Shifting Calder Wind

by Janet Dailey

  “You know what they say about a watched pot.” Hattie eyed him with a knowing look.

  “Point taken.” He eased himself back into the rocking chair, conscious of the faint trembling in his leg muscles.

  “Still weak, aren’t you,” Hattie observed.

  “A little.” It went against the grain to admit it, but there was no hiding it from this woman.

  “It will take your body some time to build back up its blood supply. You probably should have had a transfusion. As soon as you finish your lemonade, I’ll change the bandage and see how it’s healing.”

  “Maybe this time you can bandage it in something smaller than this turban.” He raised a hand to the gauze strips that circled much of his head.

  “I probably could if I shaved your head, but I don’t think you would look good bald,” Hattie replied, a mischievous glint in her dark eyes.

  His mouth crooked in an answering smile. “I’ll keep my hair, thank you.”

  “I thought you would.”

  At the top of the porch steps, the yellow dog lifted its head to stare down the lane, ears pricking at some distant sound. A growl started deep in its throat then escalated to an eager whine as his wagging tail thumped the wooden floorboards.

  “Laredo must be coming,” Hattie guessed, her own gaze shifting to the ranch lane.

  When the pickup pulled into view, the dog bounded off the porch and raced to meet it, barking a welcome. He ran alongside of it until it stopped close to the house, then danced impatiently by the driver’s door waiting for Laredo to step out. Laredo obligingly rumpled the dog’s ears and walked up the cracked concrete sidewalk to the front porch.

  “What did you find out?” Chase asked as Laredo mounted the steps.

  “I know your funeral is scheduled for Tuesday.” Joining them on the porch, Laredo hooked a hip on the rail, his body angled toward Chase, and tipped his hat to the back of his head.

  His mouth quirked briefly at the wry humor in Laredo’s remark. “Back in Montana, I assume.”

  Laredo nodded. “The services will be held at your ranch. The closest town is a place called Blue Moon. Does that ring a bell?”

  “No. What else did you learn?”

  “I saw your daughter. Fortunately she doesn’t look anything like you. She’s slim and petite with black hair and green eyes, somewhere in her late twenties to early thirties. They call her Cat.” But there was nothing in Chase’s expression that suggested to Laredo he remembered any of this. He went on to describe the son-in-law and former daughter-in-law Tara, then explained about the death of the son Ty, the wife and twins he left behind, and the assumption that Ty’s widow would take over the ranch’s operation. When he finished, he paused a beat then shrugged. “That’s about it, I guess.”

  “You never mentioned Calder’s wife.” He still found it difficult to think of himself as Chase Calder.

  “No one else mentioned her either, and I couldn’t think of a way to ask about her when I claimed to know you. But I think it’s safe to say that she probably died some years ago. But if your daughter looks anything like her, she must have been a beauty.”

  The names whirled through his head—Ty, Cat, Jessy, Trey, Laura, Tara—every one of them meaningless. He threw a challenging look at Laredo. “You still think I’m this Chase Calder?”

  “I didn’t hear anything to cause me to change my mind,” he replied evenly.

  “You mentioned that my son was killed. Do you think there is any connection between his death and the attempt on my life?”

  “There doesn’t appear to be,” Laredo answered. “But you are the only one who can say for sure about that.”

  “And I don’t remember.” The frustration of that was galling.

  “I think you have answered all the questions that you can from here,” Laredo stated. “If you want to learn anything more, you’ll need to go to Montana.”

  “I agree.” He also knew it was the only way to find out whether he was really Chase Calder. But how would he get there—without tipping his hand—when he was flat broke.

  “That pickup has some high mileage on it, but I think it will make it to Montana.” Laredo eyed him with quiet interest.

  “You aren’t suggesting that Duke try to drive there in his condition, are you?” Hattie looked at him aghast.

  “No.” Laredo didn’t blink an eye. “Actually I was thinking along the lines of driving him there myself. What are the chances of you getting someone to do your chores for you, Hattie? I would feel a lot better if you came along with us. I know Duke is on the mend, but . . .” He let the word trail off.

  His proposal caught her off guard, but nothing ever threw Hattie for long. Her dark gaze made a critical appraisal of her patient.

  “That wound will need to be watched closely for infection these next few days,” she murmured, half to herself. With the matter settled in her mind, she made an abrupt pivot and strode to the door. “I’ll call McFarland. I did his chores while he and Joy Ann went to their son’s wedding in Phoenix. He owes me.”

  For a long moment Chase simply looked at Laredo. Finally he said, “You don’t have to do this.”

  “I know.” A slow smile spread across his mouth while the look in his blue eyes remained serious. “But it’s the only way that I’ll find out how the story ends.”

  “I can’t pay you yet,” Chase said, thinking of the ready cash that would be needed to pay for gas, meals, and lodging.

  “I have the feeling you are good for it.” Laredo straightened away from the railing, coming erect. “We might as well start throwing some things in a suitcase. The road to Montana is a long one. The sooner we leave, the sooner we’ll get there.”

  PART TWO

  A shifting wind,

  It hides his face,

  But no one can take

  A Calder’s place.

  Chapter Four

  The morning breeze ruffled the black bunting that draped the front of The Homestead. The movement of the fabric created a sound that was like a sighing moan. It matched the pall that hung over the entire Triple C Ranch.

  Jessy felt the heaviness of it as she climbed the veranda steps. Her glance touched on the black wreath that hung on the front door, signaling a house in mourning. She paused at the top of the steps and turned to sweep her gaze over the sprawling Triple C headquarters.

  Everywhere there was a stirring of activity as the ranch hands carried out their routine morning chores. But the black armbands they wore took away any semblance of normalcy. The shock and the grief went deep—as deep as the emptiness.

  Not a single one had questioned her right to assume control. They recognized she was in charge now and accepted it. But things weren’t the same. And nothing would be the same until the reins were once again in the hands of one who was Calder by blood. Even Jessy felt it. She had been entrusted with the responsibility of holding the ranch together so it could pass intact to her son.

  Already the subtle job of grooming Trey had begun. A dozen times in the last three days Jessy had noticed the special attention the older hands now gave Trey—not in a way that would spoil him, but one that would train him in the ways of a Calder and the codes he would be expected to follow. Jessy felt a mix of pride and gratitude toward these men, and those feelings buoyed her, despite the long and difficult day that lay ahead—for all of them.

  She turned her gaze to the private cemetery located a short distance back from the river. A blue canopy had been erected over the opened grave that soon would become the final resting place of Chase Benteen Calder.

  Currently the closed casket that held his remains sat in the den where a space had been cleared for it. From the moment it had been set in place, someone had sat with it day and night. The ranch hands had started it, partly Jessy suspected as a way to make his death seem more real, something the closed casket had made difficult for a great many.

  The snick of a latch alerted her to the opening of the front door. Turning, she saw Monte Markham w
hen he stepped out of the house, a pajama-clad Trey riding on his shoulders.

  “Mind your head, now,” he warned Trey in his distinctive British accent, then noticed Jessy standing at the top of the steps. “Ah, there is your mum. Isn’t that good luck? We found her straight away.”

  “Good morning.” Jessy’s glance touched on the Englishman’s aesthetically fine features before it shifted to the dark scowl on her son’s face. It troubled her the way Trey had changed from a wild rapscallion to a somber, almost angry little boy since learning of his grandfather’s death. “Looking for me, were you?” She reached up and lifted him off Monte’s shoulders. As always, Trey reminded her of a spindly colt, all arms and legs. “What’s the problem?”

  Trey clamped his mouth shut in mutinous silence and fixed his gaze on the shoulder seam of her chambray shirt.

  Monte quietly supplied the answer. “He is a bit reluctant about attending the funeral.”

  The explanation earned him a glare from Trey. “My grampa’s not dead.”

  The topic was one Jessy had discussed with Trey at length. She didn’t choose to go into it with him again. “If you’d rather not, you don’t have to go,” she replied with an easy calm, well aware that his absence would be a disappointment to the ranch hands, who wanted a Calder to be made of sterner stuff. “I’m sure Quint will understand.”

  His dark gaze bored into her. “Quint’s going?”

  “Yes.” Jessy was careful to say no more than that. Trey might not be four years old yet, but he was intelligent, and quick to recognize when he was being manipulated.

  “Maybe I’ll go,” he said cautiously.

  “That’s up to you.” She remained very matter-of-fact. “But right now I think you should go upstairs and get some clothes on.” Setting him down, Jessy pointed him toward the front door and gave him a light swat on the rump. “Scoot.”

  He ran to the door, his bare feet slapping across the veranda’s wooden floor. He grabbed hold of the handle and gave the heavy door a mighty tug, pulling it open, then disappeared inside. When the door closed behind him, Jessy let her attention come back to Monte.

  His look was soft with compassion. “Death is always difficult for a small child to accept.”

  She nodded. “The closed casket just makes it that much harder.”

  “Yes. It eliminates one of those final rites that provide us with a sense of closure,” Monte agreed thoughtfully.

  “Funerals have always been for the living.” Almost automatically she thought of Ty and the void his death had created in her life. But she had become adept at shifting the focus of her thoughts. “When I left the house this morning, I noticed your Range Rover. I realized then that you must have volunteered to take the dawn shift sitting vigil. That was very kind of you, Monte.”

  “Believe me, I wish there was more I could do,” he said with utmost sincerity. “But it would be futile for me to suggest that you call me if you need help with something. I am certain countless others with considerably more knowledge and experience than I possess have already offered their services. Truthfully, I have never met a woman who appeared to be more capable of running an operation of this magnitude than you. Quite likely it is I who will be coming to you for advice.” His smile was warm with a rueful amusement.

  She widened the curve of her mouth in response. “Anytime, Monte. You know that.”

  “Thank you.” He inclined his head. “And I would hope that if you ever should want some undemanding company for dinner or an evening of idle chatter, you will feel free to call me.”

  “I’ll do that,” Jessy assured him.

  “You say that easily, but I hope you mean it.” Despite the slight twinkle in his eyes, he studied her with a thoughtful regard. “This is hardly the proper time to be speaking of such things, but with the press of people who will be attending the funeral today, I doubt I will have another chance to speak privately with you. This new role you have assumed brings with it considerable responsibilities and obligations, of which I am certain you are aware. Perhaps you also know that it will place you apart from those around you. There will be occasions when you will wish to be an ordinary mortal. I know it is a desire my brother, the Earl of Stanfield, has expressed to me more than once. At such times, I ask that you remember my offer. There,” he concluded, his smile taking on a winsome quality, “I have made my little speech—and no doubt bored you dreadfully.”

  She laughed low in her throat. “You are never boring, Monte.”

  “I am relieved to hear that. Since coming here, I have overheard more than one local remark that I sound stuffy and a bit pompous. I suspect it is this accent of mine that gives that impression.”

  “They clearly don’t know you very well,” Jessy replied.

  “I am glad you feel that way,” he said, then paused. “I don’t quite know why, but from the very first, I have always felt comfortable with you. If I said such a thing to most women, they would be insulted, but I think you know that I mean it as a compliment.”

  “I do.” Thinking back over the last three days, Jessy realized that Monte had spent considerable time at The Homestead, a quiet presence somewhere in the background, never asserting himself, never seeming to be in the way, turning his hand to anything useful whether it was answering the telephone or accepting delivery of a telegram. Even the night when Logan had brought them the news of Chase’s death, it hadn’t seemed intrusive for Monte to be there. In those first few moments afterward, she remembered the touch of his hand on her arm, the sensation of it as a kind of steadying force. And the look in his eyes had been one of recognition for the change in status Chase’s death meant for her. At the time she had given it little thought.

  “I find it easy to be with you, Monte,” Jessy admitted freely.

  “Gracious,” he dryly arched an eyebrow over twinkling eyes, “we sound like members of some mutual admiration society. Why does it feel so awkward to express honest emotions?”

  “I don’t know.” With typical unconcern, she shrugged away the question. Such things had never troubled her. “You can drive yourself crazy trying to analyze the reason. Even if you figure it out, what does it change?”

  Monte threw back his head and laughed. “What does it change, indeed,” he declared. “You are a marvel, Jessy, always so straight and direct, yet somehow so difficult to fathom.”

  “I’m not a well,” she said dryly, finding such talk ridiculously fanciful.

  Monte just smiled. “If you were, you would likely be a bottomless one. But,” he paused and seemed to gather himself, “I have kept you long enough. I merely wanted to make certain that you knew I understood the unique position you now hold, and that I am available if you ever want company.”

  “Thank you.”

  He didn’t press for a more definite answer. “I’ll see you later at the funeral.” He brushed a hand over her arm in farewell and moved down the steps toward his Range Rover.

  Jessy didn’t linger to watch him leave. She had a dozen different tasks to accomplish before the hour of the funeral arrived. She didn’t bother to dwell on the offer he had made, not even to wonder if the day would come when she would want such company and, if it did, whether she would call Monte.

  A huge throng of mourners crowded the small cemetery by the river that had long been the repository for the ranch’s dead. It was a notable group who gathered to pay their last respects to Chase Calder, numbering among them the governor as well as senators and congressmen at both the state and national level.

  Strains of the old hymn “Shall We Gather at the River” filled the silence, sung by a local church choir. On Jessy’s left, Laura sang along, la-la-la-ing the numerous words she didn’t know. Trey was slumped in the chair on her right, swinging his legs back and forth, thumping them against the chair in a discordant tempo to the music. A quiet and solemn Quint sat next to him, his hands folded in his lap, his gray eyes fixed on the flower-draped casket. Beyond him were Logan and Cat, who was dry-eyed and pale, her
hand spread across the Bible she held.

  A sniffling sound drew Jessy’s glance to Sally Brogan, the former proprietor of Blue Moon’s lone restaurant and bar and current housekeeper at The Homestead. Her snow-white head was bowed in grief as she blotted at the tears on her cheek with a lace-edged handkerchief. With the recent loss of her own husband, Jessy well understood the pain of Sally’s grief. For years Sally had nurtured a quiet love for Chase. There was a time when Jessy had thought the two might marry, but that hadn’t come to pass. Now he was gone. And any hopes Sally might have had of one day becoming his wife were gone with him.

  Jessy let her gaze wander over the solemn faces of the assembled mourners. She knew just about everyone there. She couldn’t recall the names of a few of the out-of-state ranchers, but their faces were familiar.

  Then her roaming glance touched on a stranger standing a few rows back from the gravesite. He was tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in a tieless white shirt and brown sport coat. A cowboy hat was pulled low to shade his eyes from the bright morning sun. But it didn’t prevent Jessy from getting a good look at his strong, clean-cut features. His face had a youthful freshness about it that was belied by the deep etching of character lines. Jessy guessed his age at somewhere in his late thirties or early forties—a contemporary of herself. Which only made her more curious about who he was.

  She checked out the people on either side of him, thinking the stranger might be kin to one of them. But she knew both families. If he was related to either of them, it had to be a shirttail connection.

  Her curiosity waning, Jessy started to pull her glance away. At that moment he made eye contact with her, and she found herself gazing into a pair of steady blue eyes. Ever so slightly, he dipped his head in acknowledgement of the exchange. She felt a flicker of something. With a trace of self-consciousness, she broke the contact and reached over to still Trey’s swinging legs.

  Beside her Laura sang out the hymn’s closing word with confidence, “Ah-men.”