Montana Sky (9 page)

Knowing she was outweighed and outmuscled, she stood still. “You've got a real way with words, Ben. Like poetry. You should feel my heart thudding.”

“Honey, I'd love to, but you'd just try to deck me.”

She smiled and felt better for it. “No, Ben. I
would
deck you. Now go away. I'm tired and I want my supper.”

“I'm going.” But not quite yet, he thought. He slid his hands up to her wrists and was intrigued to find her pulse hammering there. You wouldn't have known it from her eyes, so cool and dark. You wouldn't know a lot, he decided from just a quick look at Willa Mercy. “Aren't you going to kiss me good night?”

“I'd just spoil you for all those other women you like to play with.”

“I'd take my chances on that, too.” But he backed off. It wasn't the time, or the place. Still, he had a feeling he'd be looking for both very soon. “I'll be back.”

“Yeah.” She dipped her hands into her pockets as he climbed into his rig. Her pulse was still drumming. “I know.”

She waited until his taillights disappeared down the long dirt road. Then she glanced over her shoulder at the house, at the lights. She wanted that hot bath, that hot meal, and a long night's sleep. But all of that would have to wait. Mercy Ranch was hers, and she had to talk to her men.

As operator, she tried to stay away from the bunkhouse. She believed the men were entitled to their privacy, and this wood-framed building with its rocking chairs on the porch was their home. Here they slept and ate, read their books if reading was what pleased them. They played cards and
argued over them, watched television and complained about the boss.

Nell would cook the meals in the bungalow she shared with Wood and their sons, then cart the food over. She didn't serve the men, and one of them was assigned cleanup duty every week. That way they could eat as they pleased. They might eat dusty from work, or in their underwear. They could lie about women or the size of their cocks.

It was, after all, their home.

So she knocked and waited to be hailed inside. They were all there but Wood, who was eating his supper at home with his family. The men ranged around the table, Ham at the head, his chair tipped back since he'd just finished his meal. Billy and Jim continued to shovel in chicken and dumplings like a pair of wolves vying for meat. Pickles washed his back with beer and scowled.

“I'm sorry to interrupt your meal.”

“We're about done here,” Ham told her. “Billy, get to the dishes. You eat any more, you'll bust. You want some coffee, Will?”

“I wouldn't mind.” She walked to the stove herself, poured a cup, and left it black. She understood that this was a delicate matter and she'd have to be both tactful and direct. “I can't figure who would slice up that old cat.” She sipped, let it stew. “Anybody have an idea?”

“I checked on Wood's boys.” Ham rose to pour coffee for himself. “Nell says they were in the house with her most of the evening. Now they both have pocketknives, and Nell had them fetch them to show me. They were clean.” He grimaced as he drank. “The younger one, Pete, he busted out crying when he heard about old Mike. Tall boy, Pete. You forget he's only eight.”

“I heard about kids doing shit like that.” Pickles sulked in his beer. “Grow up to be serial killers.”

Willa spared him a glance. If anybody found a way to make things worse, it was Pickles. “I don't think Wood's boys are John Wayne Gacys in training.”

“Coulda been McKinnon.” Billy clattered dishes in the sink and hoped Willa would notice him. He was always
hoping she'd notice him; his crush on her was as wide as Montana. “He was here.” He jerked his head to flop his straw-colored hair out of his eyes. Scrubbed harder than necessary at dishes so the muscles on his arms would flex. “And his men were up in the hills when the steer got laid open.”

“You ought to think before you start flapping your lips, you asshole.” Ham made the statement without heat. Anyone under thirty, in his mind, had the potential to be an asshole. Billy, with his eager eyes and imagination, had more potential than most. “McKinnon isn't a man who'd cut up some damn cat.”

“Well, he was here,” Billy said stubbornly, and slanted his eyes sideways to see if Willa was listening.

“He was here,” she agreed. “And he was inside with me. I let him into the house myself, and there wasn't anything on the porch then.”

“Nothing like this happened when the old man was around.” Pickles tipped back his beer again and flicked a glance at Willa.

“Come on, Pickles.” Uncomfortable, Jim shifted in his creaking chair. “You can't blame Will for something like this.”

“Just stating fact.”

“That's right.” Willa nodded equably. “Nothing like this happened when the old man was around. But he's dead, and I'm in charge now. And when I find out who did this, I'll take care of them personally.” She set her cup down. “I'd like all of you to think about it, to see if you remember anything, or saw anything, anyone. If something comes to you, you know where to find me.”

When the door closed behind her, Ham kicked at Pickles's chair and nearly sent it out from under him. “Why do you have to be such a damn fool? That girl's never done anything but her best.”

“She's a female, ain't she?” And that, he thought, was that. “You can't trust them, and you sure as hell can't depend on them. Who's to say whoever cut up a cow and a cat won't try it on a man next?” He swigged his beer while
he let that little seed root. “Are you going to look to her to watch your back? I know I'm not.”

Billy bobbled a dish. His eyes were huge and filled with glassy excitement. “You think somebody'd try to do that to one of us? Try to knife us?”

“Oh, shut the hell up.” Ham slammed down his cup. “Pickles is just trying to get everybody worked up 'cause his pecker's in a twist at having a woman in charge. Killing cows and some old flea-bitten cat isn't like doing a man.”

“Ham's right.” But Jim had to swallow, and he wasn't interested in the rest of the dumpling on his plate. “But maybe it wouldn't hurt to be careful for a while. There are two more women on the ranch now.” He pushed away his plate as he rose. “Maybe we should look after them.”

“I'll look after Will,” Billy said quickly, and earned a quick cuff on the ear from Ham.

“You'll do your work like always. I'm not having a bunch of pussies jumping at shadows over a cat.” He topped off his coffee, picked up the cup again. “Pickles, if you haven't got anything intelligent to say, keep your mouth shut. That goes for the rest of you too.” He took a moment to aim a beady eye at every man, then nodded, satisfied. “I'm going to watch
Jeopardy.
”

“I tell you this,” Pickles said under his breath. “I'm keeping my rifle close and a knife in my boot. If I see anybody acting funny around here, I'll take care of them. And I'll take care of myself.” He took his beer and stalked outside.

Jim bypassed the coffeepot for a beer himself, glancing at Billy's pale face along the way. Poor kid, he thought, he'll be having nightmares for sure. “He's just blowing it out his ass, Billy. You know how he is.”

“Yeah, but—” He wiped a hand over his mouth. It was just a cat, he reminded himself. Just an old, mangy cat. “Yeah, I know how he is.”

 

W
ILLA HAD NIGHTMARES
.
THEY WOKE HER IN A COLD
sweat with her heart pounding against her ribs and a scream locked in her throat. She fought her way out of the tangle
of sheets, struggling for air. Alone and shivering, she sat in the center of the bed as the moonlight streamed through her windows and a fitful little breeze tapped slyly on the glass.

She couldn't remember clearly what had haunted her sleep. Blood, fear, panic. Knives. A headless cat stalking her. She tried to laugh over it, dropped her head on her drawn-up knees, and tried hard to laugh at herself. It came perilously close to a sob.

Her legs threatened to buckle when she climbed out of bed, but she made herself walk into the bath, switched on the light, lowered her head over the sink, and ran the water icy cold into her cupped hands. It was better then, with the clammy sweat washed off. Lifting her head, she studied herself in the mirror.

It was still the same face. That hadn't changed. Nothing had changed, really. It had simply been a hellish night. Didn't she have the right to be shaken, just a little, by all that was going on? Worry was like lead on her shoulders, and she had to carry it alone. There was no passing it off, no sharing the load.

The sisters were hers, and the ranch, and whatever was plaguing it. She would handle it all.

And if there was a change inside her, something irksome, something she recognized as essentially female, she would handle that as well. She didn't have the time or the temperament to play mating games with Ben McKinnon.

Oh, he was just trying to rile her anyway. She brushed the hair away from her damp cheeks, poured cold water into a glass. He'd never been interested in her. If he was now, it was only for the hell of it. Which was just like Ben. She nearly smiled as she let the water cool her throat.

She thought she might kiss him after all. Just to get it out of the way. A kind of test. She might sleep better for it. That might chase him out of her dreams and nightmares. And once she stopped wondering, stopped thinking about what kept stirring inside her, she would be able to concentrate more fully on the ranch.

She looked toward the bed, shuddered. She needed to
sleep, but she didn't want to see the blood again, to see the mangled bodies. So she wouldn't.

She took a deep breath before climbing back into bed. She'd will them away, think of something else. Of spring that was so far off. Of flowers blooming in meadows and warm breezes floating down from the hills.

But when she dreamed, she dreamed of blood and death and terror.

F
ROM TESS MERCY
'
S JOURNAL
:

 

After two days of life on the ranch, I've decided I hate Montana, I hate cows, horses, cowboys, and most particularly chickens. I've been assigned the chicken coop by Bess Pringle, the scrawny despot who runs the house where I'm being held prisoner. I learned of this new career move after dinner last night. A dinner, I might add, of roast hunk of bear. It seems Danielle Boone went up in the hills and shot herself a grizzly. It was yummy.

Actually, it was quite good until I learned what I'd been eating. I can report that grizzly does not, despite what may have been stated by others, taste remotely like chicken. Whatever else I could say about Bess—and I could say plenty, given the way she eyeballs me—the woman can cook. I'm going to have to watch myself or I'll be back to the tubby stage I lived through in my youth.

There's been some excitement around the Ponderosa while I was back in the real world. Apparently someone butchered a cow up in what they call high country. When I
said I thought that's what you did with cows, Annie Oakley did her best to wither me with a look. I have to admit she's got some good ones. If she wasn't such a tight-assed know-it-all, I might actually like her.

But I digress.

The cow butchering was more in the way of a mutilation and has caused some concern among the rank and file. The night before my return, one of the barn cats was decapitated and left on the front porch. Poor Lily found it.

I don't know whether to be concerned that this isn't a usual event around here or to pretend it is and make sure my door is locked every night. But the cowgirl queen looks worried. Under other circumstances, that would give me a small warm glow of satisfaction. She really gets under my skin. But with the way things stand, and thinking—or trying not to think—of the long months ahead of me, I find myself uncomfortable.

Lily spends a lot of her time with Adam and his horses. The bruises are fading, but her nerves are alive and well. I don't think she has a clue that the gorgeous Noble Savage is developing a case on her. It's kind of fun to watch. I can't help but like Lily, she's so harmless and lost. And after all, the two of us are in the same boat, so to speak.

The other characters in the cast include Ham; he's perfect, straight out of Central Casting. The bowlegged, grizzled cattleman with a beady eye and a callused hand. He tips his hat to me and says little.

Then there's Pickles. I have no idea if the man has another name. He's a sour-faced, surly character who looks like a bloated string in pointy-toed boots and is nearly hairless but for an enormous reddish moustache. He scowls a lot, but I did see him working with the cattle, and he seems to know his stuff.

There's the Book family. Nell cooks for the hands and has a sweet, homely face. She and Bess get together to gossip and do women-on-the-ranch things I don't want to know about. Her husband is Wood, which I've discovered is short for Woodrow. He has a lovely black beard, a very nice smile and manner. He calls me ma'am and suggested very politely
that I should get myself a proper hat so as not to burn my face when I'm out in the sun. They have two boys, about ten and eight, I'd say, who love to run around whooping and pounding on each other. They're awfully pretty. I saw them practicing their spitting behind one of the outbuildings. They seemed to be quite skilled.

There's Jim Brewster, who seems to be one of the good ol' boy types. He's the lanky, I'm getting to it, boss sort. He's very attractive, looks appealing in jeans with that little round outline in the back pocket, which I'm sure is something revolting like chewing tobacco. He's given me a few cocky grins and winks. So far I have been able to resist.

Billy is the youngest. He looks barely old enough to drive and has his puppy eyes on our favorite cowgirl. He's a big talker and is constantly being told by anyone within hearing distance to shut up. He takes it well and rarely listens. I feel almost maternal toward him.

I haven't seen the cowboy lawyer since my return and have yet to meet the infamous Ben McKinnon of Three Rocks Ranch, who appears to be the bane of Willa's existence. I'm sure I'll like him enormously for that alone. I believe I'll have to find a way to soften Bess up in order to get all the dish on the McKinnons, but meanwhile I have a date in the chicken coop.

I'm going to try to think of it as an adventure.

 

T
ESS DIDN
'
T MIND RISING EARLY
.
SHE WAS INVARIABLY UP
by six in any case. An hour at the gym, perhaps a breakfast meeting, then she would hunker over her work until two. Then she'd take a dip in the pool, or take another meeting, perhaps do a little shopping. Maybe she'd have a date or maybe she wouldn't, but her life was hers and ran just as she liked.

Rising early to deal with a bunch of chickens had an entirely different flavor.

The chicken house was big, and certainly looked clean. To Tess's untrained eye, the fifty hens Mercy boasted seemed a legion of beady-eyed, ominously humming predators.

She dumped the feed as Bess had instructed, dealt with the water, then dusted off her hands and eyed the first roosting hen.

“I'm supposed to get the eggs. I believe you may be sitting on one, so if you don't mind . . .” Gingerly she reached out, her eyes locked on the hens. It was immediately apparent who was in charge. Yelping as beak nipped flesh, Tess jumped back. “Look, sister, I've got my orders.”

It was an ugly battle. Feathers flew, tempers snapped. The henhouse erupted with clucking and squawking as neighboring hens joined the fray. Tess managed to get her hand around a nice warm egg, wrenched it clear, then stepped back red-faced and panting.

“That's quite a technique you got there.”

At the voice behind her, Tess let loose of the egg. It spurted out of her fingers and fell splat on the floor. “Goddamn it! After all that.”

“I spooked you.” The commotion inside the henhouse had lured Nate. Instead of heading on to see Willa, he'd detoured and found the California connection—in her designer jeans and shiny new boots—battling chickens. He could only think she made a picture. “Looking for breakfast?”

“More or less.” She pushed her hair back from her face. “What are you looking for?”

“I've got some business with Will. Your hand's bleeding,” he added.

“I know it.” In a bad temper, she sucked on the wounds on the back of her hand. “That vicious birdbrain attacked me.”

“You're just not going about it right.” He offered her a bandanna to wrap around her hand, then stepped up to the next roost. And managed, Tess noted, to look graceful despite the necessity of stooping and bending to keep from bashing his head on the ceiling. “You've just got to go in like it's natural. Make it quick but not abrupt.” He demonstrated, slipping a hand under the roosting hen and pulling it out with an egg. Not a feather stirred.

“It's my first day on the job.” Pouting only a little, she
held up the bucket. “I like to find my chicken in the freezer section, wrapped in cellophane.” As he walked along, gathering eggs, she followed behind. “I suppose you keep chickens.”

“Used to. I don't bother with them now.”

“Cattle?”

“Nope.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Sheep? Isn't that a risk? I've seen all those western movies, the range wars.”

“I don't raise sheep either.” He settled an egg in the bucket. “Just horses. Quarter horses. You ride, Miz Mercy?”

“No.” She tossed her hair back with a shrug. “Though I'm told I'd better learn. And I suppose it would give me something to do around here.”

“Adam would teach you. Or I could.”

“Really?” She smiled slowly with a flutter of lashes. “And why would you do that, Mr. Torrence?”

“Just being neighborly.” She sure had a nice smell about her, he thought. Something just a little dark, just a little dangerous. And all female. He set another egg inside the bucket. “It's Nate.”

“All right.” Her voice warmed to a purr, and her eyes slanted up a sly look under thick, spiky lashes. “Are we neighbors, Nate?”

“In a manner of speaking. My place is east of here. You smell good, Miz Mercy, for someone who's been fighting with chickens.”

“It's Tess. Are you flirting with me, Nate?”

“Just flirting back.” His smile was slow and easy. “That's what you were doing, wasn't it?”

“In a manner of speaking. Habit.”

“Well, if you want advice—”

“And lawyers are full of it,” she interrupted.

“We are. My advice would be to tone down the power. The boys around here aren't used to women with as much style as you've got.”

“Oh.” She wasn't sure if she'd been complimented or insulted, but she decided to give him the benefit of the
doubt. “And are you used to women with style?”

“Can't say I am.” He gave her a long, thoughtful look out of quiet blue eyes. “But I recognize one. You'll have them crazy and thinking of killing each other within a week.”

Now that, she decided,
was
a compliment. “That ought to liven things up.”

“From what I hear, they've been lively enough.”

“Dead cats and cows.” She grimaced. “A nasty business. I'm glad I missed it.”

“You're here now. That seems to be the lot,” he added, and she looked down in the bucket.

“Plenty of them. And Christ, they're filthy.” It was liable to put her off omelets for quite a while.

“They'll wash.” He took the bucket from her and started out. “You settling in?”

“As best I can. It's not my milieu—my usual environment.”

He tucked his tongue in his cheek. “Folks from your—what was it?—milieu come out here all the time. Not that they stay.” Automatically he ducked down to avoid rapping his head on the low doorway of the henhouse. “Those Hollywooders come charging out, buying up land, plunking down houses that cost the earth and more. Think they're going to raise buffalo or save the mustangs or God knows what.”

“You don't like Californians?”

“Californians don't belong in Montana. As a rule. They go running back to their restaurants and nightclubs soon enough.” He turned, studied her. “That's what you'll do when your year's up.”

“You bet your ass. You can keep your wide-open spaces, pal. I'll take Beverly Hills.”

“And smog, mudslides, earthquakes.”

She only smiled. “Please, you're making me homesick.” She figured she had his number. Montana-born and -bred, a slow, thorough thinker who liked his beer cold and his women modest. The sort who would have kissed his horse at the end of the last reel in any B western.

But my, oh my, he was cute.

“Why the law, Nate? Somebody sue your horses?”

“Not lately.” He continued to walk, shortening his stride to let her keep pace. “It interested me. The system. And it helps keep the ranch going. Takes time and money to build up a solid herd and a reputation.”

“So you went to law school to supplement your ranch income. Where? University of Montana?” Her mouth was smug and amused. “There is a university in Montana, isn't there?”

“I've heard there is.” Recognizing the sarcasm, he slid his gaze down to hers. “No, I went to Yale.”

“To—” As she'd stopped dead, he was well ahead of her before she recovered. She had to scramble to catch up.

“Yale? You went to Yale and came back here to play range lawyer for a bunch of cowboys and ranch hands?”

“I don't play at the law.” He tipped his hat in good-bye and circled around to a corral beside the pole barn.

“Yale.” She said it again, shook her head. Fascinated now, she shifted the bucket he'd handed back to her and scurried after him. “Hey, listen. Nate—”

She stopped. There was a great deal of activity in the corral. Two men and Willa were doing something to a small cow. Something the cow didn't appear to appreciate. Tess wondered if they were branding, and thought she'd like to see how that little trick was done. Besides, she wanted to talk to Nate again, and he was moving to the action.

She hefted her bucket, strode up to the gate and through it. No one bothered to look at her. They were focused on their work and the cow had all their attention. Lips pursed, Tess stepped closer, leaned forward to check out the activity over Willa's shoulder.

When she saw Jim Brewster quickly, neatly, and efficiently castrate the calf, her eyes rolled back in her head and she fainted dead away, with barely a sound. It was the crash of the bucket and breaking eggs that made Willa glance around.

“Well, Jesus Christ, will you look at that?”

“She's done passed out cold, Will,” Jim informed her, and earned a bland scowl.