Читать книгу Winterkill - P.H. Turner - Страница 9

5

I awoke and stretched sore muscles that screamed for a good work out in the gym. Julia and I had unpacked most of the boxes and many old memories. Although I lived light, owning and moving only the stuff I used and loved, my aching muscles reminded me that I still had plenty of household goods.

I dressed for what I hoped was success for my first day on the job. Navy pants, good cream cashmere sweater and small gold hoop earrings. With my current wardrobe, dressing for success couldn’t happen too many sequential mornings, but this was the first day.

I found the news director’s office behind the studio’s soundstage. I stopped outside his door. My heart pounded nervously in my ears. At least he’s not Andy.

Clay Watkins’s office was a dusty cave stacked high with old news scripts and a Betamax recorder. In one corner, an ancient pile of three-quarter inch tape mounded in a precarious heap. Clay lived in a historical display of the last forty years of broadcasting.

He peered over his bifocals, waving a hand at the junk. “Hey, Sawyer. Don’t look too close. Clear off a place and sit down. You get squared away with the HR people?” I nodded. “Good. HR’s such a pain in the butt.”

I perched on the corner of a dusty chair unable to get a word in edgewise. He was filling all the airtime.

“Took you long enough to make your mind up about the job. We talked about it at the convention nearly two months ago. Don’t know what finally tripped your trigger, but I’m damn glad you’re here.”

I could feel the tension in my shoulders relax. “I’m ready for new challenges.”

“I got plenty of that. What I need is the hard-ass reporting I saw on your DVD resume—that corruption business where your story got that guy indicted. I’m not saying we’ve got a witch-hunt. But we got some important beats and you’re the reporter to cover it. Go find a story.” He challenged.

“I’ve found my story. The government slaughtered a cattle herd infected with brucellosis,” I answered.

His booted feet hit the floor. “Heard something about that. Make it good.” He stood. “Now let’s go meet the talent around this place.”

* * * *

I sat at my desk off the news bullpen researching cattle and brucellosis. The weathercaster was at work on the green screen. “And ah rain storm will cool the air bringin’much needed relief by thuh end of thuh week.”

“Graduate of Georgia Tech. Just sounds like a dumbass. Can’t seem to lose the twang. Sometimes his accent is so thick his weather report won’t stick to tape.” The smirk and the retreating swagger belonged to the sports anchor, Dwayne Hamilton. Lucky me, I won’t be working with him.

I closed the browser and picked up the phone. I wanted to score an interview with one of the owners of Cattleman’s Auction.

“Hello, this is Sawyer Cahill with CBS3. Could I speak with George Carlisle about a story I’m working on?” A click and a pause.

“This is George Carlisle,” he rasped.

“I’d like the benefit of your expertise for a story I’m working on.”

“Not this afternoon. No, not today. You call Hunter Kane, my partner.” Carlisle hung up.

No western hospitality there or even good judgment. Most business owners jumped at the opportunity to be on camera. He didn’t even suggest another time. Why was he so sure his partner would talk with the press? I called Hunter Kane. He was pleased to represent his company.

* * * *

My camera operator turned out to be an attractive thirtyish woman named Benita Lopez. She was already loading a tripod, sound mixer, and camera into the station’s SUV when I arrived. I double-checked the number of extra batteries and cables. On the ride over to the auction house, I got to know Benita. She was a Cheyenne native who had worked at the station for five years.

Pickups and stock trailers hogged all the parking spaces. Benita finally weaved between two cattle haulers. Swearing cowboys were coaxing animals into squeeze chutes. I had seen a headshot of Hunter Kane, but before I could find him in the crowd, Benita called out, “He’s over there by the loading pens.” I gave the back end of a horse plenty of room. A cowboy stopped putting on a bridle to appreciate the view of Benita’s ass. “Mr. Kane, Mr. Kane,” I called over bawling cattle and clanging gates. Hunter Kane turned. He was a tall, well-built blond man. Topping a crisp Brooks Brothers shirt was a beautifully tailored navy cashmere jacket. His Lucchese brown boots—boots that you wear to impress, not to cut cattle, were clean and shiny. Mine were dusty and manure-stained with a layer of red dust and part of a cow patty I had tromped through.

I looked up from my stinking shoe in time to catch his smile. He nodded down at my wet boot. “Have to be careful where you step here…Ms.?”

“Sawyer Cahill, Mr. Kane. CBS3. Thanks for talking to me today.”

“Of course. We’ll go upstairs in the arena. Our offices and conference room are there. You’re new, aren’t you? Or I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting you.”

Slick. “I just moved here from San Antonio.”

“Come this way.” He led us into the reception area of a small stucco building. The woman seated at the information desk greeted him effusively. He gestured to the stairs. “I moved here eight years ago from Montana to raise Angus cattle. Best decision I ever made.” He motioned us into a large conference room with floor to ceiling windows giving a view of the mountains. “Got into the auction business with George Carlisle a couple of years ago.”

Benita set up for a two-shot. “We’re going to shoot the interview parallel to the windows,” I told her. “Just a few questions, Mr. Kane. Then we’ll go down to the auction and get some footage.”

“Unbutton you shirt and pull your microphone up to attach it to the front, right below your chin,” Benita said to Hunter. He fumbled the tiny alligator clip. “No, it’s still crooked. Here let me fix it for you.” Benita straightened his microphone and smoothed the front of his shirt across his shoulders. Kane looked over my way and caught me watching. A lazy smile played at his lips.

Benita counted down, cueing me for the first question.

“Thanks for having us at Cattleman’s Auction today, Mr. Kane.”

“Thanks. I’m happy to be of service.”

“How important is the cattle industry to Wyoming’s economy?”

“We’re called the Cowboy State for a reason. Agriculture is a billion-dollar industry in this state. Cattle ranching makes the money here. Hay is the second largest money maker in our state.”

“Tell us about today’s cattle auction.”

“We have a load of prime breeding bulls. We’re live streaming this auction. Taking bids over the Internet, too. Should be real interesting.”

“How much does a top bull go for at auction?”

“These bulls sell for around ten thousand dollars each.” He rose suddenly, dragging the microphone wire with him, creating crackles and pops that would require more editing.

“Auction’s about to start. We need to get down to the arena.”

Usually the interviewee didn’t end the interview. “Thank you Mr. Kane for taking the time to talk to CBS3.”

Hunter pulled off his microphone. “Would you care to join me in my box for the breeder’s auction? You could meet some of the other local ranchers.”

Benita looked up from packing her camera. “I’ll shoot cover footage from ringside if you want.”

Amusement crinkled Hunter’s brown eyes. “Settled.”

We had a good view of the dusty arena. Snorting bulls lumbered out of the chute. The stick man tapped the legs of each bull, urging them to the center of the arena.

“Hey yebba de yebba de yebba de yebba. Whadda ya gemma me? Whadda ya gemma me?”

The stick man tapped on the legs of a massive black bull and after a flurry of bids, he guided the bull to the new owner’s stock trailer.

“Why did that bull go for more than average?” I asked Hunter.

“That bull’s bloodline has some fine stock behind it,” Hunter explained, bringing his mouth down to my ear. I caught a whiff of spicy cologne. “Mike Wiley bought him. He needs a new bloodline on his ranch.” He shifted in his chair. “A month ago Wiley paid sixteen hundred dollars apiece for about twenty heifers. Breeders wait a lifetime for a chance at bloodlines like this. That bull is going to sire a lot of calves for the Iron Horse. Each of those heifers will drop seven calves in their lifetime. Count that up! Wiley’ll make money putting him out to stud too. Not a bad life for the bull either.” He smiled.

The auctioneer called the last bid and closed the auction. Hunter leaned over briefly and touched my forearm. “Would you join me for a glass of wine and dinner? I don’t often get to spend an afternoon with a lovely and intelligent woman.”

I just met him. Just a casual drink, no dinner. “I’ll be at the station until around seven. I could meet you then for a drink.”

“Perfect.” He had even white teeth when he smiled. “I’ll meet you at the station and we’ll walk across the square and have a drink at the Plains Hotel. Beautiful old bar built in 1911 when the ranchers began staking their claims.”

We joined Benita near the door of the arena. A slender young man called, “Mr. Kane, can I have a word with you.”

“Sure Walker, you need something?” Hunter asked.

A skinny kid wiped his hands on his dirty jeans and stuck it out to Hunter. “I want to thank you, Mr. Kane, for all you done for me. Takin’ a chance on me and givin’ me this job. I—I got me a new job. Gonna be a cowhand over to the Wildcat with Mr. Rogers’s outfit. I wanted to tell you myself.”

Hunter gingerly took Walker’s grimy hand. “I’m wishing you the best, Tom. Nate runs a good outfit. I want to hear how you get on.”

Walker turned on his boot heel with a silent nod and walked away.

Hunter puffed out his chest and thrust his chin up. “A little protégé of mine.”

“What do you mean?”

“Kid was in foster care when I met him. Came by the auction house and wanted to work after school. I gave him a chance. Foster care is a terrible place to be. By god, he learned what hard work is. Without me teaching him, he wouldn’t have been hired by Nate.”

“He finish school?”

“Naw, he dropped out. I taught him what he needed. Just my little way of helping people. I really enjoy guiding people, you know? I live my life to be an example for others. Damn proud I could help him.” Hunter tilted his head back, clasped his hands behind his back and smiled down at me.

I heard someone clear his throat. I turned and caught Jake Spooner’s intense gaze. His lips turned up in amusement.

Hunter caught Jake’s glance, too. “Hello Spooner.”

“Kane,” Jake said, striding past him.

“Met Jake Spooner?” Hunter asked. We stepped out of the arena into the afternoon sunlight.

“Yes, briefly. He’s a neighbor of mine.”

“You’ll get to know him. Cheyenne’s not that big.”