Montana Sky

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 fainthint 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’dtake 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