Calder Storm Page 11

  “Life knocks all of us in the teeth, sometimes more than once.” His voice had a smile in it. “My grandfather always says that the strong ones get up afterwards, and the weak lie there and whine.”

  Sloan looked at him in amazement. In the past, people had responded to her story with either clucks of sympathy or encouraging platitudes. But never admiration and approval.

  “Thank you,” she said in utter sincerity.

  “For what?” His head turned, the dashboard lights playing over his questioning look.

  “Understanding.”

  “You mean, that life can be rough at times, and all you can do is ride it out?”

  Sloan laughed softly. “Is that more of your grandfather’s cowboy philosophy?”

  “Probably.”

  “I’m definitely going to like him.” She rested her head on his shoulder, using it as a pillow.

  “I know you will.”

  Silence settled between them, the companionable kind that felt no need for words. Just being together was enough. Sloan couldn’t recall ever being that comfortable with anyone before.

  Night was on the land when they turned into the ranch’s east entrance. Other than the twinkling of a few stars, the pickup’s twin beams were the only light to be seen, and they were trained on the straight road before them, giving Sloan few glimpses of the terrain that flanked it.

  She wasn’t sure when she noticed a faint lightening of the horizon directly in front of them. As the miles went by, the impression of light grew stronger. It reminded Sloan of a city-glow visible at a distance.

  Finally she gave in to her curiosity. “It looks like lights up ahead, but I know we aren’t coming to any town. What is it?”

  “Triple C headquarters.” An amused smile tugged at his mouth. “Just about everybody who comes here the first time makes some remark about it resembling a small town. In a way, I guess it is. We have our own commissary that doubles as a kind of general store, complete with movie rentals, a gas station, first-aid dispensary, and a central mail area. We even have our own fire station. When you add to that the usual assortment of ranch buildings, housing for the hired men and their families, a cook shack, and a bunkhouse, it is just about the equivalent of a small town. But it’s all there out of necessity. Blue Moon is the closest thing that passes for a town, and it’s roughly fifty miles away. It’s not a drive you want to make every day, so we try to be as self-sufficient as we can.”

  “You don’t have any other choice,” she said in realization. This new grasp of the ranch’s isolation raised more questions about such things as education, utilities, and maintenance, and Trey patiently answered all of them, explaining that most families home-schooled their young children, identifying the tradesmen they kept on staff, and telling her about the wells and disposal systems in use. None of which were things she would have normally associated with a cattle ranch, but they spoke to the size and scale of the Triple C.

  As the lights ahead grew brighter, Sloan sat forward, eager for her first sight of the ranch’s headquarters. But the moment it came into view, her eyes were drawn to the towering white house that stood apart from the rest of the buildings. Lights blazed from the porch that ran the length of it, illuminating the series of massive columns that marched across its front.

  “Is that what you call The Homestead?” she asked Trey.

  “It is.” He pointed the pickup at it.

  “The name’s a misnomer,” she declared.

  He flashed her a grin. “Expecting something a bit more rustic, were you?”

  “To be honest, yes. I thought it would be something big and sprawling—an oversized ranch house. I certainly never expected to see something that resembles a southern plantation here in Montana.”

  “Don’t forget, the Calders originally came from Texas.” Trey parked the truck near the wide sweep of steps leading to the porch and switched off the engine. “There were plenty of cotton kings there in its early days.”

  “True,” Sloan admitted and climbed down from the cab.

  By the time she walked around to the driver’s side, Trey had retrieved their luggage. Automatically Sloan took charge of the oversized leather case with her camera and gear.

  “I’ve got the rest of it.” He motioned for her to precede him. As she started up the steps, she noticed a pair of old-fashioned wooden rockers off to her left. Seeing her interest in them, Trey explained, “Gramps likes to sit out here on warm days.”

  Before Sloan could respond, the front door opened and a petite woman stood on the threshold, the porch light shining on her midnight-dark hair, styled in a youthful short cut.

  “You must be Sloan. We’ve been expecting you.” Her smile was warm with welcome as she thrust out a hand in greeting. “Welcome to the Triple C. I’m Trey’s Aunt Cat.”

  “Yes. He told me all about you.” But Sloan thought Trey had failed to mention what a vibrant and beautiful woman she was.

  Amusement sparkled in the woman’s green eyes. “But not that I favor my mother in looks instead of the Calders, right?” she guessed.

  Sloan laughed softly in admission. “He did leave out that detail.”

  “Calder men don’t think of such things,” Cat replied as if in friendly warning. “Come in.”

  When the older woman stepped back, Sloan walked through the doorway, followed by Trey. The wide entryway opened to a sprawling living room with a hall leading off it.

  “Is Gramps still up?” Trey asked as his aunt closed the door behind him.

  “He’s in the den with your mother, going over ranch business. They shouldn’t be much longer.” Cat’s voice betrayed the faintest trace of exasperation. “I’ll hurry them along and let them know you’re here. In the meantime why don’t you take Sloan to her room so she can have a chance to freshen up after that long drive. I thought she could have Laura’s.”

  “It’s this way,” Trey said to Sloan, nodding in the direction of the big oak staircase that emptied into the living room.

  Sloan looked about with interest as she crossed to the stairs. The living room had a masculine sparseness about it, with heavy old furniture and lots of leather—missing were the usual decorator’s touches. The sturdy pieces of furniture showed their age, just as the blackened rock around the fireplace’s maw did, yet everything had a comfortable lived-in quality that appealed to her, mostly by its lack of pretension.

  “Tired?” Trey asked when they started up the stairs.

  “Not really,” she denied with a dismissing shake of her head, then raised a curious face to him. “Why?”

  “I just wondered. You haven’t said much.” A rueful smile immediately quirked his mouth. “Although I admit, Aunt Cat never gives anybody much of a chance to get a word in.”

  “When you told me about her, I think I imagined someone quiet and matronly,” Sloan admitted.

  “That’s definitely not my aunt.”

  “She mentioned that she takes after your grandmother.”

  “When you put photographs of them side by side, it’s hard to tell they are two different women. Sometimes Gramps even slips and calls her Maggie.” He pointed to a door near the top of the steps. “Your room is right there.”

  A lamp on the bedside table was already on when Sloan opened the door. She took note of the shiny satin spread on the bed, the plushly cushioned armchair in the corner, and the door to an adjoining bathroom, then turned, watching as Trey set her black carry-on bag on the floor and straightened to face her. Suddenly she was acutely aware of everything about him. The room that had seemed so big and spacious now felt small.

  “I never asked which room was yours.” She recalled the number of doors that opened into the second-floor corridor.

  “Down the hall—unfortunately.” His big hands cupped her shoulders. “Right now I’m wishing that we’d stayed at the hotel tonight.”

  The note of longing in his voice kindled her own. “I guess we should have thought of this before.”

  “Actually
, I did, but I didn’t want to run the risk that you might change your mind about coming to the ranch.”

  Smiling, Sloan swayed into him, her hand sliding onto the muscled wall of his stomach. “Now I’m here—with no way to leave.”

  “That was the general idea.” The line of his mouth softened, and his eyes crinkled at the corners, their dark gleam holding no trace of remorse.

  “That’s called kidnapping,” Sloan declared in mock reproval.

  “No.” He shook his head, his smile fading as his gaze darkened on her with need. “It’s called love.”

  To prove it, his head dipped toward her, his mouth settling on her lips, kissing them with a building hunger. Before he could give in to the urges pushing him, he pulled away, drawing in a long, steadying breath.

  “You’re addictive,” he murmured and stepped back, breaking contact. “I’ll be downstairs. You can join me whenever you’re ready.”

  “I won’t be long,” she told him.

  Exiting the room, Trey headed for the staircase and ran lightly down it. When he reached the bottom, he swung toward the den.

  One of the double doors stood partially ajar. He gave it a push and walked through. His mother stood in front of the massive stone fireplace, one booted foot resting on its raised hearth.

  As usual, his grandfather sat behind the long desk. His thick hair was shot with silver, and his craggy face looked as creased and weathered as the old hand-drawn map on the wall behind him. Chase Calder had once been a tall, robust man with a muscular physique that rivaled Trey’s, but age had shrunk him, making his clothes hang loose on him.

  Yet his mind was still as sharp as the dark eyes he turned on Trey. A smile softened his hard, bony features. He rocked forward in the big leather chair, dislodging the walking cane hooked on its armrest and sending it clattering to the floor. The cane offered mute evidence that he wasn’t as steady on his feet as he once had been.

  “Cat said you were back.” His voice still possessed that familiar rumbling strength. “Where are you hiding that young lady I understand you brought with you?”

  “Upstairs freshening up. She’ll be down shortly.” Automatically Trey walked around the desk and retrieved the cane, returning it to its hook over the armrest.

  Thick, heavy brows came together, hooding his grandfather’s dark eyes as his gaze narrowed on Trey. “What’d you do to your head?”

  Trey touched the bandage on his forehead. He had forgetten it was there. “I got kicked by a bronc.” He hooked a leg over a corner of the desk and rested a hip on it to face his grandfather. “So, how’d things go while we were gone?”

  “No problems. But I didn’t expect there would be.” With barely a pause, he added, “Quint called earlier today and said to tell you hello.”

  “Sorry I missed his call,” Trey said with true regret. “How are things going at the Cee Bar?”

  “Other than some minor storm damage, everything is going well.”

  Trey nodded. “That’s good. For a minute I thought Rutledge might be giving him problems again.”

  “Rutledge isn’t going to cause Quint any trouble.”

  His grandfather’s flat statement should have reassured Trey, but he caught the emphasis that had been placed on his cousin’s name.

  “So you don’t think Rutledge will try to get his hands on the Cee Bar. Then why worry about the man at all?” Trey frowned his confusion.

  “He doesn’t care about the Cee Bar anymore. I’m convinced of that,” Chase stated, a weariness stealing over his face. “If there’s anything he wants, it’s to get even for his son’s death. To do that, he’ll come after us.”

  Trey listened, as he always did to his grandfather, but this time the older man’s reasoning struck him as faulty. “We aren’t responsible for Boone’s death. He came at Quint with a knife. It was self-defense—even the inquest ruled that.”

  “Don’t count on Rutledge to look at it that way,” Chase warned. “Grief doesn’t listen to reason. His only child is dead. That leaves Rutledge with his pride and his money.”

  “I can’t imagine him coming after us.” Trey shook his head in doubt. “Leastways, not here in Montana. I know he swings a wide loop in Texas, but that won’t count for much around here.”

  “Don’t be too sure of that.” There was patience in the steady regard of his grandfather’s gaze. “There will always be someone around with nothing more against the Triple C than a resentment of its size. And Rutledge won’t come at us in the open. That isn’t his way. His tactics will be subtle—and as deadly as he can make them. I doubt he’ll make a move any time soon, figuring that we’ll forget about him if he waits.” He pointed a gnarled finger in emphasis. “You remember that. And if anything starts to go wrong, look behind the source and make sure Rutledge isn’t standing somewhere in the shadows.”

  Lately when his grandfather got on a topic, he tended to preach on it. Trey sensed a sermon coming and resisted the urge to sigh. It was with relief that his ears caught the tread of light footsteps on the stairs. “That sounds like Sloan.” He swung to his feet and headed for the double doors. “I’ll bring her in so you can meet her, Gramps.”

  As long, eager strides carried Trey from the room, Chase watched with a touch of envy, recalling the lost days when he had moved with the same ease. But he didn’t choose to comment on that.

  “That boy has the ears of a wolf. I didn’t hear a thing.” His attention swung to Jessy, probing in its study of her. “This is the first time Trey’s ever brought a girl home, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she confirmed, partially distracted by the mixed murmur of voices coming from the living room.

  “What’s your impression of the girl? You’ve met her?”

  Her expression softened, a slight curve to her wide lips. “I don’t think we have to worry. I didn’t get any sense at all that she was like Tara.”

  “That’s good.” If Chase noticed the careful way she referred to her late husband’s first marriage and avoided any direct mention of Ty himself, he never showed it. It was rare that he ever mentioned his son by name or voiced any of the grief that lingered even these many years since his death. Chase had been raised in the Western tradition that dictated such feelings were not for public display, but to be kept to oneself.

  Catching the sound of two sets of footsteps approaching the den, Chase picked up his cane and levered himself out of the chair. Ignoring the protest of his arthritic joints, he hobbled around to the side of the desk just as the couple entered the den.

  After the introductions were made, Chase listened with only half an ear while Jessy asked about the drive and whether the room was satisfactory. He was too busy observing the pair, especially the way Trey kept a possessive hand on the girl’s waist, the special glow in his eyes, and the big smile he wore, the width of it rivaling the ranch boundaries. A reflection of it could be seen in the girl as well, but a bit reserved. Yet, that was to be expected given her situation of being thrust among strangers and new environs.

  For a moment Chase envied the two of them for that exultant rush of young love with all its heady flavors and sweet sounds. He remembered the excitement of that feeling and the way his fancies had wanted to shout it to the stars.

  Once all the usual pleasantries were exchanged, Sloan remarked on the wide sweep of horns mounted above the fireplace mantel. “Those almost make me think I’m in Texas.”

  “It’s right that you should think that way,” Chase told her, “considering they belonged to a true Texas longhorn—a big brindle steer called Captain. He led the first cattle drive my grandfather made, traveling from Texas all the way to the spot where I’m standing.”

  He went on to tell her about the subsequent drives that were made to stock the ever expanding ranch with cattle—with Captain leading the way in all of them. Then he directed her attention to the framed map on the wall, the one his grandfather had drawn, delineating the ranch’s boundaries and the location of various landmarks, watercourses,
and out-camps. The paper itself had long been yellowed with age, but the markings on it had been made by a strong, bold hand more than a century and a quarter ago; as a consequence, they were still clear and sharp.

  Cat arrived with coffee and a platter of sandwiches. Everyone insisted they weren’t hungry, but the sandwiches managed to disappear. The talk continued nonstop, most of it generated by Cat. Chase participated in less and less of it as a weariness settled over him. He caught himself nodding off and darted a quick look around to see if anyone else had noticed. Giving in to the tiredness, he reached for his cane.

  Cat’s sharp eyes observed the action. “Going to call it a night, Dad?”

  “You young people have a lot more energy and stamina than I have,” Chase said by way of an answer. “But when you get to be my age, you’ll need your rest, too.”

  Amidst the chorus of “good nights” that followed his announcement, Cat rose from her chair, gathering up the empty coffee pot. “I’ll walk out with you. I need to refill the pot anyway.”

  Chase grunted a response to that and waited until they were outside the den before he spoke. “I can get my own self into bed, so don’t be thinking I’ll need your help.”

  “The thought never crossed my mind,” Cat denied, but he didn’t believe a word of it. “She seems like a nice girl, doesn’t she?”

  “Who?” Out of orneriness, Chase pretended he didn’t know who his daughter was talking about.

  “Sloan, of course. As if you didn’t know.” She threw him a chiding look, then looked toward the den. “I do hope she’s as bright and level-headed as she seems. It’s so obvious Trey is head-over-heels in love with her.”