by Janet Dailey
“The coffee table.”
He waited until she sat down on the sofa, then placed the tray in front of her. “Feeling better, are you?” he observed.
“A little.” The easy way Sloan answered offered its own reassurance. “A part of me still resents how suspicious your family behaved tonight—and for no good reason.”
Trey could have argued that point, but the fire was out and he didn’t want to fan it back to life. “Considering all the trouble in the past, it’s only natural for them to be leery, especially when the memory is so fresh.”
“Uncle Max had no part of that,” she stated firmly as she removed the plate cover. “He told me so himself.”
“What do you mean?” Trey frowned in sudden wariness.
“I talked to him,” Sloan replied in unconcern.
“When? Tonight?” He stared at her in disbelief.
“Yes.” The minute she looked up, all the ease left her expression, and she tilted her head in defiance. “Why? Is something wrong with that? Don’t tell me I’m not supposed to talk to him anymore?”
“I never said that,” Trey protested.
“You didn’t have to,” Sloan retorted. “You looked at me like I just committed a cardinal sin.”
“I was surprised,” he said in his own defense. “It never occurred to me that you would call him.”
“Well, I did. Did you think your family were the only ones who were curious why he never mentioned that there had been contact between his family and yours?”
“And what was his”—Trey started to say “excuse” but quickly changed it—“answer?”
“He explained that I sounded so happy when I told him I was engaged to you, he had been reluctant to mention the things Boone had done.” Sloan paused, suddenly turning earnest. “I don’t think you understand, Trey. He’s such a proud man. He has to be ashamed of what his son did. I know that’s why he must find it so painful to talk about.”
The sympathy in her voice touched a nerve. As far as Trey was concerned, there was no man less deserving of it than one who shifted all the blame onto his dead son just to keep his own name clean.
“Are you sure we’re talking about the same Max Rutledge?” he challenged tightly. “The one I met would only be ashamed that his son got caught.”
“How dare you say that!” Sloan erupted in anger. “You don’t know him at all!”
“And you do? I thought you said you were never that close. Yet here you are, claiming to understand how he feels. Which is the truth, Sloan?”
“I have known that man all my life.” Every word was carefully and firmly enunciated, a tight anger trembling in her voice. “How many times have you met him? Once? Twice?”
Working to haul in his temper, Trey looked at her for a long second. “One of the first things I was taught as a boy was how to recognize a rattlesnake. It doesn’t matter whether it’s coiled and ready to strike or just slithering through the grass, it still has fangs and venom. Only a fool is blind to that.”
“Uncle Max is a rattlesnake now, is he?” Sarcasm was thick in her voice.
A muscle leaped convulsively along his clenched jaw. “I think we’d better agree to disagree where Max Rutledge is concerned and just drop the subject.”
“Fine,” she snapped and jerked the napkin across her lap.
The solution was far from a satisfactory one, and Trey knew it. At the same time he couldn’t pretend that Rutledge was innocent of any wrongdoing, not even to please Sloan. And she refused to concede the possibility of his guilt. Which left no area for compromise.
Swept by a sudden raw energy, Trey pivoted away from her and muttered, “I’ll throw another log on the fire.”
Before he could take the first step toward the wood box, the phone rang. Trey swung around to answer it. When he saw the way Sloan’s glance ricocheted from the phone to him, suspicion reared its head.
“Was Uncle Max going to call you back, or should I answer it?” he challenged smoothly.
“You can answer it. I’m eating.” She dipped a fork into the vegetable medley on her plate, all cool and stiff. “But if it is Uncle Max, I’ll talk to him.”
One rigid stride carried him to the telephone. He snatched the receiver from its cradle and carried it to his ear. “This is Trey,” he said curtly.
A man’s voice spoke above a background din of music and voices. “Is Johnny there?”
“Johnny?”
“Yeah, I was given this number and told to ask for Johnny. This is the Calder Ranch, isn’t it?”
“It is, but Johnny isn’t here. Who is this?” Trey couldn’t place the man’s voice.
“My name’s Al. I’m the bartender at The Oasis. We got one of your cowboys here who’s too drunk to stand, let alone walk or drive. Sounded like he said his name was Tank, but it’s probably Hank.”
“No, it’s Tank,” Trey acknowledged.
“Well, Tank is tanked. He said this Johnny fella would come get him.”
“There’s bound to be other Triple C hands there who can give him a ride home.”
The initial response was a partially muffled, “Yeah, yeah, I’ll be right there.” The promise obviously was issued to someone else. “Look, this place is packed,” he said to Trey. “I haven’t got time to poll the customers and find out who works where. Donovan said I should call out of courtesy since a lot of our business comes from the Triple C. But I don’t really care whether the guy spends the night in the drunk tank or not.”
Sighing in grim resignation, Trey glanced in Sloan’s direction, but she appeared oblivious to his conversation. “Give me an hour,” he told the bartender.
“That’s all you got,” the man replied and hung up.
Trey pushed down the disconnect button, then released it, and punched in Johnny’s phone number. Sloan continued to ignore him. Trey waited for the phone to ring. Instead, the intermittent buzz of a busy signal came over the line.
Turning, he said to Sloan, “That was the bartender at The Oasis. I guess Tank passed out. I have to run into town and get him. There and back, it’ll probably take me a couple hours—maybe longer with this snow.”
“Be careful.” The phrase sounded more like a perfunctory statement than an expression of concern.
“I will.” He was almost irritated enough to leave it at that. But Sloan was pitting her will against his. As much as he had always admired her strength and determination, this was something he couldn’t allow to continue. “While I’m gone, you can think about this,” he told her. “You’re my wife, Sloan, even when I totally disagree with you. So get that damned chip off your shoulder.”
Her eyes flashed to him in surprise, but he was already striding toward the door. Downstairs, Trey paused long enough to inform his mother where he was going and why, then headed to the door and collected his coat and hat from the rack.
Snow covered the windows of the pickup. While he let the engine warm up, Trey brushed the snow from the windshield and side mirrors, then took a few swipes at the side windows as well before he slid behind the wheel.
The ranch yard was blanketed in white, all previous tracks obliterated by the new-fallen snow. And more flakes continued to fall when he reversed away from The Homestead. On impulse, he pointed the pickup toward the Taylor house.
Johnny’s mother came to the door when Trey knocked. Rather than track snow into the house, Trey waited on the porch while she went to get Johnny.
“Something wrong?” Those were the first words Johnny spoke when he came to the door.
“I got a call from the bartender at The Oasis. Tank’s drunk,” Trey explained. “I’m headed into town to go get him. Somebody will have to drive his pickup back. Want to ride along?”
“He’s drunk?” Johnny said in surprise. “Hell, it ain’t even half past nine. ’Course, he did take off right after he picked up his paycheck. It’d be just like that fool to try to drink it up in one night. Let me grab my coat and I’ll be right with you.”
Taking
him at his word, Trey retraced his footsteps to the pickup. Johnny climbed into the truck only seconds after Trey did. The minute the door closed after him, Trey set off, aiming for the east lane that would take them to Blue Moon.
“Can’t help wondering why he called you,” Johnny mused. “Tank knows you’ve got a wife with a little one on the way.”
“The bartender asked for you when he called.” Snowflakes swirled in the pickup’s headlight beams, and the wipers maintained a fast, steady cadence to prevent the flakes from accumulating on the windshield. “I figure Tank got the phone numbers mixed up and gave him ours instead of yours.”
“More than likely,” Johnny agreed. “I don’t imagine your little woman was too happy about you going out on a night like this, though.”
“She was fine with it.”
Trey’s somewhat clipped response suggested something entirely different to Johnny. He ran a considering glance over Trey’s profile, noting the closed-up expression on his rawboned features, visible in the dim glow of the dashboard lights.
“Glad to hear it,” Johnny replied. “I know some women can get real emotional when they’re carrying and fly off the handle at the smallest thing.”
“When did you become such an expert?” Trey mocked.
“I remember how touchy my mother was when my little brother came along so unexpected-like. Dad always claimed that no matter what he said, it was the wrong thing. She’d either bust into tears or blow up like a rank bull out for blood. I learned real quick to walk soft around her. ’Course, after little Joey was born, she was fine again. Kelly tells me it’s a hormone thing that makes their emotions get all out of whack. So it wouldn’t surprise me if your wife’s a bit testy.”
“She’s a little more sensitive, but that’s about all.” Trey wished he could blame hormones for their current rift, but there was more to it than that.
“You’re lucky, then,” Johnny said and lapsed into silence.
Not in a mood for idle talk himself, Trey made no attempt to break the silence. Instead, he focused his attention on the snow-covered road ahead of them, its track delineated by the fence posts that ran parallel to it.
A few miles from the Triple C’s east gate, Johnny remarked, “The road crews are gonna be busy tomorrow plowing off all this snow. It sure won’t melt in a hurry, not as deep as it’s getting.”
“According to the forecast, we could get as much as a foot.”
“Let’s just hope that wind don’t start howling,” Johnny murmured.
Snowplows had already been at work on the highway, exposing the bare pavement when they reached it. With a cleared road ahead of him, Trey increased the pickup’s speed. It wasn’t long before he spotted the lighted canopy over the gas pumps at Fedderson’s. The lights of The Oasis were a fainter glow on the opposite side of the highway.
There wasn’t an empty parking space to be seen when they pulled into the lot. “This place is really jumping tonight,” Johnny observed.
“We won’t be that long,” Trey said and parked behind another vehicle near the door.
Entering the bar was like walking into a wall of noise. The jukebox was cranked up to its full volume, blasting out a honky-tonk, beer-drinking tune. Voices and laughter were loud, as folks tried to make themselves heard above the din, while the slot machines rattled and rang in the background.
Trey paused a few steps inside and surveyed the crowded area. He spotted dozens of familiar faces, but he didn’t see Tank sprawled anywhere.
“Where’s Tank?” Johnny spoke near his ear.
“We’ll check at the bar.” Trey said and struck out for it.
Donovan was working the far end of the bar, filling drink orders for the waitresses. The second man was closer. Trey shouldered his way between two customers and leaned an arm on the counter.
“Are you Al?” he asked.
“Yeah.” The man looked up from the mug he was filling with beer. “What’ll you have?”
“Where’s Tank? We’re here to pick him up?”
“Who?” The man frowned. Then his expression cleared. “Oh, you mean the cowboy.” He jerked his thumb upward. “Top of the steps, second door on the right.”
Shoving himself back from the bar, Trey swung to Johnny. “Upstairs,” he said in a near shout and repeated the bartender’s thumb signal.
The staircase to the second floor was narrow and dimly lit. They climbed it single file, Trey going first. Bypassing the first door on the hall’s right side, he proceeded to the second. He knocked twice, but with all the noise filtering from downstairs, he doubted that anyone inside could have heard him, certainly not Tank if he was as drunk as the bartender claimed.
Turning the knob, he gave the door a push and followed it when it swung noiselessly inward. The only light in the small bedroom came from a bedside lamp with a scarlet shade that cast a diffused red glow over the room. There was Tank, sprawled across a satin coverlet, his shirt unbuttoned except for the last one.
Trey stopped short when he noticed the redhead crouched on all fours next to the bed, scrubbing at a spot on the rug. As if sensing the presence of someone else, she looked back in irritation.
“This room is occupied, mister,” she snapped.
“I know,” he said. “We’re here to take him home.”
“Too bad you didn’t get here before he threw up on my rug.” She gathered up the rag and a can of spot cleaner, then stood up, giving the hem of her red leather miniskirt a downward tug as she turned her back to both of them.
Johnny walked to the opposite side of the bed and jiggled Tank’s shoulder. “Up and at ’em, Tank.”
But Tank only groaned and flung a limp arm out in protest. “You’re gonna have to carry him out of here,” the girl declared.
“How’d he get this drunk?” Johnny grumbled in annoyance.
“He got into a chugalug contest.” A match made a raspy strike against a rough surface. A flame erupted, and the redhead held it against a candlewick on the bedside table. “Somebody bet him fifty dollars he couldn’t drink two pitchers of beer. Your friend won, so we came up here to celebrate. Then all that beer hit him.”
“Where’s his jacket?” Trey asked.
“In the corner, on the chair,” she answered without turning as a spicy and cloying fragrance drifted through the room. “His hat, too.”
“Time to go home, Tank.” Johnny put a knee on the bed for leverage and hoisted his friend into a sitting position, propping him up against the headboard’s brass posts.
Trey retrieved the coat and jacket from the corner chair, but it took both of them to get Tank into the jacket. Johnny added the final touch, shoving Tank’s hat on his head and pushing it down around his ears. Then he stepped back.
“I’ll carry him,” Trey said.
Johnny waved aside the offer. “I can manage. First we’d better dig those truck keys out of his pocket. I ain’t about to dump him in that cold pickup and have to start searching for the keys to start the thing.”
After a search of his jeans pockets failed to turn up the keys, they found them in his jacket pocket. Johnny tucked them in his own pocket, then rolled a semiconscious Tank onto his shoulder and straightened.
When Trey started to follow him out of the room, the redhead called out, “Wait.”
Pausing, Trey turned back around.
“His wallet.” She held it out. “He’s liable to miss it come morning.”
“Thanks.” He walked back to take it from her and automatically glanced at the edges of some bills that poked out of it.
“Don’t worry,” she said with cynicism. “It’s all there. I didn’t take any.”
“I never said you did,” Trey replied evenly.
Her head lifted in a defiant toss, and she looked at him for the first time straight on. “You thought it.”
Trey stared at the swollen area on her left cheekbone. Its redness already showed signs of purpling into an ugly bruise. “What happened to your face?”
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p; “Your friend.” There was a bitter and angry curl of her lip when she spoke. Again she turned at right angles, showing him only the unblemished side of her face. “It really finishes my chances of making any money tonight.”
“Are you saying Tank hit you?” Trey questioned in disbelief. “I don’t buy that.”
“Why? Because he’s your friend?” she jeered. “You men are all the same. You take one look at someone like me and see a green light to indulge in rough stuff.”
“You’re wrong. In my book, no man ever has a good excuse to hit a woman. I don’t care who she is.” The statement was calmly worded.
She studied him for an instant, a look of wonder stealing into her eyes. “You mean that, don’t you.” Long, red-nailed fingers lightly touched his cheek. “I wish more guys like you visited me.” Before he could guess her intentions, she rose on her toes and planted a quick kiss on his cheek, then drew back. “Thanks.”
Her fingers again touched his cheek. “Sorry, I got lipstick on you.”
“No problem.” He pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his cheek, then tucked it back away. “Thanks for returning Tank’s billfold.” With a nod in parting, Trey headed for the door.
“Your friend didn’t hit me.” Her voice came after him. “He was getting undressed and grabbed me when he started to fall. We both went down, and I cracked my cheek against the foot rail.”
“That, I believe,” Trey replied and stepped into the hall, pulling the door closed behind him.
Johnny was just driving out of the lot in Tank’s pickup when Trey emerged from The Oasis. He tooted the horn and pulled onto the highway. Trey soon followed.
On the plowed and salted highway, the going was relatively easy. Within a few miles, Trey had the red taillights of Tank’s pickup in sight. The driving conditions deteriorated rapidly, though, when he turned onto the main ranch road. Blowing snow reduced the visibility to a matter of yards and created deep drifts that had to be negotiated with care. The last thirty-odd miles to the Triple C headquarters Trey covered at a crawl. It was close to midnight when he finally pulled up in front of The Homestead.
Upon entering the still and darkened house, Trey paused to remove his heavy jacket and snow-encrusted boots. In stocking feet, he made his way to the staircase without bothering to turn on a light. Only one tread creaked under his weight, but that was all that was needed.