by Nora Roberts
On her hands and knees, in the glow of the porch light she washed away the signs of violence. Death happened. She had believed she accepted and understood that. Cattle were raised for their meat, and a chicken who stopped laying ended up in the pot. Deer and elk were hunted and set on the table.
That was the way of things.
People lived, and died.
Even violence wasn’t a stranger to her. She had sent a bullet into living flesh and dressed game with her own hands. Her father had insisted on that, had ordered her to learn to hunt, to watch a buck go down bleeding. That she could live with.
But this cruelty, this waste, this viciousness that had been laid at her door wasn’t part of the cycle. She erased it, every drop. And with the bloody bucket beside her, she sat back on her heels and stared up into the sky.
A star died, even as she watched, blazing its white trail across the night and falling into oblivion.
From somewhere near an owl hooted, and she knew prey would be scrambling for cover. For tonight there was a hunter’s moon, full and bright. Tonight there would be death—in the forest, in the hills, in the grass. There was no denying it.
It should not have made her want to weep.
She heard the footsteps and hastily composed herself. She was getting to her feet as Ben and Adam came around the side of the house.
“I would have done that, Will.” Adam took the bucket from her. “There was no need for you to do this.”
“It’s done.” She reached out, touched his face. “I’m sorry, Adam, about Mike.”
“He used to like to sun himself on the rock behind the pole barn. We buried him there.” He glanced toward the window. “Lily?”
“Bess is with her. She’ll do her more good than I would.”
“I’ll get rid of this, then check on her.”
“All right.” But she kept her hand on his cheek another moment, murmured something in the language of their mother.
It made him smile, not the comforting words as much as the tongue. She rarely used it, and only when it mattered most. He stepped away and left her with Ben.
“You’ve got a problem on your hands, Will.”
“I’ve got several of them.”
“Whoever did that did it while we were inside.” Wrestling, he thought, like a couple of idiot children. “Ham’s going to talk to Wood’s kids.”
“Joe and Pete?” Will snorted, then rocked on her heels to comfort herself. “No way in hell and back, Ben. Those boys like to run wild around here and regularly beat the hell out of each other, but they aren’t going to torture some old cat.”
He rubbed the scar on his chin. “Saw that, did you?”
“I’ve got eyes, don’t I?” She had to take a steadying breath as her stomach tipped again. “Cut little pieces off of him, and it looked like burns, probably from a cigarette on the fur. It wasn’t Wood’s boys. Adam gave them a couple of kittens last spring. They spoil those cats like babies.”
“Adam piss anybody off lately?”
She didn’t look down at him. “They didn’t do it to Adam. They did it to me.”
“Okay.” Because he saw it the same way, he nodded. And he worried. “You piss anybody off lately?”
“Besides you?”
He smiled a little, climbed up a step until they were eye to eye. “You’ve been pissing me off all your life. Hardly counts. I mean it, Willa.” He closed a hand over hers, linked fingers. “Is there anybody you can think of who’d want to hurt you?”
Baffled by the link, she stared down at their joined hands. “No. Pickles and Wood, they might have their noses a little out of joint now that I’m in charge. Pickles especially. It’s the female thing. But they haven’t got anything against me personally.”
“Pickles was up in high country,” Ben pointed out. “Would he do something like this to get at you? Scare the female?”
She sneered out her pride. “Do I look scared?”
“I’d feel better if you did.” But he shrugged. “Would he do it?”
“A couple of hours ago I’d have said no. Now I can’t be sure.” That was the worst of it, she realized. Not being sure who to trust, or how much to trust them. “I wouldn’t think so. He’s got a temper and he likes to bitch and stew, but I can’t see him killing things for no reason.”
“I’d say there’s a reason here. That’s what we have to figure out.”
She angled her chin. “Do we?”
“Your land marches with mine, Will. And for the next year you’re part of my responsibilities.” He only tightened his grip when she tugged at her hand. “That’s a fact, and I imagine we’ll both get used to it. I aim to keep my eye on you, and yours.”
“You keep it too close, Ben, it’s liable to get blackened.”
“I’ll take that chance.” But just in case, he took her other hand, held them both at her sides. “I have a feeling I’m going to find the next year interesting. All around interesting. I haven’t wrestled with you in . . . must be twenty years. You filled out nice.”
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.
SIX
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 wa
sn’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.
