by Janet Dailey
“I’ve never been much of a drinking man.” Quint collected the reins and swung his horse toward the ranch yard.
Empty followed suit, riding parallel with him while automatically running a rancher’s assessing eye over the pasture condition. “Good thing you got hay coming. The graze is getting pretty thin.”
“I noticed.”
“It could be worse, though,” Empty continued. “Old Ellis Baxter used to own this section. He was one of those progressive kind, always hot to do what some government expert claimed was right.” Empty punctuated the statement with a derisive snort. “It wouldn’t have surprised me if Baxter had seeded his whole place with that damned government Love Grass. It’s the most worthless stuff ever put on earth. Cattle won’t eat it. But that damned Love Grass chokes out all the native grasses. As far as I’m concerned, it’s nothing but a fire hazard.”
As always, Quint listened when the retired rancher opined on a subject. The old man reminded him of the veteran hands at the Triple C, whose storehouse of knowledge and experience they had always been ready to share with him, from the time he was knee-high. They had taught him a healthy respect for the old ways, which often turned out to be the best ways.
“Thought I’d tackle that mesquite in the south pasture tomorrow,” Empty remarked. “You turn your back on that stuff and before you know it, it’s taken over the whole pasture. Then you gotta play brush-popper to get the cattle out of it, and I’m too old to be tearing pell-mell through a bunch of scrub. You only need to drive to the coastal plains or over in west Texas to see what a plague mesquite’s become. An old-timer once told me that whole area used to be a sea of grass. Now it’s damned near a forest of mesquite.”
“I heard.” In his mind, Quint summoned up an image of the grass ocean that covered the Triple C Ranch in Montana. The image quickly dissipated, scattered by the muted jingle of the cell phone in his jacket pocket. Retrieving it, he flipped it open. “Cee Bar.”
His aunt’s familiar voice responded with sharp clarity, “Hello, Quint. It’s Jessy.”
“Back home, are you?” he guessed. “How was the wedding?”
“Huge and beautiful—everything Laura wanted it to be. I’m just glad it’s over and I’m back home where I belong,” she stated with conviction. “How are things down there? Laredo mentioned that you’d run across some problems.”
Quint brought her up to date on the current status. “I talked to the mechanic this morning. It was sugar in the gas tank. But all the repairs on the pickup should be finished next week sometime. As for finding another feed store to supply us with grain, there’s no need to do that until I start running low. We just finished the tally on the cattle and came up twenty-seven head short.”
“Stolen, no doubt.”
“That’s my guess. Since I don’t know how many were in any given pasture, I can’t even pinpoint where the loss occurred.”
“Or when,” Jessy added.
Quint hesitated only briefly. “You might as well know that I was jumped by three men Saturday night,” he said and gave her a thumbnail sketch of the events, omitting any mention of Dallas. “I came out of it with nothing more than a little cut and some bruises, but I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention anything about it to my mother.”
“I won’t say anything for now,” she agreed. “But I don’t like the sound of this, Quint.”
“Don’t blow it out of proportion like my mom would. We’re talking about three cowboys trying to pound home a message. If professionals had delivered it, I’d probably be talking to you from a hospital bed.”
“Just the same,” Jessy began with an obvious note of concern for his well-being.
“Nothing’s changed, Jessy,” Quint stated calmly. “There’s no one at the Triple C better qualified for this than I am.”
“That’s true,” she said. There was a smile in her voice when she recalled, “When you were a boy, you always finished any job you started. You haven’t changed in that. I would feel easier, though, if you had someone there with you. Laredo mentioned that you’d found a hired man to work at the Cee Bar? Is he someone you can trust?”
“Without question.”
“That’s good then. What about the hay you ordered? Has it arrived?”
“It’s supposed to be here Wednesday morning,” he told her.
“Good.” After a few more questions, Jessy drew their conversation to a close. “Keep me posted on what’s happening, especially if you have any further trouble. I won’t tell you to be careful. I know you always are.”
“Always.” Quint smiled. “Tell Mom I’ll talk to her tonight.”
“I’ll tell her,” Jessy promised.
Lines of thought creased her forehead as Jessy hung up the phone. The sound of the receiver rocking into its cradle roused the aged Chase Calder from his idle daydreams. More and more these days his mind had a tendency to wander, finding little to hold its attention for any length of time.
Yanked unexpectedly back into the present, Chase struggled to ascertain what that was. Flames leaped and crackled over the logs stacked in the den’s massive stone fireplace. Chase was vaguely conscious of the warmth radiating from it and of the weight of the blanket robe that covered his legs.
Almost belatedly he focused on the tall, slender woman behind the desk, but he was quick to detect the slightly troubled look in her expression. He had an instant recall that she had picked up the phone to call Quint in Texas.
“What’s wrong?” Chase couldn’t remember hearing Jessy talking to anyone. “Wasn’t Quint there?”
“I talked to him,” Jessy confirmed, the small lines vanishing from her forehead, her expression again showing the calm, steady composure that served her so well. “He has everything under control there.”
Chase leaned forward in the wing-backed chair. “You told him about the hay, didn’t you?”
Jessy gave him a bewildered look. “The hay? He said it wasn’t scheduled to arrive until Wednesday. Was I supposed to tell him something about that?”
Chase sank back in his chair, not at all certain that he had told Jessy of his suspicions. “I can’t see Rutledge letting him have it. He’ll try something. He’ll have to. Quint needs to know that.”
“He said he was going to call Cat tonight. I’ll let her know that I need to talk to him—and mention it then.”
Yet Chase’s concern only reminded Jessy of the assault on Quint by three men. When she had sent Quint to Texas, she had strongly suspected, like Chase, that the Cee Bar’s problems were caused by an outside source. But Jessy had never really believed she was putting Quint in any physical danger. Now she couldn’t ignore the possibility.
“Chase, is it really important that we keep the Cee Bar?” Ultimately such a decision was Jessy’s to make, but the habit of seeking her father-in-law’s counsel was too deeply ingrained for her not to ask the question of him. “It’s always been more of a financial liability than an asset to the Triple C.”
She expected him to come back with his usual answer—that Calder land was never for sale. This time Chase didn’t speak off the top of his head, but gave her question considerably more thought before offering a reply.
“The day may come when selling it is the right move. But it will never be right if someone is trying to force that sale. You’d be showing weakness. Others will see it.” His gaze was hard with warning. “When they do, you could find yourself in a fight for the Triple C.”
Jessy recalled the number of times something similar had happened during Chase’s life. She wanted to believe those days were gone, but she realized that the old-time range wars weren’t all that different from the hostile takeovers of modern day. Only the tactics had changed.
After wrapping up a report on the current trend in the grain market, the radio announcer moved on to opening livestock prices. Dallas listened with only half an ear and smothered another yawn, fighting the fatigue that came from burning the midnight oil too long the night before. She reached fo
r her coffee cup only to find it nearly empty.
With a frustrated sigh, she rolled her chair back from the desk and carried her cup over to the coffeepot that sat atop the table along a side wall, accessible to any customers of the feed store. She refilled her cup with the strong brew and glanced idly at her boss.
Holly Sykes stood in front of the big window facing the highway. He’d been standing there when she arrived for work at eight o’clock, and had hardly budged from the spot since. Dallas had the impression he was watching for something or someone, but she was too tired to summon up any curiosity as to who or what that might be.
As she started back to her desk, she barely registered the familiar rumble of a semi. Holly Sykes took a quick step closer to the window, his sudden movement attracting her attention. She glanced out the window to identify the cause of his sudden interest and saw a semi hauling a flatbed trailer loaded with round hay bales.
The minute it passed, Holly abruptly pivoted away from the window and made a beeline for his desk. Dallas immediately guessed that the hay was destined for the Cee Bar. He picked up his phone and rapidly punched a set of numbers.
“It’s Sykes. It just went by.” That was the extent of his conversation.
There wasn’t any doubt in her mind that he’d called the Slash R Ranch. The briefness of it was similar to the curt warning Holly had delivered when she showed up for work Monday morning.
“Stay away from that guy at the Cee Bar,” he’d said. “You won’t be told twice.”
Dallas had a heavy feeling in the pit of her stomach when she thought of Quint. The odds were clearly stacked against him. She was suddenly angry and depressed, both at the same time.
Boone flipped the cell phone shut and sent a sidelong glance at the uniformed deputy behind the wheel of the patrol car. There was a dark glitter in his eyes that Deputy Joe Ed Krause found difficult to meet. And the smile that quirked Boone’s mouth didn’t make him feel any more comfortable.
“The truck just rolled into town,” Boone told him. “You know what you’re supposed to do.”
Joe Ed bobbed his head in a quick nod and repeated the instructions, “I wait until after he’s delivered the hay, let him get a mile or so down the road, then pull him over. In the meantime, I’m to stay out of sight.”
Satisfied, Boone passed him some folded bills. “Just to show we appreciate the favor, take your wife out to dinner.”
“You didn’t have to do that.” Joe Ed was quick to notice the top bill was a twenty and stuffed it all in his pocket. “You know I’m happy to oblige if I can.”
“Like I said, we appreciate it,” Boone said and climbed out of the car.
The deputy kept one eye on the rearview mirror, tracking Boone’s progress as he made his way to the pickup parked behind the patrol car. The money felt good in his pocket. If he had any regrets, it was that there weren’t more favors he could do for the Rutledges.
Less than a minute later, Boone swung his pickup around the patrol car and accelerated down the country road. Deciding that this was as good a place as any to kill time, Joe Ed settled back in the driver’s seat, calculating that it would take the semi between fifteen and twenty minutes to reach the Cee Bar and somewhere around an hour to unload its hay.
Scant minutes after he arrived at the intersection a half mile down the road from the Cee Bar’s entrance, Joe Ed spotted the semi coming down the ranch lane, its trailer empty. Waiting, he let it go past him, then pulled onto the road behind it. He followed for a good mile before he flipped on his lights. He smiled to himself, imagining the way the truck driver was cussing, certain there was no cause for getting pulled over.
Air brakes whooshed as the semi slowed and swung onto the shoulder. Joe Ed stopped behind him and took his time getting out of the patrol car, then dawdled at the rear of the trailer.
The driver swung down from the cab. Of average height and build, he looked to be in his early twenties.
“What’s the problem, Officer?” His attempt to sound pleasant failed to mask the driver’s underlying impatience.
“Your taillights kept blinking on and off,” Joe Ed lied. “You probably have a short or loose connection somewhere.”
The driver frowned in surprise. “They’ve been working fine.” But there was new doubt in his voice.
“Didn’t I just see you pull out of the Cee Bar Ranch?”
“Yeah, I dropped off a bunch of hay for them.” The driver was already busy checking to make sure the connections were tight.
“As rough as that lane is, it wouldn’t surprise me if something jiggled loose,” the deputy remarked, then feigned nonchalance. “Say, does Red Parker still work there?”
“Couldn’t say.” The driver shrugged in indifference.
“I know he used to. He’s hard to miss. His hair is as red as fire.”
“Neither of the men I saw had red hair.”
“They didn’t.” The deputy tried to sound disappointed. “The men you saw—what did they look like?”
“One was tall with black hair, maybe thirty. He’s the one who signed for the hay. The other one was an old guy,” the driver answered without any real interest.
“An old guy,” Joe Ed repeated thoughtfully, then eyed the young driver. “What was he, forty? Fifty?”
“Hell, he looked seventy, if he was a day,” the driver declared with a typical amusement of the young for the ancient. “But he sure knew how to work that tractor.”
“Red isn’t anywhere close to seventy. I guess it wasn’t him. I wonder who the old guy is. You didn’t happen to catch his name, did you?”
“No, we didn’t get around to introductions. The other guy, though, he had an Indian name. Gray-hawk or something like that.” He paused, shooting the deputy a curious look. “Is it important?”
“Naw,” he said with a quick shake of his head. “I was just curious.” He flicked a hand at the trailer’s taillights. “When you get down the road, you might want to have somebody make sure your lights are working right.”
Back in the patrol car, Joe Ed pulled onto the road, eager to reach his prearranged meeting place with Boone Rutledge and relay the information he had gleaned from the truck driver. There was an excitement in knowing that there might be a way for him to earn more money. The question of whether it was ethical or not never arose. He didn’t know of a single cop who didn’t do some moonlighting during his off-duty hours.
The reds and golds of sunset streaked the western sky, tinting the Slash R’s trademark white fences with a rosy hue. Evening’s approach brought a natural slowing of activity. But any impression of calm was shattered by the roaring drone of a helicopter’s powerful engine and the rhythmic chop of its rotary blades beating the air as it swooped out of the sky and took aim at the private helipad, located near the main house.
Boone clamped a hand on his hat and angled away from the powerful downdraft that preceded the helicopter’s actual touchdown. It was a position he held until he heard the slowing whine of the engine shutting down and felt the abatement of its self-generated wind. He watched while the specially designed lift was rolled up to the passenger door.
The arrival scene was much too commonplace for Boone to marvel at the engineering that enabled his father to exit the aircraft onto a hoist that lowered his wheelchair to the ground, all with an absolute minimum of assistance from others. Impatience with the lift’s slow descent was the only thing Boone felt as he waited for his father to join him.
At last the wheelchair came rolling toward him in its nearly noiseless glide, and Boone found himself under the scrutiny of his father’s piercing gaze. As always it was difficult to hold. Boone lifted his chin a notch, girding himself with the knowledge that this time he had succeeded beyond his father’s expectations. He couldn’t possibly find fault with him.
“Well, well, well,” Max Rutledge declared, his mouth twisting in a sardonic smile, “if it isn’t my son on hand to greet me. That can only mean you have something of importance t
o tell me.”
“I do,” Boone acknowledged, irritated that he hadn’t waited in the house.
“Spill it.” Max gestured in annoyance at the delay. “Tell me this great news of yours.”
Boone bristled at the ridicule in his father’s voice and flicked an irritated glance at Harold Barnett, his father’s valet and full-time nurse, who now joined them. It galled him to have others hear the way his father spoke to him.
“I wouldn’t call it great news—or even good news,” Boone stated curtly. “But it is news.”
There was a slight pause as Max’s gaze sharpened on him, assessing the meaning of his statement. “You know who the hired man is.”
“You aren’t going to like it,” Boone warned, secretly pleased about that. “It’s Empty Garner.”
“Garner,” Max repeated, bitterness pinching his mouth. “That wiley old bastard. We can forget any thought of buying him off. And there isn’t much chance of scaring him away either.”
“Why would you want to? How much work can an old man like that do? Not much, I’ll bet. Echohawk might as well not have anyone working for him as that old man. And that was the point, wasn’t it?”
“It was originally,” Max agreed, his brow furrowed in heavy thought. “But with Echohawk on the scene, it was time to change tactics.”
“When did you decide that?” Boone frowned in surprise. “This is the first I’ve heard of it.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know.” The instant he issued the dismissive statement, Max engaged the control stick and sent the wheelchair spinning toward the side entrance to the house.
Boone stood flat-footed for an angry second, then strode after him. But the wheelchair’s speed, the valet’s presence, and the narrow walkway made it impossible for Boone to catch up with his father before he entered the house.
Simmering with resentment, he followed his father into the den and peeled off to the bar where he poured himself a straight shot of bourbon and tossed it down, welcoming the choking fire that closed off his throat. He refilled the glass, diluted the bourbon with water, and threw in some cubes.