One Being dead didn''t make Jack Mercy less of a son of a bitch. One week of dead didn''t offset sixty-eight years of living mean. Plenty of the people gathered by his grave would be happy to say so. The fact was, funeral or no funeral, Bethanne Mosebly muttered those sentiments into her husband''s ear as they stood in the high grass of the cemetery. She was there only out of affection for young Willa, and she had bent her husband''s tired ear with that information as well all the way up from Ennis. As a man who had listened to his wife''s chatter for forty-six years, Bob Mosebly simply grunted, tuning her and the preacher''s droning voice out. Not that Bob had fond memories of Jack. He''d hated the old bastard, as did most every living soul in the state of Montana.
But dead was dead, Bob mused, and they had sure come out in droves to send the fucker on his way to hell. This peaceful corner of Mercy Ranch, set in the shadows of the Big Belt Mountains, near the banks of the Missouri, was crowded now with ranchers and cowboys, merchants and politicians. Here where cattle grazed the hills and horses danced in sunny pastures, generations of Mercys were buried under the billowing grass. Jack was the latest. He''d ordered the glossy chestnut coffin himself, had it custom-made and inscribed in gold with the linked Ms that made up the ranch''s brand. The box was lined with white satin, and Jack was inside it now, wearing his best snakeskin boots, his oldest and most favored Stetson, and holding his bullwhip. Jack had vowed to die the way he had lived. In nose-thumbing style.
Word was, Willa had already ordered the headstone, according to her father''s instructions. It would be white marble-no ordinary granite for Jackson Mercy-and the sentiments inscribed on it were his own: Here lies Jack Mercy He lived as he wanted, died the same way. The hell with anybody who didn''t like it. The monument would be raised once the ground had settled, to join all the others that tipped and dotted the stony ground, from Jack Mercy''s great-grandfather, Jebidiah Mercy, who had roamed the mountains and claimed the land, to the last of Jack''s three wives-and the only one who''d died before he could divorce her. Wasn''t it interesting, Bob mused, that each of Mercy''s wives had presented him with a daughter when he''d been hell-bent on having a son? Bob liked to think of it as God''s little joke on a man who had stepped on backs-and hearts-to get what he wanted in every other area of his life. He remembered each of Jack''s wives well enough, though none of them had lasted long. Lookers every one, he thought now, and the girls they''d birthed weren''t hard on the eyes either. Bethanne had been burning up the phone lines ever since word came along that Mercy''s two oldest daughters were flying in for the funeral.
Neither of them had set foot on Mercy land since before they could walk. And they wouldn''t have been welcome. Only Willa had stayed. There''d been little Mercy could do about that, seeing as how her mother had died almost before the child had been weaned. Without any relations to dump the girl on, he''d passed the baby along to his housekeeper, and Bess had raised the girl as best she could. Each of the women had a touch of Jack in her, Bob noted, scanning them from under the brim of his hat. The dark hair, the sharp chin. You could tell they were sisters, all right, even though they''d never set eyes on each other before.
Time would tell how they would deal together, and time would tell if Willa had enough of Jack Mercy in her to run a ranch of twenty-five thousand acres. She was thinking of the ranch, and the work that needed to be done. The morning was bright and clear, with the hills sporting color so bold and beautiful it almost hurt the eyes. The mountains and valley might have been painted fancy for fall, but the chinook wind had come in hot and dry and thick. Early October was warm enough for shirtsleeves, but that could change tomorrow. There''d already been snow in the high country, and she could see it, dribbling along the black and gray peaks, slyly coating the forests. Cattle needed to be rounded up, fences needed to be checked, repaired, checked again. Winter wheat had to be planted.
It was up to her now. It was all up to her. Jack Mercy was no longer Mercy Ranch, Willa reminded herself. She was. She listened to the preacher speak of everlasting life, of forgiveness and the welcome of heaven. And thought that Jack Mercy would spit on anyone''s welcome into a place other than his own. Montana had been his, this wide country of mountain and meadow, of eagle and wolf. Her father would be as miserable in heaven as he would in hell.
Her face remained calm as the fancy coffin was lowered into the newest scar in the earth. Her skin was pale gold, a legacy from her mother and her Blackfoot blood as much as the sun. Her eyes, nearly as black as the hair she''d hurriedly twisted into a braid for the funeral, remained fixed on the box that held her father''s body. She hadn''t worn a hat, and the sun beamed like fire into her eyes. But she didn''t let them tear. She had a proud face, high cheekbones, a wide, haughty mouth, dark, exotic eyes with heavy lids and thick lashes. She''d broken her nose falling off an angry wild mustang when she was eight. Willa liked to think the slight left turn it took in the center of her face added character.
Character meant a great deal more to Willa Mercy than beauty. Men didn''t respect beauty, she knew. They used it. She stood very still, the wind picking up strands from her braid and teasing them into a dance. A woman of average height and tough, rangy build in an ill-fitting black dress and dainty black heels that had never been out of their box before that morning. A woman of twenty-four with work on her mind, and a raging, tearing grief in her heart. She had, despite everything, loved Jack Mercy. And she said nothing, not one word, to the two women, the strangers who shared her blood and had come to see their father buried.
For a moment, just one moment, she let her gaze shift, let it rest on the grave of Mary Wolfchild Mercy. The mother she couldn''t remember was buried under a soft mound of wildflowers that bloomed like jewels in the autumn sun. Adam''s doing, she thought, and looked up and into the eyes of her half brother. He would know as no one else could that she had tears in her heart she could never let free. When Adam took her hand, Willa linked fingers with his. In her mind, and heart, he was all the family she had now. "He lived the life that satisfied him," Adam murmured. His voice was quiet, peaceful.
If they had been alone Willa could have turned, rested her head on his shoulder, and found comfort. "Yes, he did. And now it''s done." Adam glanced over at the two women, Jack Mercy''s daughters, and thought something else was just beginning. "You have to speak with them, Willa." "They''re sleeping in my house, eating my food." Deliberately she looked back at her father''s grave. "That''s enough.
" "They''re your blood." "No, Adam, you''re my blood. They''re nothing to me." She turned away from him and braced herself to receive the condolences. Neighbors brought food for death. There was no stopping the bone-deep tradition, any more than Willa could have stopped Bess from cooking for three days straight to provide for what the housekeeper called the bereavement supper. And that was a double pile of horseshit in Willa''s mind. There was no bereavement here.
Curiosity, certainly. Many of the people who packed into the main house had been invited before. More, many more, had not. His death provided them entry, and they enjoyed it. The main house was a showplace, Jack Mercy style. Once a cabin of log and mud had stood there, but that had been more than a hundred years before. Now there was a sprawling, rambling structure of stone and wood, of glistening glass. Rugs from all over the world spread over floors of gleaming pine or polished tile.
Jack Mercy had liked to collect. When he''d become master of Mercy Ranch he had spent five years turning what had been a lovely home into his personal palace. Rich lived rich, he liked to say. So he had. Collecting paintings and sculpture, adding rooms where the art could be displayed. The entrance was a towering atrium, floored with tiles in jewel tones of sapphire and ruby in a repeating pattern of the Mercy Ranch brand. The staircase that swept to the second floor was polished oak, shiny as glass, with a newel post carved in the shape of a howling wolf. People gathered there now, many of them goggling over it as they balanced their plates.
Others crowded into the living room with its acre of slick floor and wide curve of sofa in cream-colored leather. On the smooth river rock of the wall-spanning fireplace hung a life-size painting of Jack Mercy astride a black stallion. His head was cocked, his hat tipped back, a bullwhip curled in one hand. Many felt that those hard blue eyes damned them as they sat drinking his whiskey and toasting his death. For Lily Mercy, the second daughter Jack had conceived and discarded, it was terrifying. The house, the people, the noise. The room the housekeeper had given her the day before when she''d arrived was so beautiful. So quiet, she thought now as she moved closer to the rail of the side porch.
The lovely bed, the pretty golden wood against the silky wallpaper.