Montana Sky

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.