Читать книгу Lone Calder Star - Janet Dailey - Страница 11

A few minutes before five o’clock, Empty Garner swung the pickup into the feed store’s parking lot and pulled up in front of the door. The chalky white dust had barely settled to the ground when Dallas walked out of the metal building and climbed into the pickup. She flung herself against the backrest and pulled off the feed store cap that trapped her hair atop her head. She dropped the cap on the seat and dug her fingers into her scalp.

“I itch all over from that grain dust,” she muttered. “I can hardly wait to get in the shower.”

“Guess I don’t need to ask how your day was,” Empty surmised and pointed the truck at the highway.

“It wasn’t all that bad, I guess,” she replied.

But the minute Dallas let her thoughts drift over the day’s happenings, only one incident stood out from any others. The weariness that comes at the end of the day kept Dallas from considering the wisdom of relating it to her grandfather.

“Remember that cowboy I told you about,” she said, “the one that came into the café last night? Well, John Earl had to have been wrong. Evans must still be working at the Cee Bar, because that cowboy came into the feed store today. He’s working at the Cee Bar.”

“I know.” Gravel churned under the truck’s wheels as the pickup accelerated onto the highway.

It was a full second before his response penetrated her fatigue. When it did, Dallas sat up. “What do you mean? How do you know?”

“I swung out by the Cee Bar this morning to make sure the stock had plenty of food and water. That’s when I met him.” Empty was careful to omit any mention of the business with the shotgun. “And Evans is gone. This new guy is from the Montana outfit that owns the place. His name is Echohawk. Part Indian, I guess.”

“I wonder how long he’ll last,” Dallas murmured absently, privately regarding the ultimate outcome as a foregone conclusion.

“This one’s not gonna be easy to scare off.”

Dallas slid her grandfather a dryly skeptical look. “You wish.”

“The cowboy’s got sand,” Empty stated, unswayed by her cynicism. “Must be why the Calders sent him down here. You know the Triple C has a huge spread up in Montana, covering over a million acres,” he added thoughtfully. “Could be Rutledge is trying to take a bite out of an outfit that’s too big for him.”

“But it’s up there. Down here, Rutledge calls the shots—or have you forgotten?” The instant the acerbic comment left her mouth, Dallas regretted opening old wounds. Still, the truth was the truth. “And how much is a big outfit like that going to care about a measly little spread a thousand miles away? Every rancher with any business sense at all knows that sometimes you have to cut your losses and sell.”

Empty chose to ignore her latter remark. “The Cee Bar isn’t as measly as it once was. It takes in close to five thousand acres now. And it’s got this big creek that curls right through it. It’s never been known to run dry either. It’s the water; I’ll bet that’s what Rutledge is coveting.”

“You’re full of information, aren’t you?” Dallas turned a suspicious look on him. “And you got all this from one brief meeting with this Echohawk?”

“It wasn’t all that brief.” He deliberately avoided her eyes. “I pitched in and helped him unload the grain and catch up his horses. I knew nobody else would be making any neighborly gestures. Lord knows I didn’t have any other demands on my day except to sit in that trailer and go stir-crazy.”

But Dallas refused to be diverted by his attempt to change the subject. “Just how long were you there, Empty?”

“How should I know? I didn’t keep track of the time.” He puffed up, all stern-looking and indignant. Not for anything would he admit that he had left the Cee Bar barely twenty minutes ago. “I don’t see what difference it makes anyhow. All I did was lend him a hand with a few things. From the way the place looks, Evans let a lot of things go slack these last few months. Course, that ranch is too big for one man to handle by himself. That Quint Echohawk will need a hired hand. There’s no two ways about it.”

“We both know he hasn’t got a snowball’s chance in hell of finding one,” she stated flatly, yet inwardly struggled with the heavy feeling of regret that washed over her.

“Watch your language, there, little gal. Why, your grandma would be rolling over in her grave if she heard you cussing like that.” There was sharp reproach in the look he slanted in her direction. “You were raised better.”

“I know.”

Empty caught the note of defiance in her voice. “You’ve gotten hard, Dallas.” It hurt him to see that in her. “It comes from carrying too much on those young shoulders of yours. Guess that’s my fault.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said in annoyance. “It’s nobody’s fault. It’s just life.”

“Maybe so,” he conceded. “But that doesn’t make it any easier to watch you working two, sometimes three jobs and going to school nights to better yourself, while I sit around, twiddling my thumbs, waiting for my Social Security check to arrive. Lord knows why, ’cause it’s hardly enough to pay the rent on that run-down old trailer.”

Dallas knew it was his pride talking. “Anyone who has worked as hard and as long as you have is entitled to a life of leisure,” she reasoned. “And I’m not working any harder than you did at my age.”

“I suppose you think I’m like an old horse who’s supposed to be happy about getting turned out to pasture. Well, for your information, little gal, I’m not on my last legs yet.”

Dallas sensed some hidden message in his statement that instantly made her wary. “What do you mean?” A frisson of alarm shot through her. “Wait a minute, Empty. You aren’t thinking of taking that job at the Cee Bar?” She checked the impulse to tell him he was too old. “You can’t do it,” she protested instead. “We don’t need any more trouble.”

“Rutledge has you buffaloed, doesn’t he? I thought I raised you to have more backbone than that.”

Stung by his words, Dallas reacted with heat. “I only know that we have to live here while your Mr. Echohawk can go back to Montana any time he chooses.”

“In the first place, he isn’t my Mr. Echohawk,” Empty retorted. “And in the second, Rutledge has already got my ranch. There isn’t a whole lot more he can do to hurt me.”

But there was, and Dallas knew it. Several months ago, while filing some papers, she had stumbled upon a sale document transferring ownership of the feed store to Max Rutledge. Sykes continued to front for him, but Rutledge owned it. She had never mentioned anything about it to her grandfather, fully aware he’d be furious if he knew she was working—even indirectly—for Max Rutledge.

One word from Rutledge and she would be out of work. The chances of finding another full-time job in the area were virtually nil. And her chances of convincing her grandfather to move to the city were just about the same.

All those thoughts ran through her mind, but Dallas didn’t voice any of them, saying instead, “Personally, I don’t want to find out what kind of trouble he might cause us. I just want to forget he exists. And I want you to forget about that job at the Cee Bar.”

Empty made the swing into the driveway a little too fast. Gravel flew when he slammed on the brakes. The pickup screeched to a stop short of the steps.

“I never said a word about taking the job. You’re the one who got the idea in your head. And you haven’t quit harping about it ever since.” He climbed out of the pickup and slammed the door shut behind him.

“Fine,” Dallas snapped, slamming her own door. “Then let’s both stop thinking about it.”

“Suits me.” He grabbed hold of the handrail and pulled himself up the steps ahead of her. “You got school tonight?”

“Yes.” Her thoughts made the lightning leap to more mundane matters. “I thought I’d add some rice to that leftover chili and fix that for supper tonight. Is that all right with you?” she asked, thinking that she should have enough time to hop in the shower while the chili was heating.

“Bowl of that’ll be good enough for me. Don’t have much of an appetite anyway.” He walked through the door straight over to the recliner and plopped himself in it.

Both were careful to avoid any further reference to the Cee Bar Ranch. But the thought of it was never out of Empty’s mind. He did experience a twinge of guilt when Dallas stopped by his chair on her way out the door and brushed his cheek with a kiss.

“I’m sorry for arguing with you earlier.” Her lips curved in a rueful smile even as her eyes teased him. “But you’re such an old war-horse that I could easily imagine you letting yourself get talked into something.”

“Nobody can talk me into anything,” he insisted gruffly. “I make up my own mind about things.”

“Always,” Dallas agreed and crossed to the door, her book bag in hand. She swung back, smiling at him. “I don’t know what I was so worried about anyway. It isn’t likely your Quint Echohawk would even consider hiring you.”

His head came up. “Why not?”

“Because men his age never think that someone as old as you are would still be capable of doing that kind of hard work.” It was a matter-of-fact statement, with no undertone of anything else. She opened the door. “I’ll be late coming home—as usual. I’ve got my key, so be sure to lock the door before you go to bed.”

He waved a hand in answer. After the door closed behind her, Empty gathered up their supper dishes and carried them to the sink.

The pickup’s headlight beams arced across the window behind it. He peered out to make certain she had pulled onto the road. The instant he caught the red flash of taillights, he crossed to the end of the counter and dug around until he located the telephone book among the clutter. He flipped through the pages and kept his finger on the number for the Cee Bar while he dialed it.

“Echohawk? It’s Empty Garner,” he said the minute the phone was answered. “I’ve been thinking about all the work needing to be done out there. It’s no secret you’re going to have a tough time finding a hired hand. Since I’m not doing anything but sitting around, I thought I’d offer to help till you do.”

He paused and heard the silence that followed. Sensing the hesitation on the other end of the line, Empty rushed in.

“I know I’m an old man,” he said. “But I’m not so weak I can’t mend a fence or doctor a sick cow. And it’s for sure there isn’t a whole lot about ranching that I don’t know. In fact, it’s the only thing I do know.”

“You’re qualified, all right.” There was a smile in Echohawk’s voice, but no sound of commitment.

“You can say that again.” Empty worked to sound bluff and hearty and keep the sense of desperation out of his voice.

Until now, he hadn’t realized how much he wanted the job. He wanted to feel like a man again, useful and productive, instead of a washed-up old codger who couldn’t fasten his own pants. As a result, Empty wasn’t above using a little emotional blackmail.

“With the holidays coming on, that extra money I’d get from working for you would give me a chance to buy my granddaughter something nice for Christmas. It’s a little hard to make my Social Security check stretch to include presents. So…you want me to start tomorrow?” Tension held him motionless, not breathing.

“No, I won’t be here most of tomorrow. A tow truck will be here first thing in the morning to haul the pickup in for repairs. I need to return the rental car and pick up the loaner. By the time all the paperwork is finished, it will probably be late in the afternoon before I get back to the ranch. Let’s make it the day after.”

“Sounds good,” Empty said, and hesitated. “I just got one problem. Would it be too much trouble if you picked me up? We’ve only got one vehicle, and my granddaughter needs it to get back and forth to her job. I can be ready by eight.”

After a long pause, the reply came. “I’ll pick you up at eight then.”

The setting sun made an inglorious departure from the sky, leaving behind only a pale golden arc on the horizon to mark its passage. The west-facing windows of the Slash R’s sprawling ranch house briefly reflected the amber glow of its dying light. Built low to the ground with wide overhangs to block the penetration of the summer sun’s hot rays, the house made a giant footprint on the hilltop, its square footage massive enough that no visitor could doubt the wealth of its occupant.

And Max Rutledge was a full-fledged Texas billionaire. The Slash R ranch was only a minuscule part of his vast holdings, but it was his showplace and personal retreat.

Max Rutledge wasn’t a man that anyone would ever mistake for an ordinary Texas rancher. Crippled in a car accident that had taken the life of his young wife and forever robbed him of the use of his legs, he was confined to a wheelchair, albeit the most advanced wheelchair money could buy.

The sight of the wheelchair and the atrophied legs might evoke an initial reaction of pity, but one look at his thickly muscled torso, the harsh gauntness of his face, and the hooded glare of his dark eyes, and any sense of pity instantly vanished. No one walked away from a meeting with Max Rutledge still harboring any doubt that his reputation for being utterly ruthless was not well earned.

Manipulating the hand controls with practiced ease, Rutledge sent the wheelchair gliding across the living room’s stone floor, its motor emitting little more than a soft hum. The double doors to the den stood open, revealing the bright blaze of flames burning in the fireplace, the room’s focal point. With a flick of the controls, he swung the wheelchair toward the open doors.

It was a decidedly masculine room, paneled in lustrous wood with exposed beams providing a rustic touch. The decor had the requisite Texas touches. The overstuffed armchair by the fireplace was upholstered in leather and cowhide. A Russell bronze stood on the fireplace mantel while a Navajo blanket lay artfully draped over the leather sofa.

None of it caught Max Rutledge’s eye when he wheeled into the room. His hard gaze continued its scan until it landed on the tall man standing at the window, staring out at the twilight’s gray landscape, a drink in his hand. His hair was dark and thick, with an unruly tendency to curl. There was a muscled trimness to his physique that exuded strength and power. But it was the rough and raw virility that stamped his features that always claimed attention.

This prime specimen of manhood was his son, Boone Rutledge. But Max’s heart didn’t lift with pride at the sight of him. If anything, it turned stone-hard.

“I should have known I’d find you in here.” His voice had a contemptuous edge to it. “Instead of standing there doing nothing, make yourself useful and fix me a drink.”

Boone turned, a banked anger in his dark eyes. “Bourbon and branch?”

“That’ll do.” Max engaged the controls and glided over to the fireplace, positioning his chair to face the warming flames.

He stared silently into them and listened to the firm tread of his son’s footsteps as Boone crossed to the bar. The sound was followed by the thud of a glass on the leather-topped counter, the clink of ice cubes, and the splash of liquid over them. Then footsteps approached his chair. Max took the proffered drink without glancing up.

“Sykes called this morning,” Boone said. “He thought we’d want to know that a cowboy came into the feed store this morning and tried to charge some grain to the Cee Bar. When Sykes told him the account was closed, the guy paid cash for it.” He swirled the cubes in his drink. “So it looks like the Triple C has managed to hire somebody.”

“What are you doing about it?” The question was more in the way of a challenge than a demand for an answer.

“I thought I’d send Clyde Rivers over there tomorrow and see what he can find out about this new man.”

Max released a derisive snort and shook his head in disgust. Boone reacted with an angry glare.

“What’s wrong with that? That’s exactly what we’ve done every time a new man came on board.”

Max lifted his grizzled head and viewed him with contempt. “You don’t have the slightest clue why this time should be different, do you?” He observed the flicker of confusion and turned away. “Why did I get stuck with a son with more muscles than brains?” he muttered.

His jaw ridged in anger, Boone pivoted sharply and stalked back to the bar. “Maybe you’d care to let me know what you think the next move should be,” he taunted and snatched the whiskey bottle off the shelf, then sloshed more liquor into his nearly empty glass.

“You’re the one who’s going over there, not Rivers,” Max snapped.

“Me?” Shock held Boone motionless for an instant. Confusion reigned in his expression when he recovered. “Why would you want me to go? You’ve always insisted we have to keep our distance from all of this.”

“Since you’re obviously not smart enough to figure it out on your own, I’ll tell you. Now that Cee Bar is without a ranch manager, what’s the most logical thing for the Calders to do to fill that void—temporarily, if nothing else?”

Boone’s frown deepened. “Hire somebody. What else can they do?”

“Send one of their own down here, that’s what,” Max retorted with impatience. “They won’t want to take some stranger’s word for what’s going on down here. They’ll want to check it out for themselves.”

“That still doesn’t explain why you want me to go over there,” Boone protested, recrossing the room.

“Then you might try remembering how much time you spent at the Triple C this past summer trying to convince that Calder girl to marry you. Unsuccessfully, I might add,” Max tacked on spitefully.

“It isn’t my fault that she was stupid enough to marry that fortune-hunting Englishman instead of me.” Boone stood facing the fireplace, a rigid set to his shoulders.

Max ran an assessing eye over his son and muttered, half under his breath, “Unfortunately, her choice wasn’t all that stupid. But that’s whiskey in the river.” He sighed a dismissal of the subject. “You must have met quite a few of the ranch hands while you were at the Triple C, certainly ones in positions of responsibility. That’s why I want you to pay a ‘neighborly’ call on the new man. With any luck, you’ll recognize him.”

Understanding at last dawned in Boone’s expression. “That makes sense.”

“At least you can see that. Of course I had to spell it out for you first.”

Boone whirled around, a black rage glittering in his eyes. “Damn it, will you lay off me?”

Max almost wished Boone would summon up the guts to hit him, but he knew that would never happen. “Save that show of toughness for a time when you’ll need it. We’ve got our work cut out for us now. I’ve heard those Triple C riders are a close-knit bunch, supposedly loyal to the core. But first we have to find out who it is they sent. Then we’ll decide our next move.”

The cold front had retreated to the north again, leaving behind a startling blue sky, swept clean of all clouds. The high, rolling Texas hills lay beneath it, basking in the warmth of the midmorning sun. But the air remained invigoratingly brisk.

A lone tan-and-white pickup traveled along the paved state road, its doors emblazoned with the name SLASH R RANCH. Boone Rutledge occupied the driver’s seat, his hands gloved in the finest calfskin leather. He dipped his head to peer ahead and locate the entrance to the Cee Bar Ranch. Spotting it, he slowed the truck to make the turn.

The board sign above the gate sported a shiny new chain on one end, but the wood itself still carried the scars of old bullet holes. The pickup rolled beneath it and headed up the winding tract, bouncing over its many ruts and potholes. If this was Slash R land, Boone knew he would have long ago called in a grader to blade the drive and smooth out its roughness.

Chickens squawked and flapped their wings in panic as they scurried out of his path when he pulled into the ranch yard. But they were the only sign of life he saw. There were no vehicles around, no horses in the corral. Nothing.

Boone wasn’t fool enough to think that it meant that there was no one about.

He pulled up to the old ranch house, stepped onto the truck’s running board, and reached back inside to give the horn a couple of long blasts. He listened, his gaze scanning the pastures beyond the yard. A horse whinnied in the distance and a chicken clucked in annoyance, but there was no other response. Boone swung to the ground and gave the door a push. Its closing sounded loud in the stillness.

In no hurry, Boone idly gave his gloves a tightening tug and surveyed the ranch yard and its few structures. All of them had a dingy, timeworn look that not even a fresh coat of paint could cure. It definitely wasn’t a place a man could point to with pride.

For the life of him, Boone couldn’t guess why the Calders hung on to the ranch. Supposedly it had once been owned by a long-ago ancestor. Yet it had been years since any of the Calders had set foot on it.

Considering that a ranch this size could never show much of a profit, the Cee Bar couldn’t be anything more than a headache to the Calders. Boone smiled, thinking how much worse that headache was going to get. Sooner or later they’d wash their hands of it and sell; it always worked that way.

After another look around, he headed for the house. He paused at the door and rapped loudly on it. As he expected, there was no stirring of movement inside.

With curiosity getting the better of him, Boone cast a quick glance behind him and tried the knob. It turned easily under his hand. He pushed it open and stepped inside.

Still cautious, he called out, “Hello? Anybody home?”

There was nothing but the echo of his own voice.

Satisfied that he was alone, Boone wandered through the old ranch house, snooping to see what he might find. The place was remarkably tidy and clean. All the beds were made, and dishes sat in the drying rack next to the sink counter. Boone found virtually nothing of interest lying about.

Even a search of an old desk in the living room failed to unearth anything of importance. The kitchen table yielded the only noteworthy items: two local newspapers folded open to the want-ad section. Circles had been drawn around ads offering hay for sale.

Boone smiled when he saw them. He’d given his foreman orders yesterday to buy up all the hay in the surrounding counties. He knew there was no longer any to be had in the area. Calder would have to truck in his hay, and that wouldn’t be cheap.

He lingered in the house a while longer. When no one showed up, he let himself out, climbed back in his pickup, and drove away.

It was after three in the afternoon when Quint arrived back at the Cee Bar. He had managed to switch his rental car for a black pickup that came equipped with a gas tank lock and security system. Both of which he’d left instructions to be installed in the ranch pickup once its repairs were complete.

He collected the part for the broken windmill from the pickup’s rear bed and started for the house. Sundown came early at this time of year and there might not be enough daylight left to get the parts switched and the windmill up and running before dark. He decided to give Empty the task tomorrow while he did a little fence-riding and checked on the cattle and pasture conditions.

Quint pulled the screen door open, caught it with his shoulder, and reached for the thin black cord he had shut in the door when he left. But it was lying on the threshold.

There had been a visitor at the Cee Bar while he was gone.