by Janet Dailey
“It’s Wednesday. Tubby seldom has many customers on a weeknight.” Dallas let her tote bag slide to the floor and crossed to his chair, extending her hand in a demanding fashion. “Give me the shotgun, and I’ll lock it up.”
His eyes narrowed in sharp temper. “Don’t you be giving me orders, little girl. I’m not the youngster around here.”
But it wasn’t in Dallas to back down when she knew she was right. She pointed a rigid finger at the tall gun cabinet on the wall next to the television. “Then you go lock it up before you accidentally shoot somebody.”
He glared at her. “How can I when you’re standing in my way?”
“I could throttle you sometimes,” she declared and stalked over to scoop up her tote bag.
Empty Garner levered himself out of the recliner and crossed to the gun cabinet, moving with the side-to-side rocking gait of a man who had spent most of his life in a saddle. “Someday you’re going to be sorry you insisted on this,” he said to her back as Dallas carried her bag of books to the table in the adjoining kitchen. “Especially if Rutledge sends one of his boys prowling around here.”
“You don’t have to worry about Rutledge.” Dallas plunked herself on one of the kitchen chairs, feeling as cranky and out of sorts as her grandfather. Deep down she knew it had nothing to do with the shotgun. “He’s after the Cee Bar now.”
“How do you know that?” Keys rattled on the metal ring as Empty flipped through them, searching for the one for the gun cabinet.
“John Earl was in the café tonight.”
Her news caught Empty off guard. His brow furrowed in thought as he stowed the shotgun in the cabinet and locked the door. He shoved the key ring in his pocket and ambled into the kitchen, still mulling over her statement.
“I know John Earl’s belt doesn’t go through all the loops, but I didn’t think he was dumb enough to volunteer something like that.”
“He didn’t exactly volunteer it,” Dallas admitted and pulled her English Lit book out of the tote bag.
“How did it come up then?”
Dallas sighed in exasperation, regretting that she had mentioned anything about it. But once said, she couldn’t take it back. And knowing her grandfather, he wouldn’t give her a moment’s peace until he knew the whole story. She should have remembered that any mention of Rutledge was like a red cape to a Spanish bull.
As concisely as possible, Dallas told him about the stranger looking for work and asking about the job opening at the Cee Bar, followed by John Earl’s questioning her conversation with the stranger and his cocky response about the unlikelihood of the stranger getting hired.
“He didn’t say it in so many words,” Dallas said in conclusion, “but it was obvious that Evans had been run off.”
Her grandfather nodded in agreement. “More’n likely he got the fear of Rutledge put into him. It’d be easy to buy him off after that. By God, I’d give anything to be around when Rutledge gets his comeuppance.” Acrimony riddled his voice. “He’s played it high and wide too long.”
“Nobody’s stopped him all these years,” Dallas reminded him, stifling her own bitter resentment of the man. “It isn’t logical to think any one will.”
“You’re probably right,” he grumbled and watched as she flipped through the pages of the textbook. “I suppose you’ll be up half the night studying.”
“I have to. Finals start next week.”
“Just remember you need your sleep, too. Studying won’t do you any good if your brain’s too tired to take it in.” With that bit of wisdom delivered, he started to turn away, then swung back, pinning his gaze on her. “Who’s tending the stock out at the Cee Bar?”
“Nobody, I guess,” Dallas replied absently, already turning her attention to the subject before her.
“It wouldn’t bother Rutledge if they went hungry,” Empty muttered, unaware that Dallas had already tuned him out. “He’d probably like it if they starved. Then he could report it to the authorities and cause more trouble for the owners.”
Dallas made an agreeing sound, without having heard a word he’d said.
“What time you got to be at the feed store in the morning?” he demanded suddenly. “Eight o’clock, isn’t it?”
“Eight?” She gave him a blank look, then his question belatedly registered, and Dallas nodded. “Yes, eight o’clock.”
“I’m gonna need to use the truck tomorrow, so I’ll take you to work in the morning.”
“Fine,” she said and went back to her studies.
All was dark, shadows lying thick around the buildings, when Quint pulled into the Cee Bar ranch yard. The single-story house stood off by itself, half hidden under the enveloping shade of a live oak. Quint parked the sedan in front of it, retrieved his duffel bag from the trunk, and crossed to the covered porch that ran along the front.
The door was unlocked, making the spare key in his pocket needless. Quint stepped inside and felt along the wall for the light switch. Finding it, he flipped it on. Light spilled from an overhead fixture, illuminating the center area of the living room while leaving its corners in shadow.
His gaze traveled to the old stone fireplace along the wall. Soot from countless fires stained the front of it, revealing its age. Quint wandered over to it, ignoring the creak and groan of the uneven floorboards when they took his weight.
Idly he ran a hand over the wooden mantelpiece and smiled, recalling the winter holidays he’d spent here when he was eleven, and the many stories his grandfather had told him about the ranch. Quint felt the swirl of history around him.
And it was Calder history. The origins of this ranch and its house dated back to the Civil War era when it had been the home of Seth Calder and his son, Benteen—the same Benteen Calder who had eventually driven a herd of longhorns north to Montana and established the Triple C Ranch.
Well over a hundred years had passed since a Calder had lived on the Cee Bar. That seemed wrong somehow.
Pushing that thought aside, Quint turned from the fireplace and the past, focusing once again on the job he had come to do.
Chapter Three
Wakened by a rooster’s crow shortly after dawn, Quint rolled out of the strange bed and padded into the hallway. The floorboards creaked companionably under his bare feet as he made his way to the closet-sized bathroom off the hall. He wasted little time relieving himself and washing the sleep from his eyes. Back in the bedroom, he pulled a clean set of clothes out of his duffel bag and put them on.
Leaving the rear bedroom, he headed for the kitchen where he’d left the coffeepot and dirty dishes soaking in a sink full of sudsy bleach water the night before. There was just enough coffee in the canister to make a pot. He spooned some into the basket filter and made a mental note to add coffee to his grocery list as he thoroughly rinsed out the now mold-free glass pot.
After plugging in the coffeemaker, he filled its tank with water and listened to it gurgle to life. Just as he poured his first cup, the telephone rang. Quint crossed to the wall-mounted phone and lifted the receiver.
“Cee Bar Ranch.”
His mother’s familiar voice responded, “I was hoping I wouldn’t waken you.”
“You didn’t,” he assured her. “As a matter of fact, I’m drinking coffee and making a grocery list. The cupboards here are bare.”
“What are you going to do for breakfast?” she asked with instant concern.
“I’m looking out the window at a bunch of chickens scratching in the yard. There’s bound to be some eggs somewhere out there waiting to be gathered.”
There was an element of relief in her soft laughter. “Sometimes I forget how resourceful you’ve always been.”
“Now you’ve been reminded.” Affection gentled his voice. “I thought you would have left for Laura’s wedding by now.”
“We’re about to walk out the door, but I wanted to call you first and tell you good-bye.”
“Let Laura and Sebastian know I’ll be thinking about them.”
“I will. And you take care of yourself down there.”
It was his own suspicion of trouble coming that made him admonish, “Don’t start worrying about me, Mom.”
“I’m not,” she said with ease. “I don’t think you realize how proud I am that Jessy wanted you to put things back in order at the Cee Bar. It shows that she recognizes you can shoulder that kind of responsibility. I hope you can see that so we won’t have to argue anymore about how much of an asset you can be to the Triple C.”
“We would just argue about something else,” Quint teased.
That drew the expected protest from her. They talked a few minutes more before exchanging final good-byes. Quint hung up and finished his coffee, then unhooked his denim jacket from the chair back and headed out the door.
The instant the screen door banged shut behind him, the rusty red chickens in the yard ran to meet him, clucking noisily. Their clamor was echoed by the eager whickering of the horses in the small fenced pasture next to the barn.
“We all have empty stomachs this morning, don’t we?” Quint remarked as the chickens crowded around him, clucking and flapping their wings.
They trailed after him, running to keep up with his long strides as he struck out for the barn. The grain barrel was empty of all but the bottom leavings. He dumped that out for the chickens and looked through the rest of the barn. He found a half dozen eggs, but only one square hay bale.
He used an empty grain bucket for an egg basket and set it outside the barn door. The four horses in the corral broke into eager whickers at the sight of Quint with the bucket. A big bay gelding whinnied a shrill protest when he disappeared back inside the barn.
A few seconds later Quint emerged from its shadows, carrying the bale by its twine. Short of the fence, he broke the bale apart and, one by one, tossed its squares into the corral. The landing of the first brought a flurry of flying hooves and bared teeth, but the squabbling soon ended as each horse tore eagerly into its own mound of hay. He watched in grim silence, aware there was too little hay to satisfy their empty bellies and that the few patches of grass in the large corral had already been chewed to the roots.
It was one more thing Quint held against the former ranch manager. Walking off the job without telling anyone was bad enough, but leaving without turning the horses loose was something that Quint couldn’t easily forgive.
After dragging a hose from the barn and filling the corral’s water tank, Quint carried the egg pail to the house and scrambled some eggs. Breakfast finished and washed down with a second cup of coffee, he added his own dirty dishes to the ones still soaking in the sink, stuck the grocery list in his shirt pocket, and plucked the ignition key to the ranch pickup from its hook by the back door.
He wasted thirty minutes trying to get the truck to start before he gave up and climbed behind the wheel of the rental car.
Located well off the more heavily traveled routes, the town of Loury attracted mainly local traffic. Downtown had a deserted feel to it when Quint drove through that morning. The breakfast crowd at the Corner Café had already come and gone, and it was too early for the town’s old-timers to gather there for coffee and their morning bull session.
The grocery store had seven cars in its lot. Quint bypassed it for the time being and drove straight to the feed store on the east end of town. He pulled into the graveled lot and parked next to two pickups that stood in front of the metal building. When he climbed out of the sedan, his glance flicked to the passenger door panel of the truck beside him, and the sign painted on it that read SYKES FEED & GRAIN. The words were an echo of the board sign above the door.
A chalky white dust coated the front windowpanes, obscuring Quint’s view of the interior. But an ingrained caution had him scanning the dim interior for any sign of movement. Upon entering the feed store, he automatically stepped to one side, well clear of the glass door.
Dust motes danced in the few shafts of sunlight that penetrated the windows, and the air had that familiar, musty smell of grain. A grumbling murmur of male voices came from the open doorway that connected the store with its warehouse area.
Quint glanced in their direction just as a female voice called out a somewhat absent “Be right with you.”
Quint was quick to locate the woman. She was seated at a desk well to the rear of the front counter, facing a computer screen, her back to the door. At almost the same instant, he caught the faint, tinny tap of fingers moving rapidly over a keyboard.
He crossed to the counter and idly leaned a hip against it to wait until she was through. After another thirty seconds, she swung her chair around and stood up. She was dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt that stopped at midhip. A cap, emblazoned with the name Sykes Feed & Grain, covered her head, its bill casting a shadow on her face.
As she approached the counter, something about the way she walked nagged at Quint. Not until his curious glance encountered her pale brown eyes did recognition strike. It was Dallas, the waitress from the Corner Café. Pleasure kicked through him, warm and unexpected. He smiled when she faltered in mid-stride, revealing her own surprise at seeing him again.
“I thought you would have been long gone.” Her mouth curved in a small smile that seemed to say that she was glad he wasn’t.
“And I thought you’d be in school.”
“School!” There was a note of incredulity in her short, amused laugh. Then understanding dawned in her expression. “You must have seen me studying. I go to college three nights a week. Second year.” Despite her attempt to sound matter-of-fact, a faint note of pride crept into her voice.
“You’re in college?” His initial assessment of her underwent a rapid revision as he added a few more years to her age.
“That’s right,” Dallas replied, then hesitated, a flicker of regret shadowing her eyes. “If you’re here about a job, I can tell you now—they aren’t hiring.”
“No problem. I’m here to get some grain.”
She shot him a quick, curious look, then masked it with an air of easy efficiency. “You came to the right place. What do you need?”
“One hundred and fifty pounds each of corn and oats, and a hundred pounds of top dress—whatever you carry in the way of a vitamin and mineral pack,” Quint replied, as two men filed into the store from the warehouse.
The taller of the two had a round beer belly and sharp eyes that sized Quint up as a stranger. He threw him a curt nod and mumbled, “Mornin’.”
Quint nodded back.
“Cash or charge?” Dallas asked him.
“Put it on the Cee Bar account,” Quint told her.
Her head snapped up, her look one of disbelief. Before she could say a word, the big man snapped gruffly, “The Cee Bar doesn’t have an account here.”
“Since when?” Quint asked in cool challenge.
The big man hitched his pants higher around his fat belly and swaggered over to the counter, his bulk forcing Dallas to the side. “Since it got closed,” the man replied, matching Quint’s tone.
Quint didn’t hesitate. “In that case, I’ll pay cash.” He pulled a wallet from of his hip pocket. “You do take cash, don’t you?”
Clearly annoyed, the man shifted his glare to Dallas. “What’s he wanting?”
She seemed to deliberately avoid any eye contact with Quint as she read off his request.
When she finished the man grunted and turned his narrowed eyes on Quint. “There’s nobody here to load it for you. Come back in an hour or so, and we’ll see if we can’t get you fixed up.”
“No problem. I’ll load it myself.” Retaining an outward calm, Quint flipped open his wallet and said to Dallas, “How much do I owe you?”
For a long tick of seconds, his question was met with a heavy silence. Never once did Quint acknowledge the hard stare the man directed at him. Instead he kept his attention centered on the sheaf of bills in his wallet.
Finally the man swung a cold look at Dallas and snapped, “Take his money an’ show him
where it’s at.” Off he stalked to the desk area.
Her face was an expressionless mask as she punched the sale into the computerized register, took his money, and handed him back the correct change and a printed receipt. Not once during the entire transaction did she meet his steady gaze.
“This way.” Dallas seemed to push the two words through clenched teeth as she pivoted sharply toward the warehouse door.
She crossed the intervening space with quick, stiff strides. Quint followed at a seemingly leisurely pace, conscious of the anger that emanated from her in waves.
“Corn there. Oats here.” She pointed to two separate rows of fifty-pound bags stacked on wooden pallets.
“Thanks.” He continued past her, dragged the first sack partway off the stack, and hoisted it onto one shoulder. As he turned to carry it out to the car, he saw Dallas manhandling a fifty-pound sack of vitamin and mineral pack onto her shoulder. “I can get that,” he said.
“So can I,” she retorted.
Quint smiled crookedly. “You sound like my aunt,” he said, knowing it was exactly the sort of thing Jessy would say.
“I hope she’s brighter than you are,” Dallas stated, without so much as a glance in his direction as she headed for the wide door that led outside.
But only a deaf person would have missed the caustic sarcasm in her voice. And Quint was far from deaf. He stiffened with a sudden surge of anger and followed her out of the warehouse all the way to his car. He held his tongue long enough to pop the trunk open and dump the sack of corn into it.
“Would you care to repeat that?” he challenged cooly as he hauled the bag off her shoulder and tossed it on top of the other.
She squared around to face him, her glance raking him with a look of disgust mixed with contempt. “You are an utter fool,” she declared. “John Earl warned you about going to work at the Cee Bar, but you were too stupid to listen. Obviously you don’t have the brains God gave a goose.”
A fury, hotter than anything Quint had ever known, swept through him. Before he had a chance to unleash any of it, she spun away and struck out for the warehouse, shoulders straight and head high. Quint was slow to follow as he struggled to rein in his temper, unable to recall a time when he had come this close to losing it—simply because some woman with light brown eyes thought he was a fool.