by Janet Dailey
He opened one eye and looked at Tara, standing to the side now and watching the ministrations with a pained expression. “Where’s Cathleen?” Ty questioned.
“I don’t know.” Tara shook her head blankly. “Downstairs, I guess.”
“Go find her and bring her up here.” He watched Tara hesitate, then reluctantly turn away to do as he asked. “The little troublemaker,” Ty muttered when Tara had gone. “I oughta take a belt to her.” Jessy had another cloth and was wiping the excess blood from his face, rinsing and wiping again. Then she lifted his hand and checked the cut.
“It’s probably a good thing your wife isn’t here,” she said calmly, her lips tight-pressed. “That cut needs some stitches.”
She made him apply pressure on the wound again and turned to the table to open a large first-aid kit. Ty glanced at her, things clearing up in his mind.
“You threw me that bottle, didn’t you?” he said.
“Yes.” She held a sterilized needle and suture in her hand when she turned back to him. “Hold still. This is going to hurt.”
It was an understatement. Ty broke out in a nauseating cold sweat. No sound came from his throat except the loud, sighing breaths that forced their way through the tightly constricted muscles. Jessy worked swiftly and efficiently, mentally blocking out her emotions. It was a blessedly short cut, so she finished before the pain became unendurable for him. She watched the rigid tautness drain from him while she affixed a bandage to the sewed-up wound. Then she took the pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and lit one for him, placing it between his lips.
“Thanks.” He looked up at her gratefully, took a deep drag on the cigarette, then took it from his mouth, blowing smoke into the air.
“You’ve got a couple more scratches on your face,” she said and reached for a bottle out of the first-aid kit. “I’ll put some antiseptic on them.”
The smoke from the cigarette stung his bruised lips, but he smoked it anyway. Ty studied Jessy’s face while she leaned close to him, concentrating on her task. Her face, her eyes, her nose, her mouth, all were expressionless, yet he sensed much going on behind what she showed him. The touch of her hand was smooth and pleasant. There was something steadying in having her there.
“What are you thinking, Jessy?” Ty wanted to know, his eyes narrowing with curiosity. “I never can tell what’s going on inside you.” She had a man’s way of hiding it.
Her eyes met his for a scant second; then she returned her attention to the long scratch on his cheek. “I’m thinking that I could use a cigarette right now,” she partially lied.
Ty remembered other things, the apologies he hadn’t made. “Jess, I was planning to come by your place—with my hat in my hand—and tell you—”
But Jessy interrupted him as she finished and turned briskly to the table. “You don’t have to tell me anything, Ty. No apologies. Nothing.” She spoke with a man’s bluntness, too. “Everyone on the ranch knows things aren’t as good as they should be between you and your wife, with her going away so much. It’s not something you can keep from them. But she’s in your blood.” The same way Ty was in hers. “When she’s gone, if you get lonely and want company—that’s fine. If you want to come to my place for a cup of coffee and some talk—that’s fine. I won’t shut the door on you if it’s me you come to see.” She snapped the kit closed.
Everything smoothed out inside him, all the twists and knots straightened. Ty caught her hand and drew her slowly back around to his chair, studying the look in her amber-brown eyes that seemed to absorb him.
“I’ll be coming by for coffee—and your company,” he said.
She smiled crookedly, her fingers briefly tightening around his hand. “One of us is a fool, Ty Calder,” she declared with a rueful humor. “But I’ll be waiting.”
The door opened. Ty looked impatiently at the intruder. Tara stared back at him, her features sharpening. He felt Jessy withdraw her hand from his warm grasp, and he felt oddly guilty even though he’d done nothing wrong. It irritated him.
A rough-looking man in uniform followed Tara into the room. His belly appeared to be pushed up into his chest, giving him a swagger and a puffed-up look of importance. The thickness of his facial hair cast a perpetual underlying shadow on his cheeks and jaw.
“We haven’t met, Calder.” The roughness of the man’s voice, in itself, held a challenge. “I’m Sheriff Blackmore, recently elected by the good citizens of this county.”
Ty was aware that Potter’s picked replacement had lost the election, despite the support of the Triple C Ranch. The new group of residents in the coal-mining community had outvoted their choice and brought this man, from their ranks, to office.
“Sorry we had to meet under these circumstances, Sheriff.” The expression of regret was an attempt to be polite. The man’s attitude didn’t exactly warm Ty to him.
“Maybe it’s best we did,” the new sheriff replied curtly. “You and your people have pretty well run things your way up till now. I’m the law around here—and you aren’t going to be riding roughshod over anyone anymore. You cause trouble and you’ll get trouble. Now, this fight tonight was started by one of your men.”
“Sally knows I’ll pay for whatever damage that’s been done. And the fines will be taken care of, too.” Ty didn’t attempt to deny that the instigation had been on his family’s part, but he didn’t intend to drag Cathleen’s name into it if he could avoid it.
“I don’t know as money’ll buy off your trouble, Calder,” the sheriff stated, implying more stringent punishment.
“Excuse me, Sheriff,” Jessy interrupted their conversation. “Have you been introduced to Mr. Calder’s wife?”
“We met downstairs,” he retorted impatiently.
“I thought perhaps you hadn’t met Mr. Dyson’s daughter.” A cool smile touched her wide lips.
The sheriff’s glance flicked to Tara, a stunned look of recollection striking through his expression before it assumed its former gravity again. “My respects to your father, ma’am.” He touched his hat to her, then turned a stern look on Ty. “You’ll be notified of the charges.”
When the sheriff had disappeared out the door to clump down the steps, Jessy made a simple explanation to Ty. “This is Dyson’s town. He put in the new water system, bought the fire truck, and graded the streets.”
Ty began to understand her point. His father’s fight to stop or severely regulate surface mining in the area threatened these people’s jobs. It was Dyson who paid them and made certain they had a decent place to live. The sheriff would have written him up on every charge in the book—if his wife’s maiden name hadn’t been Dyson. Ty glanced at his wife. She, too, had grown more thoughtful at the turn of events that had stripped the Calder name of its weight.
“Where’s Cathleen?” he asked, a certain weariness creeping into his voice.
“She’s downstairs, fussing over Repp Taylor.” Before Ty could ask why she hadn’t brought her upstairs as he had asked, Tara hurried on. “It’s all right. Her uncle is with her.”
O’Rourke. In the fray, he’d forgotten the man was in the place. “Dammit, I told you to bring Cathleen up here,” he muttered angrily.
“I’ll get her, Ty.” Jessy walked to the door, exchanging a long look with Tara before she left the room.
“She takes a lot on herself,” Tara observed with faint criticism.
“Jessy’s been doing that since she was ten.”
18
The buzzer for the interoffice line sounded in the plush room. E. J. Dyson barely glanced up from his papers to motion to his partner to answer it. Stricklin picked up the phone, made an affirmative answer, and hung up.
“Bulfert’s outside. He’s being shown in,” he informed him.
“Good.” Dyson closed the report he’d been reading and sat back in his custom-designed swivel chair. “Have the cigars ready for him.” Stricklin walked to a side cupboard and removed the box of imported cigars, placing them on the Texas-
sized desk.
The doors to the executive office of Dy-Corp were opened and a statuesque blonde stepped aside to admit the heavily jowled politician. Excess weight had bulged his middle considerably, evidence of his self-indulgent ways. He mopped at his florid face with an expensive linen handkerchief. Dyson came out from behind the desk to greet him, submitting to the pumping handshake.
“Welcome to Texas, Senator.” He paused, then smiled. “I guess I shouldn’t be calling you Senator anymore since your retirement from office, but it’s a habit I’m going to find difficult to break. I hope you don’t mind—Senator.”
“Not at all. Not at all,” Bulfert replied with his usual show of aggressive joviality.
“Have a cigar.” Dyson gestured to the box of the senator’s favorite brand. “May I pour you a drink? How about some bourbon and our good Texas branch water?”
“Too early for me.” He waved aside the offer of a drink. “But I will have a cigar.” Stricklin offered him his pick from the box. “Thank you, Stricklin.” He smiled at the darkly tanned man with sun-bleached hair, never completely comfortable with those steel-blue eyes on him.
“I try, Senator.” Stricklin smiled back, ready with a light for the cigar the politician rolled between his lips.
“Sit down, Senator,” Dyson invited and returned to his chair behind the desk. “We’ve had an opportunity to go over this . . . confidential file you left with us, and our findings concur with yours.” His words were couched in polite terms, mocking what both had known from the start. “It would seem that the title to those ten thousand acres of land Calder supposedly purchased from the government was obtained by fraudulent means. It appears that this recently deceased”—Dyson paused to check the report for the name—“Mr. Osgood had no authorization to make the sale. His bank records show there was a sizable cash deposit made at approximately the same time the transaction occurred. And a similar amount was withdrawn from Calder’s bank account some weeks before. An obvious case of bribing a government official.”
“A terrible thing—violating the public trust,” the senator agreed, smiling smugly. “So well documented, too.”
“The government obviously has grounds to declare the sale of that land null and void,” Dyson agreed.
“Exactly my thought.” The cigar was clenched in his teeth as he responded to the assertion.
“As I promised, the file has gone no farther than this room. However, now that you aren’t in office, I can think of no reason why it couldn’t be arranged for this information to come to the attention of the proper official. Discreetly, of course.”
“Of course.” Bulfert nodded, the bagging jowls bunching out with the movement. “I’m sure, with your connections, you would have no difficulty obtaining the mining rights on that particular portion of federal land.”
“We can certainly hope.” Dyson smiled, admitting nothing.
The politician became serious, assuming a grave air. “You are aware that property is landlocked. Completely surrounded by Calder land.”
“I’m sure the government can obtain the authority to demand and receive an easement access.”
“Yes.” Bulfert showed an uncommon interest in the fine ash building up on the end of his cigar. “I know Calder. He’ll fight this every way he knows how. Injunctions, court battles, suits. Litigation could drag out for a long time. He’ll fight over every inch of it. Never give for a minute.”
“I expect he will.” Dyson appeared calm.
“Do you?” Bulfert studied the Texan, wondering if he knew the breed of man he was tackling. “If he has to, he’ll fight dirtier than the next man.”
“He has that reputation. But that’s hardly your problem, Senator.” Dyson smiled. “I failed to ask how you liked your new office. Was it satisfactory?”
“Very nice. Quite comfortable.” He tapped the cigar on the lip of the ashtray.
“Good. Of course, you have your own private secretary and a full expense account. The company won’t be expecting you to keep any regular hours, since consulting work is an irregular business. But I know Advance Tech Ltd. is happy to have you on its staff.” Both of them knew it was a manufactured position in a subsidiary company of Dy-Corp, with full salary and benefits, and no duties. “I expect it will take you some time adjusting to life in Texas after living in Montana for so long.”
“I shall enjoy the warm climate. Montana’s gotten too cold for these old bones.” And the senator knew the atmosphere would soon grow colder for him back there, as soon as Calder realized he’d had a hand in this.
A few more pleasantries were exchanged before the senator took his leave of the two men. After he’d gone, Dyson stared thoughtfully at the closed doors.
“Calder will fight this,” he said finally to Stricklin. “I wish there was something I could do to keep Tara from being caught in the middle of all this. I certainly don’t want to cause her any unhappiness.” An agitated sigh broke from him as he pushed out of the chair and strode from behind the desk, wanting to pace and trying to control it. “If Calder is as bullheaded as Bulfert says, this dispute is bound to affect Tara.”
With his computerlike mind, Stricklin could sift through information, analyze it, and come up with specific answers, but only with the proper input. For a man who worshiped at the shrine of Tara, it was unthinkable that she should suffer any unhappiness.
“There must be some way of reaching Calder.” He walked to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a drink.
“None,” Dyson announced grimly. “The man’s rooted in his opinions.” He stopped in front of a large window, his hands clasped behind his back. For a long second, he stood silent. Then he swung away, disgruntled. “It would be so much easier if I were dealing with Ty. He’s intelligent and reasonable . . . progressive in his thinking. You only have to look at the changes he’s made at the ranch to know that. It would be a much simpler matter to convince him of the viability of our plans. Unfortunately”—Dyson took in a long breath and let it out—“Calder is in charge, not his son.”
Stricklin swirled the liquor and ice cubes together and thoughtfully digested the information. Dyson paced into the middle of the room again, shaking his head.
“It’s a peculiar set of circumstances, Stricklin.” He stopped to look at the man. “All those Appalachian mines in the East are digging out tons of coal ore high in sulfur that burns dirty. With the pollution-control standards in force, the industries in the East are crying for clean-burning coal.” Dyson shook his head again. “And Calder’s sitting on top of all that low-sulfur coal. I’ll never understand why on earth God put him there.” Sighing, he walked to his desk.
“There’s a lot of land in Montana that Calder doesn’t own with coal deposits under it,” Stricklin reminded him.
“If it were only coal I wanted, I’d leave him alone. It’s his damned water I need,” Dyson retorted. “A coal plant has a high demand for water, and Calder has the most plentiful and dependable source around. We can mine the ore and process it right on the spot. It’s ideal.” Half undecided, he fingered the file of documents on his desk. “What do you think we should do, Stricklin? Should I arrange to have it fall into the hands of our crusading friend in Washington? Even if it causes family difficulties? Or should I simply throw in my hand and look for another game in another place?”
“You want his coal; you want his water. That file will get it for you,” the man stated. “You have a winning hand. Play it.”
“Ah, Stricklin.” Dyson laughed silently, shaking his head. “It amazes me the way you always see everything as black or white. Here.” He picked up the file. “You know how to handle this.”
A fire crackled in the simple brick hearth, but it didn’t throw off as much heat as the wood-burning stove in the corner. Outside the cabin, a winter wind prowled in the cottonwood skeletons, rattling their limbs. Jessy sat cross-legged on a braided rug in front of the fireplace, an empty coffee cup in her hands. It had grown dark outside, but she hadn’t bother
ed to turn on any lights, her thoughts absorbed by the news Ty had related.
His long body was stretched loosely in the plumply curved armchair, his face within the fringes of the dancing light from the fire. He was absently rubbing a forefinger across his mouth, the blunt ends of his mustache brushing the top of it. It was the troubled darkness within those hooded eyes that showed Ty was not as relaxed as he appeared.
“Even if the government can declare the sale invalid, surely there is something your father can do to maintain possession of that land,” Jessy murmured, a determined quality in her level tone.
Ty brought his hand down from his mouth and took a deep, troubled breath as he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees and lace his fingers loosely together in front of him, bowing his head to study them. “He’s meeting in Miles City with his attorneys the next couple of days to make some interim arrangements and decide what long-term action to take. He probably won’t have any trouble getting temporary grazing rights.” The corners of his mouth were pulled deeper into grimness. “He thought he held title to that land all this time. It was a blow to find out he didn’t.” Ty looked up at her, his mouth slanting. “The senator pulled some strings for him, all right. But it wasn’t to shorten the red tape. He pulled open those purse strings for the wrong man.”
“The senator has to be in as much trouble as your father.”
“He’s had time to cover his trail.” Ty reached into the box of kindling near the hearth and took out a twig, absently snapping off pieces to throw, one by one, into the fire. “Since it happened so long ago, the government appears willing to overlook how the title was acquired. But if Dad fights for it, which he will, I have the feeling it’s going to get messy.”
There was a long run of silence. Jessy looked at him. She understood the stoicism that covered his face, hiding the tension beneath its angular surfaces. An impulse moved her. She reached out to clasp his linked hands, wishing she could lead some of that trouble out of him into herself. This desire to share some of it showed in her eyes. Ty was drawn by it; it was something he’d never seen in Tara’s face.