CHAPTER 7

MaryAnne was up early on Monday morning, having made up her mind the night before that although it was Labor Day, she would begin the serious business of finding out just what was involved in running the ranch.

Until now, all her energies had been depleted by grief over the loss of her closest friend, and by the demands of dealing with the double funeral, as well. But it was over now, and after the weekend spent hiking the ranch with Alison and Loganand trying to remember as much as she could of Joey's continuous explanation of what they were seeing-she'd decided that this morning it was time to begin putting together some kind of routine, holiday or not.

Besides, she'd discovered yesterday that in Sugarloaf, Labor Day was celebrated on Sunday, regardless of what the rest of the country might do. "Ranches don't know anything about days off," Charley Hawkins had explained to her on Friday, "and around here, it's just one last chance to milk the summer tourists." So the "traditional" picnic had been yesterday (open to tourists at twenty-five dollars a head) along with the rodeo (another twenty dollars) and a genuine square dance" in the evening (fifteen dollars, drinks five bucks a shot). "Then the stores stay open all day Monday, just in case anyone has any cash left,"

Charley had explained. But following his advice as well as her own instincts, MaryAnne and the children had stayed home. "It's one thing to go on with your lives," Charley had counseled.

"But if I were you, I'd give it some time before I started doing much of a social nature." Thus, the four of them had stuck close to the ranch all day Saturday and Sunday, but when she'd seen Bill Sikes coming back from town the night before, she'd gone out to ask him to come to the house at seven o'clock this morning.

Sikes had pursed his lips in apparent protest. "Mr. Wilkenson never wanted me in before eight-maybe eightthirty," he'd complained, but even as he uttered the words, MaryAnne had sensed the first test of her authority.

In retrospect, she thought she had handled the situation pretty well.

"I'm sure I'll do a lot of things differently from Mr. Wilkenson," she'd replied evenly, "so if you'll just come to the kitchen at seven, I'll have coffee ready for us, and we can begin going over things."

Sikes had said nothing, but MaryAnne took the tiny movement of his head as agreement, and when she went to bed that night, she set her alarm for six o'clock. She intended to be showered, dressed, and ready for the interview@omplete with the coffee she'd promised-at least ten minutes before the appointed hour.

By seven-fifteen, when there was still no sign of Bill Sikes, she began to feel annoyed with the man. Should she keep waiting for him, or call him? Or even go looking for him?

What if she found him in his cabin, sound asleep, with an empty whiskey bottle by his bed? Would she have to fire him? And then what would she do? She couldn't run the ranch by herself A knock at the back door interrupted her thoughts, and when she looked up to see Sikes himself peering through the window, she instantly abandoned all notions of firing him. He'd come, and it was still forty-five minutes earlier than he'd been required to report to Ted-assuming she believed his story, although she wasn't at all sure she did. If he wanted to be a little late just to prove his independence, so be it. She'd deal with it.

She waved him in, pouring him a mug of coffee, then nodded toward the table in the corner of the large room.

"Did you have a good night?" she asked.

Bill Sikes shrugged disinterestedly, pulled off the knit cap he habitually wore on his grizzled head, but made no move to settle into one of the chairs at the table. "I been thinkin'," he said without preamble. "I'm prob'ly gonna be quittin'."

MaryAnne froze, the mug of coffee she'd just poured hovering in the air.

Quitting? But he couldn't do that! How could she manage without- And then a thought came to her.

He was testing her again, no doubt seeing if he could get ,,ore money out of her by threatening to leave her on her own. "I see," she said, keeping her voice calm, masking the twinge of panic that had seized her.

"Well, why don't we sit down and talk about it?" Putting his mug on the table, she pulled one of the chairs out for him, then seated herself on another.

Sikes hesitated a moment, then almost reluctantly sat down. As he sipped his coffee, MaryAnne eyed him surreptitiously, trying to read the expression on his face. She still had no idea how old he might be, and his dark skin and black eyes suggested that at least part of his heritage was Native American. His skin had the leathery look of a man who had spent most of his life outdoors, and though he was no more than five-foot-six or -seven, there was a wiry power to his body. Was he angry about something? She searched his face, but realized that she couldn't tell. If anything, he looked more worried than angry. "Why don't you tell me what's wrong?" she asked. "Perhaps if we discuss why you want to quit, we can work something out."

"Just doesn't seem right anymore, that's all," Sikes said, his eyes avoiding hers.

"You mean because of what happened to Ted and Audrey." MaryAnne nodded sympathetically, fighting back a wave of grief at the reminder of what had happened to her friends. "I know it must be as much of a shock to you as it was to me, but-"

"It's not just that," Sikes interrupted. "It's something' else, too. If I was you, I'd just put this place on the market, and take Joey back to wherever you came from. A woman like you can't run a ranch@'

"A woman like me?" MaryAnne cut in sharply. "Exactly what kind of woman would that be, Mr. Sikes?"

Bill Sikes's eyes narrowed to slits. "Don't get on your high horse with me, young lady," he said. "You know what I'm talkin' about. What do you know about running a ranch?"

"Not any more than Ted and Audrey did when they first came out here,"

MaryAnne shot back. "And I suspect that the man on this place who knew the most about ranching was you. If you could teach Ted and Audrey, I don't see any reason why you can't teach me, too." Though she was absolutely certain she had just given Bill Sikes far more credit than he deserved for the running of the ranch-and Ted and Audrey Wilkenson far less-the flattery seemed to work. Sikes sat up a little straighter in his chair, and his head tilted in acknowledgment of the compliment.

"I've learned a thing or two in my time," he admitted, then shaking his head, added, "Still, something's not right around here. I just don't believe what happened to Mr. and Mrs. Wilkenson was an accident. Mr. W.

was good with horses. Good, and real careful, too. He wouldn'ta spooked Sheika. And something' about that accident with Mrs. W. ain't right, either."

MaryAnne felt her pulse quicken. "Have you talked to Rick Martin about it?"

"Oh, yeah. Fact is, he don't like it any better'n I do. He's been up to see me twice now, askin' all kinds of questions."

He glanced at MaryAnne as if expecting her to press him for more information, but instead of saying anything, she simply met his gaze with her own. Finally Sikes broke the look, shifting his gaze back to the tabletop in front of him.

"Fact is, I don't know what's goin' on around here. But for quite a while now, things ain't been quite right." His eyes met hers again. "You ever think about the animals?" he asked abruptly.

Startled by the sudden shift of the conversation, MaryAnne could only echo Bill Sikes's last words. "The animals?"

Sikes nodded. "The animals whose land this is. The bears and wolves and deer. The raccoons. The beaver. All kinds of animals. An' it seems like lately all we're doin' is pushin' 'em aside, makin' more an' more room for ourselves. You ever think about that? You ever think about the animals when you look at all them condos goin' up in town?"

"I-I suppose everyone has, one way or another," MaryAnne replied uncertainty. What was the man getting at? A second later, he told her.

"Well, it seems like something's goin' on around here lately. Somethin'

went into that barn and spooked that horse so's it kicked Mr. W. And something' gave Mrs. W. enough of a scare that she lost her balance."

"But it was dark," MaryAnne protested, unwilling to let Sikes's words nurture the seed that Charlie Hawkins had planted in her mind the previous week. If he starts talking about Joey, I'll fire him right now, she told herself. Right this very minute.

"Not that dark," Sikes insisted. "And @. Mrs. W. was up there hundreds of times. Best view of the valley we got.

She knew every inch of it, and she wouldn't have lost her footing even if she was blindfolded. So something' made her fall. And there's the horses, too," he added.

Suddenly MaryAnne remembered the night before last, when Joey and Storm had gone out, and she had seen the open barn door. But she was almost sure that despite Joey's denial, it had to have been him in the barn.

"I'm not sure what you're talking about," she said, steeling herself for the words she was certain were coming next.

"Somethin's spooking them," Sikes went on. "Seems like it's practically every night now. I can hear 'em from my cabin. Every night-at least once, sometimes a coupla times-they start snortin' and stampin' like something's after 'em. I been down there more'n once, but I can't never find out what it is. But something's out there, an' it's startin' to make me pretty nervous."

"Joey was out night before last," MaryAnne said softly, keeping her eyes on Sikes, waiting for him to rise to her bait.

But Sikes shook his head. "It's not him. Saw him myself.

You was out, too. Heard you callin' him. He was up by the creek-I was keepin' an eye on him. Besides, the horses know Joey. They wouldn't spook just 'cause he was around. Not unless he wanted them to, anyway."

MaryAnne said nothing for a moment, turning Sikes's last words over and over in her mind, examining them from every angle. Not unless he wanted them to, anyway. Was he implying that Joey himself might have spooked Sheika, causing his father's death? Yet the man's expression betrayed nothing save admiration for Joey's ability to communicate with the animals. She let her guard down slightly.

"But there was something in the barn that night. It snarled at me, then came at me. I slammed the door just before it got to me."

"I ain't sayin' there. wasn't," Sikes replied. "I heard the horses, too.

But when I checked the barn after Joey came back in here, there warn't nothin, there. Just the horses.

Nervous. As if a grizzly was skulkin, around."

"What about a man?" MaryAnne suggested. "Joey thinks he saw@' She cut her words short as Joey himself came into the room, stopping in surprise when he saw Bill Sikes.

Saying nothing to the handyman, Joey went to the refrigerator. "Is there any orange juice?" he asked MaryAnne.

"In the pitcher," MaryAnne replied. Then: "Aren't you going to say good morning to Mr. Sikes?"

Joey glanced at Bill Sikes for the briefest of moments.

"Good morning." He poured himself a glass of orange juice, then sat down at one of the stools in front of the counter.

Sikes, draining his mug, Stood up and started toward the back door.

"Maybe YOU and me better talk later on," he said. Before MaryAnne could reply, he was gone.

"What was he doing in here?" Joey demanded as soon as the door had slammed shut behind Sikes.

MaryAnne picked up the two empty mugs and took them to the sink. "We were having a @"

she said, suddenly annoyed not only at Joey's rudeness toward Sikes, but the tone of his voice when he'd demanded to know why the caretaker was in the house. "Is there something wrong with that?"

Joey's expression darkened.

"He shouldn't be in here. In fact, he shouldn't be here at all."

MaryAnne's brows rose in surprise. "I beg your pardon?"

"Dad was going to fire him," Joey said.

"Fire him?" MaryAnne echoed, her eyes narrowing with uncertainty. "But he's been working here for years, hasn't he? Why would your father have fired him?"

Joey gazed steadily at her, and when he spoke, his voice was cold.

"Because he's crazy. He makes up stories about everything. I bet he's even making up stories that I did something to Mom and Dad." Draining his orange juice, Joey slid off the stool and went out the back door, heading toward the barn. Stunned by his last words, MaryAnne made no move to stop him, no move to demand an explanation of what he'd just said.

All she knew was that the Joey she'd just talked to seemed nothing like the boy who had thrown himself into her arms when she'd arrived five days earlier.

This Joey seemed completely different.

He's still in shock, she insisted to herself once more.

That's all it was-he was still in shock from Ted and Audrey's deaths.

But even as the words formed in her mind, she knew that this time she didn't believe them.

This time, Joey hadn't been upset by anything, hadn't been angry about anything. He had simply stated what he believed.

Or what he wanted her to believe.

Suddenly MaryAnne Carpenter had an uneasy feeling that there was a dark facet to Joey Wilkenson's personality that she knew nothing about. A darkness she was just beginning to see.