My throat abruptly tightens again, leaving my voice strained and raw. “I don’t even know what kind of weapon could make a mess like that. And if it had been locals, they’d have most likely stolen the cows instead of killing them, because whether they eat it or sell it, beef equals money. God knows it wouldn’t be the first time we’ve had a few head taken.”

  “You don’t think they’re pissed off enough to slaughter part of a herd?”

  “Maybe. But if they were, they’d probably use guns, get it done fast. The herd’s over a mile from the house. Even if they made noise, they know it’d take me a while to get here—and even longer for Kyle to arrive. But I don’t think this was a gun.”

  Ethan draws in a long breath and his frown deepens. “I don’t smell any gunpowder. Or much of anything else.”

  Neither do I—and the burnt odor of gunpowder would have lingered. “So this seems more like what MDC did with Julio. Threaten and push just enough to scare us.”

  His amber gaze spears me again. “What’d they do to him?”

  “They threatened his sister. So if you need to—”

  A sound like a growl cuts me off. “Did they do anything to her?”

  “Just strongly suggested they would,” I say. “So he left to protect her.”

  “And who’s protecting you?”

  “My uncle and I do all right taking care of each other.” We have for years now. “But you should know what you might be getting into. Since you have family, maybe—”

  “I don’t have any family left. So until this trouble is ov
er, I’ll—” He breaks off as we reach the big water tub. His voice hardens again. “There’s your weapon.”

  Sick rage shoots up my throat. Lying next to the tub is a sledgehammer, the head and handle covered in gore.

  Horror and disbelief shudder through me. “That’s my uncle’s,” I tell Ethan, playing my flashlight over the length of it and settling the light on the grip. “He always wraps duct tape around the handle like that. It’s supposed to be in his workshop.”

  “The same workshop I was in last night?”

  I nod. “Yes, I…” Oh god. “I forgot to lock it up when I got back home.”

  Ethan looks grim. “If this bastard stole it from there, he must have been right outside your house last night.”

  “He must have been. But I didn’t hear or see anyone. And the dogs didn’t bark.” Another realization hits and a short, high-pitched laugh escapes me. “Whoever did this must have known my uncle was gone, too. He’s been camping out in those hills every night since our fences got torn out, watching over this end of the pasture. But he wasn’t here last night. So either they got lucky or they’re watching us come and go.”

  “Then I’ll start watching over your place at night.” Ethan’s eyes pick up the flashlight’s gleam, flashing molten gold. “And if they try anything again, their luck’ll run out.”

  I pray he’s right. Because looking around this pasture, it feels as if my luck is running out…along with any future I hoped to have here. And although I try, it’s hard to muster up any real optimism when I say, “Maybe Kyle will find some evidence to pin on them this time.”

  But it looks like I’ll be doing some kissing this morning, after all. Wearing a frustrated scowl, Ethan shakes his head. His voice is a low growl as he tells me, “He won’t. Because there’s not a goddamn thing here.”

  And I kiss my optimism goodbye.

  6

  Ethan

  I should have been here.