Calder Storm

by Janet Dailey

  Instantly the camera whirred, signaling the end of the roll. Out of habit Sloan pulled a new roll out of her vest pocket and stood up, ready to make the switch once the rewinding process was complete.

  No longer focused on her subject, she idly looked around, letting her surroundings make their impression on her. The rodeo announcer was in the midst of some lengthy introductions. Sloan didn’t pay much attention to them until she heard the words, “…Chase Calder’s grandson, Trey Calder, along with…”

  She lifted her head in shock as the realization struck that the wild-horse race was about to start. She set out for the arena fence at a running walk, hurriedly switching the camera film as she went.

  By the time she found an opening along the arena fence, a half dozen horses were running loose, pursued by an equal number of cowboys on foot, swinging ropes. Her heart lifted the instant she located Trey among them. Before she could raise her camera and snap a picture of the action, he let his rope sail out, and the noose settled around the neck of a wiry bay horse still wearing its heavy winter coat.

  The bay unleashed an angry squeal, a protest echoed by other roped horses, Sloan temporarily lost sight of Trey as plunging and rearing horses blocked her view and more cowboys raced onto the scene, hauling saddles. She snapped a few quick shots of the chaos.

  When she finally caught sight of Trey again, he had crowded the bay horse close to the opposite fence while a teammate attempted to sling a saddle onto the animal’s back. But the bay was having none of it, first plunging forward, then letting his hind feet fly.

  It was a scene of flailing hooves and brute strength pitted against brute strength, shouted words of encouragement and warning. Sloan gasped in alarm more than once when it appeared that Trey was in danger of being run over and trampled or struck down by a pawing hoof.

  A big chestnut broke free and bucked across the arena, its saddle hanging off one side and threatening to slide under its belly. It was an image that clearly illustrated the wild and woolly scene, but Sloan never lifted her camera to capture it. She couldn’t, when the whole of her attention was trained on Trey.

  Unconsciously she held her breath when Trey took a snug hold on the horse’s head and used his body to wedge the bay against the fence. When the saddle cinch was pulled tight around its belly, it reared, hauling Trey into the air with it. Both came down safely, and that long-held breath quivered from her.

  A teammate grabbed hold of the saddle horn and swung into the seat. The wiry bay leaped forward in a plunging rear. This time Trey made no attempt to check the horse. Instead he stepped away, letting the pair go.

  He would have been in the clear if the bay hadn’t doubled back. A warning cry rose in Sloan’s throat, but she never had a chance to utter it as a back hoof clipped his forehead, and Trey went down on all fours.

  “Oh my God,” she murmured.

  Sloan stayed long enough to see Trey’s dazed stagger when another cowboy helped him to his feet. Then she scrambled off the fence and raced along the alleyway, worry curdling her stomach.

  When she finally reached him, all of her worst fears seemed to be realized. One whole side of his face and neck was covered in blood. More stained the wadded-up kerchief he held against his forehead. A shoulder was propped against an inner fence rail.

  She climbed over the fence, shouting to anyone who would listen, “Get the paramedics. Quick!” Then she was on the ground beside him, moving to slip a supporting arm around him. “I’ll—”

  “Sloan.” He focused an eye on her in surprise. “Where did you come from?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said, relieved that he appeared to be lucid. “Come on. Let me help you out of here.”

  “Not yet,” he said, then shouted, “Stick with him, Johnny!”

  “Just lean on me,” Sloan instructed and shifted to hook his arm behind her neck.

  “Gladly.” The amusement in his voice drew her glance upward. “But I promise you this isn’t as bad as it looks.”

  Sloan saw only the coagulating blood on his face. “I don’t think a doctor would agree with you.”

  “Head wounds always bleed a lot,” he told her.

  “Yours certainly is.” Unable to get him to move, Sloan changed tactics and commandeered the blood-soaked cloth he held against his forehead. The instant she lifted it, a fresh flow of blood streamed from the nasty crescent-shaped gash above his eye. “And it’s still bleeding.”

  She pressed it hard against the cut. Pain stabbed through his head. Trey flinched and sucked in air through his teeth.

  “It’ll quit in a minute,” he insisted in a tight mutter.

  “You hope.”

  Catching the hint of anger in her voice, Trey made a closer study of the strained tension in her expression. “You’re really worried about me, aren’t you?”

  “Of course I am.” She glared at him, but there was a telltale glisten of tears in her eyes that made Trey forget all about the throbbing in his head. “I saw his hoof when it struck your head.”

  His glance slid to the camera, hanging from the strap around her neck, totally forgotten; all of her attention was on him—just the way he had wanted it. Suddenly he no longer cared whether Johnny stayed in the saddle for a full circuit of the racetrack.

  “If it’ll make you feel better, you can take me over to the first-aid station and let the nurse slap a bandage on,” Trey suggested and straightened away from the fence, turning toward the gate. “Come on.”

  He had to hide a smile when her arm tightened around his middle to offer needless support.

  “Where are you going, Trey?” Tank called from his vantage point on the top rail.

  “The lady thinks I need a bandage,” Trey replied.

  Tank snorted. “You need a washcloth.”

  “That too,” Trey agreed.

  A little late, Sloan noticed that nobody else seemed to be overly concerned about Trey’s injury. It made her wonder if she had over-reacted. But she couldn’t so easily dismiss the sight of all that blood.

  “You don’t really think this is necessary, do you?” she said, half in accusation when they went through the gate opening. “You’re just going to humor me.”

  “You’re wrong about that.” There was something warm and intimate in the look he gave her. “Because I happen to be glad you care enough to worry about me.”

  “Who wouldn’t worry, with all that blood on your face?” Sloan countered, unable to get past the sight of it. “You should have enough sense to go yourself without waiting for someone to make you.”

  “It’s natural that you might think that way. But where I live, we don’t have a doctor around the corner. In fact, the closest one is fifty miles away, and he’s only there two days a week. You learn quick to make your own assessment of the potential seriousness of your injury. The ones you can take care of yourself, you do.” His mouth quirked. “You’d be surprised at how handy I am with a needle.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.” Oddly, she was relieved by his explanation and the logic behind it. Initially she’d thought that his resistance to medical attention was part of some macho cowboy thing.

  By the time they arrived at the first-aid area, the flow of blood from the cut was down to a slight ooze. The paramedic on duty made short work of cleaning the worst of the blood from Trey’s face and neck, checked to make sure there was no sign of a concussion, then opened an antiseptic bottle.

  As he was about to swab the crescent-shaped cut with it, Kelly Ramsey came sauntering up. She leaned close to inspect his injury and grimaced in empathy when Trey winced at the solution’s sharp sting.

  “That’s a nasty gash, Trey,” Kelly stated, then sighed. “Too bad it isn’t on your cheek. It would have left a sexy scar.”

  The casual and slightly cavalier dismissal of his injury was an echo of Trey’s own unconcern for it, a fact that Sloan duly noted. It made her even more self-conscious about her own reaction to it.

  “Next time I’ll try to be sur
e I’m struck on the cheek,” Trey replied in a similar tone. “So, who won the race? Did Johnny make it all the way around the track?”

  “He made it all right,” the girl confirmed. “When he came around the turn, he was so far ahead of the others, it looked like Johnny was going to be an easy winner. About twenty yards from the finish, the horse spooked—who knows at what—turned end for end and went into a bucking frenzy. Johnny stuck tight as a burr on that saddle, but he couldn’t get that crazy bronc to turn around in time. The casino team won.” Her shoulders lifted in a fatalistic shrug. “Now Johnny’s spittin’ mad, stomping around, cursing his luck.”

  “He’ll get over it,” Trey said without sympathy.

  “He’d better. Right now he isn’t fit to be around.”

  Finished with the antiseptic, the paramedic put it away and took out a prepackaged bandage. Sloan threw him a sharply questioning look.

  “Aren’t you going to put stitches in it first?” she challenged, darting another glance at the gaping cut.

  “I probably could,” the man conceded. “But these butterfly bandages work just about as well at holding the flesh together as stitches do. And they’re a lot less painful.”

  “You know best,” Sloan admitted, then found herself the subject of the blonde’s openly curious stare.

  Trey took notice of it as well and made the introductions. “Sloan Davis, meet Kelly Ramsey. Her dad works at the Triple C.”

  The young blonde was quick to stretch out her hand. “Hi. I remember seeing you with Trey last night in town.”

  “That’s right.” Sloan clasped the girl’s hand in brief greeting.

  “Say,” Kelly began, dividing a bright glance between them, “a bunch of us are going to the street dance tonight. You two are welcome to join us.”

  Sloan didn’t hesitate in her answer. “Don’t count on me. I’m going to pass on the street dance tonight.”

  “Too bad. They’re a blast,” Kelly declared and took a preparatory step back. “I guess I’ll go see if Johnny’s cooled off any. Catch you later, Trey.”

  Trey responded with an acknowledging lift of his hand, then sat silently while the paramedic applied the bandage to the cut. When the man finished, he turned away and began tidying up the area as he said, “You know the drill, Calder—keep the wound clean and dry, change the dressing in a day or two, so on and so forth.”

  “No problem.” Trey rose from the chair. “And thanks.”

  “Don’t thank me,” the man countered. “Just be glad you Calders are a hard-headed lot.”

  “Always.” Trey grinned and eased his hat back on, taking care to keep the band away from the bandage’s adhesive ends. There was a twinkle in his eyes when he moved to Sloan’s side. “Satisfied?”

  Amusement tugged at the corners of her mouth, but she was serious when she said, “At least now you don’t look like something out of a Halloween movie.”

  “That bad, was it?” As one, they drifted in the direction of the arena.

  “It was.”

  His interest in small talk faded the closer they got to the chutes and the mix of contestants and onlookers. And Trey was reminded of the shortness of time they had.

  “Did you mean that about not going to the street dance tonight?” He let his gaze travel over her face, certain he would never tire of looking at it.

  She nodded and slid him a quick look. “Last night was fun, but once is enough,” she said, then admitted, “I’ve never been much of a party-hearty type.”

  “After a while it gets to be all the same, doesn’t it? A lot of drinking, loud talking, and equally loud laughter.” That hadn’t always been his attitude. Yet lately Trey had noticed that rowdy nights spent carousing had lost much of their excitement and fun. “So what are your plans instead?”

  “I haven’t really made any. But after two days of the crowds and noise, a quiet dinner somewhere sounds good.”

  The prospect appealed to him, too. But he knew the unlikelihood of that happening. “I don’t think there’s a place in town where you can have a quiet dinner this weekend. But I do know a good place to eat.”

  “Not another picnic,” she teased.

  His answering smile was wide. “No. I had in mind a sit-down dinner with someone else doing the serving. Are you game?”

  “What time?”

  “Whenever you say.”

  Halting, she checked her watch, made some quick mental calculations, then cast a thoughtful look over the chute area. “I’m losing the natural light. From now on it’s going to be a battle to get a good shot with the sun at this angle. Since the rodeo will still be going on tomorrow, there isn’t any reason why I can’t wrap it up for today and head back to the motel. Say, an hour to shower and change, and I could meet you for dinner sometime between six-thirty and seven. Is that all right?”

  “That will give me time to clean up, too.”

  “You need it. There’s blood on your shirt and a few crusty bits of it near your temple.” Without thinking, Sloan reached up and touched the places, then felt a modicum of surprise at the sense of freedom she felt to do it. It was rare for her to be the one to initiate contact. “But don’t get the bandage wet,” she added in quick admonishment.

  “Yes ma’am.” The laughing glint in his eyes was at direct odds to his polite answer. “Do you want to meet in the lobby, or shall I come by your room?”

  “Let’s make it my room.” The answer was given in an off-hand delivery, but she felt anything but off-hand the instant the words were uttered. Her choice suggested a familiarity and intimacy between them that they hadn’t yet reached. With a sudden, heady rush of certainty, Sloan realized it was something she wanted.

  “I’ll be there with bells on,” Trey told her, his voice a little husky with promise.

  “With bells on,” she repeated and released a short, soft laugh. “What a strange expression. I’ve never understood what it means.”

  “It’s not so strange,” Trey stated. “It goes back to the old days out West. Back then, when a cowboy got dressed up to go to town, he attached jingle-bobs to his spurs.”

  “Really?” She injected the single word with both doubt and hope.

  “Really.”

  “I’m glad. I like the story.” Again her gaze strayed to the chutes. “I wonder if anybody is wearing jingle-bobs on their spurs. That would be a great shot.” Sloan caught herself and laughed. “That better wait until tomorrow or I won’t be ready when you knock at my door tonight.” With an odd reluctance, she moved away from him. “See you in a bit.”

  As far as Trey was concerned, the time couldn’t pass soon enough. Turning, he headed in the direction of the pickup parked in the infield.

  Six-thirty on the dot Trey arrived at the door to Sloan’s motel room. There was a dark sheen to his hair, still damp from his recent shower, and his face was shaved smooth of any end-of-the-day stubble. Blood ran hot and strong through his veins, part of the heady anticipation that put the dark and eager sparkle in his eyes.

  A rap of his knuckles on the door drew an immediate and muffled response. “Be right there.”

  The seconds’ wait seemed interminable. At last there came the rattle and click of the security chain and dead bolt. Then the door swung inward.

  “Come in.” Sloan backed away from the opening in further invitation, a bath towel in her hand and a white terry-cloth robe swaddled around her slight frame. Her hair was a tousle of slick, wet strands that framed a face absent of any makeup, revealing a beauty that was absolutely natural. “I’m running a little late, I’m afraid,” she said and turned away, reaching up to briskly towel her wet hair as she retreated into the room. “When I checked with my answering service, there were some calls I had to return, and they took longer than I planned.”

  “No problem,” Trey told her and stepped into the room, closing the door behind him.

  “Have a seat.” Sloan waved a hand at the room’s lone chair. “I promise I won’t be long.”

 
“You don’t have to hurry on my account.” But Trey made no move toward the chair, not with a king-sized bed dominating his view.

  For a moment he stared at its smoothly made surface, the sight of it conjuring up images of the way he wanted the night to end. The rawness of all those desires made him restless and edgy. He took off his hat and turned it absently in his hand, while his glance scoured the rest of the room. Except for a black carry-on bag on the luggage rack and a smaller leather bag on the floor next to it, there was little evidence of the room’s occupant.

  “Are you always this neat?” he asked, thinking of his sister, who would have had her stuff strewn all over.

  Sloan moved back into his line of vision, flipping open the carry-on and retrieving a cosmetic bag from it. “It isn’t so much a matter of neatness as it is organization. Keeping things put away eliminates the risk of leaving something behind and makes the packing process go much faster.”

  “Makes sense.” It also made sense that she could leave at a moment’s notice. It was a knowledge that reached down into his guts and churned them up.

  “It does to me.” Sloan disappeared into the bathroom.

  But she didn’t close the door. Trey gravitated to the opening, arriving as the loud hum of the hair dryer started up. Sloan stood facing the mirror, holding the dryer in one hand while she finger-combed and fluffed with the other. She turned her head to aim the dryer at the other side and caught sight of him in the doorway.

  “This really won’t take long,” she told him, her voice lifting to make itself heard above the dryer’s noisy hum. “I just want to get it damp-dry.”

  “No hurry. We’ve got all night,” Trey replied, but his mind locked on the night thing.

  Remnants of the shower’s steam edged the bathroom mirror, beading into moist droplets. Its presence prompted Trey to notice the bathroom’s excessive warmth and heavy humidity. His glance strayed to the combination tub and shower and the wet sheen of its sides.