by Janet Dailey
His glance flickered briefly at Dyson, a frown gathering. “I don’t know,” he murmured, but his tone lacked something. “I’ll see.” He excused himself and went to check out the cause of the backup. “Hey, Rhodes!” he called to the man in coveralls walking back from the line of trucks.
As Dyson watched the two men conferring, he said to his partner, “Let’s see what it is.” Something didn’t smell right to him. When a man had made a living relying on his instinct as much as he had, he didn’t ignore a funny odor when he caught the scent of one. They crossed the stretch of hard-baked ground to where the two men were talking. “What is it?”
“Just a mechanical problem with one of the trucks, Mr. Dyson.” Grinnell assured him it was nothing he needed to be troubled about, but he didn’t meet his eyes when he said it, sliding a short glance to the driver named Rhodes instead.
“As I recall”—Stricklin spoke up—“there’s been a rash of mechanical breakdowns of late. That’s why the productivity was down this month, you said.” The tacked-on phrase was faintly accusing.
There was a smile in Dyson’s eyes when he glanced at his partner. It was always reassuring when Stricklin reached the same conclusion through reasoning that Dyson had come to through instinct. Both suspected something in this situation, but each came at it from a different angle. That was what made them such a potent combination.
“That’s true. There have been,” Grinnell admitted, and Dyson sensed the man’s reluctance to discuss the subject.
“What seems to be the problem with the stalled truck up ahead?” Stricklin put the question to the driver.
There was a moment when the driver, Rhodes, looked to his boss for directions; then he pressed his lips tightly together. “The oil line’s been cut.”
“Cut?” A sudden frown crossed Stricklin’s usually expressionless face. “How can you be sure?”
“I’m not for certain—not until the mechanic gets a look at it. But it’s for sure the oil line’s broken, and if it’s like all the others, it’s been cut.”
“You’re saying it was deliberately cut?” Dyson wanted the implication verified.
“Yeah, and if the guy doing it hasn’t got time to cut the oil line, he dumps sugar in the gas tank.” Frustration and anger vibrated in his half-muttered answer. The driver glanced again at Grinnell, aware that he’d spoken out of turn but also determined to get this out in the open.
“That’s all, Rhodes,” the manager dismissed him. “Go see what you can do about getting that truck towed to the garage.” He watched the driver walk away, then hesitantly swung his attention back to the owners of the company.
“How long has this sabotage been going on?” Stricklin demanded.
“A little over a month.” He shifted uncomfortably. “I’ve already doubled the security at night.”
“Then triple it,” Dyson ordered.
“Do you have any idea who’s doing it or why?” It was Stricklin, who rarely took part in cross-examinations of reports, that was doing most of the questioning.
“I have a pretty good idea who I think is behind it and why,” Grinnell responded grimly. “It’s obvious he wants to slow us down and create as many problems and delays for us as he can. When a machine breaks down, it’s not only costly to repair, but it also means time lost. He probably figures if the mine gets too costly to operate, we’ll shut it down. And he probably figures if he can’t stop us one way, he’ll do it another.”
“Who exactly do you believe is behind it?” Stricklin removed his glasses and began cleaning them with a handkerchief from his pocket.
There was a pregnant silence as Grinnell looked uneasily at Dyson, then shifted his weight to another foot. “No disrespect to your daughter, Mr. Dyson, butt.. it has to be Calder.” And he quickly rushed to defend his reasoning before either man could comment on his conclusion. “He’s been giving you grief ever since he learned about your coal operation here. Some of the other ranchers in the area have supported him, but none have come down as hard as he has. He’s tried every legal means he could. And from what I’ve heard from the locals around here, the Calders aren’t above making their own laws and carrying out their own kind of vigilante action.”
“Impossible!” was Dyson’s reaction. “There is no way Chase Calder could have engineered this sabotage from his hospital bed.” Stricklin replaced his glasses, pushing them onto his nose. “Besides, I’ve seen him and talked to others who’ve been around him. There’s no fight left in him. And as for my son-in-law, he has never been as stridently opposed to this as his father, and he wouldn’t stoop to this kind of tactic.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Grinnell conceded, but he wasn’t convinced. “It’s for sure you know your son-in-law better than I do. Except I remember seeing him get into a fight once at Sally’s Place in town. He went after one of our guys with a broken beer bottle, which tells me he’ll fight dirty if he has to.”
“I want to hear no more talk about the Calders being responsible for this,” Dyson stated. “Somebody else is doing it. Either catch him or make the security so tight that he won’t risk attempting any trouble.”
“Yes, sir.” It was a tight-lipped answer, acknowledging there would be no more discussion of the subject. “If you don’t need me for anything else, I’ll be getting back to the job.”
“That’s all.” There was a moment’s pause as Dyson somberly watched Grinnell head back for the office; then he seemed to rouse himself and glance at Stricklin. By silent agreement, they both started for the car parked a few yards away. “What’s your opinion, George?” E.J. finally asked.
“It could be just a coincidence that somebody’s cutting the oil lines on our machinery—and that Calder’s plane crash was caused by a broken oil line.”
“Or someone could be trying to throw suspicion on the Calders,” Dyson suggested.
“But why?” Stricklin murmured to himself and opened the car door to slide behind the wheel.
The windows were rolled down, but the interior of the car still had that hot, sunbaked feel of stale air. Stricklin flicked the air-conditioning fan on high. Driving slowly through the congestion around the mine area, he approached the main road to the old Stockman ranch house and stopped the car to let a large tank truck loaded with water turn across the road in front of him.
“Every time I see one of those trucks, I shudder when I think how much it’s costing us to haul that water.” Dyson’s sigh was heavy with displeasure.
“It’s an investment,” Stricklin replied and turned the steering wheel to follow the tank truck.
“Well put.” Dyson leaned to the side in an attempt to look around the truck and get a first glimpse of their investment.
After the dull, coal-dusted earth of the barren land around the strip-mining area and the yellowing grass of the surrounding range, the sudden patch of green made a healthy contrast. It was the first of the mine’s reclaimed areas, seeded and watered to grow a thick stand of new grass. Stricklin stopped the car to watch while the tank truck drew to a halt by a portable water-storage tank hooked to the irrigation system.
“It’s certainly shut up the complaints from the environmentalists and silenced a lot of the ranchers,” Dyson stated, nodding with approval at the scene. “Of course, it’s the most expensive grass in the country, too. It should be green.”
“But it serves its purpose. It’s a showcase reclamation project. We spend the money now and we won’t have to spend as much later. We can leave it to Mother Nature instead.” The economics of the situation were plain to Stricklin. There was no other viable alternative. “Ty needs to see this, especially now that he’s dropped the suit contesting the land titles.” He said no more than that, trusting Dyson to have a sense of the right timing. After all, he was the promoter.
“Yes.” It was a thoughtful agreement. “I thought I might feel him out, so to speak, this evening. Tara has indicated they’re in a financial pinch right now, so it just might be the time to approach him with
a deal.”
The mention of Tara brought a warm light to Stricklin’s metal-blue eyes. “Tara has really come into her own since she’s become the lady of the house.” He placed a slight emphasis on the word “lady,” because that’s the way he saw her—as a lady, with position and dignity. “She is so skillful at managing her guests and ensuring their stay is flawless. She was born to the role.”
“Indeed,” Dyson agreed, proud of his daughter for so smoothly taking charge of the household and slowly changing it from being merely the grand home of a big rancher to being the center of a whole new social life that attracted a lot of influential people. Ty would do extremely well with her. And Dyson also knew he could count on her as an ally without ever putting the matter to her. He and his daughter thought too much alike.
“Excellent meal. Simply an excellent meal,” E.J. assured his daughter.
“Thank you, Daddy.” She hugged his arm as they left the dining room, trailed by Ty, Stricklin, and Cathleen. “I told you my cook was a real find. She’d worked at the governor’s mansion for years. It was lucky for me that the restaurant she opened in Helena foiled. I had dined there once. So I scooped her up the minute I heard she was in the job market again. And she highly recommended Mrs. Thornton, whose credentials were impeccable anyway. It made it very convenient that the two of them were acquainted, since it meant they could share quarters.” Plus it kept them fairly isolated from the other ranch employees and lessened the amount of gossip spread about what went on in The Homestead, but Tara didn’t mention the other objective she had accomplished with her new, imported staff.
“Brandy in the study?” Ty suggested, drawing level with the father-daughter pair as they reached the living room.
“You obviously aren’t including me in that offer.” Cat grinned, since only on special occasions was she allowed to even have wine at dinner. “So I won’t join you. I think I’ll brave the insects and take a walk outside instead.”
“May I join you, Cathleen,” Stricklin inquired. “After all that delicious food, I need some exercise.”
“Sure.” Her shoulders lifted in a shrug that assured him she had no objections.
“I guess that leaves you and Daddy,” Tara declared. “I need to plan out the next week’s menus and check with Simone to be sure we have everything that she’ll need when Doug Stevens arrives with his party.”
There was a general, unhurried parting as they branched off in different directions, Ty and Dyson wandering into the study. The brandy was poured and the two men settled comfortably into matching armchairs. Dyson cupped the snifter glass in his hand and slowly swirled the liquor to warm it.
“I was hoping I would have a few minutes to talk to you alone on this visit, Ty,” He made his opening gambit.
“Oh?” Ty sent him a mildly curious look.
“Actually, this is a bit awkward for me,” he confessed with a small, self-deprecating smile. “I don’t want to create any problems, yet at the same time I’d really like to have you as a partner.”
“A partner?” His head came up in brief surprise.
“It isn’t simply because you married my daughter. I want you to understand that, although it is an additional reason why I’d like to see it come about—to keep it all in the family, so to speak.” His smile deepened slightly as he observed no resistance to the idea in Ty’s expression. “But I’ve always liked you. You’ve got a head on your shoulders and you know how to use it. I respect that. And it’s exactly what I want in a business partner.”
“Another thing you need from a business partner is his time,” Ty said. “I’ve got my hands full with the ranch.”
“Problems?” Dyson made the inquiry rather than have Ty think his daughter had dropped some hints to him.
“A few.”
“Yes, I understand the cattle business is in a slump right now.” He nodded with a show of understanding. “And the flow from the wells at Broken Butte has dropped off considerably, so that income won’t be taking up the slack anymore.”
“Unfortunately,” Ty agreed and took a sip of the brandy.
“You have another ready source of income available to you—coal.” Dyson saw the protest coming and held up a hand to stop it. “I know all about your father’s feelings on the subject of mining coal, especially on Calder land. Believe me, I’ve heard it all before, and not just from him.” He laughed to show how little attention he paid to such talk. “The same things were said by ranchers in Texas when they first started drilling wells. They were certain it was somehow going to ruin their land or interfere with the grazing of their cattle. And the fishermen screamed that offshore rigs would drive away the fish. I could go on and on. But every time their fears proved to be groundless. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.”
“You’ve made a very good point,” Ty agreed. “However, the same can’t be said for strip-mining. You only have to look at some of the places in the East to see what it’s done to the land.”
“In the past, yes. But you know how strict the regulations are now. You’ll have to come over to the Stockman place and see our reclamation project. By next year, you won’t know that land was ever disturbed,” he insisted. “This is certainly the time to be getting into the coal business, too, with all these energy programs that are requiring the big power plants to convert to coal as their fuel. The demand is going to be high, and the price will go right along with it.”
“I have no doubt there is money to be made from it.” Neither did he dispute the other claims Dyson had made about the stricter regulations on strip-mining and the advanced techniques in reclaiming the soil. He was not the skeptic his father was.
“The partnership I have in mind is a joint venture to mine the coal on that ten-thousand-acre parcel of land. I can easily obtain the mineral rights to it through my company.” Dyson didn’t tell him that his request had already gone through government channels and the approval was virtually guaranteed by his contacts. “Because your father feels justified in his claim that the title to that land is rightfully his, I couldn’t, in good conscience, begin mining the coal under that parcel unless there was some arrangement between us to share in the profits.”
“I appreciate the sentiment—” Ty began with a faint negative movement of his head.
“I’m not asking you for an answer right now,” Dyson insisted before the offer could be rejected. “I’d like you to think on it. It’s going to put you in direct opposition to your father’s wishes if you agree, and I’m aware of that. I’ve said it before—your father is of the old school. He’s slow to accept change, unwilling to accept new ideas and new directions. But this country is going to need the coal under this ground. Someone is going to mine it; it’s inevitable. But your father simply doesn’t want to admit it.”
“I know.” He studied the brandy in his glass, feeling the conflict between a logical and an emotional point of view.
“Enough talk about business.” Dyson settled into his chair, confident about how smoothly the discussion had gone. “What do you think of the new senator who won Bulfert’s old job?”
A half-moon had begun its ascent into the night sky, changing from gold to silver. A splatter of stars dotted the blue-black canopy, as if some giant hand had taken a handful of diamonds and hurled them into the air to scatter and sparkle. In the quiet, the wail of a coyote was a homeless sound amidst all this emptiness.
The main lights of the headquarters were behind them as the pair wandered as far as the road heading east from the ranch buildings. Cat stopped to let her gaze stray over the blackness of the ground where it met the distant horizon. A stiff breeze blew her dark hair into her face. She shook her head to toss it away and turned into the night wind.
“It’s a good thing there’s a strong breeze tonight,” she murmured to her silent companion. The moonlight silvered his blond hair, the color already making a graceful transition from gold to silver-gold and concealing his age. His features remained smooth of lines, an
d his trimly muscled physique still gave him the look of a younger man.
“Yes, it makes it seem much cooler,” he said.
“I wasn’t thinking of that.” Cat laughed softly. “It keeps all the flies and mosquitoes from having such a feast on us. Sometimes they get so thick, I swear, they could eat you up.”
“They can be a terrible nuisance,” he agreed.
“Look.” She pointed at the sky. “There goes an airplane. See that red light moving across the sky?”
“Yes.” He watched it for a minute. “Tell me, did they ever learn what caused your father’s plane crash? The last I heard, it was some sort of engine failure.”
“A broken oil line.” Her tone was subdued as she lowered her chin, the subject stealing some of her pleasure in the evening walk.
“Does anyone know what caused it?” Stricklin continued to study her profile.
She shook her head, glancing at him briefly. “It just happened, I guess.”
There was a slight pause; then Cat studied him curiously. “With all the flying you do, doesn’t it bother you that something might go wrong with your plane?”
He held her look for a long second, probing into her green eyes. “No,” he said finally. “I’ve never given it much thought.” He reached in a side pocket and withdrew a small knife.
Cat watched with amusement as he ran the blade under the ends of his nails. “Why do you spend so much time cleaning your fingernails?” At least this time the knife was clean, she thought to herself.
Stricklin briefly appeared startled by her question, then shrugged. “It’s a habit, I guess.” He looked off into the night. “Are you still seeing that young cowboy?”
This time she looked at him and frowned. “Repp? How’d you know about him?”
“Did Tara let something slip that she shouldn’t have?” he countered. “Sorry, I didn’t realize I wasn’t supposed to know.”
“It doesn’t matter.” She shrugged, then became curious. “What did she tell you anyway?”
“Nothing, really, I assure you,” Stricklin promised. “I believe she merely mentioned once that you liked a particular cowboy but your father didn’t believe you were old enough to be dating. I think she hinted that she occasionally helped the two of you meet.”