Montana Sky by Nora Roberts Page B

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 :
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    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 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