by Janet Dailey
Her troubled eyes bothered him. A week ago she had assured him their jealous argument was forgotten. But something was still gnawing on her mind and she wouldn’t tell him about it.
“Thinking about what?” Repp probed. “Your father? When you visited him Sunday, you said he was doing much better.”
“He is. There’s a numbness in his legs, and the doctor said that was a very good sign because it means he’s getting some feeling back.” There was still the need for more operations, more therapy. Recovery was still in the future.
Even if she had wanted to sound out her father on a few of the things that were troubling her, she hadn’t been given the opportunity. Ty had taken up most of their visiting time bringing him up to date on the situation at the ranch.
“Then what is it?” he persisted.
“Nothing, I told you.” Cat tried to laugh off the questions that made her uncomfortable and glanced past him at the pickup idling a few feet away. The cowboy at the wheel impatiently gunned the motor. “You’d better go. I’ll let you know about the party Saturday night.”
“Do that.” Repp was almost curt with her, irritated by her stubborn refusal to admit anything was wrong when he knew damned well there was. He walked to the truck and swung onto the passenger seat. He didn’t look at her again until the truck was driving out of the yard. She was wandering aimlessly in the direction of the airstrip. Maybe she was still depressed over her mother’s death. It might account for her moodiness.
Cat hadn’t set out with the intention of going to the private airfield, but when she saw the hangar shed, she gravitated toward it, drawn by the memory of that night when the deed was supposedly done. A midday sun was broiling the flat stretch of earth, creating wavy heat tines on the hangar’s tin roof. The wind made the only sound, running across the ground and billowing the directional windsock.
When Cat wandered into the cool shade of the hangar, the peaceful quiet was broken by the clang of something metal being dropped. She froze. “Who’s there?” she demanded.
A head popped up from behind the cowling of the twin-engine airplane parked in the shed. Dyson’s pilot appeared nearly as startled as Cat. “Hello,” he said. “I didn’t hear you come.”
She ducked under a wing to walk around to his plane. “What are you doing?” she inquired curiously. A tool kit was at his feet, and grease-stained tan coveralls protected his clothes.
“Just checking the motor.” The blue-eyed man had the slim build of a man much younger than his forty-plus years. His business was flying and he took it seriously, giving the plane his attention even as he responded to her inquiry. “Stricklin didn’t think it sounded right when we flew in yesterday. He’s gotten downright nervous about safety—wants everything checked and double-checked. I guess he forgets I’m flying in this bird, too.”
“There’s something I’ve been wondering about. Maybe you could answer it.” Cat chewed hesitantly on her inner lip, trying to word her question cautiously. “After a plane’s crashed, how can they tell what caused it?”
“Well . . . they piece together the wreckage. A good mechanic can usually tell you what was damaged on impact and what probably malfunctioned before the crash, presuming the cause was mechanical.” He paused to wipe his hands on a rag before shutting the access door to the engine’s motor. “Now, you take your father’s plane crash, oil would have spewed everywhere when that line ruptured.”
“But . . . could they determine why the line broke?”
His eyebrows lifted at her question. He considered it a minute, then shrugged diffidently. “I suppose they could. But I don’t know what they’d accomplish by doing it unless they were checking to see if it was a factory defect or something like that.”
“Are you saying that once they find a cause they don’t investigate it further . . . unless they have reason to believe something else might be wrong?” A small frown made lines in her forehead.
“They make their decision on a collection of information. The wreckage, eyewitness accounts, and, in this case, your father could verify the sudden drop in oil pressure since he was piloting the plane.” He shifted uncomfortably. “It’s pretty well cut and dried what happened. Private planes go down all the time. It isn’t like a big airliner where a lot of lives are involved and liability has to be determined.”
“I see,” Cat murmured thoughtfully, then glanced at the man, smiling vaguely. “You’re right, of course.”
“Listen, I—” He was bothered by her questions about the plane crash, concerned that he hadn’t given her satisfactory assurances that the investigation had been handled properly.
“No, it’s okay,” she interrupted him. “I understand.”
He hesitated, studying her; then his attention fell to his dirty hands. “Guess I’d better wash up. I got that grimy oil under my fingernails. It really takes some digging to get them clean.”
A mental image flashed before her mind’s eye of Stricklin sitting in the study that night cleaning his fingernails . . . with a dirty knife! She had forgotten all about that until the pilot’s comment reminded her of it. It didn’t exactly prove anything, but still. . .
“See you later,” she said to the pilot and left the hangar, walking swiftly toward The Homestead.
There was no one about the front room when she entered the house; both Tara and the new housekeeper were occupied elsewhere. Cat slipped into the study, unseen, and closed the doors. She was determined to either prove or disprove her uncle’s suspicions about the cause of the crash and end this agonizing doubt once and for all. It took her several phone calls before she finally reached the man who’d been in charge of investigating her father’s plane crash.
“Yes, I remember the case.” He assured her of his familiarity with it. “We completed the investigation and we filed our final report a couple months ago. It was a mechanical failure, as I recall, a ruptured oil line.”
“But what caused it?” Her hand tightly gripped the receiver. Cat sensed the hesitation on the other end of the line. “Could you tell if someone had tampered with it—partially cut through it or something like that?”
“Well, I hardly think—” His tone of voice was attempting to dismiss the idea.
“Please,” Cat interrupted him before he could reject the possibility. “I have to know if that happened.”
“Do you know what you’re suggesting?”
“Yes,” she said firmly. “That someone deliberately caused that plane to crash.”
“I tell you, Ty, I couldn’t be more pleased that we’ve all agreed on the same site,” Dyson declared as they gathered in the dining room to take their places for the evening meal. “Out of the possible locations we could have selected on that parcel, I believe we’ve picked the best for the new coal plant. We have a dependable water source right on the doorstep and a wide underseam of high-quality bituminous not a hundred yards away. In the first years, we can mine almost in a circle around the new plant. It will make for a highly efficient and economical operation, as well as a highly profitable one.”
“How soon do you anticipate generating an income from this?” Tara asked, then motioned to the housekeeper-maid to forgo the tasting of the white wine and fill the goblets around the table. She smiled at Ty, her dark eyes gleaming with pride and excitement for the further realization of her dreams.
“That’s the beauty of it.” Dyson was in ebullient spirits. “With our existing operation at the Stockman place, we have the men and machinery on hand to begin mining the coal as soon as we have access roads graded to the site. The coal plant itself will obviously require some construction time, but we’ll use the Stockman plant during the interim. The cash turnover will begin almost immediately.”
Cat had been listening to the business discussion with only half an ear, paying little attention to what was said. Her thoughts were preoccupied with the phone conversation she had had, as well as struggling against the prickling awareness of her dining companions. She reached for the linen cloth
at her place setting to unfold it and lay it across her lap.
“Since your attorney will have the papers ready for our signature tomorrow,” Dyson was saying as he picked up his wineglass, “I don’t think it’s premature to drink a toast to our new partnership, do you, Ty?”
His action attracted Cat’s attention. Startled by his announcement, she accidentally knocked her salad fork off the table. It clattered noisily to the floor, drawing everyone’s attention to her.
“Sorry, I—” She didn’t bother to finish the apology as she stared at Ty. “What’s this about a partnership?”
“E.J. and I are going into the coal business together,” he replied smoothly. His rawly handsome features held an expression of calm decision, irrevocable and firm, as Ty lifted his glass to Dyson.
“I’ve looked forward to this day ever since you and Tara were married.” Dyson wore a very self-satisfied look, and Cat stared at him, hearing the trace of premeditation in his statement. Her glance swung to Stricklin and fell away immediately when she saw he was watching her from behind those thick lenses of his glasses. Harassed by doubts and unproven suspicions, she kept silent.
All through dinner she listened to their talk of coal with growing trepidation—the potential tonnage that could be mined annually, sale negotiations with various high-usage companies, the fortunes to be realized. All the while the fear kept nagging at her that her brother was going into business with the two men who might be responsible for their mother’s death.
At the meal’s conclusion, Cat managed to waylay Ty before he could follow the others into the living room for coffee. “You can’t do it,” she insisted, trying to keep her voice low. “You can’t go into business with them, Ty.”
“It’s done.” His glance was hard, although his voice held patience.
“You haven’t signed the papers yet,” she reminded him earnestly. “It isn’t too late to change your mind yet.” She knew she had to give him a reason. Without proof, she was reluctant to tell him of her suspicions, brainwashed by Culley’s many protests that she wouldn’t be believed. “You know how Dad feels about mining coal. You can’t do this.”
“Financially, I have no choice.” His mouth thinned out. “I’m in charge, Cathleen. You were at the hospital last Sunday. You heard him say it was up to me. It’s my responsibility to see that we start bringing in some money, any way I see fit. Which is exactly what I’m doing. There isn’t any room for sentiment in business decisions, although you’re probably too young to understand that.”
“It isn’t that at all,” Cat protested. “What if I told you that—”
“Ty?” Tara appeared in the archway. “Aren’t you having coffee with us?” She glanced from Ty’s hard features to the desperate and beseeching look on his sister’s face. “What’s the problem, Cathleen?” She smiled indulgently. “Won’t Ty relent on his midnight curfew edict for the party Saturday night? I’ll speak to him about it for you. In the meantime, I’m going to steal him away from you. Daddy has a lot of details he wants to discuss with him.”
Her chance was gone; so was the urge to tell him what she and Culley suspected. Just seeing Tara reminded Cat that her brother was unlikely to believe his wife’s father was capable of doing such a thing. She wasn’t sure herself.
29
No announcement was made; no word was given out. But when the first surveyor stepped onto Calder land to stake out a new road, the news reverberated across the Triple C like a shock wave.
The pickup had barely rolled to a stop in front of The Homestead when Jessy came charging out of it, up the steps and through the front door. A tautness claimed every long inch of her as she demanded of the first person she saw, “Where’s Ty? I want to see him.”
Tkra stiffly faced her, icily controlled. “I don’t think he wishes to see you.”
“I don’t give a damn what he wants, and put your claws back in,” Jessy retorted, having no time for petty jealousies. “I’ve already handed in my notice and I’ll be drawing my pay and leaving at the end of the month. Where is he? In the study?”
“He’s busy.” She tried to block the way to the open doors of the study, but Jessy moved lithely around her.
“This won’t take long,” she promised grimly.
The half-raised voices had already aroused Ty’s attention. He was just stepping out from behind the desk when Jessy burst into the room and stopped, her hands resting on her hips in a challenging stance.
“There’s just one thing I want to know.” Her voice was flat and hard, like the look in her hazel eyes. “Is it true?”
There was a second’s pause when Ty almost pretended not to know what she was talking about. Then he dropped his gaze and made a half turn to the desk to pick up some papers. “Yes, it’s true. The Triple C is now in the coal-mining business.” The tension in the room was thick and oppressive, licking at his nerves.
“I didn’t want to believe it when I heard it,” Jessy declared. “I thought you were a Calder. I thought you had some feeling for this land.”
His decision had raised a clamor of disapproval among the veteran hands. It rankled Ty that he was being made to feel an outsider again when his sole interest was in keeping the ranch from going broke. It hardened his stand against her.
“Was there anything else you wanted?”
“I want you to take a ride with me. There’s something I’d like to show you,” she stated, not altering her challenging stance one degree.
“I’m busy just now.” Ty didn’t wish to argue with her over his decision. It seemed simplest to avoid any opportunity to do so.
“You aren’t so busy that you can’t spare one hour.” Anger trembled through her control. “Have I ever asked you for anything, Ty?” she demanded when he hesitated. “Well, I’m asking this from you now!”
A heavy breath came from him. “All right. I’ll go with you.” With a gesture of irritation, he shoved the papers onto his desk, then reached for his hat to jam it onto his head and follow her out of the room. Tara was instantly at his side, subtly attempting to detain him. “It’s business, Tara.” He sharply brushed aside her veiled protests and left the house with Jessy.
Not a word was exchanged as he climbed into the passenger side while Jessy slid behind the wheel. With smooth efficiency, she put the truck into motion and swung it away from The Homestead and onto the ranch road leading east from the headquarters. She showed him no more of her face than the strong-boned lines of her profile, her skin tanned brown and sun creases spreading out from the corner of her eye.
For a long time, the only sounds were the rush of wind over the truck and the loud hum of the motor. Behind him, a rifle rattled in the gun rack mounted across the cab’s rear window, a fixture in nearly every ranch vehicle. The grass-covered plains yellowing under the summer sun were a blue smear outside his window as the truck sped along the road. Ty thoughtfully rubbed his mouth, his mustache scraping the top of his finger, as he tried to guess at the unknown destination.
“Where are we going?” he finally asked after they had turned onto the highway, then shortly turned off of it again to bump along a rutted, overgrown track.
“We’re almost there.” She was equally abrupt.
The rutted tracks disappeared into a tangle of thistle-choked weeds. The truck bounced to a stop when it ran out of trail in the middle of nowhere. Jessy switched off the motor and climbed out of the pickup without explanation. Impatiently, Ty put a shoulder to the passenger door, opening it and swinging down.
A debris of rotted, broken wood and torn strips of black tarpaper was scattered about the weeds. It appeared to be an old dumping ground for trash. Ty looked around him with an expression of disgust and scantly concealed irritation for being brought here.
“Watch where you step,” Jessy advised him when he started forward. “There’s an old cistern buried around here somewhere.”
“What is this place?” His glance sliced to her.
“This is where your grandmother
used to live,” she told him. “She was a homesteader.”
Ty looked again at the scattered debris. He knew little about his grandmother, other than the fact that she had died shortly after his father was born. There was so little he knew about his family’s background. Jessy was more knowledgeable about his family’s history than he was. It grated nerves that were already irritated.
“In those days, they called them honyockers or nesters.” Her gaze was turned out to scan the sparse and scrubby plant life. “I wanted you to see what the plow did to this land. It used to be covered with grass—as thick and tall as the grass you find today on the Triple C.”
His glance ran over her tight-lipped and angry expression. She stood tall beside him, stiff with resentment. When she turned her narrowed and clear-eyed look on him, he noticed again the strength in her features, clean of any makeup.
“Look at it,” she ordered. “Because this is what happens when you rip up this earth. It’s eroded and windburned; not even the weeds can hold it together. Three hundred acres could maybe support one cow.”
“It needs to be seeded . . . reclaimed.” Ty conceded the land was in sorry condition, more desert than plain.
“Do you think it hasn’t been tried? Millions of acres of land were torn up like this.” Her voice vibrated with her effort to keep it controlled. “The native grasses wouldn’t come back. New kinds have been planted; some of the hardier ones have taken hold, but it takes a lot of care and work and water. It’s been fifty years and there’s still places like this. Are you willing to destroy the land for the coal underneath it? Destroy it not just for your use but your children’s, too?”
“Dammit, Jessy! I don’t have any choice!” he snapped under the increasing pressure of her censure. “I need the money to keep the ranch going.”
“What ranch?” she argued. “There won’t be anything left when they finish gobbling up all the coal. What are you saving, a place that will be a scrub desert in thirty years?”
