Montana Sky

daughter raised soft. No pampering, no spoiling, no cuddling. He’d made that clear while Willa had still been in diapers. So Bess had pampered and spoiled and cuddled only when she was certain she wouldn’t be caught and sent away like one of Jack’s wives.
    “Honey, you got a right to grieve.”
    “He’s dead and he’s buried. Feeling sorry won’t change it.” But she lifted a hand, closed it over the small one on her shoulder. “He didn’t even tell me he was sick, Bess. He couldn’t even give me those last few weeks to try to take care of him, or to say good-bye.”
    “He was a proud man,” Bess said, but she thought, Bastard. Selfish bastard. “It’s better the cancer took him quickrather than letting him linger. He would’ve hated that and it would’ve been harder on you.”
    “One way or the other, it’s done.” She smoothed the wide, circling brim of her hat, settled it on her head. “I’ve got animals and people depending on me. The hands need to see, right now, that I’m in charge. That Mercy Ranch is still being run by a Mercy.”
    “You do what you have to do, then.” Years of experience had taught Bess that what was fitting didn’t hold much water when it came to ranch business. “But you be back by suppertime. You’re going to sit down and eat decent.”
    “Clear these people out of the house, and I will.”
    She started out, turning left toward the back stairs. They wound down the east wing of the house and allowed her to slip into the mudroom. Even there she could hear the beehive buzz of conversations from the other rooms, the occasional roll of laughter. Resenting all of it, she slammed out the door, then pulled up short when she saw the two men smoking companionably on the side porch.
    Her gaze narrowed on the older man and the bottle of beer dangling from his fingers. “Enjoying yourself, Ham?”
    Sarcasm from Willa didn’t ruffle Hamilton Dawson. He’d put her up on her first pony, had wrapped her head after her first spill. He’d taught her how to use a rope, shoot a rifle, and dress a deer. Now he merely fit his cigarette into the little hole surrounded by grizzled hair and blew out a smoke ring.
    “It’s”—another smoke ring formed—“a pretty afternoon.”
    “I want the fence checked along the northwest boundary.”
    “Been done,” he said placidly, and continued to lean on the rail, a short, stocky man on legs curved like a wishbone. He was ranch foreman and figured he knew what needed to be done as well as Willa did. “Got a crew out making repairs. Sent Brewster and Pickles up the high country. We lost a couple head up there. Looks like cougar.” Another drag, another stream of smoke. “Brewster’ll take care of it. Likes to shoot things.”
    “I want to talk to him when he gets back.”
    “I expect you will.” He straightened up from the rail, adjusted his mud-colored dishrag of a hat. “It’s weaning time.”
    “Yes, I know.”
    He expected she did, and nodded again. “I’ll go check on the fence crew. Sorry about your pa, Will.”
    She knew those simple words tacked onto ranch business were more sincere and personal than the acres of flowers sent by strangers. “I’ll ride out later.”
    He nodded, to her, to the man beside him, then hitched his bowlegged way toward his rig.
    “How are you holding up, Will?”
    She shrugged a shoulder, frustrated that she didn’t know what to do next. “I want it to be tomorrow,” she said. “Tomorrow’ll be easier, don’t you think, Nate?”
    Because he didn’t want to tell her the answer was no, he tipped back his beer. He was there for her, as a friend, a fellow rancher, a neighbor. He was also there as Jack Mercy’s lawyer, and he knew that before too much more time passed he was going to shatter the woman standing beside him.
    “Let’s take a walk.” He set the beer down on the rail, took Willa’s arm. “My legs need stretching.”
    He had a lot of them. Nathan Torrence was a tall one. He’d hit six two at seventeen and had kept growing. Now, at thirty-three, he was six six and lanky with it. Hair the color of wheat straw curled under his hat. His eyes were as blue as the Montana sky in a face handsomely scored by wind and sun. At the end of long arms were big hands. At the end of long legs were big feet. Despite them, he was surprisingly graceful.
    He looked like a cowboy, walked like a cowboy. His heart, when it came to matters of his family, his horses, and the poetry of