When he noticed his son-in-law, Logan Echohawk, wandering by, Chase called him over and motioned for him to pull up an empty chair. Logan dragged the chair closer and sat down, giving his hat a push to the back of his head and showing Chase a profile marked by high, hard cheekbones and a strong, straight nose that spoke of his Sioux ancestry.
“Heck of a party,” Logan remarked and hooked one leg across the knee of the other, idly giving the hem of his jeans, which he wore in place of his sheriff’s uniform, a tug.
Chase chose not to comment and demanded instead, “Cat’s lost weight, hasn’t she?”
Logan’s gray eyes flicked a glance in his wife’s direction, a shadow of worry briefly darkening them. “She’s taken this hard. It doesn’t seem to matter that Quint’s wound was never life-threatening.”
Chase nodded in understanding. “Cat’s always had a tremendous capacity for emotion, the kind that runs to the extreme, seldom settling for anything in between.”
“I always knew she was against Quint going into law enforcement, but I thought it was mostly because she didn’t want him to live somewhere far away.”
“There was more to it than that.”
“Yeah.” Logan didn’t need it spelled out, either. “I’ve decided not to seek reelection when my term as sheriff is up. There’s enough work on the ranch to keep me busy.”
“That’s probably a good idea. At least she won’t have to worry about something happening to you.”
“That’s what I thought.” With Cat being the subject of discussion, it was automatic that Logan would watch her. He saw the idle glance she sent in the direction of the gazebo, and the second look she took before she began to scan the crowd in a slightly frantic way.
In seconds she was hurrying over to him. “Have you seen Quint around?” She attempted to inject a curious interest in her question without completely succeeding. “I don’t see him anywhere.”
“I just saw him a couple minutes ago with Trey,” Chase answered. “They were headed toward the barn—I imagine to use the facilities.”
“He didn’t walk all that way on his crutches, did he?” Cat protested, throwing a look in the direction of the century-old, big-timbered barn, as if Quint might still be in sight. “He should have said something to me. I could have driven him up there.”
“The walk won’t hurt him,” Logan assured her.
Temper snapped in her green eyes. “I don’t think you realize how weak he is. He’s only been out of the hospital two days.”
“Actually, it’s been three,” Logan corrected.
“Two, three, it doesn’t matter,” Cat declared impatiently. “He’s still weak. You can sit there if you want, but I’m going to see if he needs any help.”
She had that angry, determined look that Chase recognized well. “No, you’re not,” he barked, startling her to a stop. “Quint’s a grown man—too old for you to be barging into the men’s room to wipe whatever needs wiping.”
“Just the same,” Cat began in protest.
Logan spoke up, “I’ll go check on him, just to be on the safe side.”
As Logan got up to leave, Chase locked his gaze on his daughter. “You can stay here with me.” Cat glared at him for a rebellious moment, then sat down on the very edge of the lawn chair, her body straining forward in its desire to go with Logan. “You do know, Cat, that there is a difference between mother love and smother love,” Chase said in warning.
She flashed him an impatient look. “I can’t help it, Dad—”
“You’d better.” His voice had the ring of command and the experience of his eighty-odd years.
As Logan drew level with an end corner of the barn, he noticed a dark green Suburban coming toward him. He was quick to recognize the vehicle as the one Jessy usually drove. The sun glare on the windshield made it impossible for him to see the driver until the vehicle made a right turn toward the front of the barn. That’s when he saw it was Laura behind the wheel.
Logan didn’t think much about it other than to absently recall the sundress and flimsy sandals he’d noticed her wearing earlier—reason enough for her to drive back and forth to the picnic area rather than walking.
When he rounded the front corner of the barn, he saw the Suburban parked in front of it, both doors on the driver’s side standing open. Even though Trey had his back to him, Logan had no difficulty recognizing the husky-shouldered, narrow-hipped frame of Jessy’s tall son. Laura stood just beyond him, partially obscured by Trey, who was busy stowing something in the backseat.
That was when Logan caught a glimpse of a bulky white cast. It didn’t require any great deductive powers to realize that it was his son the two were helping into the backseat. The thought of Cat’s reaction to this had Logan frowning when he walked up. “What’s going on here?”
Laura gave him a laughing look. “Really, Logan,” she said in mock reproach, “You’re a lawman. I should think it would be obvious to you that Trey and I are kidnapping the guest of honor.”
From his crosswise position in the backseat, Quint looked at him, his eyes the same shade of gray as Logan’s. “I just want a break from all the commotion and hoo-ha, Dad. We’re gonna go somewhere quiet, grab a beer, and talk. Make it right with Mom, will you?”
As a boy, Quint had never sought to be the center of attention, and manhood hadn’t changed that about him. Logan smiled in understanding and nodded. “It won’t be easy, but I will.”
“Tell Aunt Cat that we’ll take good care of him,” Laura said as she climbed into the driver’s seat.
“You’d better, or she’ll have your hide,” Logan countered.
Laura just laughed and turned the ignition key. As the engine rumbled to life, Trey laid Quint’s crutches on the floor of the backseat and closed the door.
“We’ll have him home before dark,” Trey promised, his voice had the same deep, commanding tone as his grandfather’s. One look at those rugged, rawboned features and it was impossible to mistake him for anyone other than a Calder. Those features were like a tribal stamp.
Logan watched the three of them drive off, just as he had done so often during their growing-up years. There was a rightness to it.
Chapter Nine
A
wind tunneled through the Suburban’s open windows and tangled its fingers in Laura’s long blond hair. As usual, she welcomed the feel of it—and the memories it brought back of riding through the streets in Rome in the Porsche with Sebastian. This time, though, the wind filled the vehicle with the earthy smells of the land instead of the intriguing scents of the Eternal City.
Beside her, Trey sat sideways in the front seat and leaned over the back of it to face Quint. “How long before you get rid of that thing?” He flicked a finger at the cast that completely immobilized Quint’s leg from the upper thigh down.
“If everything is healing all right, they should put me in a walking cast in a couple weeks. I’ll probably have to wear that for at least a month.”
“By the time you get out of it, you’ll have a closet full of one-legged pants to throw away,” Laura teased and slowed as she approached the east gate. Its highway access had long ago made it the main entrance to the Triple C.
“I hope not,” Quint replied and twisted his head toward the front, catching sight of the massive stone pillars that curved out into wings and supported the wrought-iron sign that hung between them, spelling out in block letters the name:
TRIPLE C RANCH
.
“I miss the old sign,” Quint said.
For years the original entrance gate had been an unimposing structure consisting of two tall poles and a sun-bleached sign with faded letters that said
THE CALDER CATTLE COMPANY
, with the Triple C brand burned into the wood on either side.
“Now you sound like Gramps,” Laura chided, as she pulled onto the highway and headed north toward the town of Blue Moon. “It’s called advertising. You have to let people know where you are, especially the ones with fat checkbooks coming to one of our private livestock auctions.”
“I know. It was a business decision to change it,” Quint conceded. “But I still like the plainness of the old one better.”
Old or new, Trey didn’t really care, and it showed in the idle shrug of his shoulders. “It’s that old catchword called progress, I guess.”
“You’ll never convince me progress has come to the Triple C until there’s a swimming pool in the backyard,” Laura declared.
“That’ll be the day,” Trey scoffed. “Besides, a swimming pool isn’t progress; it’s a luxury.”
“Surely one luxury is permitted,” she replied. “Remember the time you two went skinny-dipping in the river and I stole your clothes. Watching you two trying to sneak to the barn, picking your way across the gravel—I nearly laughed out loud.”
“You were watching us.” Trey looked at her in disbelief.
“You didn’t think I’d steal your clothes and not stick around to see the fun, do you?”
“Quint got you back, though.” Trey’s smile was loaded with devilish glee. “Remember the minnows in your ice cubes?”
“How could I forget?” Laura shuddered at the memory of the minnow head poking out of the ice cube in her iced-tea glass. “But that wasn’t Quint who did it. That was you.”
“Trey’s right. I did it,” Quint spoke up from the backseat, amusement gleaming in his eyes.
“You?”
Trey took considerable satisfaction from the look of astonishment on her face. “And you were always blaming me for everything.”
“With cause,” Laura reminded him. “Ninety percent of the time you were the culprit.”
The good-natured squabbling continued all the way into town. Only three vehicles were parked in the graveled lot outside Blue Moon’s lone eating establishment. The neon letters that proclaimed the place as Harry’s Hideaway were dark, but the red Bar & Grill sign in the window was lit, confirming the place was open.
Laura parked the Suburban close to the front entrance and climbed out. She briefly surveyed the building’s grimy windows and its cracked and peeling paint, then scanned all the weed-choked yards and empty houses just beyond it.
It was her first trip to Blue Moon since she’d returned, and she couldn’t help being struck by the changes. “When you said Blue Moon was turning into a ghost town, you weren’t kidding,” she said to Trey when he jumped out to give Quint a hand. “All it needs is some tumbleweed rolling down the empty streets.”
“It’s pretty sad, isn’t it?” Trey agreed as he collected Quint’s crutches and readied them for the moment when he would need them. “Gramps says it’s back to the way it was in the old days when the town had to depend on the trade of the local ranchers and the occasional motorist.”
“Times have changed since then,” Laura said thoughtfully, not altogether sure if the town could still survive on only that.
“I suppose.” Trey held the crutches steady while Quint planted his good foot on the running board and gripped the crutches, preparing to swing to the ground. “Still, it reminds me of the story Gramps used to tell about old Fat Frank Fitzsimmons, the first to throw up a ramshackle building here when his wagon broke down. There he was in the middle of nothing on the road to nowhere. A cowboy even warned him that people came this way only once in a ‘blue moon.’ You’ve gotta admit, Laura, that hasn’t changed, but the town is still here.”
“The Triple C can send some of its business Blue Moon’s way and help it along.” Quint hopped on one foot to get his balance.
Laura smiled at him with a mixture of amusement and affection. “You’ve always had a soft spot for the weak and helpless.” Without waiting for a reply, she made a jaunty turn toward the entrance. “Come on. Let’s go get something cold to drink. Heaven knows we won’t have to worry about not having a reservation.”
The tinkling of the bell above the door announced their arrival when the trio walked in. Not a single table on the restaurant side was occupied, but from the bar came the sharp crack of one billiard ball hitting another, followed by the sound of balls rolling across the table.
A short, balding man pushed through the swinging doors to the kitchen and paused at the sight of them, a half-scowl on his face. “The kitchen won’t be open for another hour yet.”
“That’s okay,” Trey told him. “We just want something to drink.”
The man gestured toward the bar area. “Have a seat anywhere ya’ like. I’ll be right with you.”
Laura led the way to a four-top in the center of the bar area while Quint thumped along behind, bringing up the rear. After Quint had lowered himself into one of the chairs, Trey scooted another one around to face him.
“Prop your leg up on this,” he said and left it to Quint to manage it unaided.
Laura resisted the impulse to help, sensing that Quint was tired of everyone fussing over him. But, then, he’d always had an independent streak that manifested itself in a quiet determination to manage on his own.
Laura suspected that a stranger seeing them together would never guess that the three of them were related. There was a dissimilarity that went beyond the differences in hair and eye coloring. Everything about her said city, from her clothes to her hairstyle and makeup, while Trey had cowboy written all over him, from his hat to his boots and that far-seeing look in his eyes, and it was all wrapped in a kind of restless energy that never let him be still for long. Quint was more difficult to label. Those steady gray eyes and his air of quiet strength seemed to set him apart somehow, as if he could be whoever and whatever he chose. Laura smiled to herself, thinking that he certainly didn’t look like a Treasury agent.
The scuffle of footsteps signaled the approach of the balding man. He stopped at their table. “What’ll ya’ have?”
Trey shot Laura a warning look and muttered low, “For God’s sake, don’t ask for a glass of wine.”
Since she had no intention of doing so, Laura didn’t bother to respond and flashed her most winning smile at the man. “Since I seem to be the designated driver, I’ll have a glass of iced tea.”
“A beer for me,” Trey said. “Whatever you have on tap is fine.”
“The same,” Quint echoed
After the man left to fetch their drink order, Trey swung his attention to Quint. “How soon do you have to report back to work?”
“Never, if Mom has anything to say about it.” Quint attempted to make a joke of it, but the underlying truth in his words injected a kind of troubled heaviness. “But I’ll be reporting back as soon as the doctor gives me a release, which will probably be in two weeks or so.”
“Mothers worry. It’s part of the job description,” Laura told him.
“Mom’s gone above and beyond the call of duty, then,” Quint replied and paused when the man returned to the table with their drinks. Trey dug some bills out of his pocket to pay their tab. After the man moved away from the table, Quint resumed their conversation. “I honestly thought Mom would feel better knowing that I’d be stuck behind a desk for the next six months to a year, but I forgot about the Oklahoma City bombings. She’s convinced any federal law office is a potential target. Unfortunately, she’s right. Dad thinks she just needs some time to get used to the idea of me going back in the field.”
“But you don’t agree, do you?” Laura guessed.
Quint shook his head. “No. Only one thing would make her happy, and that would be for me to resign and go to work for the Triple C.”
“I think that’s a helluva good idea,” Trey declared.
Quint turned his steady gray gaze on him. “No, it isn’t. That ranch is going to pass into your hands one day.”
Trey flashed a cynically amused glance at Laura. “He says that like it might be news to me, instead of something I’ve been told ever since I can remember. And I don’t see what difference that makes, anyway.” He directed the challenge to Quint. “It would be good to know I have somebody I could trust at my side running things. And in case you haven’t looked at that old map on the wall lately, the Triple C’s as big as some eastern states—certainly big enough for two.”
“You’re wrong,” Quint stated calmly. “There can’t be two people at the top of the Triple C, or you’ll end up with divided loyalties. You can see it today in the way some of the old hands wait for Granddad to nod when your mother tells them to do something.” He shook his head again. “As much as I might like to, I won’t be going to work at the ranch.”
Laura caught the note of regret in his voice and wondered if Trey had, too. But Quint’s remarks seemed to have a sobering effect on Trey that had him still contemplating them.
“How in the world did this conversation get so serious?” she said in mock reproach. “I thought we were here for a cousins’ celebration—although I can’t say this is the most festive place I’ve ever been in.” Laura flicked an amused glance at the dingy surroundings that reeked with the stale, sour odors of tobacco smoke and liquor.
“After Europe this place must be quite a comedown for you,” Quint observed matter-of-factly.
“I suppose.” One bare shoulder lifted in a diffident shrug. “But I think you’ll agree Harry’s definitely provides a lesson in appreciation for the better-class establishments.”
Quint chuckled at her response. “I guess when you’re the only watering hole in nearly a hundred miles, quality isn’t something you have to worry about.”
“How true.” Laura raised her iced-tea glass in a toasting acknowledgement of his statement.
Trey made a single sideways twist of his head in disagreement. “If your idea of quality is silk boxer shorts, I’ll take Harry’s any time.”
“Silk boxer shorts?” Quint repeated.
“Yeah. That’s what she brought me back from Europe. Can you believe it?” The high arch of his eyebrows left little doubt of Trey’s opinion of the gift.
“He refuses to even try them on,” Laura complained.
“I have just one question.” There was a devilish glint in Trey’s dark eyes. “Does Crockett wear them?”
“Who’s Crockett?” Quint split his glance between the two of them.
“Laura’s new beau.” Trey answered, still watching Laura.
“Really.” Quint’s gray eyes took on the same teasing light that glittered in Trey’s. “Someone you met in Europe, is he?”
“In Rome, actually. And his name isn’t Crockett, it’s Boone. I happened to be gone when Boone called yesterday, and Gramps answered the phone. By the time Gramps got around to giving me the message, he’d gotten mixed up about the name and remembered only that it was the same as a famous frontiersman.”
“Of course.” Quint nodded, making the connection. “Daniel Boone and Davy Crockett.”
“Trey’s been calling him Crockett ever since.” Laura eyed her brother with mild annoyance.
“Does this beau of yours have a full name?” Quint asked.
“Boone Rutledge. His father is Max Rutledge.”
“The
Max Rutledge? The cattle and oil tycoon from Texas?” Quint questioned with freshening interest.
“The same.”
“You’ve roped yourself a big one.”
“I know,” Laura replied, conscious of the heady satisfaction she felt at Quint’s reaction to the news.
“Is it serious?” Quint wondered.
“It’s a little soon to say.” Yet she was confident that if she wanted Boone, all she had to do was go after him. It was an idea that had a definite appeal, especially when Laura considered the additional power and prestige that would accompany a marriage to Boone.