by Jenna Kernan
Clay looked back across the open pasture. “Can’t go that way. They’d pick us off. But we gotta move. Now.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Stay low,” Clay said as he grabbed Rocket’s reins and hoisted Izzie up on the horse. They left the animal trail and made for deeper cover. Behind them, the men on the road disappeared into the woods.
“Should I shoot at them?” she asked.
“No. Save the bullets. Come on.”
They continued on. When the branches encroached, she slipped from the saddle, following beside Rocket. A moment later the shooting resumed from the direction of the road as their attackers below caught glimpses of them through the pinyons. One bullet splintered the bark of a tree trunk just inches above where Izzie had placed her hand. But she kept going, following Clay deeper into the thicket. Clay knew the woods. He knew how to track and trap. But he had always been the hunter. Now they were the hunted.
From here she could see the gravel road just above them. Was he trying to get past it, to the woods beyond? It would make sense not to be trapped between the men behind and the road ahead. But it was too late.
“I can see them,” she whispered, pointing. “Coming up the road.”
“Can you still climb, Izzie?”
She nodded. Clay boosted her up the tree trunk and then instructed her to throw his lariat over a branch above her. She did as instructed, and before she had even thrown the rope, Clay had shinnied up a nearby sapling and used his weight to bring the top of the trunk to the ground. It was a game they used to play, bending saplings for the ride down. But she knew the other purpose of such a setup because her father had taught her. A snare, a big one, used to capture a large animal. Clay secured the bowed tree and then moved rapidly on the ground, fashioning a large noose that he hid in the branches of the shrubs on either side of the path. One side of the loop lay on the ground, but the other was a few inches off the forest floor. The noose was so artfully camouflaged that she thought she might walk right into it even knowing where it encircled the path. He secured the other end of the rope to the bowed branches he had staked and covered the line with debris. As she watched, the snare vanished. She hoped the cartel members were city boys.
“Come down,” he whispered, and she scurried back to him. They moved on. Clay stopped three more times, using his fishing line to run invisible threads across the path and again to make a lasso of wire line, which he placed partially in the stream. This one he set with several hooks. Above them, the men neared.
“Can’t we just hide? Wait for Gabe?”
Clay shook his head. “I don’t want my brother shot.”
Had she actually just suggested they crawl away and hide while his brother face the danger directed at her? Izzie’s cheeks flushed hot as she decided it was past time for her to stop running from trouble and expecting everyone else to face down her problems.
“You’re right. What can I do?”
He gave her instructions. It was dangerous. They’d have to separate. She needed to lure them but keep them from getting a good shot at her.
“Don’t use the gun unless you have to.” He handed it to her. “That will give away your position and lead the ones on the road to you.”
“Okay.” She turned to go, but Clay stopped her by capturing her by the arm.
“Izzie, I have to tell you something else. Tessay’s working with them.”
“Why are you telling me this now?” And then she knew. If it came to it, Clay would give his life up for hers, and he wanted her to know what he knew.
“Oh, no, you don’t. Don’t you die on me, Clay Cosen.”
He grinned and saluted. “Yes, ma’am.”
A moment later the killers’ arrival was punctuated by the sound of gravel crunching under tires followed by car doors slamming.
“You remember what I said?” Clay asked. “Use the horse to startle them and take cover.”
“What if they shoot Rocket?” she asked, the anticipation and worry broiling inside her.
“What if they kill you instead? Who will look after your brothers then? Rocket?”
Izzie straightened her spine and prepared to do what must be done. She gripped Rocket’s reins in one hand and the rifle in the other. She nodded her readiness. Clay clasped her chin between his thumb and curved index finger. She leaned in and gave him a kiss. Their mouths met greedily. Then he left her, running fast in the opposite direction.
Izzie led Rocket to the place where he could be seen from the trail, a living decoy should the men get past Clay’s traps. Then she dropped the gelding’s reins. Rocket was a good horse and knew that a dropped rein meant to stay put. She tied a lead line on the side of his bridle and walked as far from the animal path as the line allowed, taking cover behind a cluster of rocks. As she settled in against the cold stone and damp moss, she wondered if, like Geronimo, this would be her final stand. She understood now what it meant to fight against terrible odds for your family. Like those warriors of old, she fought because she was left with only two choices. Fight or die.
Izzie took the red bandanna from around her neck and folded it carefully. Then she tied it in the fashion of her people, like a male warrior would with a wide band tight across his forehead. She lifted her rifle and waited. From somewhere uphill she heard a war whoop and knew Clay had engaged the enemy.
* * *
CLAY ALLOWED THEM to see him for just the briefest instant, not long enough, he hoped, to get a bead on him before he rushed away down the trail. He veered off before the first snare and was gratified to hear orders shouted in Spanish and then the heavy footfalls of pursuit. He watched as the first man caught his boot on the trip wire that sent the section of log he had suspended above them crashing down. It glanced off the first man’s shoulder but struck the second of four squarely in the face. Clay winced at the crunch of wood splintering bone. The second man dropped to the trail. The third man fell to a knee and lifted his semiautomatic machine gun, scanning the area for a target and finding none. Clay had already dropped from view. He knew enough Spanish to understand that the downed man was alive and heard the order to leave him. Too bad. He had hoped they would order one of the three to carry him back to the SUV.
Clay waited until they had continued down the trail before retrieving the abandoned man, dragging him into the shrubs and tying him wrist to ankle in a series of knots Clay had learned from his brothers. He also knew from firsthand experience that the more the victim struggled, the tighter the knots became.
The men were moving cautiously now. So slowly that they might see the snare only a few feet before them. He had hidden the noose well, but the trip line had only some greenery disguising it. He knew that it would not fool any of his siblings, but the lead man, now inching carefully along, still placed his silver-tipped cowboy boot squarely in the noose, and a moment later he was rocketing into the air, his semiautomatic firing in a wild arc that sent his two remaining comrades diving for cover. One man landed close enough for Clay to disable him.
Clay did not like to cause pain, but all he needed to do was think of Izzie, just fifty yards down this very path, and it was easy to draw his knife and slice cleanly through the man’s hamstring. The suspended man’s howling was so loud, he wondered if the final man even heard Clay’s victim’s scream. Clay punched the blade of the knife into his other thigh and then relieved him of his guns. He left him howling and rolling from side to side under a bush beyond the edge of the trail.
The last remaining man was now trying to cut down his friend, which was a terrible idea. Likely the man would land on his head and break his neck. Clay sent the man running down the trail with a blast of gun fire. Less than a minute later he heard his screams and knew he had blundered into the spider web of monofilament and fishing hooks that Clay had rigged to come loose on contact.
He followed and reached
the final man at the same time as Izzie. She trained her rifle on their foe as Clay ignored the hooks that tore the man’s forehead, neck and body and quickly tied him.
By now the two men who had been left behind would be hearing the screams and cries of their comrades. They had no vehicle. These were not the men in charge. No, the leader was the coward who had abandoned his team at the first sign of trouble and run into the net. But still, Clay thought they would be coming. And he was out of traps.
* * *
IZZIE DID NOT want to leave Clay, but she thought his plan was a good one. With only two men left, it would be best if she could draw them from cover. Unlike Clay, she did not wish to bring them in alive. They were on her land. They were trying to kill her, and she was more than willing to protect her family and the man she loved.
An even match now, Clay said, with two of them and two cartel killers from Mexico. Two Apache versus two Comancheros. It was an old match, and each side had their share of victories and losses.
Clay wanted to get behind them. Izzie wanted to shoot them on open ground. But it was already too late for that, because when they retraced their path it was to discover that their attackers had already crossed the pasture and had reached cover. She saw their position, below them, hiding in the rocks. Clay had left two men disabled, howling in pain and shouting orders and threats at the remaining men. They were living decoys, but Clay needed time to get behind the approaching men. He took the semiautomatics. But he carried them across his back. What he carried in his hand was his knife and his rope. She had seen what he could do with that rope; she had watched him practicing his throw for hours. She had seen him ride at a full gallop, rope a calf, leap from his horse, flip the animal and rope its hind and forelegs all in less than five seconds.
But none of the calves he’d ever roped had carried guns.
One man was making his way between rocks. Clay told her to let them get closer, let them separate. Then keep them distracted and apart, so he could take them out. Had she given him enough time? They were only thirty feet below her now. One man moving and then the next. She needed to stop their advance. So she watched through her rifle scope as the first man made his next move, leaving the rocks for the more flimsy cover of a downed Ponderosa pine. Then she pulled the trigger, shooting high, and he predictably flattened to the ground. She sighted him, hoping for another shot. Her fury battled with her desire to follow Clay’s orders. He wanted them alive.
The man stayed down for a long time. Then he shouted for his comrade and was answered by silence. He called again, a note of hysteria now entering his voice. But his partner did not reply. Izzie smiled. Clay had reached the other man.
The final man’s voice was frantic now. He swore and called out in Spanish to the Virgin Mary. Izzie scowled.
“She won’t help you,” she called, and then closed one eye, watching for her chance. Behind him came the snap of a branch. Clay would never be so careless. The man lifted up and looked back, responding like a gopher to a whistle. Izzie pulled the trigger and heard the scream.
Then Clay leaped on the man. The man’s gun flew into the air, and she saw Clay lace both hands together and bring them down hard. The woods went silent. Behind her came the cries of their leader, calling for his men, swearing vengeance and death as the hooks gaffed him like a trout. Beyond that came the sound of steady sobs. The one Clay had dispatched without killing him, she supposed. At the moment he did not seem grateful.
Clay stood and waved.
“All clear.”
“Dead?” she asked.
“You got him in the shoulder. Good shot.”
“I was aiming for his head.” She scrambled down toward him.
“Oh,” he said, regarding the man in question. “Bad shot.”
She kept her rifle ready until she saw their attacker lying motionless, facedown, with his hands neatly secured behind his back. Blood welled through a hole in his jacket like a running stream.
Izzie let the rifle slip to her side as all the fight drained out of her. She began to shake and reached with her free arm. Clay pulled her close. Izzie let the sobs come.
“You’re safe, Izzie. I’ve got you.”
He had always gotten her, always been there.
“What if they send more?”
“With the FBI wise to the location of their cook site? With my brother patrolling this area?” He stroked his hand over her head. “With Tessay under arrest? No, Izzie. They won’t be back.”
Not here, anyway. But they would be back on the reservation. The protection of Indian land was just too tempting to the cartel, and the money was too enticing to some members of their tribe.
Izzie burrowed her face into the soft flannel of Clay’s worn shirt and breathed in the warm reassurance of his scent. How had she ever made it so many years without him?
From somewhere below their line of sight came the sound of sirens. Clay’s brother Gabe and likely his uncle, Agent Forrest, were on their way.
Clay set her back and took a long look at her, scrutinizing her face.
“You going to be all right?”
Her stomach dropped. Something about the way he said that made her think he was saying farewell. One look at his face and she knew the truth. What he was really asking was would she be all right without him?
“Yes,” she whispered. “Or I will be.”
He gave her a sad smile.
“Go on,” she said, giving him permission to go.
Clay moved toward the open pasture. Waving his arms toward the approaching police cruisers. She knew what he would do now that she was safe. He would leave her alone again, give her her privacy, let her keep her stellar reputation among the ranching community, because that was what she had always wanted. But she didn’t want that now. Now she wanted Clay Cosen just as he was, because there wasn’t a better man anywhere. The only trouble was, she didn’t know if he wanted her.
Was it already too late? Had she hurt him too deeply and too often to ever make amends?
She watched Clay walk out to meet his brother and felt what Clay must have experienced when she walked away from him, a sense of hopeless loss. Izzie’s breath shuddered as the tears came again.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Clay watched Gabe directing his men to wait and then ducked through the fencing. A moment later, he and their uncle came striding forward together in a perfect matched gait. They made an ominous sight, Gabe in his police uniform, gold tribal shield flashing in the sunlight, and Luke, dressed in a dark gray suit and tie that made him look every inch the G-man.
There was no easy way to tell his brother that he had fled the scene of a crime. Luckily, Gabe opened the conversation without waiting for him.
“She okay?”
Clay nodded.
“You okay?”
Another nod.
“I told you to stay put.”
“Did you expect me to?”
Gabe’s mouth quirked for just an instant as he struggled to keep hold of his stern expression.
“Did you pick up Tessay?” asked Clay.
“Not yet. Brought all the horses,” he said, motioning toward the six cruisers that covered the 1,800 square miles of Apache reservation. He glanced back toward the woods, where Izzie emerged from the rocks leading her horses.
“I need you to call a vet. They shot Biscuit.”
Gabe got on his radio. Then he rested a hand on his pistol as if it was the armrest of a familiar chair.
From the woods came howls of anger mingled with the high-pitched screams of pain. Luke and Gabe exchanged a look.
“Who’s that?”
Clay went through it in sequence, the call from Rubin, finding his body. His conversation with Tribal Councilman Arnold Tessay and then coming to help Izzie face five cartel killers.
“How many dead?” asked Luke.
“None.”
That made both men exchange a look. Gabe shook his head in clear disappointment, and his uncle cocked his head to stare at Clay.
“What?” asked Clay.
“You should shoot to kill,” said Gabe, repeating what he knew from law enforcement. If you use your weapon, aim for mass.
Clay knew that philosophy. But he had a record. That made him see things differently.
“Very dangerous,” said Luke.
“More witnesses for you,” said Clay.
“Let’s go mop up.” Gabe lifted his radio. One of the cruisers headed up the mountain, to the improved road and the abandoned SUV.
Luke called his partner. She exited the car by the road, and Clay was struck with two things. She was small, and she was so blonde that her hair seemed to be a reflection of the sunlight.
“That’s your partner?” asked Clay.
Luke glanced back. “Yeah. I know. But she’s tougher than she looks.”
“I sure hope so.”
“Young. On her third assignment. Before that she was in US Army.”
“Oh, boy,” said Clay, knowing army and US Marines didn’t always get along.
“It’s okay. Let’s go find some illegal aliens.”
Clay walked them across the pasture where Izzie waited with Rocket and Biscuit, comforting the horses. Biscuit now stood with her front leg raised and her chest oozing blood.
After Clay had pointed out all the wriggling bodies of their attackers, Gabe took him into custody. Izzie left Biscuit the minute she saw Gabe put Clay in the back of his cruiser. It was the ride Clay had never wanted to take again, and this time Izzie was there to witness his humiliation. Somehow, despite all his efforts, he was in custody again. The look on Izzie’s face made Clay feel sick. He read her expression as a kind of acceptance that he was what they all said, the black sheep, the black eye, the raw wound, the lost child or worse...just like his father.
Clay went through another round of questioning at the station. Gabe told him all the men he’d captured would live and that Luke and his partner, Agent Walker, had taken custody of them. He also told him that Clyne had called a special meeting of the tribal council and that Tessay had been suspended pending investigation. It seemed that Arnold’s prediction was wrong. The federal and local law did not take his word at face value and were investigating Rubin’s death with Tessay as the prime suspect.