Calder Storm

by Janet Dailey

  “Whatever you’d say, I wouldn’t like the answer.” His reply was a little curt—a reaction to the sudden twisting in his gut at the news she already had a man in her life.

  “I never said it was a man,” she chided dryly.

  A puzzled frown cut a thin crease in his forehead. “Then who?”

  There was more than a little pride in the sudden lift of her chin. “I belong to myself.”

  All the knots suddenly smoothed, and Trey was quick to take advantage of the green light she had just given him. “Are you going to the street dance when you leave here tonight?”

  “Is that an invitation?” She tipped her head to one side, all the while making another careful study of him in an attempt to determine the degree of danger he might be to a woman alone.

  “It is,” Trey confirmed.

  After a slight pause, she made her decision about him. “Where should I meet you?”

  “How about by the stage where the band will be playing?” he suggested.

  “That’s fine with me.” She lifted her camera, tipping the lens up and blowing softly to remove any dust particles on it, then flicked him a quick glance. “I need to get back to work. I’ll see you there, Trey.”

  “I’ll be waiting,” he replied, as she crossed to the arena fence and began scanning the action inside. Softly, for his hearing alone, Trey murmured the name she’d given him. “Sloan.”

  It was an unusual name. But nothing about her seemed ordinary to him, certainly not his own hungry reaction to her. This time Trey made a point of noticing the black turtleneck she wore beneath the bulky vest, the slim khaki slacks, and the thick-soled hiking boots on her feet.

  Someone jostled his shoulder. All the noise and activity that had receded into the background now asserted itself. Belatedly Trey looked around for Johnny and Tank. He spotted them on the opposite side of the open alleyway and waited for a gap in the intermittent flow of cowboys moving behind the chutes, then crossed the space to join them.

  When he noticed Tank hunched over, rubbing his right kneecap, Trey recalled the way he’d limped in the arena. “How’s your knee?”

  “Aw, he just twisted it a little.” Johnny dismissed the injury.

  “How would you know?” Tank threw him a challenging glare. “It ain’t your damned knee.” He shot a look at Trey. “That’s the last damned bull I’ll ever throw my leg over. Whatever you do, don’t ever believe anything Johnny tells you.”

  “Come on,” Johnny protested. “It was just the luck of the draw.”

  The phrase reminded Trey of his own luck in running into that blue-eyed brunette again. Sloan. The mere thought of her name brought a quicksilver rush of feeling. He looked over his shoulder, his glance running arrow-straight to her. Head bent, she was busy switching a new roll of film for an exposed one, accomplishing it with practiced ease. Anticipation flowed through him, keen and sweet, for the evening to come.

  Johnny said something to him, dragging Trey’s attention away from Sloan. The next time he looked, she was gone from the spot. A few minutes later, he caught a glimpse of her farther down the line.

  Johnny was among the last group of bull riders. To Tank’s never-ending delight, he was thrown a quarter of a second short of making the eight-second buzzer. Tank was happier yet when the bull stepped on Johnny. Thanks to the padded jacket, his friend escaped with only a bruised rib.

  Tank needled him as they made their way to the pickup parked in the infield. “Hurt to breathe, does it, John-boy?” he observed on a note of feigned sympathy. “Not to worry. It’s nothin’ but a little bruise.”

  “Shut up, Tank.” Johnny pushed the words through gritted teeth.

  “Best thing is to keep movin’. That way the stiffness won’t set in,” Tank declared, echoing the advice Johnny had spouted to him.

  Most times Trey would have joined in, offering some good-natured ribbing of his own, but his thoughts were all for the blue-eyed girl called Sloan. The smooth lilt of her voice played in his mind, unique, to him, in its absence of any discernible western accent. The image of the way she’d looked at him was there, too, the gleam in her eyes that had been so bright and alive to him, yet wisely just a little guarded. He recalled as well the silky appearance of her hair that seemed to invite his fingers to run through it.

  As the trio continued its drift toward the collection of vehicles and stock trailers parked in the infield, night’s shadows deepened and lengthened. Trey cast a look back at the lighted arena and grandstand area and scanned the mix of spectators, contestants, and workers exiting the grounds, hoping for another glimpse of Sloan. The vast majority sported cowboy hats; the rest were bareheaded; and he saw no one in a billed cap.

  As near as he could recall, he hadn’t seen her after the top riders started their competition for the night’s prize. It could be she hadn’t stayed around to watch it.

  “You looking for somebody, Trey?” Johnny asked, all curious.

  “Not really.” The question served to bring his attention to the front.

  “He was probably checking to see if Kelly was on his back trail,” Tank suggested slyly.

  Johnny was quick to voice his opinion. “I told you that you should have turned her down when she asked you to that school dance this spring. Now she’s got her loop set for you.”

  That was a road Trey didn’t want to go down, not after all the ribbing he’d already taken about it. Trey had long ago learned the best way to deflect was to attack. And he did.

  “You know why she’s doing it, don’t you?” he said in light challenge, spotting the pickup and angling toward it.

  “’Cause she’s got her sights set on being the next Mrs. Calder, that’s why,” Tank declared.

  “You’re wrong,” Trey replied calmly, a touch of devilry shining in his own eyes. “She’s just using me to make Johnny jealous.”

  “Me?” Johnny looked at him in pure shock.

  “It’s one of the oldest strategies in a woman’s bag of tricks,” Trey told him. “I saw my sister use it plenty of times.”

  “Kelly isn’t interested in me.” But there was a faint note of uncertainty in his voice.

  Trey hid a smile. “Don’t kid yourself. She’s got her eye on you. Why don’t you ask her out and see what happens?”

  “Johnny ask a girl out? That’ll be the day,” Tank declared. “You know he’s too cheap to do that. Right, John-boy?”

  “Shut up, Tank,” Johnny muttered as he climbed into the cab.

  Trey slid behind the wheel and inserted the key in the ignition. “By the way,” he said after Tank had crawled into the cab next to Johnny and closed the door, “you two might have to find your own way back tonight.”

  “How come?” Johnny frowned.

  “Because I’m going to be tied up.” Headlights on, Trey swung the steering wheel and took aim at the infield gate.

  “Since when?” Tank added with surprise. “You never said anything about having a hot date earlier.”

  “That’s because I didn’t.”

  “Who’s the girl?” Tank asked, his curiosity doubling.

  “It isn’t Kelly, is it?” Johnny eyed him with suspicion, the faintest hint of possessiveness in his voice.

  “No, it isn’t Kelly,” Trey said, smiling in reassurance.

  “Then who—?” Tank began, then snapped his fingers. “That female photographer you were talking to—it’s her, isn’t it?”

  “Yup.”

  Tank chortled softly. “You sure didn’t let any grass grow under your feet.”

  “Who is she, anyway?” Johnny wondered. “Has she got a name?”

  “Sloan.” Trey pulled onto the main road, joining the line of vehicles heading into town.

  “Is that her front name or back name?” Johnny said with a frown.

  “Don’t know yet, but I plan on finding out.” The anticipation of seeing Sloan again was back, all heady and strong.

  The traffic and congestion in the downtown area were thick, complicate
d by the three-block-long section of Main Street that had been cordoned off, forming a people corral of sorts. Luckily, Trey found a place to park a few blocks away.

  The dancing, drinking, and carousing were in full swing when the trio arrived on the scene. After the quiet of the side streets, the collective hammer of voices, rollicking laughter, and amplified music all blended together to form a wall of noise.

  Intent on slaking their suddenly dry throats, Tank and Johnny split off to get a beer, leaving Trey to make his own way to the makeshift stage, where a local country band performed. Couples swarmed the dance area in front of it, creating a veritable sea of hats and twirling partners. Onlookers stood around the edges, two and three deep.

  Trey shouldered his way to the inner circle near the stage and scanned the faces close by with a rising eagerness. But Sloan wasn’t among them.

  He waited and watched. One song gave way to another, then another, with still no sign of Sloan. Restlessness pushed him to widen his scope of vision. He drifted around the stage and skirted the dance area, his gaze constantly moving, checking, looking for any new arrival. He saw a dozen people he knew and exchanged brief greetings with a few of them, but none held his attention.

  A hand clamped itself on his shoulder with manly familiarity. He turned to find Johnny and Tank, each with a cup of beer in his hand.

  “Still waiting for her to show, are you?” Tank surmised.

  “She’ll be here,” he insisted, although privately he had started wondering.

  “’Course she will,” Johnny agreed. “No female in her right mind would stand up a Calder.”

  Ordinarily Trey would have agreed with him; however, in this case, Sloan didn’t know he was a Calder unless someone else had told her. He certainly hadn’t volunteered that piece of information.

  “Tell you what,” Tank began, and paused to take a quick gulp of beer, “we’re gonna head down the way. If we happen to see her, we’ll drive her in your direction.”

  “Do you know what she looks like?” Johnny stared at Tank in surprise.

  “’Course I do. Come on.” He took Johnny by the arm and turned him around, cursing roundly when some of the beer sloshed out of his cup.

  Trey hesitated, then headed in the opposite direction. Away from the dance area people tended to gather in clusters or travel in twos and threes, making it easy for him to spot a solitary figure. There were a few of those, but all male.

  Then he spotted her coming his way, the neon light of a bar sign flashing over the sheen of her hair, and everything lifted inside him, his blood coursing hot and fast through his veins. His long, striding walk lengthened even more, carrying him to her.

  A smile broke across her lips. “You forgot to say which stage. There happens to be three of them.”

  The glistening curve of her lips and the sparkle of pleasure in her eyes acted like the pull of a magnet. When mixed with the pressures of waiting, wondering, and wanting, the combination pushed Trey into action.

  His hands caught her by the waist and drew her to him even as he bent his head and covered her lips in a long, hard kiss, staking his claim to her. There was an instant of startled surprise that held her stiff and unresponsive, but it didn’t last. It was the taste of her giving warmth that lingered when Trey lifted his head.

  Through eyes half-lidded to conceal the blatant desire he felt, he studied her upturned face and the heightened interest in her returning gaze. He allowed a wedge of space between them but didn’t let go of her waist, his thumb registering the rapid beat of the pulse in her stomach. Its swiftness signaled that she had been equally stirred by the kiss.

  “I was just about convinced that I’d have to turn the town upside down to find you,” he told her in a voice that had gone husky.

  “It wouldn’t have been a difficult task,” Sloan murmured. “After all, you know where I’m staying.”

  “I forgot,” Trey admitted with a crooked smile. “Which shows how thoroughly you’ve gotten to me.”

  She laughed softly, paused, then reached up, fingertips lightly brushing along a corner of his mouth. “You’re all smeared with gloss.”

  He pressed his lips together and felt the slick coating, but it had no taste to it. “You use the unflavored kind, too.” He wiped it off on the back of his hand. “My sister claims that a man should taste her and not some fruit.”

  “You have a sister,” Sloan said, absorbing this personal bit of information about him. “Younger or older?”

  “Younger.” By less than two minutes, but Trey didn’t bother to divulge that and have the conversation diverted into a discussion of the twin thing. Instead he took note of the change in her attire—the bulky, multi-pocketed vest and tan pants replaced by a femininely cut tweed jacket and navy slacks. “You ditched the camera and changed clothes.”

  “The others were a bit grimy from all the arena dust.” Her matter-of-fact answer made Trey wish that he had taken the extra time to swing by the motel, shower, and change his own clothes, but he’d been too anxious to get here. A quick smile curved her lips, rife with self-mockery. “This is my first street dance,” she said. “So I had to ask the desk clerk what to wear. He assured me it would be very casual.”

  “Your first street dance, is it? In that case it’s time I showed you what it’s all about.” Grinning, Trey shifted to the side and hooked an arm behind her waist, drawing her with him as he set out for the dance area.

  “I should warn you,” she said, with a sideways glance, “I’m not much of a dancer.”

  His gaze regarded her in frank appraisal. “I’m surprised. You have the grace of one.” He guided her through a gap in the row of onlookers, then turned her into his arms, easily catching her off hand. The band was playing a slow song, which suited Trey just fine. “Don’t worry about the steps,” he told her with a lazy smile. “Dancing was invented solely to provide a man with a good excuse to hold a woman in his arms.”

  A laugh came from low in her throat, soft and rich with amusement. “Something tells me it was a woman who came up with the original idea. How else would she ever coax a man onto the dance floor?” she teased.

  “And something tells me you’re probably right.” Despite the lightness of his talk, the subject was of no interest to him, not with her nearness stimulating all his senses.

  There was an awareness of how naturally she fitted herself to his length. Even the light weight of her hand on his shoulder felt right, as if it had always belonged there. The idea wasn’t something Trey questioned—he simply enjoyed it.

  Every step, every rocking sway brought them into closer alignment, an unconscious seeking and adjusting to the contours of the other. Trey found it impossible to ignore the round shape of her breasts pressed against him or the evocative stir of her breath along his cheek and neck. Giving in to the building ache in his loins, he released his grip on her fingers and splayed both hands over the hollow of her back. With a slight turn of his head, he explored the silken texture of the sun-streaked strands along her right temple. Some subtle fragrance wafted up, embedding itself in his mind.

  All too soon the song ended, and Trey was obliged to loosen his hold, allowing space to come between them.

  “Didn’t I tell you dancing was easy?” he murmured.

  There was a knowing gleam in her eyes when she met his gaze. “I’m not exactly sure that was dancing.”

  “Is that an objection?” An eyebrow arched in question even as he matched the teasing banter in her voice, yet her answer mattered to him—and not in the way it usually did when he was making a move on a girl. This time, Trey realized, he was much more serious than he had ever been before.

  “Not really.” And the wide smile Sloan gave him was completely without reservation.

  “Good,” he said as the band struck up another tune, much quicker in tempo. “We’re moving on to the advanced version. Are you game to whirl around the floor?”

  “Why not,” she agreed with a careless shrug.

  He
caught her up and twirled her into the mix of dancing couples, each pair choosing its own combination of steps to match the music. As Sloan had warned him, she was far from adept, but neither cared as they spun and laughed and spun some more, endlessly jostled and bumped by others.

  When the cymbal clashed on the final note, Sloan collapsed against him with a breathless laugh. “That was too advanced for me.”

  Trey grinned at her. “You sure showed plenty of try.”

  “That’s rodeo talk for a rider making an all-out effort. I heard it used at the arena and asked.” Sloan studied him with a curious and considering look. “I never asked how you fared with your bull tonight.”

  “I didn’t ride.” His arm loosely circled her shoulders, keeping her close to his side.

  “Really?” Her eyes widened in surprise.

  “I’m too tall to be competitive on the rough stock,” Trey explained.

  “Why? What has that got to do with it?”

  “It gives me a high center of gravity, and that means it’s a lot harder to keep your seat on an animal that’s determined to buck you off.” His mouth crooked in an amused but confident smile. “Now when it comes to the roping events, I can hold my own with the next cowboy.”

  “Now that I think about it, nearly every rider I’ve seen has been under six feet. I guess when I saw you behind the chutes I just assumed you were competing.”

  “A couple of my friends were.”

  “And you were lending moral support,” Sloan guessed.

  “Something like that.” Fiddle music filled the air, its notes slow and plaintively sweet. “Sounds like that song is about your speed. Shall we?”

  Smiling her answer, she turned into his arms. This time she lifted both hands around his neck, linking her fingers behind it. His own hands settled on the rise of her hipbones as they shifted in place to the dreamy rhythm, bodies brushing with an ease that already felt familiar.

  A hand tapped his shoulder. Half irritated by the interruption, Trey threw an impatient glance to his left as Tank waltzed into view with a town girl in his arms.

  “I see you found her,” Tank said, tipping his head in Sloan’s direction.