Montana Sky by Nora Roberts Page B

coming.” Willa tossed her coat over a hook and headed for the radio.
    â€œÂ â€™Nother week easy.”
    She turned her head, met Pickles’s sulky brown eyes. “I don’t think so. We’ll start rounding up today.” She waited, holding his gaze. He hated taking his orders from a female, and they both knew it.
    â€œYour cattle,” he muttered, and turned the ham out onto a platter.
    â€œYes, they are. And one of them’s been butchered a quarter mile east of here.”
    â€œButchered?” Jim paused in the act of handing Pickles an open can of beans. “Cougar?”
    â€œNot unless cats are carrying knives these days. Someone opened one up, hacked it to pieces, and left it.”
    â€œBullshit.” Eyes narrowed, Pickles took a step forward.
    â€œThat’s just shit, Will. We’ve lost a couple to cougar. Jim and me tracked a cat just yesterday. She musta circled around and got another cow, that’s all.”
    â€œI know the difference between claws and a knife.” She inclined her head. “Go look for yourself. Dead east, about a quarter mile.”
    â€œDamned if I won’t.” Pickles stomped over for his coat, muttering about women.
    â€œSure it couldn’t have been a cat?” Jim asked the minute the door slammed.
    â€œYeah, I’m sure. Get me some coffee, would you, Jim? I’m going to radio the ranch. I want Ham to know we’re heading down.”
    â€œMcKinnon’s men are up here, but—”
    â€œNo.” She shook her head, pulled out a chair. “No cowboy I know does that.”
    She contacted the ranch, listening to static, waiting for it to clear. The coffee and the crackling fire chased the worst of the chill away as she made arrangements for the drive. She was on her second cup when she finished passing the information along to the McKinnon ranch.
    Pickles slammed back in. “Son of a bitching bastard.”
    Accepting this as the only apology she’d get, Willa moved to the stove and filled her plate. “I rode up with Ben McKinnon. He’s following some tracks. We’re going to help get his herd down with our own. Has either of you seen anyone around here? Campers, hunters, eastern assholes?”
    â€œCame across a campsite yesterday when we were tracking the cat.” Jim sat again with his plate. “But it was cold. Two or three days cold.”
    â€œLeft goddamn beer cans.” Pickles ate standing up. “Like it was their own backyard. Oughta be shot for it.”
    â€œSure that cow wasn’t shot?” Jim looked to Pickles for confirmation, a fact that Willa struggled not to resent. “You know how some of those city boys are—shoot at anything that moves.”
    â€œWasn’t shot. Ain’t no tourist done that.” Pickles shoved beans into his mouth. “Fucking teenagers what it is. Fucking crazy teenagers all doped up.”
    â€œMaybe. If it was, Ben’ll find them easy enough.” But she didn’t think it had been teenagers. It seemed to Willa it took a lot more years to work up that kind of rage.
    Jim pushed the barely warm beans around on his plate. “Ah, we heard about how things are.” He cleared his throat. “We radioed in last night, and Ham, he figured he should, you know, tell us how things are.”
    She pushed her plate away and stood. “Then I’ll tell you just how things are.” Her voice was very cool, very quiet. “Mercy Ranch runs the way it always has. The old man’s in the ground, and now I’m operator. You take your orders from me.”
    Jim exchanged a quick look with Pickles, then scratched his cheek. “I didn’t mean to say different, Will. We were just sorta wondering how you were going to keep the others, your sisters, on the ranch.”
    â€œThey’ll take their orders from me too.” She jerked her coat off the hook. “Now, if you’ve