by Janet Dailey
He struggled to lower his voice and it came out rough with the effort. “I’m not going to accept that. Now, are you going to tell me what happened and why?”
“I said forget it,” Webb repeated, opening his eyes to challenge his father. But Lorna saw the film of moisture in them and felt her heart twisting for her son. It was a stupid code that men had to do their crying on the inside, and she wished she could cry Webb’s tears for him. “This is my business. It has nothing to do with you,” Webb insisted.
“Like hell it doesn’t!” Benteen towered beside the bed. “You are a Calder, and that makes it my business, too!” His hands came out of his pockets to thrust a finger at Webb. “Nobody shoots my son—nobody shoots one of my riders—that I don’t take a personal interest in the reason!”
“It had nothing to do with the ranch.” Webb sank tiredly against the pillows; the argument was costing him what little strength he had.
“It doesn’t matter if it’s personal or business,” his father insisted. His mouth was compressed in a tight line as he waited for a response and didn’t get it. “The man who brought you here claimed he caught you with his wife.” He challenged Webb to deny the information. When the denial didn’t come, he was forced to demand, “Is that true?”
A silence ran through the room before the simple, one-word answer was given. “Yes.”
“By God, you’d better have more of an explanation than that.” His father’s voice vibrated. The line of his jaw stood out, muscles harshly clenched. “How could you become involved with a married woman?”
“I love her.” His candor touched Lorna, but it didn’t sway Benteen at all. “I would have taken her away from him if I could.” Webb didn’t expect his father to understand, so he wasn’t disappointed by his reaction.
“You weren’t raised to take what belongs to another man,” his father condemned him in hoarse anger.
“Benteen, I think you’d better leave.” Lorna came between them, confronting her husband with a determined look he had seen before. “You found out what you wanted to know. The rest can wait until later, when Webb is stronger.”
“How can you defend him?” he challenged.
“He’s my son, and he’s your son,” she countered without hesitation. “Right now, he’s too weak to lift his head, let alone take on you.” She faced him squarely, not giving an inch. “I mean it, Benteen. Leave the room.”
“All right,” Benteen conceded grimly. “I’ll wait until he’s out of that bed.”
He turned on his heel and walked briskly from the room. Lorna waited until the door had closed behind him before shifting her attention to Webb.
No matter how much he had been prepared for his father’s anger, it still added to his broken despair. His memory of the shooting was laced with an unreality that didn’t quite make anything clear, even less reveal how he had survived. He guessed Lilli had somehow kept Reisner from killing him. Lilli. What had happened to her? He damned the wound that had taken his strength.
When he saw the sadness and regret in his mother’s expression, he sighed tiredly and aggravated the fiery pain in his side. “Don’t apologize for him, Mother,” he said. “I expected it.”
She combed her fingers through his hair in a loving gesture and smoothed it away from his forehead. “She is the young woman who was injured at the fire,” she guessed, and Webb nodded his head, not surprised by his mother’s astuteness. “I thought so,” she murmured and changed the subject. “We’ve had all your things brought over from the bunkhouse. You’re going to stay here in your old room where we can take care of you.” She ran her hand over his scratchy beard and tried to smile. “You need a shave, but first some rest, I think.”
“I am tired,” he admitted.
His mother started to leave his side, then turned back. “Webb,” she began, “I know your father seemed unnecessarily harsh, but remember—his mother ran away with another man when he was a boy. I thought he’d gotten over it, but. . .” She hesitated. “He knows what that did to his father. It’s hard for him to accept that his own son would deliberately try to break up a marriage.”
No reply was necessary as his mother left the room. Webb stared out the window at the polar-blue color of the sky. It was a detail of his father’s past that he’d forgotten. His mother had told him of it, but it was something his father never discussed.
His pain-troubled mind didn’t dwell on that thought long. Soon the color of the sky was conjuring up images of Lilli and the incredible blue of her eyes. “If he laid a hand on you because of me, Lilli, I swear I’ll kill him,” Webb muttered, already drifting into the blackness of exhaustion.
That evening, Barnie Moore came to The Homestead, ostensibly to report on the effects of the storm, but he was tired of the waiting and speculating. He’d known Chase Benteen Calder since they were both wild pups, and his son Nate was Webb’s best friend. Others might not dare to question the continuing silence from The Homestead, but Barnie wasn’t one of them.
A fire crackled in the den’s huge fireplace. The tongues of flames licking over the logs were the objects of Benteen’s brooding attention as he sat in a leather-covered chair, a twin to the one Barnie occupied.
“On the whole, the herds have fared pretty well,” Barnie said, wrapping up his discourse on the subject. “So far, the winter kill is running light.”
“Good,” Benteen grunted, but it seemed to be a response given automatically without being aware of what was said.
“How’s the boy doin’?” Barnie started out with a safe inquiry.
“He’s regained consciousness. You know that.” Benteen slid him a short glance, aware the word had gotten around. Barnie confirmed it with a nod. “He’s weak as a baby. It’ll take him some time to get back on his feet.”
“I figured that.” Barnie struck a match and carried it to the tailor-made cigarette, cupping the flame to the tip and looking across at Benteen. “I expect he was strong enough to tell you how he got shot.”
With a flash of irritation, Benteen pushed to his feet and approached the fireplace. “It was an accident.”
Barnie managed to blow out the smoke he inhaled before he choked on it. “An accident?”
“He was cleaning his rifle and it accidentally discharged,” Benteen snapped at Barnie’s skeptical response. “It happens all the time.”
“And the knot on his head? I suppose he got that when he fell,” Barnie doubted, and was even more convinced when he saw the bunching muscles on Benteen’s back, signaling a controlled anger.
“Yes, I suppose he did.” The clipped agreement accepted Barnie’s reasoning.
“Then how do you explain how those farmers got ahold of him?” Barnie challenged quietly.
Benteen whipped around. “How the hell should I know!” he flared. “Maybe he took refuge at their place to wait out the storm.” But he knew the explanation had holes in it, because it didn’t provide a reason for Webb’s not being at the line camp. “As far as you and everyone else is concerned, the shooting was an accident. That’s all you need to know.”
Without making a reply to that, Barnie rolled slowly to his feet and walked to the fireplace to toss the burned match into the flames. “Is it all right if Nate comes to see him?” he asked instead.
“He’s up to having visitors.” Benteen nodded.
“He’ll be by, then,” Barnie said. “I’m glad to hear Webb’s doin’ better. You know we all feel like we’ve had a hand in raising him.”
“Yeah.” Benteen wondered if that was the problem. Maybe Webb had too many fathers. Or maybe it was his own mother’s blood that ran in his son, making him irresponsible and unprincipled. Maybe Webb was a throwback to her. It had taken him a long time to accept his mother for what she was, but he couldn’t tolerate those traits in his son. Some hard and painful decision had to be made.
He didn’t hear Barnie leave the room.
Bare-chested, Webb stood in front of the wood-framed mirror. His middle was bound in a w
ide bandage that completely encircled him, while a pair of Levi denim pants hugged the length of his legs and hips. His face was half-covered with shaving lather, two swaths cut through it by the razor in his hand.
His hand trembled when he raised it to make a third wipe at his beard, his arm feeling incredibly heavy. Webb cursed this frightening weakness that still gripped him after more than a week and attempted to force his hand to carry out its task. He felt the sting of pain as the sharp blade nicked his skin. Cursing again, be reached for the towel to blot the blood from the cut There was a quick knock at the door.
“Come in.” He irritably gave permission for the person to enter.
The door opened and Ruth came in with his breakfast tray. “Good morning.” She looked at him as she set the tray on the stand next to his bed. “What do you think you’re doing?” she asked as he turned back to the mirror and rinsed off the blade in the basin of water.
“Shaving,” he answered shortly, eyeing her reflection in the mirror next to his own.
She took away the towel he had pressed against the cut. “It looks to me like you weren’t satisfied with the amount of blood you lost and decided to get rid of some more. Sit down.” She gently pushed him toward a straight chair. “I’ll finish that for you.”
With mixed relief, Webb sank into the chair. His legs were rubbery and weren’t up to standing for long periods. He’d been nearly to his limit, so part of him didn’t mind letting Ruth take over the chore. He tipped his head onto the back edge of the chair and closed his eyes as the razor began making clean, firm strokes across his beard. He opened them to look at Ruth bending over him.
“You’re pretty good at this,” he remarked.
“I should be with as much practice as I’ve had on you.” It was a simple statement, not meant to be bold or provocative. “Hold still and don’t talk, or I’m liable to cut you. I’m not that good.”
Webb fell silent, reminded by her remark of all the hours she’d spent with him since he’d been hurt. She’d fed him, washed him, shaved him, and read to him, not talking unless he did and going quietly about her work when he didn’t.
When she finished, she handed him the towel to wipe off the last bits of lather. “Come eat your breakfast before it gets cold.”
Webb wiped at his face as he stared after her, feeling vaguely puzzled. Getting up and crossing the room to the bed required an effort. He was breaking out in a sweat by the time he reached it, his strength sapped by that minor exertion. Ruth plumped the pillows to give him firmer support, then set the tray on his lap.
“Do you know you have never once asked me about the shooting, Ruth?” Webb realized. Everyone else had wanted a firsthand account, except her.
“Your father said it was an accident.” She avoided his gaze. “I don’t care how it happened or why. I just want you to get better.”
“A woman who doesn’t ask questions. You must be a new breed,” he suggested dryly and watched her lips part as if she were going to say something, then come together again. “What were you going to say?”
“Nothing.” She shook her head, denying there was any question she wanted to ask him. “Eat your breakfast. I’ll come back for the tray in a little bit.”
“Ruth.” Webb called her back when she started to leave. “Thanks for not asking questions.”
Her smile was small. As she left, Ruth wondered if it had ever occurred to Webb that she didn’t want to know the answers.
It was well into the third week before Webb ventured downstairs. At first it was just for meals, and gradually it worked into longer periods. He didn’t see much of his father. When he did, they had little to say to each other. They hadn’t been on the best of terms for quite a while, and the relationship had become more strained since the shooting.
During his long recuperation, he’d had many hours to think about Lilli. It was better if he didn’t see her again—better for both of them. Since she had made no attempt to contact him, he had to assume her decision to stay with her husband hadn’t changed despite the shooting. Webb didn’t want to share her. He didn’t want an affair, never knowing when he could see her or how. It was better to leave the door closed.
The evening meal had been finished some time ago, but the three of them, Webb and his parents, were lingering at the table over coffee. Webb drained what was in his cup and set it back in its saucer. His father eyed him from his chair at the head of the table.
“Well.” The word was issued in a challenging tone. “Are you up to taking me on, Webb? I promised your mother I’d wait until you were stronger before we had our ‘discussion.’”
“Benteen—” His mother attempted to protest.
“It’s no good, Lorna,” he cut in. “Postponing isn’t going to change my mind.”
“He’s right, Mother,” Webb agreed. “There’s nothing to be gained by putting it off any longer.” He glanced at his father. “Shall we go to the den?” He received an affirmative nod, and both stood up at the same time.
“I’m coming, too,” his mother insisted and pushed her chair away from the table.
“No, you’re not, Lorna,” his father denied. “This is one time when there’s no room for a peacemaker. There are things that have to be said, and the talk is likely to get rough. I don’t want you there. This is something Webb and I have to settle once and for all.”
This showdown had been brewing for a long time, Webb realized as he left the dining room, walking stride for stride with his father across the entryway to the den. He didn’t know what was coming, but he felt ready for it. Now that Lilli was obviously lost to him, there seemed to be very little in his life that had any meaning. So there was really nothing to lose.
Inside the room, Webb paused and waited for his father to close the doors. When they were shut, he walked to the fire and poked at the glowing logs until a flame shot up. His side was still sore, and he wasn’t back to full strength by any means, but he felt able to take on his father.
“Drink?” his father asked, and Webb shook his head in refusal. “Neither do I. It isn’t going to help the taste of anything I have to say.”
“Then get on with it,” Webb stated.
Benteen Calder looked at him and grunted out a laugh. “That’s the only thing you’ve ever said that sounded like it came from a Calder.” He shook his head in a kind of hopelessness and walked to his desk. “I guess you know this business with a married woman was the final straw.”
“I didn’t exactly plan to fall in love with another man’s wife,” Webb snapped. “But I don’t expect you to understand that.”
“Do you know what you are?” His father tilted his head to one side, studying him. “You’re a saddlebum. You may not drift from ranch to ranch, but you’re just like them in all the other ways. You do your drinking and brawling and whoring with the boys. And you’ll never amount to a damned thing. You’re always taking the easy way, letting someone else do the worrying and give the orders.”
“That’s your opinion.” Webb set the poker back in its rack, feeling the hairs bristling on his neck at the sweeping condemnation.
“Opinion? You’ve never shown me you’re anything else,” Benteen shot back. “Do you see that map on the wall? When I was your age, I’d built that, fought for it, and owned it.”
“I’m tired of hearing what you did when you were my age!” Webb flared. “What do you expect me to do? Go out and duplicate it just because it was what you did?”
“No! Dammit!” His temper was ignited by the flash of Webb’s. “I’ve been waiting for years for you to start shouldering some of the responsibility around here, but you don’t even want to handle a roundup crew! Nothing you have said or done has shown me that you care what happens to this ranch!”
“Is this going to turn into another lecture about the ranch?” Webb demanded. “Because if it is—”
“No.” His father paused, breathing hard as his voice grew deadly cold. “This isn’t another lecture. Because I realize you aren’t
going to change.”
“I’m glad you finally got it through your thick skull that I don’t want anything handed to me,” Webb retorted with a trace of sarcasm.
“I got it, all right. And you’re not going to get handed a thing, because I wouldn’t put the Triple C in the hands of an unprincipled, irresponsible bum like you,” he stated. “You’re not going to inherit the Triple C when I’m gone. You’re not going to get one inch of this land.”
Webb stared at his father, trying to take in what he’d just been told. It was as if someone had just ripped out his soul. A strange rage was building inside of him, thundering through his veins like a stampeding herd.
“You can’t do that.” His voice was tight, hardly sounding like his own.
“The hell I can’t.”
“Damn you to hell!” Webb was vibrating with the force of his fury. “This land is as much mine as it is yours! I was born on it! I’ve worked it and rode every inch of it!”
“Have you, now?” There was a hard, calculating gleam in his father’s eyes. “You know damned well I have!” “Do you want it?”
“Yes!” He had resisted it for so long that it came as a shock how desperately he wanted this ranch. He belonged to it. It was as much a part of him as his heart. “And, by God, I’m not going to let you take it from me!”
“If you want it, you’re going to have to fight to get it,” his father challenged. “You’re going to have to show me that you’ve inherited some guts from your mother and me, because I don’t think you have what it takes to hold on to a place like this.”
“I’m a Calder, aren’t I?” Webb retorted. “I’m your son.”
“I don’t know if you’re a Calder.” Benteen looked him up and down. “But you’d better be able to fight like one, because you’re taking me on. You’ve got a helluva lot to learn, boy. You might do all right in a stand-up fight. What happens when it’s down and dirty?”
The challenge was a figurative one and Webb knew it, but his combative fever was running high. Physical violence would have been a welcome release for his anger. So Webb responded to the taunt with a half-serious invitation.
