Montana Sky by Nora Roberts Page A

thought of camp, hardly more than ten minutes away, and the hot coffee that would be boiling to mud on the stove.
    Then he saw it. His nose might not have been as sharp as hers, but his eyes were. Blood was splattered and pooled over the snow, splashed against rock. The black hide of the steer was coated with it. The dog stopped circling the mangled steer and raced back to the horses.
    â€œWell, shit.” Ben was already dismounting. “Made a mess of it.”
    â€œWolves?” It was more than the market price to Willa. It was the waste, the cruelty.
    He started to agree, then stopped short. A wolf didn’t kill, then leave the meat. A wolf didn’t hack and slice. No predator but one did.
    â€œA man.”
    Willa drew a sharp breath as she stepped closer, saw the damage. The throat had been slit, the belly disemboweled. Charlie pressed against her legs, shivering. “It’s been butchered. Mutilated.”
    She crouched, and thought of the bear. No choice there but to kill, and the field dressing had been done efficiently with the tools at hand. But this—this was wild and vicious and without purpose.
    â€œAlmost within sight of the cabin,” she said. “The blood’s frozen. It was probably done hours ago, before sunup.”
    â€œIt’s one of yours,” Ben told her after checking the brand.
    â€œDoesn’t matter whose.” But she noted the number on the yellow ear tag. The death would have to be recorded. She rose and stared over at the stream of smoke rising. “It matters why. Have you lost any cattle this way?”
    â€œNo.” He straightened to stand beside her. “Have you?”
    â€œNot until now. I can’t believe it’s one of my men.” She took a shallow breath. “Or yours. There must be someone else camping up here.”
    â€œMaybe.” He was frowning down at the ground. They stood shoulder to shoulder now, linked by the waste at their feet. She didn’t jerk away when he ran a hand down her braid, or when he laid that hand companionably on her arm. “We had more snow, a lot of wind. The ground’s pretty trampled up, but it looks like some tracks heading north. I’ll take some men and check it out.”
    â€œIt’s my cow.”
    He shifted his eyes to hers. “It doesn’t matter whose,” he repeated. “We have to get both herds rounded up and down the mountain, and we have to report this. I figure I can count on you for that.”
    She opened her mouth, closed it again. He was right. She was next to useless at tracking, but she could organize a drive. With a nod, she turned back to her horse. “I’ll talk to my men.”
    â€œWill.” Now he laid a hand over hers, leather against leather, before she could mount. “Watch yourself.”
    She vaulted into the saddle. “They’re my men,” she said simply, and rode toward the rising smoke.
    Â 
    S HE FOUND HER MEN ABOUT TO HAVE THEIR MIDDAY MEAL when she came into the cabin. Pickles was at the little stove, sturdy legs spread, ample belly spilling over the wide buckle of his belt. He was barely forty and balding fast, compensating for it with a ginger-colored moustache that grew longer every year. He’d earned his name from his obsessive love of dill pickles, and his personality was just as sour.
    When he saw Willa, he grunted in greeting, sniffed, and turned back to the ham he was frying.
    Jim Brewster sat with his booted feet on the table, enjoying the last of a Marlboro. He was just into his thirties with a face pretty enough for framing. Two dimples winked in his cheeks, and dark hair waved to his collar. He beamed at Willa and sent her a cocky wink that made his blue eyes twinkle.
    â€œGot us company for dinner, Pickles.”
    Pickles gave another sour grunt, belched, and flipped hisham. “Barely enough meat for two as it is. Get your lazy ass up and open some beans.”
    â€œSnow’s