Hunter's Moon (Hunter Family Saga; Half-Moon Ranch 1) (2 page)

I'd like to thank Barbara Fey, Jean Phillipe, Steve Fine,
Jim Brown and Diana Tucker for all their help with
research.

"Hi" to all the gang at my Curves who work out with me
at 6:30 a.m.-Jill, Cathy, Tina, Karen, Sharon, Karen,
Pam, Kelly, Charlotte, Marsha, Ginna, Diane, Pam,
Stacy, Tina, Debbie, Marilyn, Vicky, Carol, Sherry,
Sandy and Pat.

Half-Moon Ranch

Texas Hill Country, 1870

The distant sound of a gunshot split the quiet of the
early afternoon.

Brent Hunter heard it and reined in. He frowned
as he cast a quick, suspicious glance around. "That
sounded like it came from the direction of the
house."

"Why would anybody be shooting there?" asked
the ranch hand who was riding with him.

"I don't know, but I intend to find out," Brent
replied, growing uneasy. He knew his mother was
home alone. The hands were all out on the range
working stock, and his father had gone into town on
business. His eight-year-old sister, Abby, had rid den in with their father. She had been invited to
spend a few days there with friends.

Spurring his horse to a gallop, Brent raced toward
home, leaving Hank to follow. As he topped the low
rise that overlooked the ranch house, he was
surprised to see his father's thoroughbred stallion
tied up out front. He had thought Jack Hunter was
going to stay in town another day. Other than that,
nothing appeared out of the ordinary. But though
everything seemed quiet enough, Brent had learned
in his twenty years to trust his instincts, and they
were screaming, Trouble.

Brent rode in and stopped before the house. He
dismounted and hurried up the porch steps.

"Ma," Brent called out as he walked in the door.
"What was the shooting all about?"

The scene that greeted Brent shocked him to the
depths of his soul. His mother lay on the floor unmoving, the bodice of her gown soaked in blood.
His father was standing over her, swaying drunkenly.
He held a gun in his hand, and his clothing was
stained with blood.

Jack Hunter was startled by his son's unexpected
intrusion. He stared at him. "Brent-"

"Ma!" The word was torn from him as he ran
to his mother's side. He was frantic to help her,
desperate to save her. When Brent knelt down
beside her, though, he knew immediately there
was nothing he could do. The wound had been
fatal.

"She's dead, Brent." Jack was so drunk his words
were slurred.

"What happened?" Brent demanded.

"I don't know...."

"What do you mean, you don't know?" Brent
stared up at him in confusion.

His mother had been shot. His father was holding
the gun.

Why?

Their family had been going through some rough
times, but as far as he knew, their troubles weren't
anything they couldn't have overcome with hard
work and determination. It was true that his father
had taken to drinking more heavily than ever lately,
and his parents had been arguing more about his
drinking and money, but Brent had never thought
things were bad enough to lead to something like
this...

"I don't know how it happened." Jack stared
blankly around himself, then let his gaze drop to his
dead wife. "Oh, God... She's dead, and it's all my
fault-"

"Your fault?"Brent raged in disbelief. "Did you do
this? Did you shoot her?"

He looked at his son, the vile accusation repeating
in his mind: Did you do this? Did you shoot her?
Slowly, knowing he could do nothing else, Jack
nodded in response.

Disbelief filled Brent; then fury unlike anything
he'd ever felt before erupted deep within him. Not caring that his father was still holding the gun, Brent
launched himself at him. He tackled him and
knocked him to the floor. The gun flew from Jack's
grip. He was so drunk that he offered little resistance
as Brent pummeled him mercilessly.

Hank had just reached the house when he heard
the sound of a crash inside. He ran in to find Jack
and Brent locked in a brutal fight, and Beth Hunter
dead on the floor.

"Brent!" Hank ran to separate the brawling men.
He was a big, burly man, but even so, it was hard for
him to haul Brent off his father. "What are you
doing?"

Brent fought against Hank's powerful hold. He
wanted to be free to take out his rage at his
father.

"He killed her!" he rasped.

"Boss?" Hank looked at Jack.

Bloodied and unsteady, Jack got slowly to his feet,
but he didn't respond.

"You shot her?" Hank pressed, waiting for the
answer in disbelief.

Jack's face was battered and his expression was
bleak as he looked at the ranch hand. He nodded
only once.

Hank was stunned. Brent tried to break free from
him again, and this time Hank let him go.

"I'll go get the sheriff," Hank offered numbly.
Then glancing at Beth, he added, "And the
minister.

Brent straightened and ordered, "Take him with
you. Get him out of here."

"Son, T..."

Brent turned his back as Hank went to help Jack.
He didn't watch his father stagger drunkenly from
the house with the hired hand. Brent didn't care if
he ever saw his father again.

He cared only that his beloved mother was dead.

"May she rest in heavenly peace. Amen," Reverend
Crawford intoned, solemnly concluding the prayer
service over Beth Hunter's grave.

"Amen," echoed the family, friends, and ranch
hands who'd gathered at the graveside.

The reverend closed his Bible and looked up at
the Hunter children. The pain of their loss was
etched in their faces. The three young men-Brent,
Quince, and Matt-were stoic, but young Abby was
clinging to Brent, crying her heart out. Quietly,
Reverend Crawford went forward to express his
condolences. He knew what a tragedy this was for
the family. They'd lost not only their mother, but
their father, too.

"If you need anything, anything at all, you have
only to ask," he told them, shaking Brent's hand.

"Thank you, Reverend," Brent answered.

In truth, Brent wanted to ask him to bring their
mother back. But he knew the painful reality, and he
said nothing.

Their mother was dead.

She was gone from them forever.

They would never see her again.

Brent kept a sheltering arm around Abby. It
had been hard telling Quince and Matt about
their mother's death when they'd returned to the
house that day, but going into town to find Abby
and tell her the news had been the most difficult
thing he'd ever done in his life. Abby was sweet
and innocent. She didn't deserve to have her
whole world torn apart this way. Brent had
wanted to protect her from harm, to shield her
from hurt, but their father had ruined all that.
He could only try to make things better for her
in the future, and he and his brothers were
determined to do that. He led his trembling
young sister away from the small family cemetery
and back toward the house.

The rest of the day passed in a blur for Brent.

Edmund and Iona Montgomery, his parents'
longtime friends, were there to help console Abby
and offer their support. Though he had never much
cared for Edmund, today Brent needed all the
support he could get. He needed to be strong to deal
with what lay ahead.

Brent went outside onto the porch for a moment
of quiet away from the crowd indoors. He wanted
some time alone to think. He was now the head of
the family and in charge of his nineteen- and
seventeen-year-old brothers, Quince and Matt, and
little Abby. It wasn't going to be easy, but somehow he would find the strength to hold everything
together-he had to. He had no choice.

"Brent?" Edmund called out from the doorway.

Brent had been standing back in the porch
shadows, where he'd hoped no one could see him,
but Edmund had found him.

"I'm here," he answered in a flat voice.

"I saw you come outside and I wanted to make
sure you were all right," Edmund said as he came to
stand beside him.

Brent cast him a sharp glance. He doubted that he
would ever be all right again. Nothing was ever
going to be the same in his life-nothing. "I'll be
fine."

Edmund must have heard the strain in his voice,
for he smiled understandingly. "I know this is a
difficult time, but I had to ask you... Have you
spoken to your father since-"

"No," Brent cut him off in disgust.

"Well, I wanted to tell you that I went by the
jail to see him as soon as I heard the news. I
thought I might be able to help him in some
way.

Brent glanced at him, but said nothing. He didn't
know why anyone would want to help his father
after what he'd done.

"I tried to get him to talk to me, but he wouldn't.
He just told me to leave," Edmund went on. "Do
you know what went on that day? Why on God's
earth did he shoot your mother? I've known your parents since before you were born, and none of this
makes any sense."

"I don't know a thing."

"He didn't explain it to you?" he pressed. "He
didn't make any excuses?"

No.'

"I know they were having trouble. Now, don't
look surprised that I would know. Your parents and
I have known each other since we were younger than
you. Whatever the problems were, they didn't seem
important enough to warrant what happened.
Maybe you should go visit him at the jail and try to
get him to tell you about it. It's been a few days.
Maybe he'll talk to you now," Edmund urged. "It's
important that we find out."

"I know what happened."

"But you don't know why."

"All that matters is that he killed my mother." Brent
had no desire to speak to his father again. In fact, he
would have preferred to disown him altogether.

"I'm sorry, Brent-so sorry. But think about it.
You need to know what your father was thinking.
Your mother was a beautiful, loving woman. She
didn't deserve this... to be shot down-"

Brent cut him off before he could say anything
more. "No, she didn't."