Montana Sky (2 page)

“Yes, I saw it. You have blue shutters and a garden, and there was a little black dog sleeping in the yard.” Lily remembered how homey it had looked, how much more welcoming than the grand house.

“That's Beans.” Adam smiled again. “The dog. He has a fondness for refried beans. I'm Adam Wolfchild, Willa's brother.”

“Oh.” She studied the hand he offered for a moment, then ordered herself to take it. She could see the points of resemblance now, the high, slashing cheekbones, the eyes. “I didn't realize she had a—That would make us . . .”

“No.” Her hand seemed very fragile, and he let it go gently. “You shared a father. Willa and I shared a mother.”

“I see.” And realizing that she'd given very little thought to the man they'd buried today, she felt ashamed. “Were you close, to him . . . your stepfather?”

“No one was.” It was said simply and without bitterness.

“You're uncomfortable here.” He'd noticed her keeping to the edges of groups of people, shying away from contact as if the casual brush of shoulders might bruise her. Just as he'd noticed the marks of violence on her face that she tried to hide.

“I don't know anyone.”

Wounded, Adam thought. He had always been drawn to the wounded. She was lovely, and injured. Dressed neatly in a quiet black suit and heels, she was only an inch or so shorter than his five ten and too thin for her height. Her hair was dark, with a sheen of red, and it fell in soft waves that reminded him of angel wings. He couldn't see her eyes behind the sunglasses, but he wondered about their color, and about what else he would read in them.

She had her father's chin, he noticed, but her mouth was soft and rather small, like a child's. There had been the faint
hint of a dimple beside it when she'd tried to smile at him. Her skin was creamy, very pale—a fragile contrast to the marks on it.

She was alone, he thought, and afraid. It might take him some time to soften Willa's heart toward this woman, this sister.

“I have to check on a horse,” he began.

“Oh.” It surprised her that she was disappointed. She had wanted to be alone. She was better when she was alone. “I won't keep you.”

“Would you like to walk down? See some of the stock?”

“The horses? I—” Don't be a coward, she ordered herself. He isn't going to hurt you. “Yes, I'd like that. If I wouldn't be in your way.”

“You wouldn't.” Knowing she'd shy away, he didn't offer a hand or take her arm, but merely led the way down the stairs and across the rough dirt road.

 

S
EVERAL PEOPLE SAW THEM GO
,
AND TONGUES WAGGED
as tongues do. Lily Mercy was one of Jack's daughters, after all, though, as was pointed out, she hardly had a word to say for herself. Something that had never been Willa's problem—no, indeed. That was a girl who said plenty, whatever and whenever she wanted.

As for the other one—well, that was a different kettle of fish altogether. Snooty, she was, parading around in her fancy suit and looking down her nose. Anybody with eyes could see the way she'd stood at the gravesite, cold as ice. She was a picture, to be sure. Jack had sired fine-looking daughters, and that one, the oldest one, had his eyes. Hard and sharp and blue.

It was obvious she thought she was better than the rest of them with her California polish and her expensive shoes, but there were plenty who remembered her ma had been a Las Vegas showgirl with a big, braying laugh and a bawdy turn of phrase. Those who did remember had already decided they much preferred the mother to the daughter.

Tess Mercy could have cared less. She was here in this godforsaken outback only until the will could be read. She'd
take what was hers, which was less than the old bastard owed her, and shake the dust off her Ferragamos.

“I'll be back by Monday at the latest.”

She carried the phone along as she paced about with quick, jerky motions, nervous energy searing the air around her. She'd closed the doors of what she supposed was a den, hoping to have at least a few moments of privacy. She had to work hard to ignore the mounted animal heads that populated the walls.

“The script's finished.” She smiled a little, tunneled her fingers through the straightedge swing of dark hair that curved at her jaw. “Damn right it's brilliant, and it'll be in your hot little hands Monday. Don't hassle me, Ira,” she warned her agent. “I'll get you the script, then you get me the deal. My cash flow's down to a dribble.”

She shifted the phone and pursed her lips as she helped herself to a snifter of brandy from the decanter. She was still listening to the promises and pleas of Hollywood when she saw Lily and Adam stroll by the window.

Interesting, she thought, and sipped. The little mouse and the Noble Savage.

Tess had done some quick checking before she'd made the trip to Montana. She knew Adam Wolfchild was the son of Jack Mercy's third and final wife. That he'd been eight when his mother had married Mercy. Wolfchild was Blackfoot, or mostly. His mother had been part Indian. The man had spent twenty-five years on Mercy Ranch and had little more to show for it than a tiny house and a job tending horses.

Tess intended to have more.

As for Lily, all Tess had discovered was that she was divorced, childless, and moved around quite a bit. Probably because her husband had used her for a punching bag, Tess thought, and made herself clamp down on a stir of pity. She couldn't afford emotional attachments here. It was straight business.

Lily's mother had been a photographer who'd come to Montana to snap pictures of the real West. She'd snapped Jack Mercy—for all the good it had done her, Tess thought.

Then there was Willa. Tess's mouth tightened as she thought of Willa. The one who had stayed, the one the old bastard had kept.

Well, she owned the place now, Tess assumed, shrugging her shoulders. And she was welcome to it. No doubt she'd earned it. But Tess Mercy wasn't walking away without a nice chunk of change.

Looking out the window, she could see the plains in the distance, rolling, rolling endlessly, as empty as the moon. With a shudder, she turned her back on the view. Christ, she wanted Rodeo Drive.

“Monday, Ira,” she snapped, annoyed with his voice buzzing in her ear. “Your office, twelve sharp. Then you can take me to lunch.” With that as a good-bye, she replaced the receiver.

Three days, tops, she promised herself, and toasted an elk head with her brandy. Then she'd get the hell out of Dodge and back to civilization.

 

“I
SHOULDN
'
T HAVE TO REMIND YOU THAT YOU GOT
guests downstairs, Will.” Bess Pringle stood with her hands on her bony hips and used the same tone she'd used when Willa was ten.

Willa jerked her jeans on—Bess didn't believe in little niceties like privacy and had barely knocked before striding into the bedroom. Willa responded just as she might have at ten. “Then don't.” She sat down to pull on her boots.

“Rude is a four-letter word.”

“So's work, but it still has to be done.”

“And you've got enough hands around this place to see to it for one blessed day. You're not going off somewhere today, of all days. It ain't fittin'.”

What was or wasn't fitting constituted the bulk of Bess's moral and social codes. She was a bird of a woman, all bone and teeth, though she could plow through a mountain of hotcakes like a starving field hand and had the sweet tooth of an eight-year-old. She was fifty-eight—and had changed the date on her birth certificate to prove it—and had a head
of flaming red hair she dyed in secret and kept pulled back in a don't-give-me-any-lip bun.

Her voice was as rough as pine bark and her face as smooth as a girl's, and surprisingly pretty with moss-green eyes and a pug Irish nose. Her hands were small and quick and able. And so was her temper.

With her fists still glued to her hips, she marched up to Willa and glared down. “You get your sassy self down those stairs and tend to your guests.”

“I've got a ranch to run.” Willa rose. It hardly mattered that in her boots she topped Bess by six inches. The balance of power had always tottered back and forth between them. “And they're not my guests. I'm not the one who wanted them here.”

“They've come to pay respects. That's fittin'.”

“They've come to gawk and prowl around the house. And it's time they left.”

“Maybe some of them did.” Bess jerked her head in a little nod. “But there's plenty more who are here for you.”

“I don't want them.” Willa turned away, picked up her hat, then simply stood staring out her window, crushing the brim in her hands. The window faced the mountains, the dark belt of trees, the peaks of the Big Belt that held all the beauty and mystery in the world. “I don't need them. I can't breathe with all these people hovering around.”

Bess hesitated before laying a hand on Willa's shoulder. Jack Mercy hadn't wanted his daughter raised soft. No pampering, no spoiling, no cuddling. He'd made that clear while Willa had still been in diapers. So Bess had pampered and spoiled and cuddled only when she was certain she wouldn't be caught and sent away like one of Jack's wives.

“Honey, you got a right to grieve.”

“He's dead and he's buried. Feeling sorry won't change it.” But she lifted a hand, closed it over the small one on her shoulder. “He didn't even tell me he was sick, Bess. He couldn't even give me those last few weeks to try to take care of him, or to say good-bye.”

“He was a proud man,” Bess said, but she thought, Bastard. Selfish bastard. “It's better the cancer took him quick
rather than letting him linger. He would've hated that and it would've been harder on you.”

“One way or the other, it's done.” She smoothed the wide, circling brim of her hat, settled it on her head. “I've got animals and people depending on me. The hands need to see, right now, that I'm in charge. That Mercy Ranch is still being run by a Mercy.”

“You do what you have to do, then.” Years of experience had taught Bess that what was fitting didn't hold much water when it came to ranch business. “But you be back by suppertime. You're going to sit down and eat decent.”

“Clear these people out of the house, and I will.”

She started out, turning left toward the back stairs. They wound down the east wing of the house and allowed her to slip into the mudroom. Even there she could hear the beehive buzz of conversations from the other rooms, the occasional roll of laughter. Resenting all of it, she slammed out the door, then pulled up short when she saw the two men smoking companionably on the side porch.

Her gaze narrowed on the older man and the bottle of beer dangling from his fingers. “Enjoying yourself, Ham?”

Sarcasm from Willa didn't ruffle Hamilton Dawson. He'd put her up on her first pony, had wrapped her head after her first spill. He'd taught her how to use a rope, shoot a rifle, and dress a deer. Now he merely fit his cigarette into the little hole surrounded by grizzled hair and blew out a smoke ring.

“It's”—another smoke ring formed—“a pretty afternoon.”

“I want the fence checked along the northwest boundary.”

“Been done,” he said placidly, and continued to lean on the rail, a short, stocky man on legs curved like a wishbone. He was ranch foreman and figured he knew what needed to be done as well as Willa did. “Got a crew out making repairs. Sent Brewster and Pickles up the high country. We lost a couple head up there. Looks like cougar.” Another drag, another stream of smoke. “Brewster'll take care of it. Likes to shoot things.”

“I want to talk to him when he gets back.”

“I expect you will.” He straightened up from the rail, adjusted his mud-colored dishrag of a hat. “It's weaning time.”

“Yes, I know.”

He expected she did, and nodded again. “I'll go check on the fence crew. Sorry about your pa, Will.”

She knew those simple words tacked onto ranch business were more sincere and personal than the acres of flowers sent by strangers. “I'll ride out later.”

He nodded, to her, to the man beside him, then hitched his bowlegged way toward his rig.

“How are you holding up, Will?”

She shrugged a shoulder, frustrated that she didn't know what to do next. “I want it to be tomorrow,” she said. “Tomorrow'll be easier, don't you think, Nate?”

Because he didn't want to tell her the answer was no, he tipped back his beer. He was there for her, as a friend, a fellow rancher, a neighbor. He was also there as Jack Mercy's lawyer, and he knew that before too much more time passed he was going to shatter the woman standing beside him.

“Let's take a walk.” He set the beer down on the rail, took Willa's arm. “My legs need stretching.”

He had a lot of them. Nathan Torrence was a tall one. He'd hit six two at seventeen and had kept growing. Now, at thirty-three, he was six six and lanky with it. Hair the color of wheat straw curled under his hat. His eyes were as blue as the Montana sky in a face handsomely scored by wind and sun. At the end of long arms were big hands. At the end of long legs were big feet. Despite them, he was surprisingly graceful.

He looked like a cowboy, walked like a cowboy. His heart, when it came to matters of his family, his horses, and the poetry of Keats, was as soft as a down pillow. His mind, when it came to matters of law, of justice, of simple right and wrong, was as hard as granite.

He had a deep and long-standing affection for Willa
Mercy. And he hated that he had no choice but to put her through hell.

“I've never lost anybody close to me,” Nate began. “I can't say I know how you feel.”

Willa kept walking, past the cookhouse, the bunkhouse, by the chicken house where the hens were going broody. “He never let anyone get close to him. I don't know how I feel.”