KNIGHT IN A WHITE STETSON

by Claire King

  Roy took a long, narrow notepad from the pocket of the shirt that hung on his skeletal torso. "I think that might be a good idea. Why don't you start, Mr. Shaw. Just what did happen to your car, there?"

  Clark struggled with his emotions for a minute. Henry watched his Adam's apple bob heavily in his long neck. He came to a decision with considerable difficulty.

  "I … I must have left the emergency brake off," he said finally, his chin dropping to his chest.

  "Beg pardon?"

  "I said, you pusillanimous, small-town potentate, that I left the emergency brake off." Clark spat the words. A fleck of saliva hit Roy right in the face.

  "Well, what was all that about Calla Bishop, then, Mr. Shaw?" Roy asked, calmly wiping the spittle from his cheek with the back of his hand.

  "It was … we had a…"

  "A lover's quarrel," Henry supplied helpfully. "Calla called him from the ranch to break off their engagement. I heard the whole thing, standing right there in the kitchen. I was eating a delicious slab of that leftover pie of Ruby's, in fact, Roy. Calla said she'd wash the tin and bring it in to Ruby this week. A man could see why Mr. Shaw might be a little upset about the news, and then to have his rental car go into the river like that." Henry gave Clark a sad, compassionate smile. "Isn't that right, Clark?"

  "That's right," Clark mumbled.

  "Making false accusations is a very serious thing, Mr. Shaw," Roy said. Clark leaned his head back and looked up at the cloudless afternoon sky.

  "Yes, I know. I'm very sorry."

  Roy looked over at Henry. "Let's talk about this man who was following Calla, then, why don't we?"

  "I'll come in to the station tomorrow and give you a full report, Roy. Maybe we could pick up Ruby and have her buy us a little lunch, how about that? Write it off on Dupree."

  Roy chuckled and closed his notebook with a snap. "That'd be fine. You won't forget, now? I don't much like the idea of anybody bothering Calla Bishop. She's a hometown girl, after all." He shot a withering look at Clark.

  "You bet," Henry said cheerfully.

  "As for you—" Roy pushed a bony finger to Clark's expensive cotton button-down shirt "—I'm afraid you'll have to pay for hauling that car out of the river. Can't have an old wreck like that down there. Ruins the look of the whole town."

  "Yes, well, we couldn't have that," Clark muttered bitterly. Henry walked to the edge of the river while Roy took Clark's personal check and copied his insurance numbers. The little car was nothing more than a tangled heap of metal on the sandbar. A knight in shining armor. Everyone said she could take care of herself. Henry smiled and walked back to the motel.

  * * *

  Chapter 18

  « ^ »

  "What the hell do you want?" Clark asked when Henry interrupted him at the door of his motel room. There was no longer any heat in his voice. Henry thought he just sounded tired. Too bad, Dartmouth, Henry thought.

  "Step inside."

  Henry kicked open the unlatched door and shoved Clark through the doorway with a push between his shoulder blades.

  "What do you want now?" Clark appeared startled at the shove. The man had been playing hardball, Henry thought, hiring thugs, attempting to steal family legacies. But he was a little better suited to slow-pitch.

  Henry glanced down. His boots squished in the wet carpet. Calla'd been in this room, he thought with affection as he noted the running toilet and the flooded bathroom. When his woman took her revenge, she did it right. He smothered another smile and poked a finger on Clark's heaving chest.

  "Sit."

  Clark slumped onto the bed.

  "Why did you hire someone to watch Calla?"

  Clark didn't even inquire how he'd known she was being watched. He didn't care anymore. No real-estate deal was worth this kind of grief. His father would simply have to accept that.

  "I didn't. Dupree did. I just footed the bill."

  "Dupree? The banker? Why the hell would he want her watched?"

  "He wanted to keep an eye on her. I don't know why. Thought she'd bolt, make her own deal, refinance with another bank, I don't know. I don't care. He's an idiot. He had an idea this was some sort of covert spy operation instead of a business deal. Go ask him why he did it. Just leave me the hell alone."

  Henry's mind raced. Dupree.

  He'd make a stop at the bank, visit a little terror upon Dupree, make a call to the banking commission. And then he had to get back to the ranch. See Calla. Tell her this had all been unnecessary from the start. He'd save her ranch for her. He'd do anything for her.

  Clark was studying him now, noting the vicious intent in the bigger man's eyes, the clench of his fists. He laughed weakly, evilly.

  "You're in love with her." The idea made him laugh harder. "You're in love with that cowgirl. Perfect. Just perfect." He'd been willing to marry her, had been dying to sleep with her, but he'd never once entertained the notion a sane man would fall in love with such a wildcat. "You're perfect for each other."

  Henry ignored the man on the bed and made his way to the door.

  "You do her yet?" the man on the bed was asking. "I bet she's wild in the sack. I bet she rides you like a…"

  He never got the sentence out of his mouth. He screamed and fell back on the bed, his hands clutched to his spurting nose.

  "You … you broke my … you broke my nose."

  "I hope so. I've wanted to for weeks."

  "I'm…" Clark spit out a mouthful of blood that had gushed from his nose into his mouth. "I'm going to … sue you, Beckett."

  "Give it your best shot, Dartmouth." Henry watched as Clark curled into a fetal position. He shook his head. "You wouldn't have made it five minutes on the Harvard hockey team."

  * * *

  The man stepped into the road from a stand of willows and flagged Calla down. She slowed the old pickup. A stranded hunter, she thought, this far from town. She sighed in resignation. She was still a couple miles from home and she'd wanted to get in and get cleaned up before Henry got back. Begging forgiveness demanded of a woman she look her best. And if she was going to propose to a man—for the second time in two weeks, she thought with a little grimace—she ought to take a bath first.

  And then she'd tell him she planned to sell Hot Sulphur Lake Ranch. For love. For him. That nothing, not 114 years of family history, not promises, not pride, could make her leave him again.

  She pulled up to the man who'd waved her down.

  "Dupree. I can't believe this."

  "Calla." Dupree nodded at her politely as he climbed into the cab of the truck. "I thought you'd be heading home about now."

  "What are you doing out here? Where's your rig?"

  "Down in that patch of willows. I was heading out to your place anyway when I went by that little scene you were kicking up at the motel. I reckon your engagement's off? I figured you'd never go through with it. Lucky I had an alternate plan."

  "Your plans are crap. I can't believe I didn't figure out you were in on this with Clark. I'm calling the Feds in the morning. I can think of one or two laws you've broken in the past six months, and I'm sure they'll be able to think of a couple more, don't you?"

  "You can't prove a thing, Calla. All I did was act as a go-between for the developers and one of my clients."

  "Bull. You tried to extort my ranch right out from under me, Dupree, and you know it."

  "You'll have a hell of time getting that to stand up in court," Dupree said. Calla noticed his voice was strangely calm. It was also devoid of the usual Dupree clichés.

  Calla shrugged. "I don't guess I'll have to, Dupree. My feeling is the accusation will be enough for a small-town bank like Paradise Savings and Loan. You'll go under like a horseshoe in a stock tank."

  The skin of Dupree's tanned face went a sickly white. "That wouldn't be particularly fair to your fellow investors, would it, Calla?"

  "I can't think of a fellow investor who has more than a hundred grand in your bank, can you? The FDIC will c
over everybody, if you aren't bought out by somebody bigger by then, anyway. Paradise will be better off without you, Dupree. And they'll know it soon enough."

  "You're a cast-iron little bitch, you know that, Calla? You McFadden women have all been cast-iron bitches, along down the line."

  "It's what makes us so appealing. Now, get out of my truck, Dupree. If you're broke down, you can just walk the thirty miles to town."

  "You smug little bitch."

  "You're getting repetitive, Dupree." Calla turned to the little man. She was met with a vicious stare and one very large, very deadly-looking 9mm pistol. "Holy hell. You really have lost your mind, haven't you, you idiot?"

  "I haven't lost my mind, Calla. Now drive."

  "Are you going to shoot me, Dick?"

  "If I have to. But first I'm going to get your signature on the deed to your ranch."

  Calla laughed. "And how are you going to explain that to everyone?"

  "Easy as pie. We're going up to that old elk camp at Tellum Canyon, and you're going to sign and past-date a deed for me. When you die from a nasty fall off one of those horrible rimrock cliffs you're so fond of climbing, it'll just be another tragic accident in the long line of tragic accidents that have plagued your family for years." He shrugged. "Though, if you broke up with Shaw this afternoon, we'll just all assume you couldn't take the heartbreak and tossed yourself off. I'll tell everybody you signed the deed over when you were in my office last week. It was the smart thing to do. Not only does Paradise get free of the McFadden line once and for all, but the bank gets the ranch. I'll have to fight the developers off with a stick. When it's sold, I'll get the bank's money back, a little commission of my own, and whatever I can skim off the top." He winked at his own resourcefulness. "I know just how to do it. Been doing it for years. What that place is worth, I could make fifty, sixty grand, easy money."

  "You'd kill me for a measly fifty grand?" Calla shook her head in disgust. "You're delusional, Dick. Nobody's going to buy this story. Is this the best you could come up with?"

  Dupree shrugged. "On short notice. It'll do."

  "Get serious. Ruby, for one, will know I never signed any deed."

  Dupree shrugged. "Even if she talks, which she undoubtedly will, she won't be able to prove a thing. I'll have the signature on the deed. And that's all that counts."

  "No one will believe you, Dupree," Calla insisted.

  "People always believe me." Dupree grinned at her "I'm very important in this town, you know."

  "Dick, you're about as important in this town as knapweed. And just as hard to get rid of."

  But for all her bravado, Calla's heart had started a relentless hammering. She knew he was right. People would believe him. Calla's daredevil disposition was the stuff of legend in Paradise. It would surprise no one if she slipped on a rimrock cliff and plunged to her death. It would also surprise no one that she'd signed over the ranch to Dupree. Everyone in town knew it had been in trouble since the day her mother died.

  Nope. No one would be surprised.

  Except Henry.

  Henry would find out the truth. Henry would string Dupree up so high he'd dangle forever. She cheered briefly. Henry would avenge her.

  Not that she wanted to be avenged, particularly. She'd much rather be alive.

  Well, she just wouldn't let Dupree kill her. The man was thirty years her senior and although he'd done his share of hunting in the hills above the Hot Sulphur, no one knew those mountains better than she did. She'd figure out something.

  * * *

  "Where's Calla?"

  The trio around the kitchen table gaped at him. As well they should. He looked like a madman.

  "Wasn't she in town?" Jackson asked.

  "Yes. But she came back here. Didn't she? Is she in the barn?"

  "No, I haven't seen her come in. Henry, what in the world is the matter with you?"

  Henry had gone to the bank straight from the Paradise, but found it closed up tight. Not even that nice old woman from Helen's wedding, the pie baker, the wife of the skinny sheriff, was behind the teller's counter. He'd known instantly that his Calla was in real trouble.

  And now it had been more than an hour since he watched her drive out of town. He had to get to Calla.

  He darted across the kitchen, yanking the phone off its wall cradle, punching in the series of numbers Pete had once proudly told him even the president didn't have access to. He ignored the question.

  Lester glared at him. "Ain't you even got the decent manners to welcome us back from our honeymoon, you pissant? Or are you too hot to trot…"

  "Quiet, Lester," Jackson said. He stood. "You better tell me what's got you so riled up, son."

  "I want to talk to Fish," Henry barked into the phone.

  "Henry…"

  "Then give me the colonel." Henry slapped a hand over his eyes and squeezed at his temples with thumb and middle finger. His teeth were bared. Even Lester was a little taken aback. "It's Johannsen and if you ask me one more question, I'm going to reach through this phone and yank out your jugular."

  "Criminy," Lester breathed. He groped for Helen's hand.

  "Frank, here." The colonel's voice bristled with impatience. "You've got nerve calling this number, Johannsen. I'll give you that much."

  "Shut up. Where's Pete?"

  "What?"

  "Where's Pete, you damn simpleton?"

  Unbelievably, Henry heard a chuckle across the phone line. "You losing your temper, Mitch? I didn't know you could. And was that a swearword you just used? You must have thawed a little of that ice in your veins since you've been diddling that little cowgirl." There was an ominous pause. "Pete always has the best information around. He tells me you still got those diskettes stashed somewhere."

  A sickening chill went down Henry's spine. Maybe this wasn't hometown trouble after all. Maybe Calla had nothing to fear from that little fireplug of a banker. Maybe she should have been afraid of Mitchell Henry Johannsen and all his vile secrets all along.

  Helen nearly jumped in her husband's bony lap at the look that crossed Henry's face. Jackson was frozen in place, fear for his daughter draining the blood from his head.

  Henry spoke slowly, menacingly, into the phone. "Listen to me, Colonel. I'm only going to ask you this one time. Do you have her?"

  "The cowgirl? You lost her already, Johannsen? You never could keep a woman."

  "Where is she? If you've touched one hair—"

  "I don't have her," Frank shouted indignantly. "What the hell kind of criminal do you think I am?"

  Henry threw his head back, eyes shut tight, and growled his frustration.

  "Pete, then?"

  "Look, Johannsen, I'm not saying I wouldn't take you out at the first opportunity. I hate your stinking guts, and the minute I figure out where you've stashed those diskettes, you'd better be on a plane to the South Pole. But I don't have your cowgirl, and Fish is on a carrier in the Pacific. He went out this morning. He doesn't have her, either."

  "Get him on the phone."

  "You're whacked, you know that. I don't take orders from you."

  "Get him, Frank. I want to talk to him in the next two minutes or everything I've got on you goes to the press." He gave him the number of the ranch house and slammed down the phone.

  Henry whirled on the terrified trio watching him.

  "Dupree's got Calla. Don't ask me how I know, I don't have time to tell you." And couldn't anyway. Not for certain. His ordered, careful brain was working on instinct now. And he knew it was as right about this as it had ever been about anything.

  "Well, so damn what?" Lester exploded. "You got us scared to death because Calla's gone somewhere with Dick Dupree? You're crazy, you pissant, and if my wife wasn't here, I'd whup you to within…"

  "Shut up, Lester!" Jackson snapped, never taking his eyes from the young man in front of him. If he knew anything, he knew this man's fear. It had crawled into his gut the minute he'd walked through that kitchen door. His baby
girl was in trouble. Horrible trouble. He also knew Henry would do anything to keep her from harm. "What's Dupree want with her, son?"

  Henry raked a hand down his face. "I don't know, exactly. He and Shaw were trying to scam her out of the ranch." And if she had even one little bruise on her lovely body, or she shed even one tear over this, he was going to hunt Dartmouth down and pound him into sand. "Dupree's desperate. He even had Calla followed. I don't know why he's got her now, but I want her back."

  Lester grunted, but looked plenty nervous. "Hell, boy, Dupree wouldn't kidnap Calla. She'd kill him."

  "Elk Camp," Jackson spoke calmly. "He'd take her to Elk Camp. It's the only place he knows around here."

  The phone shrilled. Henry was across the room clutching it in his hands before the first ring faded.

  "Pete."

  "Lost your cowgirl, Mitch? She's gonna have your hide."

  "I know. I know where she is, though, and I'm going out to get her. I need your help."

  "Yeah, well, I'm not exactly in the neighborhood. I can get a chopper out and be there in two hours."

  "Do it."

  "Where?"

  Henry turned to Jackson. "Where?"

  Jackson took the phone out of his hand. There were tears in his eyes, and he made no attempt to wipe them away. "Go find my girl, Henry. I'll tell this man what he needs to know."

  He headed for the door. Lester was already there. "Move, old man," Henry snarled.

  "Don't you 'old man' me, pissant. You don't know where Elk Camp is, and I do." He opened the door for Henry and gave him a little shove for good measure as he went though it. "You'd be wandering around for weeks before you found it, Californian."

  * * *

  Chapter 19

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  Seven o'clock and she was still alive. That was certainly something. By now, Henry would have returned to the ranch and discovered her missing.

  And, pretty soon, he'd come and get her. She knew it with the same, unshakable confidence that allowed her to believe that, by whatever force of dumb luck or fate, Henry had fallen in love with her. He loved her, and he wouldn't let this puny little banker toss her off a cliff. Henry was her knight in shining armor. She'd just have to be patient until he got here.