UNDER THE DESERT MOON
By Mary Tate Engels
Published by Mary Tate Engels at Smashwords, all rights reserved.
Copyright 2011, Mary Tate Engels
Cover by www.digitaldonna.com
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. It may not be re-sold or given away.
Project Dark Moon
Annie wasn't exactly as innocent as she looked.
"So that's your secret mission, Brett? What are you up to in our sleepy little town?" Her voice was barely audible. She felt sick knowing Brett had a special assignment with law enforcement, an assignment that could lead him straight to her door, or the back shed.
"It's something I'd rather not talk about."
"So you roam around at night? Checking for what?" She knew, or she suspected.
"Look, Annie, I don't need to tell you to keep this quiet," Brett said. "My goal is to apprehend these offenders, and if word gets out..."
Annie listened mesmerized. She could see Brett's enthusiasm grow as he talked about his project. Every word filled her with more guilt and misery. Obviously he thought he could trust her – especially after the night they'd just shared.
He frowned and studied her expression. "Are you okay? You aren't disturbed by all this talk about criminals in the area, are you?"
"Of course not," she lied. She knew she couldn't tell him. Not now. It seemed she was getting in deeper and deeper. And as she heard his next words, a chill ran through her.
"Sometimes," he was saying, "even the most innocent are not what they seem..."
Chapter One
Annie Clayton lifted her head like a wild animal and listened. Her instincts were usually sharp, but there was always the off chance that she would miss something.
A full moon cast an eerie light over the old mission ruins. She could feel something in the air; she wasn't sure what. A change. . . in the weather? Well, that was expected. Or was someone watching her? She shivered at the thought. At the feeling.
She took another step and looked back. "Feliz, come. Come with me."
The normally loyal Golden Lab whined, ears down, and remained in the 4-Runner passenger seat.
Annie called again, then gave up. The wind caught her unruly hair, tossing it carelessly. She pulled her knit cap down lower over her ears. Her long honey-colored hair spread around her shoulders catching the light from the moon.
Hidden eyes, los ojos, were watching her.
She heard a footstep, the crackle of a leaf. She halted. "Helloooo. Anyone there?" Silence. Only the wind that whispered to the crumbling adobe bricks and ran off laughing through a small stand of pines nearby.
Annie closed her eyes for a moment. Diego always said these eerie sensations came from the spirits, los espiritus. But Diego was old and had weird ideas. With a shiver and pulling her jacket closer, Annie opened her eyes and took a few more steps toward the crumbling mission ruins. She came here to communicate, not with los espiritus, but with Aunt Annalee. She'd done this before, many times. Sometimes she got answers, or thought she did, sometimes nada.
This evening, at the magic hour of twilight with the full moon rising, she could see nothing out of the ordinary. It was the same, always the same, as it had been for two hundred years.
The old Spanish mission site, located in the far corner of her property, exuded a strange aura. So strange, in fact, that only a few ventured there. At one time, Uncle Martin had threatened to tear the crumbling ruins down, but Aunt Annalee had persuaded him to leave it standing. That's why Annie came here to meditate, hoping to communicate with her deceased aunt.
Today the sensations seemed especially strong to Annie. Maybe it was the pending storm. Or los espiritus as Diego claimed.
After Aunt Annalee died, Diego believed she had joined los espiritus of the mission. Annie sighed and leaned against the tumbledown building, her shoulders absorbing heat from the sun-warmed bricks. Or perhaps it was Aunt Annalee's spirit warming her. That's what she preferred to believe, in her desire to perpetuate the beautiful memory of a lady she had loved very much.
Here Annie could have a very private conversation with Aunt Annalee. "I'm worried about this storm that's coming," she said aloud. "It's a bad time for a late frost. The trees have full blossoms for the first time in years, and I can't lose them now. If I'm going to hang on to the farm, I have to have a profitable year soon."
Los Ojos were watching.
She waited. There were no answers. She didn't really expect any. She just had to voice her concerns, hoping solutions would come to her somehow. The only sound came from the wind whistling around the crumbling adobe, rustling the pine needles. Then, out of the silence, one word seemed to emerge... help ... help.
"Help? Sure. I'll need help, all right, if this storm brings the frost they're predicting. But from where? There's always Diego. He's the only one available right now. It's too early for the migrants and there's so much talk, they may not even come. There is no one else, and Diego's not strong enough to do all the necessary work anymore."
She paused to listen to the silence. "Don't worry, Aunt Annalee. I'll go find some help and save those precious little blossoms. I'll put the power of the positive to work, like you always said."
Los Ojos were watching.
Finally Annie made her way back to her burgundy 4-Runner where Feliz waited. The curious Lab, who normally followed Annie everywhere, wouldn't budge from her seat when they came out here. Diego said dogs were afraid of los espiritus. Annie couldn't imagine Feliz being afraid of anything. Anything real. Still, here she sat, whining and shivering.
Annie gave the ancient place one last look, feeling the spirits' eyes on her retreating back.
The next morning, Annie muscled the sturdy 4-Runner between the ruts in the unpaved road that edged the neighboring Meyer ranch. Drawn by the sight of the familiar white pickup truck with its red and blue lights on top, she turned under the Rocking M sign and drove into the weed infested driveway.
Parking behind the truck, she waved to the tall, lean man standing on the porch. "Hi, stranger," she called. "We don't see much of you around here anymore."
"Hey, Annie." He motioned for her to join him.
J.M. Meyer had moved to town several years ago, after his wife, Rosa, died and their only son showed no interest in ranching. It seemed a shame to Annie that he left this perfectly fine ranch to deteriorate, but J.M. seldom came out to the old homestead anymore, especially since being elected county sheriff.
When she reached the steps, he shook her hand and grinned. "Apple farming must agree with you, Annie. I've never seen you looking prettier."
She shook her head at his compliment. She knew her hair was a mess and she'd been too busy to bother with makeup today. "It's a good life, if you can make ends meet, but we miss you out here. Thinking about moving back? I'd love to have a neighbor again."
"Good. Because Brett's going to try his hand at a slower pace for a change. I came out to see how bad the place looked." He chuckled softly as his gaze swept the house with its peeling paint and overgrown yard. "Pretty bad."
"How's Brett doing?" It was a perfunctory question, one people ask about relatives they don't know. But when she said his name, Brett, she felt a little trill in the pit of her stomach.
"He's out of the hospital, but still needs some time to fully recover. They've put him on leave for a while."
"So he's coming here to recuperate?"
"Yep. Also, he wasn't happy with his new assignment. After his injury, the FBI wanted him to take a desk job in D.C. That didn't sit well with him, so he's considering getting out altogether. That wou
ldn't bother me. It's a damned dangerous business. I suggested that he come back and try ranching for a while. This is a good place to live, don't you think?"
Annie shrugged. "It is for me. But I'm sure it's a far cry from the excitement of Miami and working with the FBI." She figured J.M. must have done some fast talking to get his son to come back to Arizona. "There's a lot of work to be done around here if he intends to turn this into a working ranch again."
J.M. shoved his white cowboy hat back on his head. "Brett can pace himself and take it easy until he feels like working harder. I always figured that physical work was good for a man, especially one who has a lot of thinking to do like he does."
"Guess it's good for a woman, too, J.M." Annie clamped one hand on her hair as a gust of wind whipped it around her face. "I find myself working harder and harder to make a go of it. I just don't want to admit defeat."
"You'll do it, Annie. Takes time. Old Martin let the place go to hell the past few years, so you took over a big mess." He gestured at the front yard. "Just like Brett will have to do. He doesn't know it's this bad. In fact, even I didn't know it was such a wreck."
"It's pretty bad," she agreed. "My problem is that I'm running out of time and money. I have to produce a crop this season. I can't handle another bad year. And if this storm is anything like what they're predicting, a frost will nip the first healthy blossoms I've seen in years."
"Aw, it probably won't be as bad as the forecasts. The weathermen tend to exaggerate whatever appears on their dang computer screens. It's rare to get a heavy frost this late in April."
"Even a light one can ruin me. Those blossoms are very tender."
"Well, if it comes, I'll be the first one out to your place to help you set up the smudge pots. You'll surely need lots of hands."
"Thanks, J.M. It's nice to know I can count on the sheriff for assistance as well as protection. Well, I'd better get busy. Nice to see you again. And tell your son welcome back for me."
"Will do. I'm sure I'll be around more often, now that Brett's coming home, Annie."
"Great."
She drove away, thinking about Brett Meyer. She'd only seen him a few times in all the summers she'd spent on her aunt and uncle's apple farm. When they were young, she paid little attention to the skinny boy on the next ranch. All she remembered about him was that he had jet-black hair and mahogany eyes, from his beautiful Hispanic mother. In the sixth grade, the only time she spent a whole year here, he joined the other boys in teasing her about her blond hair that had now mellowed out to a honey color. That year she hated him and everybody else.
A few years later, she got over her parent's divorce and thought he was cute. But he'd had his own troubles and had been sent away to military school. Then, to college and eventually he moved away to work for the FBI. When he returned for Rosa's funeral, he had kept to himself, enduring his grief in privacy. She respected that and stayed away from him.
A couple of months ago, Annie and the tiny town of Silver Creek, Arizona, had been shocked to hear the name of their very own sheriff's son on the nightly news. Brett Meyer was shot and severely wounded in a drug bust in Miami. He nearly died.
J.M. had flown to Brett's side at the Miami hospital, and the next week, he had returned to brag that his son had received a commendation from the Director of the FBI. J.M. was justifiably proud of his son, a local boy who'd made good.
The next day was windy and dark with scattered showers preceding the promised storm. Annie's activity in the orchards increased. She and Diego were everywhere, patrolling, digging, hauling and clearing.
Los ojos watched anxiously.
Annie lifted a metal smudge pot from the back of her 4-Runner and hauled it clumsily across the irrigation ditch. She had no thoughts of spirits or anything else except the frost on her precious apple blossoms. But there were eyes watching her.
The tiny pink-white blossoms on skinny bare branches were totally vulnerable at this stage. The forecast promised a dip to below freezing temperatures tonight, a late April storm that could wipe out Annie's entire apple crop for the year. Would those beautiful, little full-of-hope blooms droop and turn brown by midmorning tomorrow?
Por Dios! Not if she could help it!
Determinedly Annie tugged another smudge pot to the line of trees. In theory, the heavy smoke from the kerosene heaters would act as a cloud to insulate the orchard. Actually the smoke raised the temperature only a few degrees, but that could be enough to save a crop.
She heard a rumble and turned around just in time to see J.M.'s truck parking near her 4-Runner. God bless J.M. He'd promised to come help her and here he was. She wished he'd brought more help. She smiled gratefully and waved.
The man who emerged from the truck, however, wasn't Sheriff J.M. Meyer. Oh, he was lean and long legged like J.M. But his jeans were definitely tighter, and he wore no Stetson. When he hopped the irrigation ditch his step was light. He wore brown walking boots, which she noticed because they weren't typical of the cowboy boots most of the local men wore, and they were spit-polished clean. Nobody around here stayed that clean for long.
As he approached she could see that he was as tall as the sheriff but much darker. He wore an expensive haircut. Jet black hair, intense ebony eyes, a coppery complexion and the straight-nosed, thin-lipped face hinted at Spanish and Indian ancestors. He was J.M.'s son all right, but his resemblance favored his beautiful Mexican mother, Rosa.
"Hey Güerita! My dad said you would need some help tonight."
"I sure do," she replied. "By nightfall I'll need all the help I can get." She gazed appreciatively at the man reputed to be a hero. Neither handsome nor good-looking properly described him. Perhaps princely or noble more appropriately applied. "You must be Brett. And I'm not güerita any longer. My blond hair has darkened."
He extended a large hand and his eyes swept over her. "More like honey now. Damn, have I heard a lot about you, Annie. My dad thinks you hung the moon."
"You're the one who made the TV news." Her work-roughened hand was lost in the strength and noticeable smoothness of his. "And the front page of the Silver Creek Gazette. You're quite a hero around here."
"It's because of my dad. Otherwise, it was just another drug-related incident."
"J.M.'s mighty proud of you. And from what I've read in the newspapers, he has every right to be." For the first time in ages she wished she'd worn work gloves and taken better care of her hands. Self-consciously she slid them into her jacket pockets.
"They both exaggerate." He tossed his head back in a dismissive gesture. The motion reminded her of a stallion chomping at the bit. "I'm a man doing a job who happened to be unlucky enough to get in the way of a couple of bullets. That's no hero."
"But you were doing a hero's job, trying to capture criminals. That's pretty fine work to most folks."
"You know what the FBI does for their heroes who get shot?" His dark eyes hardened. "They give you a large desk in a fancy office. That's why I'm here now and not still on the job."
"Where you'd rather be, I take it?"
"You bet. I gave them ten good years and nearly my life. They gave me a commendation from the Director and my choice of a window or aisle desk."
"Somebody's got to keep the organization running."
"Well, it won't be me. I'd rather—" he paused and motioned to the four-foot-high metal heater "—be hauling smudge pots. Which is why I'm here."
"The FBI's loss is our gain." She propped her fists on slim hips and glanced over the orchard behind her. "You're exactly what I need tonight. It's too early for the migrants, so all I have is Diego."
"Diego's still here? He must be a hundred years old by now."
"Not quite. He's seventy-something and still going strong, except for his arthritic hip. He worked for Uncle Martin more than thirty years and sure does know his apples. I couldn't get along without him. But on occasion, I do need someone a little stronger." She gave Brett a sassy grin. "And you look like you'll fill the bill."<
br />
"Might as well use me while I'm here. What's first?"
"I need all the smudge pots distributed around the outer perimeter and at twenty-foot intervals along the inside rows."
"Okay, where are they?"
"The rest of them are stored in the shed near the house." She started toward the two vehicles, which were parked nose to nose. "Diego's taken our truck for fuel. I'm glad you brought J.M.'s truck. Mind if we use it for hauling the smokers?"
"I figured it would come in handy." Brett fell into step with her. "That's why I drove it instead of my car."
"What kind of car do you have?"
"It's a um, sports car." He mumbled the last part.
"No, you need something sturdy out here." She was determined not to respond to the sports car reference, like what kind and what color, although she was dying to know. "Is J.M. coming tonight?"
"Maybe later. He and his deputy took the police car to check out a report of a truck full of illegals near the county line."
"Now, that sounds more like your kind of job, Brett." She stepped across the irrigation ditch. Her boots, she noticed, were caked with mud, in sharp contrast to Brett's shiny ones.
"Maybe it is, but let them handle the local stuff. I'm here to do a job for you, Annie."
"I appreciate you coming, Brett. The temperature usually drops after one in the morning with the worst time just around sun-up. I plan to keep an all-night vigil."
"Then, so will I."
"It'll be a rough, cold night," she warned, pulling her jacket tighter.
"I've had plenty of those."
"Most folks just come to help for a few hours. It'll be okay if you decide to leave."
"Not a chance. I'm here for the duration, as long as you need me. Y'know, Dad was right about you Annie Clayton. All grown up to be a real beauty, he said. Those brown eyes, wow! Wish she was interested in older men."
Under The Desert Moon (Desert Sky Series Book 2) Page 1