by Janet Dailey
“Yeah, we got an easy life, Stumpy, and don’t know it.” His mouth was pulled into a wry line as he continued to watch the pair of youngsters approaching the bunkhouse. “That’s quite a girl you’ve got there. She has her mother’s looks, doesn’t she?”
It wasn’t really a question, since Chase had known Judy Niles almost as long as Stumpy had. She was a genial, sandy-haired woman, a couple inches taller than her husband, and attractive in an average sort of way.
“You should see her in those calving sheds, pulling calves in subzero temperatures.” Stumpy puffed up a bit with pride. “The two boys, Ben and Mike, spend more time horsing around than helping. ’Course, they’re young yet. But Jessy, she pitches right in there without being asked. As long as she wants to do it, I’m not going to stop her. It’s a pity she isn’t a boy. She’s got the makings of a top hand.”
“She’ll outgrow this tomboy stage when she discovers boys.” Chase winked in amusement.
“Probably,” Stumpy agreed and showed a reluctance for that coming day. “I know her mother would like it if she helped more around the house. Speaking of mothers—” He paused, lifting his head to cast an interested look at Chase. “How’s Maggie?”
“The doctor says she’s doing fine. Nothing to worry about.” A glowing warmth seemed to radiate from the brown depths of his eyes, an inner pride bursting forth.
“It’s getting close to her time, isn’t it?” Stumpy asked, frowning slightly as he tried to recall.
“The first of May, so she’s got a little over two months before the baby is due.” But he wasn’t as calm or casual about the coming event as he tried to appear. “The senator is flying in with some people he wants me to meet, so I’d better be getting back to The Homestead.”
As Ty followed the girl across the threshold into the bunkhouse, he heard the truck starting up and looked over his shoulder to see the pickup reverse to turn onto the single road leading away from the camp. He knew he was completely on his own again. A wary tension strung his senses to a high pitch of alertness as he swung the door shut and turned to face the room.
He was standing in a small common room. A table and a collection of chairs stood in one corner, and a sofa and a couple of armchairs, all showing the scars of cowboys’ indifference, occupied the other corner. A converted barrel heater split the room in the middle, its sides glowing almost a cherry-red as it waged a continual combat to keep the cold outside temperatures from invading the bunkhouse. Propped against the back wall, there was a broken chair to to used for kindling in the wood stove. A variety of cartoons, western pictures, and pinup girls were tacked to the walls in a crazy quilt of decoration.
“The bathroom’s through that door.” Jessy pointed to the right and walked to the barrel heater to warm her hands. “The beds are in there.” She indicated the opposite direction with a nod of her hatted head. “You can take your pick of the empty ones.”
Ty hefted his duffel bag a little higher to change his grip on it and headed for the open doorway on his left. The sleeping area of the bunkhouse was thinly partitioned into small rooms, furnished with plain wire-and-steel frame beds with a cowboy’s bedroll serving as mattress and blanket. The first few beds, the ones closest to the common room and able to benefit from the wood stove’s heat, were all occupied, either by possessions or by quilted shapes actually sleeping in the beds. Ty stopped at the first empty bunk he found and tossed his duffel bag and thick bedroll onto the wire frame. Coat hooks were screwed into the wall to hold his hat and coat and the odd piece of clothing or two.
“Did ya find one?” The girl’s querying voice searched him out.
“Yeah.” He half turned away from the doorway and began shrugging out of his heavy jacket. His thermal underwear and wool shirt were more than adequate in the relative warmth of the bunkhouse.
Her footsteps stopped at the doorway. “If you don’t feel like layin’ down right away, there’s coffee in the pot on the hot plate.”
“No, thanks.” Ty left his hat on but hung up his coat and turned to untie his bedroll and spread it open on the bed.
He caught her out of the corner of his eye, leaning against the doorway, her coat unbuttoned and the scarf loose around her neck. He wished she’d quit watching him with those measuring eyes. It made him uncomfortable. He noticed the cup of steaming coffee in her now-ungloved hand. She lifted it to her wide mouth, blowing to cool it even as she sipped at the hot, thickly black coffee. He still couldn’t stomach the strong coffee everyone on the ranch drank with such regularity unless he drowned it in milk.
“You shouldn’t be drinking that stuff.” He jerked the string tying his bedroll and unrolled the mattresslike quilt pad with its sheets, quilt, and canvas tarp bound inside. “It’ll stunt your growth.”
“I been drinking coffee since I was six.” Scoffing amusement riddled her voice. “I’d hate to think how tall I’d be now if I hadn’t.” She paused, then added for good measure, “And it hasn’t made my hair curly or grown hair on my chest.”
After he had the pad and blankets straightened out, Ty set the duffel bag with his clothes and shaving kit at the head of the bed for a pillow. When the girl showed no signs of leaving, he stretched himself out the full length of the bed and set his hat forward on the front of his face.
“I’m going to get some rest,” Ty said, in case she hadn’t got the message. The hat partially muffled his voice.
“See you tonight,” Jessy Niles replied, not finding his behavior in the least rude, and straightened from the doorway to saunter down the hall to the common room.
As the sound of her footsteps retreated, Ty pushed his hat back. Raising his arms, he cupped the back of his head in his hands and stared at the ceiling. There was a rawness in him that was close to pain. He had no one to turn to, no one to whom he could talk out his frustrations. He was too old to go crying to his mother, and since it was his father’s respect he so desperately wanted to earn, he couldn’t very well go running to him with his troubles. He wanted to work them out on his own, but so far no one was giving him a chance. There were so many things to learn that just when he felt he was grasping the rudiments of one thing, something new was thrown at him, and always the hazing and the handing out of misinformation until he felt like some gullible dimwit.
* * *
The return trip to The Homestead, the name given to the house occupied by the head of the Triple C, took the best part of two hours. The sleek twin-engine plane parked by the private airstrip near the buildings of the ranch’s headquarters advised Chase that Senator Bulfert had arrived in his absence.
Leaving the truck parked in front of the imposing two-story house, Chase mounted the steps to the wide porch running the length of the south front and crossed to the solid wood double doors. The house had been built decades ago with a craftsman’s care and possessed that rare quality of character. Two hundred years from now it would still be standing and, if Chase had his way, a Calder would still be living in it.
When he entered the large open foyer, Chase heard voices coming from the study on his left. Doug Trumbo, one of the ranch hands, was carrying an armload of luggage up the staircase leading from the living room to the second floor and its guest bedrooms.
With a shift in direction, Chase headed for the open doors of the den, where his guests had obviously gathered. Upon entering, his glance first sought out Maggie. She was sitting in a chair near the window, her black hair gleaming in the sunlight and an arm resting on the protruding roundness of her stomach. The sight of her always had the power to stir a hungry response in him while at the same time evoking feelings that were profoundly tender.
Her smile greeted him as Chase walked to her chair, pulling off his gloves and stuffing them in his coat pocket. Even as his attention was divided by the guests in the room, he was reaching to take her small hand in his large one.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t on hand when you arrived,” Chase apologized and let his gaze travel over his four guests. The ruddy-f
aced senator and his aide, Wes Govern, he already knew.
“No problem. Made better time than we thought. Had a good tail wind,” the quick-talking senator replied. Age was beginning to sag his round cheeks, leaving jowls and pockets under his eyes. “Just arrived a few minutes ago. Wes hasn’t had time to pour a round of drinks yet.” With a slight turn of his head, he issued a booming directive to his assistant. “Chase drinks whiskey, Wes.”
“I remember.” The man nodded and added another glass to the liquor tray.
“How have things been? Well, I hope,” the senator declared and continued without giving Chase an opportunity to respond. “No more land purchases you need my help with, are there?” he inquired with a conspiratorial wink.
“None.” There was a dryness about Chase’s eyes at the reference to the purchase of ten thousand acres of land from the government that Bulfert had arranged some years ago. It was the last parcel of previously leased land to come under the Calder title. He now owned all the land that constituted the Triple C Ranch.
“Chase, I want you to meet Eddy Joe Dyson.” The politician curved an arm around the shoulders of a slightly built man, the gesture and body language suggesting to Chase that the two were united in their cause, whatever it was. “Been looking forward to getting the two of you together for quite a while. E.J., meet Chase Calder.”
Chase stepped away from Maggie’s side to shake hands with the older man, dressed in an expensive navy pinstripe suit, styled in western lines with a yoked front and boot-cut pants. Chase put the man’s age somewhere in the middle forties. The man’s hand was smooth of any calluses, and his skin didn’t have the leathery tan of a cattleman despite the white felt Stetson on his head.
“Welcome to the Triple C, Mr. Dyson.” The western clothes were just a facade, but Chase didn’t detect any shallowness in the level gaze that returned his silent inspection. If anything, he noted a hint of shrewdness.
“It’s my pleasure,” the man drawled. “And my friends call me E.J. I’d be pleased if you and your wife did the same.” He half turned to invite the second man forward. “This is my business partner, George Stricklin.”
Ten years younger, tall, with yellow hair, the man wore gold wire glasses which he removed and slipped precisely into the breast pocket of his suit jacket. Despite his athletic build, there was a studious and silent quality about him. His fingers were long and finely shaped, and Stricklin did no more than nod when he shook hands with Chase.
Dyson spoke again. Angling his head toward Maggie, he inclined it in a courtly gesture. “I must say that I thought our Texas ladies couldn’t be matched for beauty, but I’ve been forced to revise my opinion since meeting your lovely wife.”
“I believe I’m much more prejudiced,” Chase murmured and glanced backward into Maggie’s vibrantly green eyes. Now that the phase of morning sickness had passed, she looked positively radiant. He’d heard it said that women were more beautiful when they were pregnant and had dismissed it. But he was now willing to concede that it might be in the eye of the beholder, because Maggie had never looked more beautiful to him than she did this minute.
“You’re from Texas?” Maggie inserted, skillfully directing the conversation away from flattering comments about her. No matter how healthy and happy she felt, there was still that feeling of gaucheness and awkwardness which insisted compliments be turned aside.
“Yes.” The slow, twanging drawl in his voice was both smooth and attractive, like oiled leather. “That set of horns above the mantel makes me feel right at home, too,” he said, indicating the mounted pair of longhorns on the massive stone fireplace that dominated the room with its size and cheery log fire.
“They belonged to a Texas steer. I guess you could say this ranch was founded on Texas longhorns,” Chase admitted and accepted the short glass of whiskey and ice from the senator’s aide.
“I remember your father telling me your family came from the Fort Worth area.” The senator took a fat cigar from his pocket, then glanced inquiringly at Maggie, who silently nodded her permission. “That’s E.J.’s home turf.” He felt his pockets for a light, but his assistant produced a lighter before the senator found one. “Something of an entrepreneur, eh, E.J.?”
The relationship between Dyson and his partner had always struck the senator as an unusual one. Once he had described Stricklin as the brains of the company and Dyson as the guts of it. Every act, every move, of the silent Stricklin was deliberately thought out beforehand by that computerlike mind. Logic and reason dictated his decisions. But Dyson acted on instinct and had the guts to gamble on his hunches. It was a curious blend in a partnership, one balancing the other, with Dyson naturally appearing to be the dominant member of the team.
“I do have several business interests,” Dyson admitted while eyeing Chase as if he were the source of his next.
“If you’re thinking of venturing into the cattle-ranching business, it means investing a lot of money in nondepreciable assets,” Chase warned dryly.
There was a quick glance exchanged between the politician and the Texan. “I guess you could say I’m more interested in what’s under the ground than what’s on top of it. Which is why I asked the senator to introduce me to you. I dabble in oil and natural-gas exploration.”
An eyebrow quirked in mild curiosity as Chase let the statement sink in. Taking his time, he set his glass down on the table by Maggie’s chair and shed his coat. The flames crackled in the fireplace, filling the brief silence.
“I think you’re in the wrong part of Montana,” Chase stated finally. “You want to be over in the Badlands, or in the Powder River country.”
“Drilling companies are already working those fields,” E.J. disagreed. “Now, I don’t pretend to be an expert, but I try to hire them. I like to gamble my money on finding new fields, not striking it in old ones and having to fight the big companies.”
“Am I to surmise that you’re here because you think there is oil to be found on the Triple C?” Chase was vaguely bemused by the idea.
“If you know about the Powder River and the Badlands, then you must know they’ve made some finds near the base of the Rockies. They’re near the western edge of your boundaries,” he reminded Chase in a calm and knowing tone. “I could have brought my geologist with me and let him tell you all about rock strata—and how promising a section of your land looks. It wouldn’t mean any more to you than it does to me, and I don’t know one from the other. Now, Stricklin, he’s gone over all the figures and calculations and says there is more than a good chance of finding oil. So I’m here to see about acquiring those rights.”
There was no change in expression to indicate Chase’s inner feelings. He looked at Maggie and took a sip of his drink. When his gaze finally returned to the man, it was sharply measuring.
“The subject is certainly open to discussion.” He’d hear the man out, but it wasn’t a decision he was going to make quickly.
2
Sleeping lightly, Maggie stirred and awakened at the faint noise of someone moving about the room in the dark. Rising on an elbow, she reached for the switch of the bedside lamp.
“Chase, is that you?” she asked as the light went on and revealed him seated in an armchair, pulling off his boots.
“I didn’t mean to wake you.” He set a boot on the floor next to its mate and began tugging his shirttail out of his pants to unbutton it. Tiredness gave a drawn and weary look to his ruggedly masculine features. There was an air of preoccupation about him despite the warm look he gave her.
“Have you been sitting up all this time talking?” The hands of the clock were approaching the midnight hour. Maggie had retired much earlier in the evening, her pregnant body demanding rest.
“Yes.”
She felt a flash of irritation at his closemouthed answer. Although Chase didn’t attempt to exclude her from business discussions, he still had that western tendency never to seek a woman’s counsel.
“Well?” The sharpness of chal
lenge was in her voice, prodding him to tell her what he was thinking because it was impossible to know how he felt about something when he was wearing that poker mask. “What’s your reaction to Dyson’s proposal?”
His mouth twisted into a hard, dry smile. “I’ll let you know after I’ve had a chance to run a private check on the man. There’s something in this for the senator, so I’m not about to take his recommendations of the man.” He paused, knowing he hadn’t really told her anything. “As to leasing part of the ranch for drilling purposes, I’m open to it. The days of cattlemen objecting to the presence of drilling rigs on their property have long since passed.”
“So you’ve decided to decide later.” Her arm grew tired of supporting her weight, so she positioned both pillows behind her and reclined against them.
“There’s no reason to rush. If there is gas or oil under that grass, it’ll still be there two months from now—or two years.” Chase stood up and began emptying his pants pockets. When he went to lay the contents on the occasional table by the chair, he noticed the small stack of mail sitting there. “What’s this?”
“A report came from the psychiatrist handling my brother’s case, and a short note from Culley, too.” Although she smiled, there was a troubled light in her green eyes. She knew the mental institution was the best place for her brother, but Culley was the only family she had. “The doctor said there’s been some improvement. It’s possible they might even let him have visitors soon.”
“Not until after the baby is born, Maggie.” His look hardened. “I don’t care if the doctor says you can see him tomorrow.”