Wolf Moon Rising

By Miranda Simon

Clare Sorenson has a boyfriend, but there is something so very intriguing about her new next-door neighbor. She's never seen anyone with eyes so — golden. Those eyes rendered her speechless. Pale skin, unruly dark curls, and the lean, wiry body of a distance runner don't hurt, either. Soon the high school senior is falling head over heels for the mysterious Nicholas. She'll risk everything to be with him.

But something isn't right in the small town of Hadley. It begins with ravaged livestock and rumors of wolves. Clare begins to suspect that Nicholas knows much more than he's willing to admit. How many gruesome deaths will it take before she confronts him -- and discovers his true nature? And can love survive that terrible truth?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Miranda Simon
• Release date: Jun 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310743122

Book preview

Wolf Moon Rising

By Miranda Simon

CAPUCHIN BOOKS

Copyright © 2012 Miranda Simon

Other novels by Miranda Simon:

Becoming Sarah

Where Fairies Dwell

The Sea King’s Daughter

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to real people, living or dead, are purely coincidental. All characters and events in this work are figments of the author’s imagination.

Table of 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

Free first chapters: The Sea King’s Daughter

Other novels by Miranda Simon

CHAPTER ONE

Clare watched helplessly from the muddy bank as the river rose first to her mother's knees, then her waist, then her chest, swirling higher and higher. The water was as black and icy as death. Frozen with horror and disbelief, Clare saw the golden tips of her mother's hair lift on the current and float like a halo around her body.

Her mother stood, unmoving, as the water climbed higher until nothing remained but her calm, upturned face. Her eyes were closed and a gentle smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as the river closed over her.

At last, Clare found the strength to reach out. Mommy, let me help you, she cried in a little-girl voice that was not her own. Please, why won't you take my hand? But it was too late. The surface of the river had grown as still as glass. Her mother was gone, disappeared without a trace.

Clare took a step forward, toward the river. The black water would wash the sadness away. The river would freeze out the pain. She took a second step and felt the current suck at her ankles. Clare was no longer afraid. She threw back her head and howled —

And snapped awake, drenched with sweat under her heavy quilt. Her breath came fast and her heart pounded as if she'd just run a mile. The moon was nearly full outside her window. Its glow lit the room like a thousand candles. It took her a moment to realize she was safe in her own familiar bedroom and not a helpless child on a river bank.

Another nightmare, Clare whispered.

At the sound of her voice, the black cat sitting upright on the window seat pricked up his ears. His dilated dark pupils reflected back a flash of silver light as he turned his head to look at her. Here, Gwydion, Clare called, longing for his warm, familiar weight against her body. She cleared her throat. Here, kitty kitty.

The cat ignored he. He returned to contemplating something outside, his tail twitching. Clare threw back her blankets and went to fetch him. She shivered as her bare feet hit the floor. The cold took her back to her dream. She'd had it many times before, in the seven months since her mother's funeral, but it was rarely so vivid as tonight. Clare could almost taste her fear still, and her throat ached with the sadness.

She gathered Gwydion into her arms, holding him tight against her flannel nightshirt. He struggled a little, reluctant to leave the window seat. When he began to purr it was a distracted shadow of his usual full-throated rumble.

What is it? Clare asked. She could see nothing amiss in the moonlit scene outside her window. The ranch's lush fields spread out before her, dotted with the white fleeces of dozing sheep. The creek glistened dangerously as it crept west to the sea.

Silly cat, Clare said, scratching Gwydion under the chin.

Then she heard it.

It came from the far-away hills to the east, the echo a blood-chilling howl so bleak and unearthly that Clare almost dropped the cat. She tightened her grip, but Gwydion struggled in her arms until she let him go. Down below in the north pasture, the sheep heard it too and shifted uncomfortably in their sleep. A few bleated softly, nervously.

Clare frowned and listened hard for several minutes, but the sound didn't come again. She could almost think she had imagined it, except that she had heard a similar howl earlier, in her nightmare. She wasn't imagining Gwydion's reaction, either. The cat's fur had risen all along his back and at the base of his tail. He paced in front of the window, growling deep in his throat.

Clare reached out without thinking to comfort him, and he turned like black lightening to snap at her. His teeth barely grazed her fingers — just a warning — but Clare jumped away as if he'd really hurt her.

He'd never done that before.

She crawled back under her patchwork quilt, tense and wide awake, listening. Gradually, when the sound did not repeat itself, she let the warmth of her bed soothe her into closing her eyes. Slowly, her limbs relaxed and grew heavy. The last thing she remembered seeing was Gwydion with his nose pressed up to the window, keeping vigil.

By the time she made it downstairs the next day, Clare's father was already in the kitchen eating lunch. Clare’s hair was still wet from the shower, and she wore her old blue bathrobe. Well, well, if it isn't Sleeping Beauty, Robert Sorenson said as Clare poured milk over her granola.

She yawned, still groggy. I don't know what's wrong with me today. I never oversleep like this.

It's because you're a rancher's daughter, he said. Up with the cows at the crack of dawn, and all that. But you're also seventeen, so you're bound to sleep until noon once in a while. The way I hear it, all teenagers do.

I guess, Clare said. She sat across from her father at the table, wincing as the smell of his chili and cornbread hit her empty stomach. He spooned the food into his mouth with quick efficiency, hardly pausing to chew. Clare knew he couldn't wait to get back to work. She rarely saw her father sitting still these days. Now that she had a rare chance to study him up close, she noticed there was more silver in his hair, and more wrinkles in his weather-worn face.

He's getting old, she thought. He was almost sixty. Her father had already seen his older children marry and have children of their own. Clare's brother, Jason, was 28, her sister Alexa 26. They both lived in Portland and visited only for the Christmas holidays.

Clare was sure her father had never planned on raising a teenage daughter alone. He'd done his best in the past seven months. But he never spoke of her mother, or even said his wife's name out loud. He never asked Clare if she was all right.

Still, what hurt Clare the most was the pain she saw in his eyes sometimes when she caught him watching her.

Clare knew she reminded him of her mother. She had inherited her mother's delicate bones, her slender neck, and her heart-shaped face. Clare's hair was blond, too, but finer and lighter than her mother's, and Clare kept hers cropped short. The only thing Clare had inherited from her father were his brown eyes, his skill with animals, and his love of the outdoors. Even now, before she finished her late breakfast, she was gazing past the red-and-white checked curtains, eager to part of a fine sunny Saturday.

What are your plans today? her father asked.

Today's my day to be lazy, Clare said. I'm working for Dr. Hall most of tomorrow, and then I've got a paper to write for English. So I thought I'd go for a ride, maybe take a picnic lunch.

Good idea. Headed southeast, by any chance?

I could be. Why?

Oh, nothing. Just that the fences that way could stand checking, and . . . .

And what? Clare asked, laughing. Come on, Dad, out with it. What do you really want?

Well, I was at the feed store this morning, and some of the men were talking about the family that's moved into the Dexter place.

That old place? Nobody's lived there for years.

They fixed it up some, I hear. Well, that's what they say, but no one knows for sure. These people are a bit standoffish.

You mean they won't pour out their life histories and dark secrets to anyone who asks, Clare said. You can't call people unfriendly just because they like to mind their own business.

Now, I'm not saying they're unfriendly, her father said, but they are certainly odd. I hear they brought contractors up from California, instead of using our local boys. Stocked up on supplies, too, like we don't have grocery stores in Oregon. Bill Jessup says the man's some kind of writer —

Bill Jessup is the biggest gossip in Hadley, Clare said, and usually dead wrong.

Her father ignored the interruption. — and apparently he's got a few kids up there with him. No wife, just two little girls and a boy about your age.

Clare glanced up quickly, then tried to conceal her interest. She'd known every teenager in Hadley since kindergarten, and the idea of someone new was beyond intriguing. What's his name? she asked.

Who, the writer?

Clare sighed. No, his son.

I have no idea, her father said. Why don't you stop by the Dexter place and find out?

And report back with all the details, so you can tell everyone in Hadley? Clare rolled her eyes. You would turn your own daughter into a spy?

Of course not, her father said. Still, these people are practically living on our property. Aren't you just a tiny bit curious?

Maybe a little, Clare said.

Plus it wouldn't hurt if I could out-gossip Bill Jessup next time I go by the feed store.

Clare groaned as she cleared her breakfast dishes. All right, all right. I'll do it, but just this once. And only because I want to check those southeast fences, and the old Dexter place is practically on the way.

Of course, her father said.

She was halfway up the stairs when she remembered the eerie howl echoing from the hills the night before. Dad? she said from the doorway. Are there any wolves around here?

He scratched the stubble on his chin and frowned. Not in my lifetime. Used to be, I guess. Why?

Oh, nothing. I — well, I thought I heard one last night.

Must of been somebody's dog howling at the moon.

Right. I just wondered, Clare said. She put the incident out of her mind and went upstairs to get dressed.

I never get to go anywhere alone, she grumbled fifteen minutes later, on her way to the barn and stables. Her entourage consisted of two black lambs, three border collies, one orange tabby cat, and assorted barnyard fowl.

I'm not feeding any of you. I mean it, she said. Her sternness was wasted on her fans, who watched her with wide, hopeful eyes. One of the lambs snuffled anxiously against her faded blue jeans, and an eager puppy left dirty paw prints on her thighs. Clare shook her head and adjusted her black baseball cap. She crouched down in the dust and scratched behind a few ears, then straightened up again. Be good, all of you, she said.

Talking to animals again, Clare? Jack Kahn, the Sorensons' ranch hand, leaned up against the side of the barn, watching her.

They'll answer me back someday. I know they will.

You think they understand what you're saying?

Absolutely, she said. Don't you, Lolly, my love? She addressed her last remark to the youngest of the border collies, hardly more than a puppy. Lolly went into a fit of ecstasy at the sound of her name. She rolled over twice in the dust and then bounded up to bestow a wet kiss on Clare's cheek. Clare wiped her face, grimacing. See?

Jack chuckled, shaking his head. He was in his early thirties, sinewy and copper skinned. As a little girl, Clare had developed a desperate crush on her Uncle Jack. She had outgrown that foolishness, of course, but not her fondness for the man.

Going riding? he asked, gesturing toward her boots and the pack she carried.

Yeah, I thought I'd take Scarlett out for a while.

Have fun, Jack said, adjusting his hat brim. If you change your mind, you can always come back and help us dock the last of the spring lambs.

I don't think so, Clare said, laughing. She didn't relish the idea of spending her day off wrestling with dirty, frightened lambs while Jack cut off their long woolly tails. She did her share of chores around the ranch, but today she had other plans. She'd packed a book on animal husbandry to read in a quiet spot, along with the jar of homemade blackberry jam as a welcome present for the new neighbors.

As Clare saddled Scarlett, Rhett, the brown gelding in the stall next door, snorted his disappointment at being left behind. Clare rode the blood-bay mare out along a narrow dirt track heading east into the foothills. It was a glorious May afternoon, sunny with just a hint of chill in the air.