Montana stood under the hard hot shower for a long time until he felt his bones begin to thaw out. He hadn’t been this cold since he was a kid. He dried himself, wrapped the towel around his haunches, and stood in front of the mirror, running his hand over his stubbled chin. He wasn’t thinking about the way he looked; he was thinking about the woman he’d just met and her relationship with Sir Robert Hardwick.
Daisy Keane was attractive, chic with that severe modern look many women adopted as the easy way out when they were not too sure of their own personal style. It didn’t marry too well with her appealing country-girl freckles and mane of glossy red hair and her full, sweet mouth. Nor with her husky, low, sweet voice. He’d expected a hard-faced money hunter out to take Bob for all she could get; instead there was a hesitancy about her, an uncertainness, an air of vulnerability. Either she was a good actress or she really cared about Hardwick. He shrugged. Who knew? With Hardwick’s kind of money at stake, anything could happen. He’d liked the way she behaved with the dog, though. There was hope for her yet. And he’d bet she hadn’t expected to meet anyone like himself at the funeral either. They were poles apart, together tonight only because of Bob Hardwick and a snowstorm, and because he had a letter for her. He’d intended to drop it off at the Hall after the funeral but she had invited him anyway.
He put on his clothes, checking the bracelet that never left his wrist, zipping up his jeans, buckling the silver-studded belt, sliding his feet into the black boots. Still chilled, he would have killed for a bourbon. Listening to the snow on the windows, he remembered his stormy youth.
Montana had been just twelve years old when his father had died penniless and he’d been evicted from the ranch. The authorities had quickly dumped him on a foster family living on the fringes of an urban ghetto. It was light-years away from the silent plains of the ranch where he’d roamed on his horse, and the worn-out broken scenery of despairing urban life indelibly seared his young soul. Because he’d had no choice, he stuck it out for a couple of years; then he took off with nothing more than a few bucks in the pocket of his Levi’s and a black denim jacket that had belonged to at least three other kids before it was handed down to him. He was fourteen looking sixteen when he began his solitary yearlong journey on the back roads of Texas that made him wiser and tougher than your average teen. When he ran out of money, which was often, he always managed to get a job, but he never stayed anywhere very long. He’d be back on the road, on his endless way to nowhere, no future shining hopefully before him. That is, until he met the man who changed his life. The man who took him in and opened him up to a world of books and learning, and a spirituality he’d never before experienced.
His name was Phineas Cloudwalker and he was a full-blooded Native American of the Comanche tribe, though he always described himself as “Indian.” Phineas Cloudwalker made sure Montana got a good education, and eventually he’d graduated summa cum laude from Duke University.
After that Montana abruptly changed course and joined the Marines where his loner, nonconformist attitude soon landed him in trouble, but then, in recognition of his intelligence and his leadership qualities, he was co-opted as a lieutenant into the special division called Delta Force. And it was there, amongst the other nonconformists, the fearless young men who were up for any challenge, ready to take any risk, ready to die for each other and their country, that Montana excelled.
Ten years and several grueling campaigns later, he left the Corps to take care of the dying old Comanche who had saved his life, and his soul. It was this man’s bracelet he wore, this man’s values that were now his standards, this man’s strength from which he had learned. This Native American was the man he considered his true father.
From his mentor Montana had also learned the art of living each day as it came. Here in the quiet comfort of Sneadley Hall, where tradition still ruled, he realized he had almost lost that art. Mostly, now, he worked. There was no space and no time in his life for a dog like Rats, or for a real home, though that was not something he’d ever wanted. His nomadic ways were too deeply ingrained.
He walked to the window and held back the curtain, staring out at the snowy landscape. He hadn’t expected a storm so late in April and nor apparently had the weather forecasters. You’d have thought with all their Doppler radars and global weather patterns they’d have managed to predict this one. He should have been back in London by now; he had a date waiting. Taking out his cell phone, he dialed her number.
“Sorry, babe,” he said when she answered, “I’m stuck up north in a snowstorm.” He listened to her grumble for a bit, apologized again, said it was unfortunate but there was nothing he could do about it. She bitched some more, and, impatient now, he said abruptly, “Honey, that’s showbiz. I’ll call you later.” She was cute, sexy and way too demanding. He didn’t need a demanding woman in his life. In fact he didn’t need any woman in his life. He was quite happy the way he was. Owned by no one.
The Red Room was beginning to get to him. Red was not his favorite color. Taking a large manila envelope from his case, he left the red silk behind and walked back downstairs. Rats was still hunched in front of the hall fire. The dog rolled an eye at him, snuffled wearily then glanced away. “Poor old boy,” Montana said gently.
He put the envelope on the hall table then picked up the long iron poker, shifted the logs around a bit and stood with his back to the fire, hands thrust into the pockets of his jeans, thinking about the reason he was here. With his death, Hard wick had presented him with a mystery, one Montana was determined to resolve. Plus he’d been entrusted with a mission he would take care of tonight. It was part of his job and the reason he had been at the funeral and not back at his London apartment with the cute girl who drove him crazy. Analyzing things, he wondered if he wasn’t better off after all, in the Yorkshire snowstorm, facing the emotional storm that he knew was about to get even worse.