This Calder Sky (37 page)

It was always like this when the horses were rounded up and brought in from their winter range. Their arrival signaled the start of another season; the spring roundup wasn't far away. A wild and raucous time was ahead as the cowboys picked out their horse strings and threw saddles on horses that had run wild through the long winter. There were some out there that would buck as wild as any rodeo bronc, but their riders wouldn't have the benefit of a timer. No, they had to ride all the kinks
and humps out of their horses. There would be plenty of excitement around here for a few days until the crews were selected and sent out on the spring roundup.

The ocean of horses swirled through the open gates of a big pen. For all their wild snortings and carryingson, they knew the ranch buildings meant hay and grain, so they needed no real urging to enter the fenced enclosure. As the gate was closed behind the last horse, a rider separated himself from the others and trotted his horse toward Chase.

“They look fat and sassy.” Buck grinned and swung out of the saddle. He sniffed appreciatively at the coffee. “Boy, that smells good.”

Chase took a swallow of the scalding liquid and then handed the mug to Buck. There was no more trace of prison pallor and the smile was back, but there were changes in him—changes for the better, in Chase's opinion. Buck was steady, hard-working, and reliable, never shirking any chores or responsibilities. Buck had become one of the Triple C's top foremen. He and Chase were now the kind of working combination that Chase had always thought they could become. It was a good feeling to have his best friend back.

Shoving his hands into the lined jacket pockets where his gloves were, Chase walked to the fence for a closer look at the horses. Buck accompanied him, leading his horse. He agreed with Buck's earlier assessment.

“They wintered well.”

“Uh-huh.” Buck made an affirmative sound as he gulped down a swallow of hot coffee and crooked an elbow on the top rail. “When I was in town the other day, I got to talking to Lew.”

“Talking, or gossiping?” Chase mocked his friend.

“With him, it's one and the same thing.” He grinned. “Anyway, he was telling me that old man Anderson didn't have a will when he died in that farm accident last fall. It seems he was married before and had two
children by his first wife. They hired themselves some lawyers and claimed a share of his estate. It looks like Anderson's widow is going to have to sell the farm so his first two kids can get their share of the settlement from the estate.”

“I hadn't heard that. It's rough,” Chase mused and ran a practiced eye over the horses scattering to graze.

“That started me wondering about what would happen to the Triple C if something happened to you. You do have a will, don't you?” Buck frowned.

The question made Chase pause, hunching his shoulders slightly. “No. I've never got around to it.”

“Do you have any relatives? Cousins or anything?”

“Not that I know of. Why?”

Buck moved his head in a sideways gesture. “I hate to think about this ranch getting broken up and sold, and all the money going into the state treasury. It wouldn't be right. Nate, Ike, my folks, and all the rest of us—we'd be out in the cold. If you haven't got anybody you can leave it to, maybe you should think about leaving the company shares to all of us so we could keep the Triple C operating intact,” he suggested.

“Not a bad idea.” It sounded both logical and fair.

“Talk to a lawyer. He'll probably have some ideas.” Buck offered to return the mug to Chase, half-f of coffee. “Want the rest?” The change of subject indicated that he had said what was on his mind; the rest was up to Chase.

“No. You finish it.” His gaze narrowed on the herd of horses, but his mind was on another subject. “I suppose I should be thinking about getting married and raising a family.”

“You show me some wife material anywhere in the vicinity; then move out of my way,” Buck warned with a wry shake of his head. “I'm not getting any younger, and I want a brood of little ones before I die. Trouble is
finding a woman who isn't hankering to live in town.” He took a sip of coffee and glanced at Chase over the rim of the mug. “What about Sally Brogan?”

Chase lowered his gaze to the ground to consider the red-haired widow he'd been seeing regularly for some time now. Shortly after Buck had returned, she and her husband, an ex-rodeo cowboy, had shown up at the ranch driving an old pickup with a camper. Although they had been short of help at the time, Chase had been reluctant to hire him because he had seemed the type to be more interested in drinking and carousing than working, but he hadn't been able to ignore the redhead's pleading look. Against his better judgment, he'd hired her husband. A month and a half later her husband was killed outright when he crashed his truck into a bridge abutment at two in the morning.

At about the same time, Jake had closed his doors. Another bar had opened up in town. Since there wasn't enough business for two, Jake decided it was time he moved south. Sally had bought the place from him with money from her husband's life insurance. Chase had thought she was crazy, but she had calmly explained that she was tired of moving. She wanted to wake up in the morning, look out the window, and see the same thing every day for the rest of her life. After much scrubbing, cleaning, and remodeling, she turned the saloon into a restaurant and lived in the rooms upstairs.

In the beginning, Chase stopped in to make sure she was managing all right on her own. Then his reason became that she was a very good cook. Finally, one night, she asked him to stay while she finished closing and checking her receipts. The next thing he knew he was kissing her and carrying her up the stairs—only to have her run back down to lock the front door. He smiled at the memory.

“You've been seeing her regularly for what—three
years now?” Buck arched a questioning eyebrow and took another drink of coffee.

“You know how it is, Buck.” There was a trace of self-mockery in the twist of Chase's mouth. “A man doesn't want to rush into these things.”

Buck breathed out a laugh and shook his head. “Sally is a nice, gentle woman. She must be just about thirty-five. She hasn't got many child-bearing years left. How come you haven't married her?”

Chase didn't know the answer to that himself. They got along well together—had a nice comfortable relationship. She would make a good wife and a good mother. He frowned when he realized he had always shied away from the subject of marriage in connection with Sally. He had never considered himself to be a confirmed bachelor. He wanted a son and heir.

He shrugged his shoulders and passed the question off lightly. “Maybe I'm waiting for the bells to ring.”

“Listen, fella, if they haven't rung in three years, they aren't going to ring,” Buck declared. After draining the last of the coffee, he handed the empty mug to Chase and gathered up the reins of his horse to mount. “I gotta get back to work.” Looping the reins over the horse's head, he stepped a toe into the stirrup and continued the motion to swing into the saddle. “See you later.” He sketched a salute and rode off.

Chase realized he'd been left with a variety of subjects to think about, but they all had one central theme—the future of the Triple C.

Before the week was out, Chase had a preliminary will drawn up by his firm of attorneys. Of necessity, it was complicated because the structure of the Calder Cattle Company was complicated to obtain the most favorable tax treatment. Essentially, it contained provisions so that if he died without an heir or living spouse,
the stock would be distributed among that loyal corps of Triple C native sons and daughters. There were some minor revisions required, but after a long afternoon's meeting with the lawyers, Chase was satisfied they were on the right track.

Since Ruth wasn't expecting him for dinner that evening, he stopped at Sally's to eat in her restaurant and spend the balance of the evening with her. Because of the business appointment in the city, Chase had abandoned his ranch garb of denim and chambray in favor of the tapered but Western-style pair of brown dress pants, pale cream-colored shirt, and a tailored jacket of buckskin suede. As he climbed out of the car, he put on his natural suede, dress Stetson with its brown-feathered hatband and walked to the steps of the saloon-turned-restaurant. The wood building had all been repainted a sparkling white, trimmed with blue, a small hint of the changes inside.

As he mounted the steps, somewhere nearby there was the grating rub of a rope drawn over wood. The measured rhythm of his stride was thrown off tempo by the sound that shivered down his back, a sound he'd never managed to forget. He glanced at the wooden swing, suspended from the porch roof with nylon ropes, and walked inside.

All the paneled walls were painted white and squares of speckled white tile gleamed on the floor. The tables and chairs were painted white with a variety of colorful gingham tablecloths covering the tops. Ruffled curtains were at the windows, the glass panes now minus a thick yellow veil of nicotine. Where the bar had been, there was a counter with stools and pie cases and food coolers on the wall behind.

The supper-hour business was just beginning to taper off. A half-dozen tables and three stools at the counter were occupied. Sally was pouring more coffee at one of
the tables when Chase entered. She sent him one of her quiet smiles that was more an expression with her eyes and a faint lift of the corners of her mouth. Her hair was the color of a shiny copper penny, curling loose below her ears. For all her red hair, she was calm and quiet-natured with serene blue eyes.

Chase took a chair at a table that put his back to the counter, yet enabled him to see the front door and the swinging door into the rear kitchen. DeeDee Rains, a Blackfoot woman, helped Sally with the cooking and dishwashing so she would be free to wait tables, work the cash drawer, clear the tables, and help with the cooking, as well. Chase claimed she worked too hard, but Sally insisted that she liked being independent—and hard work was good for the soul.

“What will you have tonight, Chase?” She came to his table and filled his amber waterglass from a pitcher of iced water.

Glancing at her, he realized she was always very straightforward and he never responded to her with suggestive innuendos. He wondered why.

“Steak and fries,” he ordered. “Coffee later.”

The screaming hiss of air brakes coincided with the down shifting of the truck's gears as the semi edged to a stop on the shoulder of the highway. The driver's white T-shirt was stained with brown spots of spilled coffee. He turned his unshaven face to his passenger and didn't bother to remove the cigarette dangling from his mouth.

“This is it, kid,” he announced.

Ty stared at the loose collection of buildings. The sky was deepening to a plum twilight that cast the town in shadows, giving the impression that someone had put it here, then forgotten it. It was miles from anywhere, yet everything seemed to be miles from anywhere. He'd
never seen so much emptiness in his life. He continued to stare, finding it hard to believe that these few buildings comprised a town.

“You did say you wanted to get out at Blue Moon, didn't you, kid?” The driver frowned impatiently.

“Yeah.” Ty noticed the sign painted on the building with the gasoline pumps out front, identifying the place as Blue Moon and giving the zip code. This was it. He grabbed his backpack from the seat beside him and pushed the door open, telling the driver, “Thanks,” as he swung down from the cab.

The revving of the diesel motor sent blue smoke into the darkening night. Ty had to close his eyes to shut out the dust churned up by the eighteen wheels as they rolled the huge semi onto the highway once more. When it settled, he blinked the particles from his eyes, wiping them with his hand, and looked around again.

There were pickups parked in front of the next building. The lights were on inside and a sign on the porch overhang that said S
ALLY'S
R
ESTAURANT
. He brushed the dust from his crisp blue jeans and reached inside his pocket to check how much money he had left. He hadn't dreamed it would take almost a week to get here, hitching rides. It had been easy in California, but then he'd hit those empty stretches in Nevada and Utah. Then he'd walked about as much as he'd ridden. In the beginning he hadn't paid attention to how much he was spending, eating three big meals a day and snacking in between, until now he was almost broke.

An uneasy feeling crept over him. What if his mother was right? What if he'd come all this way and his father didn't want to see him? He shook away the thought. After coming this far, he couldn't quit. He had enough money for a hamburger. If no one knew where Chase Calder lived, then he could find his uncle. He'd gotten his address from his mother's address book. If all else
failed, he could call her collect and ask her to send him some money so he could come home.

Taking a deep breath, he slung his backpack over one shoulder and hitched it into position, then started for the restaurant. Two cowboys were coming out, so he stood to one side until they were through the door, then entered. His stomach rolled hungrily at the smell of food. There was a sign next to the staircase that said R
EST
R
OOMS
, and Ty walked straight to it.

Chase had hooked his hat over the spindled back of a chair and was smoking a cheroot while waiting for his meal. He noticed the youth walk in—the thick brown hair waving almost to his collar, the yellow wind-breaker, the backpack, the running shoes, and the blue jeans that were stiff and new and made noise when he walked. Mentally, he dismissed him as one of those hippie types or whatever the latest terminology for them was.

Lew, from the dry-goods store across the street, left the counter and brought his coffee cup over to sit with Chase. His wife was visiting their daughter, and Lew was playing bachelor for a few days. When the boy came out from the rest room and sat at a table near Chase, he paid scant attention to him.