Hunter Moon (Lupine Moon Series) Read online

  HUNTER MOON

  A Lupine Moon Novel

  By Cait Lavender

  HUNTER MOON

  A Lupine Moon Novel

  Cait Lavender

  Copyright © 2012

  All Rights Reserved.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  For updates on Cait and her books, visit

  http://caitlavender.com

  Facebook

  @CaitLavender

  Cover design © Copyright 2012

  Cait Lavender and Kristina Stork

  Layout provided by Everything Indie

  http://www.everything-indie.com

  Acknowledgements

  First and foremost I must thank my mother. Without her inspiration, faith in my talent and loving support I would never have even dreamt of completing a novel. Thanks to my wonderful husband who put up with all my writer’s insanity, my daughter for her love, and the rest of my family for their support and encouragement. A big thank you to Liz Schulte, Elizabeth Sharp, Violet Leigh Jones, Mandie Stevens and the rest of my imaginary friends in the IC for your help, advice, commiseration, laughter and Wednesdays.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter One

  My eyes shot open. Several seconds later I fought off disorientation and realized what was happening. I’d never had the valuable gift of being coherent right after I woke up; I usually needed a few cups of coffee and a hot shower before I became human.

  The sound of mother cows bawling in fear and anger worked like a bucket of ice water down my back. I shot up out of bed, threw on my tennis shoes, grabbed my .270 hunting rifle and tucked my Glock .45 in my pants.

  “Not again, dammit,” I muttered.

  I sprinted out the door of my trailer toward my Honda four wheeler. Usually if I was checking on my cows I’d saddle up Roanie. He was my, you guessed it, red roan quarter horse my grandpa bought me when I was ten. Tonight, however, there was no time; I needed to get to my cows faster.

  I hopped on the Honda, slammed my rifle into the gun rack on the front and gunned it with the lights off. With the waxing moon over my shoulder there was enough light to make out the trails the cattle liked to take to the spring fed water trough.

  I had a pretty good idea where the cows were, but I slowed down enough so I would be able to hear them over the purr of the engine. They still sounded angry so there was a chance I’d get a shot at what was bothering them. I suspected it was the coyotes that had taken some calves earlier that fall.

  Usually there were enough ground squirrels to keep the coyotes fat and happy, but for some reason they’d gone after the calves instead. I was not a happy camper. Most girls in their mid-twenties would see the sad, soft brown eyes of the dead baby calves and cry, but when I saw what was left, I saw a couple months of eating Ramen noodles.

  I stopped the quad just shy from the crest of the hill. On the other side the cows were cloistered together, bawling. I grabbed my gun, jogged the rest of the way up, lay down and shouldered my rifle.

  I scanned the outskirts of the little clearing. I could see the salt blocks, white and bright in the moonlight. This was a pretty popular hangout spot for the cows. The blocks were in a forty foot circle of bare ground because the hooves of the cattle trod the life out of anything that attempted to grow.

  The moon was bright, and it gave me a clear view of my cattle and the surrounding area. I tried to slow my breathing down as much as I could. My heart pounded from the adrenaline. I looked through the scrub oaks and the manzanitas and tried to spot the coyotes. Most of the time they liked to circle the cattle and then find and separate the slower, more vulnerable calves from the rest of the herd. Picture a scene with lions on the African Savannah and you’d get the idea.

  Movement caught the corner of my eye and I pulled the rifle around to look. California coyotes can vary in size, but the ones in Raymond Knowles grow to about fifty pounds and have buff colored fur. Usually either solitary or lurking with a buddy, they’re cowards, preferring to get a baby calf alone before it risks injury to itself to take it down.

  What I saw in my scope was not a coyote. At first I wasn’t sure what it was, having never seen anything like it except maybe on the Discovery Channel. It was at least 250 pounds and it’s head would probably come to my chest if we were standing side by side. Its eyes glowed green in the moonlight, which wasn’t so unusual, but the power and intelligence I saw behind them was.

  “I’ll be damned—” I breathed. “Grandpa’d never believe this.”

  Still not about to let something, anything, take down one of my calves, I sighted the wolf in my scope. With it centered in my crosshairs, I took a slow breath, slid off the safety and gently pulled the trigger. The bullet went high and wide, just grazing the wolf’s hind end. I expected to hear a yelp of pain, but heard nothing.

  I kicked myself for missing the shot, racked the empty cartridge out and slid a new one in, but in that short amount of time I had lost sight of the wolf. The cattle scattered and ran, opening up my view of the clearing.

  I sat up, feeling uneasy about being alone with something that big and dangerous when I couldn’t see it. Plus, it was wounded and probably pissed off. I hustled back to the quad and put my rifle back in the rack, opting to pull out my Glock instead. I checked and made sure I had a bullet chambered before revving the Honda back to life and drove it down to where the cows had been.

  My eyes searched in the darkness but I still saw no sign of the big beast, so I got off and went to check out the spot where I’d shot him. My footsteps were muted by the tarweed growing up through the brown dead remains of summer and I knew I’d be picking the stupid stuff off my socks in the morning. I kept my head on a swivel while I scanned the trees for the animal. Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!

  I didn’t consider myself a tracker and I preferred to be on the back of a horse with a gun than on the ground with my nose in the dirt. But I liked to think that I’ve seen enough tracks to at least know what I was looking at. I could tell between coyote and dog prints, between bobcat and mountain lion, but I had never seen anything like these.

  The prints were almost the size of my hand. If I didn’t know better, I’d say I shot a bear, but I’ve seen those
tracks before, on pack mule trips in Yosemite. Whatever this was, it was massive. The last wolf spotted in California was in the thirties. Grandpa had told me about seeing a picture of it in the papers. I figured some wacko environmentalist had attempted to reintroduce some monster timber wolf into our ecosystem.

  I sighed. That was just like those folks, the ones in Monterey who were trying to help reestablish great white sharks off the coast. That’s all we need, more big ass fish that want to eat you.

  I looked around for blood, but didn’t spot much. A few drops where I had grazed him, but no trail. I’d hoped for a direction to follow so I could track him down and finish the job, not wanting the animal to suffer or live to go after my cattle again. I seldom miss twice. I fanned out, walking a spiral out from the initial drops and searched the ground. In the half light from the moon there wasn’t anything to see.

  “Well shit, Shelby. Way to go.” Shaking my head I hopped back on the quad I’d left running.

  I cruised around, taking stock of my cows and their babies, and didn’t think anyone was missing. Usually a momma who had just lost their baby wouldn’t quit bawling until one of two things happened: one, its voice would go out, or two, I’d skin the dead calf, buy a skinny little feeder calf from the cow auction and wrap the hide around it so the mother would adopt it. Unfortunately the last two times I’d lost a calf, I wasn’t left with enough to make the swap.

  It sounds cruel, but would you rather see a mother bawl so much it lost its voice, or see it happily suckling a calf that lost its momma to McDonalds? That’s what I thought. And yeah, it might not be that ladylike to get down and dirty with a buck knife, but I did what I had to do. Screw ladylike.

  I didn’t think the wolf would make a second go, seeing as it was wounded, so I drove back around to my trailer. It had been brand new when my Grandpa bought it thirty years ago, but now the beige vinyl siding and faux rock that surrounded the foundation showed its age. It had two bedrooms, one bathroom, a kitchen and a living room, and it had been home to me since I was six. I supposed I’d have to tow it out and buy a new one sometime, but it did just fine for now. A small part of me couldn’t part with it, not yet.

  The motion light popped on when I ascended the few steps to the front door. It screeched like the witches in Macbeth and I added oiling the hinges to the mile long list of to-dos in my head.

  I kicked off my shoes and whimpered at the feel of ice cold linoleum on my bare feet. I hopped down the hallway, dove into my bed, shoved my dog over and wished it was still warm like it was when I’d dragged myself out of it.

  I scratched Reggie’s ears. “Some cow-dog you are.” I growled at him. Even though he was a pathetic guard dog, I still felt comforted snuggling up next to him. He blinked his blue eyes and went back to sleep.

  I snuggled down into the covers and glanced at my alarm clock. 2:47 am. Crap. I had a little over two hours of sleep before I had to be up and around. Like I said, I wasn’t a morning person. I thought about what sort of wolf would be in the foothills of California. It could’ve roamed over here from Nevada, but I doubted it.

  My grandpa would have had something to say about it. He’d raised me since I was in kindergarten. I’d never known my dad; the rodeo circuit wasn’t very conducive to fatherhood. My mother had been a barfly before I was born. She stopped drinking and carousing long enough to give birth to me, then went right back at it again. Her father saw her leaving me home alone, or with her male callers and took it upon himself to try raising a girl again. He was hesitant at first, seeing how well his first try had gone.

  He’d come to California from Oklahoma on route 66, The Grapes of Wrath style, in 1931 and picked peaches so he could send money home to his parents. He worked every day of his life so he could have the cattle ranch I lived on. He taught me how to ride, rope, shoot, and raise cattle.

  Grandpa was tough with me. The phrase ‘get back on the horse that threw you’ wouldn’t have been so bad if he hadn’t picked the surliest horses to put me on. It taught me to be tough, to suck it up, and I did. After sobbing that first night when my he took me away from another of my mother’s drunken binges I hadn’t cried again until his funeral.

  I groaned when my alarm clock went off at five. I’d lain in bed with my thoughts going a million miles an hour and had only gotten about an hour of sleep. I slammed the clock with my fist, lay back against the pillows and ran down the checklist of my day. Today would be a busy one. I had to hook up my truck and trailer so I could pick up half a squeeze of alfalfa hay from Brad De’Silva. My cattle ran on 2500 acres of land so there was usually plenty grass enough for them, but I liked to have some hay set aside so I could call the cows in and look them over once in a while or when I branded. I also had an appointment with my lawyer today. Yay...

  Grandpa had died the year before and left me everything in his will. I held the deed to the entire ranch, cows, trucks, everything. I’d taking care of the herd for some time after his health declined in his late eighties, but he liked to think he was still ran the show.

  My cousins weren’t happy about being left out of his will and made some noise about taking me to court. At the time I had pointed out that our mothers hadn’t gotten anything either, but that didn’t seem to make them feel much better. I didn’t understand why they were so upset, it wasn’t like they stuck around to help take care of him or help out at the ranch. In some ways I felt like the little red hen.

  My cousin Harry owned a TV station in Bakersfield and had been living it up for years. He’d married some over-preserved trophy wife and had a huge house on a golf course. His children had all been enrolled in a private academy since they were preschoolers, and he had gone through so many fine specimens of German automotive engineering I had lost count.

  His younger sister Trisha had gone and married a real estate mogul in Texas, and the first time I had seen her since her wedding was at Grandpa’s funeral. She looked like she’d fallen asleep in a tanning bed. The orange of her skin contrasted sharply with the platinum color of her hair. I couldn’t help visualizing the lady from There’s Something About Mary. All she needed was a velour track suit.

  Neither of them needed the money like I did, but it seemed to me the more people had, the more they wanted. I’d seen far too many of my cows go to legal fees than I was comfortable with, but my lawyer, Vince, was an old friend of my Grandpa’s and wasn’t charging me what he charged everyone else, thankfully. Also, if I won I’d get reimbursed. Here’s hoping!

  I gulped down some coffee, pulled on my best pair of Wranglers, the ones without holes from barbed wire, tucked in my shirt and slid my feet into my Ariat boots. I hooked up my truck to the flatbed trailer and wound my way down road 400 toward Madera.

  I tried to enjoy the drive as much as I could. The sun was just rising over the Sierra Nevada Mountains, and the light was glinting off the clouds. It was those kinds of serene mornings that helped me imagine the land before any people were there.

  Brad was outside waiting for me when I parked by his pole barn. He was short and balding and his gut popped over his large silver belt buckle. A smile of welcome was on his face. I gave him a little wave, hopped out of my truck and took a deep breath. The familiar, sweet scent of alfalfa mixed with the crisp fall air calmed my nerves a little as I watched the big forklift stack bale after bale on the trailer. It reminded me of Tetris.

  “It’s a good thing you called me, Shelby. I just got in a big order from the North dairy that’s gonna wipe out the rest of my hay until next summer.” I smiled and shrugged off his accusatory tone. “Grant wouldn’t have cut it that close, you know.”

  I glanced over at Brad and nodded. “Yeah, I know. But he wouldn’t have been paying legal fees to get his relatives off of his back either. So what if I’m a little later than usual? I’m here now.” A small frown crossed his face.

  No one who knew my Grandpa was happy about the situation I was in. Caring for 150 head of cattle and 2,500 acres of land was hard enough, let alon
e a twenty-six year old woman fighting a legal battle against her own blood relatives.

  “You’re here now.” He agreed. He thumped me on the back and turned to yell at the fork lift driver to throw on a few extra bales. I gave him a grateful look before he shook his head and walked back to his house.

  Chapter Two

  My lawyer was in Madera, which was a blessing only because it was near my ranch, so Brad let me leave the trailer while they loaded it and take my truck into town. I still had about an hour to kill before the eight o’clock appointment, so I stopped by a cowboy café my Grandpa always loved and got another coffee. It was situated alongside Highway 99 and was a frequent stop for truckers and locals alike. The peeling red sign on the roof advertised the quality coffee in neon lights, and the windows were painted in quaint harvest scenes with scarecrows and pumpkins.

  The door jingled as I walked in, and the friendly waitress had a piping hot cup of coffee on the counter before I had come to a complete stop. I cupped the steaming mug in one hand and sank down into an old, red vinyl booth. I took my phone out of my back pocket and turned it on, checking for messages. Cell service at the ranch was nonexistent, and not many people had my number. I bought the little pay as you go phone from WalMart for emergencies and to use when I made it into town. I learned early on what a luxury it was to have a phone handy when you had a flat tire with a trailer full of cattle.

  When the phone finally came to life, I had zero missed calls and no messages; it was the story of my life. I only ever had a few friends growing up and still really only had Jesse and Jack now. Usually they were either next door neighbors or kids related to my Grandpa’s buddies. My life in high school had revolved around school work, FFA, and the ranch. After graduation, I stayed to help Grandpa with the ranch and my friends all migrated away, either to go to college or join the military.