Montana Sky

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 tangleof 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 tosleep, 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