Calder Storm

by Janet Dailey

“Careful.” Max raised a cautioning hand to check Tara. “No one is trying is trying to hurt you, Sloan. We’re here to help.”

  “There is nothing wrong with me,” she insisted, more forcefully than she intended. “You make it sound like I’m crazy. I’m not.”

  “Of course you aren’t,” Max soothed. “You’ll be fine. We just need to get you and the baby home. My plane’s right outside. Come on. Let me take you home.”

  As the Suburban barreled north along the highway, Trey kept his gaze fixed on the empty road ahead and a heavy foot on the accelerator. Laredo lounged in the passenger seat, a relaxed looseness about him that was at odds with the vigilance of his gaze.

  A thick silence lay between the two men, as it had since Trey had filled Laredo in on the few details of Sloan’s phone call. Laredo had asked only a few questions and offered no speculation on what awaited them when they reached their destination. Neither had Trey. Privately, though, Trey thought there was a fifty-fifty chance Sloan had told him the truth.

  The roofs of Blue Moon jutted into the skyline. Trey reduced the Suburban’s speed at the sight of them and started watching for the entrance road to the abandoned pit mine. He spotted it about the same time he noticed a vehicle parked beyond it on the shoulder, its hood raised. The longer he studied it, the heavier the certainty settled in his gut.

  Braking, he made the turn onto the mine road and drove all the way to the padlocked gate. With an economy of movement, Trey climbed out of the vehicle, walked to the back, opened its rear door, and removed a rifle and box of shells from its trunk.

  “It looks like it might be a trap after all,” he told Laredo and nodded in the direction of the vehicle parked up the road. “That looks like the car Donovan usually drives.”

  “I wondered if you noticed it,” Laredo drawled, “Or if you even knew what he used for wheels.”

  “You did warn me to check the shadows,” Trey reminded him with a slightly grim smile and finished loading the rifle. “Sorry I can’t supply you with a rifle, but we only keep one in the Suburban.”

  “No problem. I carry a friend in my boot.”

  “Ready?”

  Laredo nodded. “Let’s do it.”

  “Tara said they were at the old mine office. We’ll make that our first stop.”

  Ignoring the padlocked gate, they slipped under the side fence and angled toward the office, skirting the dirt road. Halfway there, Laredo signaled with two fingers and pointed to the two planes parked some distance apart. Trey nodded in response, aware of the new questions they raised and recognizing that he had to be ready for anything.

  As they neared the building, he saw that its front door stood open. Immediately he altered his course, steering clear of its field of vision to approach the building from the side. Before he reached the shelter of its wall, he caught the sound of voices coming from inside. The alert tilt of Laredo’s head told Trey that he heard them as well.

  “You’re frightened, Sloan. Too frightened to know what you’re doing.”

  Laredo caught his eye and mouthed the name Rutledge. Trey nodded, recognizing the man’s voice. But who else was in there with him? Sloan for sure, probably Tara and Donovan. He held up four fingers, then added a thumb and shrugged his uncertainty, Laredo nodded agreement and inched closer to him.

  “If this place was built to code,” he said in a low murmur, “it has to have two exits. I’ll slip in the back way. Give me five minutes.”

  Trey didn’t ask how Laredo intended to deal with a door that was bound to be locked. A man resourceful enough to carry a gun in his boot wouldn’t be stopped by a lock. Trey watched him slip along the outer wall, barely rustling the weeds growing up against it, then inched closer to the corner himself, trying to practice the same brand of stealth.

  “I’m not getting on that plane with you, Max, and that’s final.” Sloan’s voice rang out, sharp and determined.

  But it was the force of her assertion that raced through Trey like a fire, erasing all doubt about where she stood. He was eager now for the confrontation that was to come as he realized just how much was riding on it.

  “You don’t seem to understand the danger you’re in,” Rutledge insisted with his first show of anger. “You don’t think the Calders are going to welcome you back with open arms, do you? Sure, they want the baby. But not you. If you set foot on that ranch, the chances are you’ll never leave it. My God, Sloan, these people have a man on their payroll who’s wanted for murder. That’s their answer to everything. Violence. Why else would they have him?”

  “Am I supposed to believe that simply because you say so?” Sloan was too angry to care what she was saying. “I know you wish that I’d be that stupid, but I’m not.”

  “You think that’s a lie, do you?” Rutledge jerked a set of folded papers from inside his suit jacket and thrust it to her. “Read it yourself. Among his many aliases is the name Laredo Smith.”

  “The hell you say.” Donovan grinned broadly while Sloan stared at the papers with a sudden feeling of dread. “I knew the minute I laid eyes on him, he could be lethal.”

  “Take it.” Max shook the papers at her. “And tell me you can still trust the Calders after you read this. Or maybe you just don’t have the stomach for the truth.”

  It was like the jab of a spur to her pride. Reacting to it, Sloan snatched the papers from his outstretched hand and moved away, keeping Jake tightly cradled in one arm. One-handed, she shook open the folds. A quick skim of the first page confirmed everything Max had said and more.

  “This is talking about something that happened over twenty years ago—before he ever came to the Triple C.” It was hardly justification. Yet it was the only argument Sloan could find.

  “Doesn’t it make you wonder why they would harbor a fugitive all this time?” Rutledge challenged with a certain smugness.

  “Not as much as it makes me wonder if this document is real, or something you made up to trick me.” Sloan countered. “It would be rather simple for someone with your money. You can buy anything. Even a lie. Which is what this probably is.”

  “Let me see them.” Curious, Tara reached to claim the papers.

  Sloan immediately held them behind her back. “This piece of art is something Max gave me.”

  “Stop it, Sloan,” Tara snapped with impatience. “I know something about forgeries. Let me look at them.”

  Distracted by Tara’s persistence, Sloan failed to notice when Donovan bent toward Rutledge and said in an undertone. “We may have company. I caught a glimpse of shadow outside.”

  In response, Rutledge looked directly at Sloan. “We have no more time to waste arguing about this. I’ll ask you one more time—are you going to get on that plane or not?”

  Sloan answered with equal sharpness. “Never!”

  “So be it.” Rutledge glanced sideways at Donovan and nodded.

  His hand moved to the controls of his wheelchair, sending it into a pivoting turn toward the open door. At the same instant she was taking in that sight, Sloan saw Donovan coming toward her.

  “I told you I’m not getting on that plane.” Instinctively, she drew back from him.

  “Stay here if that’s what you want.” His broad, muscled shoulders moved in a seemingly careless shrug. In the next instant, the shrug became a precursor of a lightning-fast movement that wrested the baby from her grasp. “But your kid’s going on that plane.”

  “No!” With that strangled outcry, Sloan threw herself at him. But with one back-handed sweep of his arm, Donovan flung her aside. The impetus of the blow sent her sprawling to the floor. Sloan fell hard, pain shooting through her knee, hip, and shoulder. Fighting through it, she struggled to rise as a frantic Tara sank to the floor beside her, hands reaching in a helpless need to do something.

  “Sloan. Are you hurt?”

  Deaf to everything but the uncertain whimpers coming from her son, Sloan scrambled awkwardly to her feet, pressing a hand to her sore hip. Only vaguely was she aware of the p
ainful tingling in her knee.

  Rutledge observed the first hobbling step she took after Donovan said, “Let’s go. She’ll follow.”

  Five minutes hadn’t passed yet, but time had run out. Trey couldn’t wait for Laredo to get into position. He lunged into the doorway, blocking the exit, and snapped the rifle to his shoulder, cocking the hammer and sighting down the barrel at Rutledge.

  “You better hold it,” Trey warned. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  In a fraction of a second, his senses registered a dozen details at once—the building’s dusty and closed-up odors, the sight of Rutledge in his wheelchair, with the muscle-bound Donovan off to the side, a small fist waving from the blanket-wrapped bundle clutched in one arm, the gasping call of his name by Sloan, the feel of the cold steel in his hand, and the heavy, solid thud of his own heartbeat.

  Donovan backed up a step, his glance flicking to the rifle in Trey’s grip. Rutledge reversed his chair by a foot as well, then stopped, his hard gaze boring into Trey.

  “You’re bluffing, Calder,” Rutledge mocked. “You’re not going to shoot—not in such close quarters where even a slight miss could mean it’s your son who might get hit.”

  “I don’t miss a sitting target.” Trey shifted the barrel, aiming at Rutledge.

  “Be careful.” Tara’s plaintive voice came from his left. “Don’t hurt the baby.”

  His side vision gave Trey a glimpse of Tara pushing Sloan farther from Donovan and Rutledge. He could feel Sloan’s eyes on him, but he didn’t allow himself to look at her. A sudden sharp wail came from his infant son.

  “You’re scaring your boy, Calder.” Donovan smiled and lightly jiggled the bundle in his arm. The action served to screen the movement of his other hand producing a short-barreled pistol from his pocket. “I guess this could be called a Mexican standoff, except I’ve got your kid.”

  “Put the rifle down,” Rutledge ordered.

  Briefly, Trey tightened his grip on the weapon and silently debated his chances. But the risk was too great; too many things could go wrong. As much as he wanted to see Rutledge dead, he wanted his son alive more.

  “You win.” He uncocked the hammer and lowered the rifle from his shoulder.

  “Lay it on the floor. Carefully.” Donovan gave a warning emphasis to the last word. The barrel of his pistol tracked along when Trey crouched and slowly set the rifle on the floor. “Now slide it to the side.” Trey did as he was told, then straightened again. “Step inside. Over there.” A twitch of the pistol ordered Trey to the right.

  “Sorry.” Trey never moved, straining to catch some sound that might tell him Laredo had made it inside. “You’ll have to go through me.”

  “You, a half-crazed husband who shows up to take his son at gunpoint? That’s not a problem.” Still smiling coldly, Donovan extended his arm out straight from his body and used Trey’s chest as a target.

  When he saw Donovan’s finger slide onto the trigger, Trey glanced at Sloan one last time.

  Suddenly there was Tara, her face contorted in a strange mask of fury and fear, rushing at Donovan, arms outstretched. Donovan saw her at the last second. He fired just as she struck his arm. Rutledge lurched to the side, but no bullet ripped into Trey. He took a step into the building, intending to charge Donovan, as Tara pulled the baby out of Donovan’s arm, leaving him clutching an empty blanket. Screaming at Sloan to take the baby, Tara held him out to her.

  At almost the same instant, Trey saw Donovan bringing his gun around again. There was too much space between them. Trey dived sideways after his rifle.

  “Sloan!” Laredo shouted from the opening to the rear hall.

  Trey had a glimpse of Sloan running, the baby in her arms, and Tara right behind her. Laredo’s yell had drawn Donovan’s attention. He whipped around and snapped off two quick shots. There was a short cry of pain, and Trey knew somebody had been hit.

  Not Sloan! he thought even as he rolled onto his back, pointed the rifle barrel up, and squeezed the trigger, firing at Donovan just as Donovan shot at him. A bullet plowed into the wall an inch from Trey’s head, and Donovan crumpled to the floor, the pistol falling from loose fingers. Trey’s own muscles went limp for a moment.

  The silence that followed was eerily loud. It didn’t last, as Laredo plunged into the lobby, gun in hand and quickly kicked Donovan’s gun away from his body, then bent to feel for a pulse.

  “Sloan?” Trey asked and forced his limbs to push himself back onto his feet.

  “She and the little one are fine. We’re going to need an ambulance for Tara, though. She’s been hit bad. These two won’t need one.”

  Laredo’s oblique reference to Rutledge had Trey’s glance snapping to the wheelchair and man slumped sideways in it. He felt not an ounce of regret at the man’s death.

  Leaving the rifle on the floor, Trey pulled out the cell phone and placed an emergency call as he headed into the hall. He found Sloan, sitting on the floor, holding the baby and cradling Tara’s head on her lap. Blood streaked the front of her top, and an unnatural pallor was in her face. Then Sloan lifted those midnight blue eyes to him, gazing at him with an inexpressible hunger for all the good things they had shared.

  Gripped by the same feeling, Trey went down on one knee and kissed her with rough need until a tiny fist punched his chest. Drawing back, he caught hold of the little hand and looked with relief at his son.

  Only then did Trey resort to words. “You’re both okay?”

  “Yes.” Her gaze clung to his face an instant before, dropping to the ghostly pale, dark-haired woman lying motionless on the floor. “It’s Tara.”

  “An ambulance is on the way.” That was the only hope Trey could offer.

  Laredo reappeared with a couple of diapers from Sloan’s bag. “Let’s try to put some pressure on the wound with these.” Kneeling, he rolled Tara toward him, exposing her bloodied left side. When he applied the absorbent pads, pressing hard, she groaned.

  Long, black lashes fluttered. She mumbled something that was unintelligible to Trey, but Sloan seemed to understand.

  “Jake’s right here, Tara. He’s fine. You saved him,” Sloan said, an emotional catch in her voice.

  Tara’s red lips curved in something close to a weak smile, and she mumbled again, “…such a beautiful bab…” The rest was lost in a thready sigh.

  Laredo immediately felt for a pulse. “I think we just lost her.”

  Sloan looked at Trey in silent anguish. But there was no time to mourn, as the thudding sound of running feet, more than one set, reached them. “It’s probably the crew,” Trey guessed. “They must have heard the gunshots. Better get the hell out of here, Laredo. The same way you came in.”

  Laredo grinned at him. “You’re right. I was never here.”

  He slipped down the hall at a silent run while Trey helped Sloan to her feet. “Come on. Let’s get Jake a blanket and cover him up.”

  They walked into the lobby just as Tara’s copilot and two of the crew from Rutledge’s plane barged into the building and stopped short at the sight of the two bodies. One took a step toward Rutledge.

  Trey stopped him. “I don’t think the police will want you touching anything.”

  “What the hell happened here?” Tara’s copilot demanded and glanced at the second body. “Who’s that guy?”

  “His name’s Donovan,” Sloan answered.

  Trey could tell by her expression that she was preparing to launch into a recounting of all that happened. He never gave her a chance to start.

  “He moved to Blue Moon last summer and bought the bar up the road. I don’t know much about him except he’s an ex-Marine. He must have had a flashback or something. We’ll probably never know why,” Trey stated, then suggested, “It’ll be best if you wait outside. I know the police will need a statement from all of you.”

  “We didn’t see anything,” one of them protested. “We just heard what sounded like gunshots.”

  “I guess that’s what you tell
the police when they get here,” Trey replied.

  With one more glance at the bodies, the three men walked out and drifted toward their respective aircrafts. Trey watched them a moment, then turned to Sloan.

  Glancing at him, she shook out an extra receiving blanket that had been stowed in her bag. “Why did you tell them that?”

  “Sometimes the truth is too complicated. The story I gave them is much easier to believe,” Trey answered. “As it is, there’s going to be plenty of headlines, with both Tara and Rutledge dead, but the story will be short-lived. Agreed?”

  Sloan didn’t have to think about it. “I do. Stories of vengeance, broken marriages, and lies belong in novels, not the eleven o’clock news.”

  “That’s what I thought.” Understanding flowed between them, a warm and uniting kind.

  Sirens wailed in the distance, a reminder that this wasn’t over yet. Still, Sloan smiled when she spread the blanket on the settee and lay Jake on it. She was fully aware that there was much more they needed to say to each other, but all those words could wait until they were alone.

  Then she remembered something that couldn’t wait.

  “Oh my God. Where are they?” She cast a frantic look around the room.

  “What are you talking about?” Trey frowned.

  By then Sloan had already spotted them, lying on the floor a few feet away. Leaving Jake lying on the blanket, she darted over and scooped up the folded sheets.

  “That’s the information about Laredo that Rutledge gave you,” Trey guessed immediately.

  Sloan nodded and hurriedly began folding the papers into a small square. “The police don’t need to find them,” she said and tucked them inside Jake’s little suit pants before wrapping him in the blanket and gathering him into her arms. Finished, she turned to Trey. “We can burn them after we get home.”

  He moved to her and cupped a hand to her cheek, gratitude, love, and approval shining in his dark eyes. “You know what we call that out here?”

  “What?” Sloan was conscious of the quick hammer of her pulse at his nearness.

  “Riding for the brand,” he said, referring to the oldest term for the pledge of loyalty in the West.