Hunter's Moon

by Karen Robards

  “Oh, yeah?” Simpson growled. “Then what the hell are you doin here?”

  “You owe me two weeks pay.” Molly put up her chin belligerently.

  “I’m keepin’ it in lieu of two weeks notice.”

  “You can’t do that! Anyway, how can somebody give notice if they’re fired?”

  “I thought you quit.”

  “If it’s gonna cost me two weeks pay, I got fired.” Molly said the last word through clenched teeth. Then, on the verge of forgetting her mission, she remembered, grabbed hold of her temper, unclenched her teeth, and forced out a smile. “Anyway, I—uh—thought you might need me to help out, at least until Keeneland’s over.”

  Simpson stared at her hard. “We’ve been gettin’ along just fine.”

  Molly glanced significantly at Lady Valor’s stifle. “Looks like it.”

  Simpson’s expression darkened. “You askin’ for your job back?”

  Molly swallowed her pride. “Yeah.”

  “You gonna call me an asshole again and tell me to go stick my head in the toilet?”

  A spark of humor lit Molly’s eyes, but she did not dare smile. “Not if I can help it.”

  “You better help it,” he growled. “You get out of line with me again, and you’re gone for good. Got that?”

  Molly nodded.

  “Then get your ass to work. You!” Simpson focused on Angie, who looked scared. “Get out of here. You’re back to being a hotwalker. You make a lousy groom, anyway.”

  He glared at Angie, who flushed bright red and hurried past him, appearing on the verge of tears. Simpson watched with apparent satisfaction as she rushed away, head down.

  Then he looked at Molly, as if daring her to say anything. Molly knew better. Lady Valor nudged her upper arm. Molly rubbed the filly’s neck absently, knowing that if she didn’t give the animal the attention she wanted, Lady Valor’s next move would be to nip her arm.

  “So get to work,” Simpson barked at her, and left the stall.

  Standing inside the lawn care truck parked by Barn 15, arms folded over his chest, Will watched the monitor with a frown. Seated in the computer chair in front of the desk, Murphy watched the monitor too.

  “Whew! I thought for a minute there he was going to pitch her out on her ear,” Murphy said.

  Will grunted. With the surveillance system repaired—Murphy’s job of the previous night—it had been an easy task to track Molly from the instant she entered the barn. He had been beginning to fear she wasn’t going to show. The previous morning she’d arrived at the barn some three hours earlier. Why she was so late now he didn’t know, and it didn’t matter. What mattered was that she had accomplished the task he had set her to do: she had her job back. The vital inside link had been reestablished.

  Fleetingly, Will thought of what had happened to his last inside link, then dismissed the little qualm that came with the memory. Lawrence’s death had nothing to do with Molly. It was a suicide; Lawrence had been mentally unstable.

  At that moment Molly was inside a stall, alone with a horse that looked big enough to crush her at will, murmuring to the animal as she wrapped bandages around its hind leg. The image of stall and horse and nubile young woman filled the screen.

  “Not exactly Miss Tactful, is she?” Murphy observed.

  Will grunted again.

  “Sexy, though.” Murphy grinned, and stood up to adjust the dial. The camera zoomed in on Molly, then panned her up and down. With her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and her fine-boned face free of any makeup that he could discern, Will thought she looked about sixteen. He wondered why that made him cross.

  “She sure does fill out a T-shirt and jeans,” Murphy observed admiringly. Will felt his irritation increase. He had been trying not to notice how the worn jeans emphasized the shapely curve of her rear and the slender length of her legs, or how her plain white T-shirt clung to a pair of high, round breasts and, tucked in, revealed the suppleness of her waist. The gray sweat shirt that she had worn on arrival now hung over the stall door. Irrational as he knew it was, the fact that she had discarded it annoyed him.

  Unwillingly, he focused on the one aspect of her anatomy that he couldn’t seem to avoid. Her nipples were clearly visible, small nubs pressing against the soft white cotton, and her breasts seemed to move with unconfined freedom beneath. Was she even wearing a bra? he wondered.

  “I bet she’s hot in the sack,” Murphy continued. At the image that conjured up, Will felt an unexpected gusher of heat explode through his veins. Gritting his teeth, he said nothing, just reached out to adjust the knob on the monitor so that it showed a panorama of the barn.

  “Hey, we need to keep an eye on our informant,” Murphy protested with a lewd chuckle, reaching for the knob in turn. It was all Will could do not to knock the other man’s hand aside, but he stopped himself in time. As Molly once again filled the screen, he turned away.

  13

  It was a little after 6:00 p.m., the time of day when the air was growing cool and dusk was falling. Charcoal shadows stretched across the rolling landscape, enveloping grazing herds of horses so that they took on the unsubstantiality of ghosts, huddled together against the oncoming night. The scent of smoke from burning leaves hung in the air. The occasional backfiring pickup or barking dog were all that broke the silence. Clad in jeans, T-shirt, and a hooded gray sweat shirt that was zipped almost to her throat, Molly sat atop a black-painted board fence that ran along the crest of the small rise a little way behind her house. A gentle-eyed chestnut mare nudged her knee. Molly dug in the pocket of her sweat shirt, bringing forth the last handful of dog chow she had brought with her. The mare, Sheila, loved the stuff. Molly had little doubt that, given the opportunity, Sheila would gorge herself on dog food until she died.

  Sheila’s velvety muzzle greedily nuzzling her palm brought a slight smile to Molly’s face. Sheila was sixteen, long retired from the racing world, left to finish out her days fat and happy in the Wyland Farm fields. Of them all, Sheila was Molly’s secret favorite, and she treated the animal as a cross between a pet dog and her own horse.

  It was peaceful in the gathering dark, alone except for Sheila, and Molly savored the moments of solitude. After a hard day’s work, this was how she recharged. In just a few minutes she would have to go back inside to face fixing supper and helping with homework and a sullen, recalcitrant Mike.…

  She had grounded him, forbidden him to see his friends outside of school for a month. Since he denied the beer and pot charge and she couldn’t prove it, she rationalized the punishment on the grounds that he had been late for curfew. He hated her for it. So what else was new? As a solution to the real problem, Molly knew what she had devised wasn’t really adequate. But it was the best she could come up with. At least while he was grounded he couldn’t drink beer, or smoke dope.

  No lawyer had been in touch, but then the phone was not yet reconnected, though she had stopped to pay the bill on her way home. But did she really expect the FBI man—Will—to come up with a lawyer for her brother? His promise of help had been just talk, she had little doubt. Though the idea was a good one. She would follow through on it, for Mike’s sake. Tomorrow, during lunch or a break, she would look through the phone book and try to find a lawyer on her own. Today’s lunch had been all of fifteen minutes long, and she had spent it on the phone making an appointment for Mike to speak to the deputies. After much haggling, she had gotten them to agree to let Mike come in on her next day off, Monday, at 3:30 p.m. No way was she letting Mike face them alone. Even with a lawyer present.

  Afterward there would be the lawyer’s fee to worry about. There was always something to worry about.

  Ashley had been invited to the homecoming dance at school, she had confided when Molly arrived home. Ashley, a shy wallflower with boys, was so thrilled that happiness beamed from her like rays from the sun. Though her sister had not asked, nor probably even thought of it yet, Molly knew Ashley would need a dress. A special dress. An exp
ensive dress.

  Sam and Susan were going on a field trip the following Wednesday for which they were expected to pay ten dollars each.

  And the mail had contained a postcard informing her that Pork Chop was past due for his rabies shot, as well as a shut-off notice from the electric company. If she did not pay what was owed within seven days, the power would be disconnected.

  It was always something. But then, such was life.

  “That’s all, sweetheart,” Molly said to Sheila, who was nudging her for more. “Sorry.”

  She patted the mare and swung down from the fence, turning toward home, then stopped short. A man was walking up the slope toward her. In one hand he carried a flat white box. Behind him, the lights inside the house had been turned on. A soft yellowish glow shone from the windows, turning the approaching man into little more than a dark silhouette. Molly got a glimpse of Ashley’s head and shoulders, small at that distance, as she crossed in front of the rear kitchen window, then seconds later retraced her steps. A white car was parked behind her own blue Plymouth, the light from the windows making it clearly visible despite the yard’s evening shroud of gray.

  Even without the clue of the car, she would have recognized him anywhere. Maybe it was the suit, a gray one this time. The FBI man. Will.

  Sheila nickered a soft greeting at the newcomer.

  Leaning back against the fence, Molly waited, hands thrust deep into the pockets of her sweat shirt, one knee bent, her sneakered heel braced against the lowest board. When he was close enough so that she could discern his features, Will glanced up and saw that she was watching him. His mouth curved into a funny, lopsided kind of smile.

  “Pizza?” he asked when he was just a few feet away, proffering the box. Then, “I tried to call.”

  “They won’t turn the phone back on until tomorrow.” The delicious smell wafting from the box made Molly salivate. Carry-out pizza was a treat in which the Ballards rarely indulged. They simply could not afford it. “The kids love pizza. If you don’t mind, I’ll give that to them. I’d just as soon have a sandwich.”

  “I dropped off two large pizzas with the works and a six-pack of Coke at the house. Your sister said you were up here—she even pointed the way.”

  “Ashley or Susan?” Molly inquired, making no move to reach for the pizza though her stomach rumbled longingly.

  “The older one.”

  “Ashley.” Molly took a deep breath, and looked up at him. “We’re not starving, you know. There’s plenty to eat in the house.”

  “I know.” He studied her for a moment in silence, then shrugged and looked around. Spying a fallen log in a small copse of trees nearby, he moved over to it and sat down, balancing the pizza box on his lap. Pulling a half-pint carton of milk from his jacket pocket and balancing it on the log beside him, he flipped open the lid of the pizza box and extracted a large, cheese-and-pepperoni-laden slice.

  As she watched him bite into it, Molly’s stomach growled. She hadn’t had anything to eat since a quick bowl of Cheerios that morning.

  “Are you going to make me eat the whole thing by myself?” he asked her after a second mouthful. “I’ll get fat.”

  The notion surprised a smile out of Molly. The idea of him as fat was absurd. If anything, he was too lean.

  “Better you than me,” she said, walking over to the log and looking down on both him and the pizza. The tantalizing aroma of pepperoni and pizza sauce teased her nose. His short sandy hair was, she noted from above, plenty thick. Nary a bald spot in sight.

  “I never heard of anybody drinking milk with pizza,” she observed.

  “Hey, milk does a body good.” He glanced up at her. “I brought you a Coke.” Wiping his hands on a paper napkin, he reached into his other jacket pocket and pulled out a familiar red can, which he offered to her.

  “Thanks.” After no more than an instant’s hesitation, Molly took the Coke, then moved around his legs and the open pizza box to sit on the log. She was hungry. He had brought pizza. It was silly to let pride keep her from enjoying the treat. “And thanks for the pizza. But you didn’t have to.”

  “I know I didn’t have to. But I did. So you might as well eat it.”

  Lifting a slice from the box to her lips, Molly was relieved to discover that he was focusing on his own meal rather than on her. Thin, crisp crust, tangy sauce, flavorful cheese, spicy pepperoni: Molly enjoyed that first bite with an intensity that was almost sexual.

  “It’s good,” she said after a couple of moments during which they both munched companionably.

  “You didn’t have lunch, did you?” He glanced at her over the pizza box, which rested between them. It was more a statement than a question, as if he already knew the answer. Was it that obvious that she was famished?

  Molly shook her head. “I didn’t have time. By the way, I got my job back.”

  “I knew you would.” He didn’t sound surprised. But then, Molly reasoned, he didn’t know Don Simpson like she did.

  “The deal’s still on? Five thousand dollars for checking horses’ mouth tattoos?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You swear?”

  Glancing up from extracting another piece of pizza from the box, he met her gaze. “You don’t trust people much, do you?”

  Molly shrugged, downed a mouthful of Coke, and reached for a second slice of pizza. “If you really want me to trust you, you could pay me in advance.”

  He grinned. “Then I’d be left wondering how much I could trust you. I like things better this way.”

  “I bet you do.” The wry smile she sent him was a little mocking, but friendly.

  “Is that your horse?” He indicated Sheila. Head over the fence, the mare watched the humans inquisitively. Probably wondering how pizza tasted, Molly thought.

  Molly shook her head. “She belongs to Wyland Farm. She used to be a racehorse, but she’s retired. She had over a million dollars in career winnings, though.”

  Will whistled. “Pretty impressive.”

  “Probably why she didn’t end up in a glue factory.”

  “Is that what they do to them when they’re done racing?”

  “Sometimes. Or they get turned into dog food. Or fertilizer.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “You don’t know much about this business, do you?”

  “Not much.”

  “Where are you from, anyway? Up north someplace, I can tell by the way you talk.”

  “Chicago.” He grinned suddenly. “Funny, and here I was thinking you had a regional accent.”

  Ignoring the jibe at her softly slurred southern syllables, Molly studied him. “So how did you end up down here in Kentucky investigating horse racing?”

  Will shrugged. “Luck of the draw.”

  “You really are an FBI agent, aren’t you?”

  “There’s that lack of trust I was talking about again.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  He sighed. “Yes, Virginia, I really am an FBI agent. Do you want that last piece of pizza?”

  Molly shook her head. Will picked it up.

  “So what did you do about your brother?” he asked between bites.

  “Grounded him. For a month. No TV. No visits with friends. Although he swears he wasn’t in that barn.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “No.”

  “I spoke to that lawyer I told you about last night. His name’s Tom Kramer. He’ll go with your brother to talk to the police.” Finished with the pizza, Will wiped his fingers on a napkin and reached into an inside jacket pocket for a folded scrap of paper. “Here’s his number. Just give him a call.”

  “Thanks.” Molly took the piece of paper and stuck it in her sweat shirt pocket. She hesitated, but the point had to be clarified whether it embarrassed her or not. “Did he say how much he’d charge?”

  “I told you, don’t worry about it. It’s taken care of.”

  “You’re not paying for it, are you?”


  “For somebody who not too long ago took five thousand dollars that didn’t belong to her, you’re awful picky about where things come from.”

  Molly flushed. “Can’t you forget that?”

  “Nope,” he replied, opening his carton of milk with one hand.

  “I don’t generally steal, you know. In fact, I never steal. Just that once. It was just—an impulse. I looked in that bag, and saw the money—and I took it.”

  “Anybody would have done the same.”

  “Anybody in my shoes would!” He had not sounded sarcastic, but Molly was defensive anyway. She was hypersensitive about what she had done—and, if she was honest—about what he thought of her as a result.

  “There aren’t too many people in your shoes—a twenty-four-year-old raising four younger brothers and sisters on her own. How long ago did your mother die?”

  Molly took another swallow of Coke. She didn’t talk about her parents—the wounds went too deep, the subject was too personal.

  “Look, Mr. FBI man, if we’re asking questions, I’ve got a few for you: Are your parents alive?”

  “Will.” The quiet emphasis in his voice reminded Molly of his warning of the night before.

  “All right, then, Will: Are your parents alive?”

  He looked at her for a moment, then nodded. “Yup. Both.”

  “Divorced?” Molly knew she sounded almost hopeful. There had to be some misery in his life somewhere.

  He shook his head. “Married forty-five years next month.”