Moon Racer (2 page)

Texas, 1870

The wind was cold and damp as it whipped Abigail
Hunter's tangled hair across her face. Her body was
still and her small hands were twisted into tight
knots at her sides until her brother Brent took them
and held them firmly in his strong grip.

For eight-year-old Abby the last two days had
been confusing and devastating. Tragedy had struck
their family at its very heart, and she wondered how
it was possible to hurt so badly and still live.

Through blinding tears she stared at the simple
pine box that held her mother's remains. Since there
were no flowers to be had this time of year, Abby
had woven her pink hair ribbons through a branch
of live oak, and Quince had placed it on the coffin for her-a pitiful tribute to a woman who had so
dearly loved flowers.

The men who worked for the Half-Moon Ranch
were gathered near the family, their hats removed,
their heads bowed. The foreman, Buck, met Abby's
eyes sadly and nodded slightly. Charley Herbert, the
barber and undertaker, was there, standing off to the
side, but still a grim reminder to the young girl that
he was the one who had brought the coffin to the
ranch.

Reverend Crawford was praising Beth Hunter's
virtues. Although the preacher was sincere, his
words meant nothing to Abby. He didn't know how
gentle their mother's touch had been, or how it had
comforted Abby through so many illnesses-he
couldn't tell the mourners how soothing her
mother's voice had been, or the patience she had
used when Abby had needed guidance-and Abby
was always needing guidance. All that was her
mother was gone forever, stilled by death's hateful
hand.

The reverend was assuring Abby and her brothers
that their mother had gone to a better place. But
wouldn't it have been better for all of them if she
had remained with the family on the Half-Moon
Ranch? So many dilemmas tore at her mind, and
questions nagged at her that only her mother could
answer.

The young girl glanced, in turn, at each of her
three older brothers and saw the same grief she felt
reflected in their eyes. Brent was now gripping her
hand so tightly it hurt, but the discomfort helped her think about something other than the anguish that
tore at her heart. She watched her brother Quince's
hand tremble from the effort he was making not to
cry. Her brother Matt stood alone, stoic and silent,
solitary in his grief. She knew he had cut himself
off from the rest of them so he could better control
his sorrow.

Conspicuously absent from the grieving family
grouped around the grave site was Abby's father,
Jack Hunter. Abby glanced slowly up at Brent to
find him watching her with concern. At twenty, he
was the eldest, and it would probably fall to him to
keep the family together. A sob escaped her throat,
and Quince touched her on the shoulder and patted
it several times. She suddenly felt her stomach
chum; she was sickened and shaken to the very core
of her being.

It was difficult to understand the horror of what
her father had done. How could he shoot and kill
her mother, when to Abby's knowledge he had
never even raised his hand to her in anger? Brent
said it was because he was drunk, but Abby
couldn't imagine that drinking would make a man
want to kill someone he loved.

Reluctantly her eyes strayed back to the coffin.
Then she glanced at the crowd of people that
stretched all the way to the road. Matt had earlier
declared that they had come only to stare at a
murderer's family, but Abby was sure they were
there to pay their respects to her mother.

She met Iona Montgomery's gaze and saw the
sadness and compassion in the older woman's eyes. Mrs. Montgomery had been her mother's best friend,
and it was comforting to have her there. Her daughter, Juliana, gave Abby a sympathetic smile, and
Abby managed to smile slightly in return. Then her
attention was drawn to Edmund Montgomery,
Juliana's stepfather, who owned the only bank in
Diablo. He nodded at Abby and held her gaze for a
moment. She stepped closer to Brent and lowered
her head. She always felt uneasy around Mr. Montgomery, even though she didn't understand why.

The reverend had finished the eulogy and was
talking in a quiet voice with Brent, but Abby wasn't
listening. She was watching their friends and
neighbors walking to their buggies, some of them
already leaving without speaking to the family. The
wind kicked up more, and Abby shivered.

Matt knelt down beside her and wrapped his coat
about her shoulders, then held her close to his body
to get her warm. Finally he took one of Abby's
hands, and Quince took the other.

Abby was unaware that people were whispering
and gossiping about her family, their heads nodding,
their mouths pursed in disapproval. She was too
young to realize that, in the years to come, the cruelty
of those same people would surround her and
exclude her from their inner circles. She saw only the
three men with shovels standing off to the side, and
she shuddered with dread as Charley Herbert gave
them instructions. She shook her head in horrorthose men were going to lower her mother's body
into the ground and cover it with dirt!

She felt desperate. Jerking free of her brothers,
she ran toward her mother's coffin, determined to
stop the men. It was Quince who caught up with her
and went down on his knees, holding her close.

"You have to let her go, darlin'." There were
tears in his green eyes, eyes that looked so much
like their mother's. "We all have to let her go."

Quince held her, speaking comforting words until
she stopped trembling. Finally she wiped her tears
on the back of her hand, and he led her back to the
others.

Matt pulled her aside and bent down to her.
"Abby, I won't be going back to the house with
you. I've already told Brent and Quince, and I
wanted you to know, too-I'm leaving. It'll be a
long time before I come back."

Her eyes filled with fresh tears. "Mama's gone,
and now you're leaving, too? Please don't go away!"

There was incredible sadness in his eyes. "You
are so young and may not understand this, but if I
stay, I'll probably do something I'll regret."

She touched his face, then slid her arms around
his neck. "I understand better than you thinkyou're afraid you'd do something to hurt Papa for
what he did to Mama, aren't you?"

He hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

"Will you write me?"

He eased her arms from around his neck and
stood. "I'm not much for letters, Abby."

When she would have given him back his coat, he
shook his head and buttoned it at her throat. "Take
care of yourself, sweetheart. I know it seems like your world has turned upside down. Time passes,
and wounds heal. Trust me."

She watched Matt walk away and mount his
horse; she didn't take her gaze off him until he
disappeared from sight. She already missed him,
and she wondered if she would ever see him again.

Brent put his arm around Abby while Quince
walked beside them toward the ranch house, their
grief too deep, their hurt too new to put into words.
The day was gray, and her heart was empty...
cold... broken.

Her attention was drawn to the ranch hands
ambling toward the house. The Montgomerys and a
few other friends walked behind them. She wiped her
eyes and closed them, but tears still seeped between
her lids and ran down her cheeks. She wanted the
comfort that only her mother could give her.

Matt had told her to give it time, but time would
not bring her mother back, and time would never
wash the blood off her father's hands.

Hill Country of Texas, 1880

"Abigail Hunter, where are you?"

The housekeeper's high-pitched voice reached
Abby just as she opened the front door, so she
quickly stepped outside, taking pains not to let the
screen door slam behind her. Although she tried to
move silently, her boots clomped across the
wooden planks of the porch, and she groaned.

"I'm out here," she answered in a fatalistic tone,
knowing nothing short of death would stop Frances
from having her say.

While waiting for the housekeeper, Abby braced
her hands on the railing and breathed in the heat of
the early-morning air. There wasn't enough breeze
to stir the leaves on the oak tree near the barn. The thin, ragged clouds showed no evidence of the
rainstorm that had struck with such force around
midnight.

Thinking about the troubles that faced her family,
she gripped the railing until her fingernails dug into
the wood. Matt was still in England, and no one
knew when he would come home, or if he ever
would. Brent and Quince were married and had
moved out of the house, leaving her alone to
contend with their father, now that he'd come home
from prison.

She had tried to forgive him for what he had done
to her mother, but it was hard. Abby wanted to love
him, but Jack Hunter was not an easy man to love.
And in truth, she resented the way he had moved
back into their lives, demanding that they do things
his way. While he had been in prison they had
managed to scrape by just fine without him.
Recently he had borrowed money from the bank to
buy land they didn't need and horses that they
couldn't afford. None of them knew what their
father would do next to throw their lives into chaos.

She drew in a cleansing breath, her mind moving
on to other matters the tension between Brent and
Quince had lessened a bit, and she was glad of that.
Both of them worked hard to keep the bank from
foreclosing on the Half-Moon, but they had different
opinions on how that should be accomplished.

Abby looked toward the paddock, where two
blooded foals sired by her stallion, Moon Racer,
frolicked through the high grass along with the cow
ponies that were Brent's dream for the future. Wild mustangs grazed in the pasture just beyond the barn,
Quince's contribution to the ranch.

She sighed. Stubbornness ran deep in the Hunter
family-she had a wide streak of it herself. As a
result of Brent's dedicated management and the
army contract Quince had acquired because of his
friendship with one of the officers at Fort Griffin,
they had been able to make the last two bank
payments. She glanced down at her trousers with a
pragmatic frown. Even if she was a girl, there were
a few things she could do to help her brothers.
Without the encumbrance of modesty, she knew
that she could train cutting horses as well as any
man, probably better than most. She had broken her
first of many horses at the age of twelve, and she
was about to break another.