Hunter Moon
The Warrior's RedemptionClay Cosen wants nothing more than to put his dark past behind him, but his work impounding free-roaming cattle is creating new enemies. Rancher Isabel Nosie has her own reasons to mistrust him. She loved him once, and she’s never forgiven him for fiancé’s death—a death she thinks Clay could have prevented. When someone starts killing her cattle, though, she has no choice but to turn to the best tracker on the reservation.Soon, Izzie herself is in danger, and Clay’s attempts to protect her and clear her name make him a target—and a suspect. Clay risks losing everything: the respect of his family and his tribe, and the woman he’s never stopped loving.
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âI got you, Izzie. Iâll get you through this.â
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.
âYou going to be all right?â
She didnât think so. Everything around her seemed to be breaking loose and she couldnât hold the pieces together any longer. She should go and reassure the boys. Tell them that everything was all right. But it wasnât all right. It was so not all right.
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 mareâs 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 horseâs 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 couldnât 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 sheâd 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. Itâd 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 Biscuitâs opposite side. Her fingers gripped the coarse hair of her mareâs neck, and she squeezed the pommel with her upper knee to keep from tumbling to the ground.
âIzzie. Itâs me. Clay Cosen.â
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 motherâs words echoed in her mind.
Heâs a convicted criminal.
âThis way,â he called. âIâve got a truck.â
She hesitated just long enough to cause him to look back. She saw his face go hard. Somehow he knew at a glance that she no longer trusted him. His tight, guarded expression filled her with regrets. So many regrets.
âYou coming?â
Emotion paralyzed her, and she lost her balance, slipping from her saddle and tumbling along the ground. The jolt of pain made her suck wind between her teeth. She fell, rolling to her feet. Clay was there, rifle gripped in one hand and the other extended out to her, as he guided his horse with only the pressure of his legs. She knew the man could ride. His rodeo titles proved that, and he was a sight to see approaching at a full gallop. She didnât think. She just acted, grasping his gloved hand as he charged by and leaped into the air as he pulled. He swung her up behind him. His horse never broke stride as he continued on, down the embankment. Behind them one more shot sounded.
Then they were racing over her pasture and down the steep incline. She could not see past his slate-gray cowboy hat and broad shoulders sheathed in a navy blue gingham check. He wore a battered leather vest the color of his horse, work gloves and faded denim jeans over cowboy boots that had seen better days.
Izzie wrapped her arms about his narrow waist and glanced behind them. There came Biscuit, galloping after her mistress. Izzie looked beyond but saw no one step from the cover of the aspen and pines and heard no more gunshots.
