Every Breath She Takes

by Norah Wilson

  Or maybe he was a damned good poker player.

  The two suits shifted uncomfortably, but Harvey ignored them, leaning forward to stab his cigar out in a crystal ashtray.

  “Forgive me, Taggart, but what exactly is your problem? Man tells me his herd’s disease free, seems to me he ought to be counting his blessings.”

  “What’s my problem?” Cal felt like the top of his head might come off. “My problem is somebody used a needle to jam that steer full of toxic sludge. My problem is that same somebody then fed the papers a story about anthrax.” His anger built with every word. “My problem is my guest ranch cleared out faster than a motel room after a cockroach sighting, thanks to the national media picking up on that article.”

  Harvey tipped his head back and laughed. Laughed!

  A surge of pure bloodlust fogged Cal’s brain. He was not a man given to violence, but with stunning clarity he visualized knocking McLeod to the floor. He imagined the satisfaction of battering the other man’s face with his fists, anticipated the gratification of bone and sinew yielding to his righteous anger.

  “That’s rich. You think I simulated an anthrax outbreak, then leaked it to the press to kill your guest ranch business?”

  “Now we’re making some progress.” Cal was vaguely surprised he could form actual words, let alone make them sound so cool.

  “How wonderfully diabolical!” Harvey leaned back in his chair. Elbows resting on the padded arms, fingers linked loosely over a trim abdomen, he seemed not at all intimidated by Cal’s superior position above him. “Tell me, when did I do this thing?”

  Cal felt the smallest pinprick pierce his certitude. McLeod wasn’t nearly as unnerved as he should be.

  “What was that, Taggart?” Harvey cupped a hand behind one ear. “I didn’t hear you.”

  That’s it. McLeod was going down. An instant before Cal laid hands on Harvey’s shirt, however, a female voice cut in.

  “Thursday night or Friday morning.”

  All heads turned to see Lauren framed in the doorway.

  The secretary made a sound of disbelief. “What, it’s suddenly Grand Central Station around here?”

  “I’m sorry, the door was open,” Lauren said.

  “Never mind,” she huffed. “What’s one more intruder?”

  “Now, Lorna, mustn’t be rude to our guests.” Harvey turned back to Cal. “So what was that? Thursday or Friday?”

  Cal eased back marginally, more a shifting of weight than an actual retreat. “If that’s what Dr. Townsend says.”

  McLeod, keeping his gaze locked on Cal’s: “Well, this should be easy to clear up. Lorna, tell Mr. Taggart where I was Wednesday night through Friday noon.”

  “The same place I was,” she said, clearly relieved to come to her boss’s aid after failing so abysmally as threshold guardian. “In Calgary for McLeod Industries’ annual meeting.”

  Cal snorted. “That’s convenient.”

  “Hey, don’t take my word for it. Here.” McLeod leaned forward, extracted something from the neat pile of papers in front of him, and nudged it toward Cal. “Our annual report.”

  Leaning back, Harvey picked up the unlit stogie. “I believe it mentions the date and location for the annual shareholders’ meeting. I should think forty or fifty of our shareholders could vouch for the fact that I addressed them Friday morning.”

  Cal picked up the glossy document with nerveless fingers. “You were in Calgary.”

  “For three days running. I’m sure Lorna could produce the business cards of the people I met with over that period, if you like.” Harvey clamped the cigar between white teeth again.

  Cal flipped the report open and skimmed it. There it was in black and white. Last Friday, McLeod Industries’ annual meeting at the Calgary Ramada. Cal lifted his gaze to McLeod’s.

  “My offer still stands,” said Harvey. “Your land and your herd, same deal I gave your friend Hinchey.”

  “No thanks.” Cal tossed the report back on the table. “I’ve got other plans.”

  For the first time since bursting into the room, Cal thought he glimpsed a flash of genuine emotion in the other man’s eyes, but it was gone so fast. What was it? Anger? Frustration?

  “I didn’t realize you were so flush, neighbor.”

  Cal shrugged. “I came into some money.”

  “I see.” Harvey picked up the report again and offered it back to Cal. “If that’s the case, maybe you should consider McLeod Industries. Ask your broker about it.”

  His broker? As if he’d ever turn enough of a profit in this market to play stocks. Cal smiled even as he fought down another uncharacteristic urge toward violence. “Another time maybe.” Like when hell freezes over. “I’ll be talking to you again.”

  McLeod bared his own teeth. “I’ll look forward to it.”

  Lauren had to jog to keep up with Cal as he strode back to the truck. He waited for her to climb in before he fired the engine, but she was still fumbling with her seat belt when he popped the clutch. The truck shot forward, spraying gravel.

  “We sure made a friend of Harvey’s secretary, didn’t we?”

  As an attempt to cut the tension, her observation fell short. He just glanced at her and turned back to the road.

  “How’d you get here?” he asked.

  “I had Bruce drop me.” Seat belt secured, she glanced over at him. In profile, his lean face looked carved from granite, his jaw out-thrust, mouth drawn down at the corners.

  “Guess you reached the same conclusion I did about Harvey?”

  Lauren adjusted her seat belt. “Yeah, the logic is pretty inescapable. But if it wasn’t him, then who?”

  He turned out onto the highway and accelerated away. “It was McLeod, all right. I don’t care what he says.”

  She chewed the inside of her lip a moment. “Do you really think he’d have offered you all those contacts if they couldn’t corroborate his presence in Calgary for the critical dates?”

  “Oh, I’m sure they’d pan out all right. But who’s to say he didn’t hire someone to do it?”

  Lauren couldn’t argue with that. In fact, she should have thought of it earlier. If McLeod was behind the poisoning, he would hardly have done it himself, would he? But even if he was behind it, what, if anything, did that whole steer situation have to do with the fate that awaited Marlena? She just couldn’t see it. Her money was on the jealousy card.

  Which, she supposed, meant her money was on Brady. The thought depressed the hell out of her. She still hadn’t been able to look at Brady without feeling those subtle physiological reactions, but she preferred to think it was just because of the volatility of the Brady/Marlena/Harvey thing and not because he was the killer.

  Not to say Harvey wasn’t the jealous type himself. She didn’t know him well enough to gauge that. Well, apart from knowing that he’d completely jettisoned his wife and the boy he’d believed to be his son over a sexual indiscretion. But within this ugly triangle that McLeod had created (maliciously, Lauren was inclined to suspect, given Harvey’s impeccable information vis-á-vis the other the goings-on at Cal’s ranch), she was pretty sure the only one being consumed by jealousy over Marlena was Brady.

  Which totally sucked. Because if it turned out to be a jealous, rage-fueled Brady’s hands on Marlena’s throat, it would be because of the seeds Harvey had sown.

  But as repugnant as Harvey’s conduct was toward the young man he’d raised as his son, Lauren wasn’t sure he’d go to criminal lengths. She didn’t doubt that he was capable of that and worse, based on what she knew of his character, but why risk it? He’d seemed pretty content to sit back and let the economy do his dirty work for him.

  Taking a deep breath, she jumped in to play devil’s advocate. “Yes, he could have hired someone to do it,” she said. “And in fact, if he is behind it, I’d fully expect him to have hired it out. But why would he bother? From what you’ve said, he already owns more ranch land than he can possibly graze, even with his en
ormous operation. Why would he go to criminal lengths to get something he doesn’t need?”

  Cal kept his eyes on the road. “If McLeod was the kind of guy to settle for what he needed, he wouldn’t be sitting on top of an empire, would he?”

  “True, but having that empire, he must be confident he can wait you out. That’s what he did with the others, isn’t it?”

  “But my situation’s different. The income from the guest ranch would’ve carried me through. That’s why he sabotaged it.”

  “Carried you for how long?” she asked gently. “Spider says you’re getting ready to sell the six-month-old calves as well as the yearlings. He also says you didn’t keep any replacement heifers last year and won’t again this year.” The hard lines of his profile grew harsher with every word she spoke, but she had to say it. “How long can you sustain your herd that way?”

  She felt the truck, which was already pushing the speed limit, surge forward. “Spider’s got a big mouth.”

  “He’s concerned about you.”

  “He’s concerned about his job. For good reason, after spouting off like that.”

  “Cal, Spider’s your friend. I’m your friend. We were just talking shop.” He kept his face averted, but she saw his lips compress. “Dammit, forget about Spider. The point is, if I know that much about your operations after only a few weeks, you can bet McLeod knows it. Which means he knows he can wait you out.”

  She felt him ease up on the accelerator.

  “But the cash Zane gave me…”

  “Will buy you some breathing room. But McLeod doesn’t know that. Or rather, he didn’t until you dropped that bombshell back there. As far as he knew when that steer went down, you probably wouldn’t last the winter.”

  Silence. The speedometer needle drifted downward again.

  “Okay, so he knows I’m in a tight spot,” Cal conceded a moment later. “But he also knows that even if the ranch fails, I wouldn’t sell to him. I’d let the damned bank take it first.”

  “And then he’d buy it at mortgage sale for less than he’s prepared to offer you.” Lauren hated to have to say it, but she knew she was right. He knew she was right.

  “I could find another buyer.” Cal swung into his driveway.

  “From whom Harvey could buy it, with a suitable markup,” she pointed out. “Which brings me back to my original question. Why would he risk doing something like poisoning your steer when he’s holding so many cards? Cal, he’d have to be crazy.”

  “Maybe he has reasons we don’t know about.” Cal stopped the truck and killed the engine with a savage twist of the ignition key. A cloud of dust drifted past them. “Or hell, maybe he is crazy. Ever think of that? Maybe he’s certifiable. For all we know, maybe he picks up messages from alien spacecraft with his fillings. Maybe he sees Technicolor movies in his head. Maybe he hears Charlton-Goddamned-Heston’s voice telling him to do shit like this!”

  Lauren stopped breathing. Cal sat there, hands clenched on the steering wheel, knuckles showing white. In the silence, she could hear the ticking of the engine cooling.

  Maybe he sees movies in his head…

  “Or maybe he’s just crazy like a fox.” Cal turned to look at her then, his gray eyes as bleak as winter. “But even if Harvey McLeod did kill that steer, we’ll never be able to prove it. And that’s not even the worst part.”

  “What?” She’d pushed the pain back to ask the question, but the word emerged as little more than a whisper. She licked her lips and tried again. “What’s the worst part?”

  “The worst part is,” he said, “it won’t even matter that we don’t really have a case of anthrax. The damage is done. We won’t see a front-page retraction in the Calgary Herald or the Toronto Globe and Mail.” He laughed harshly. “Shit, even if they printed one, it wouldn’t make an impression. People will read Foothills Guest Ranch and think anthrax.”

  With that, he jumped out of the truck, slammed the door, and strode toward the house.

  Lauren pushed the button on her seat belt. The restraint retracted energetically, but she made no move to get out. She sat there for long moments, hearing Cal’s voice.

  Maybe he sees Technicolor movies in his head…

  She fumbled for the door release and slid out of the truck.

  Looks like you made the right call, keeping your mouth shut.

  Closing the door with a quiet click, she turned toward her cabin.

  Cal tossed the whiskey back, grimacing as the amber liquid burned its way down his throat. Then he poured another small measure into the old-fashioned glass. Briefly he considered topping it up a little more, then sighed. Recapping the bottle, he leaned back in the chair and kicked his feet up onto his desk. He knew better than to try to drown his troubles with booze. Besides, he doubted he could drink enough to escape the mess his life had become.

  Cradling the whiskey in his lap, he closed his eyes. Then snapped them open again.

  Dammit. Every time he shut his eyes, the afternoon from hell replayed itself. The laughable thing was, what galled him most wasn’t knowing that his guest ranch had been deliberately deep-sixed, though it incensed him every time he thought of it. Nor was it McLeod’s mocking smile, though that maddened him too.

  What really ate at his gut was Lauren knowing the extent of his financial straits. Her opinion of him should be the least of his concerns; he knew that. But knowing didn’t seem to help.

  He raked a hand through his wet hair. Yeah, yeah, stupid male pride. But dammit, he’d wanted her to think he could do this one thing well. He couldn’t ride bulls anymore and he’d been a half-assed host to his guest ranch customers, but he knew ranching. Did she think he’d made those decisions lightly? Did she imagine he didn’t know what pressure he was putting on his herd? Hell, he’d had no choice in the matter. Of course, with the cash infusion, he could avoid both those measures…

  “That’s a bad idea, son.”

  At the sound of his father’s voice from the doorway, Cal’s first instinct was to snatch his feet off the desk, but he controlled it. Instead he tossed back the amber liquid, which until this moment he’d had every intention of nursing. This time he didn’t grimace as it scorched its way to his belly. Only then did he drop his feet and sit up in his chair.

  “What’s a bad idea?” For effect, he uncapped the whiskey bottle, though he’d lost his desire for it.

  “Crawlin’ into a bottle when the going gets hard.”

  Cal chinked the neck of the whiskey bottle against the rim of his glass, barely managing not to slosh it onto his desk. Huh! Showed how little his father knew. Yeah, he’d misbehaved plenty in his youth, but he’d grown up since then.

  “Yeah, that’s right.” He gestured to the nearly empty bottle. “I was gonna get stinking on what’s left of that.”

  “There’s no need for sarcasm.” Zane Taggart looked around, taking in the computer equipment. His gaze lingered on the monitor, which displayed colored graphs. Suddenly his eyebrows drew together. “Well, I’ll be damned! Are those growth charts?”

  Cal flushed. “Yeah, well, some of us don’t have a direct line to God almighty. Some of us have to rely on computers.”

  His father made a sound of disgust. “Dammit, Cal, I never said my way was better. I went by guess and by God because it was the only way I knew. Lord knows I was wrong often enough.”

  Cal dragged a hand over his face. Why were their exchanges always like this? Why couldn’t they talk like normal men? Well, to the extent that men talked. “Sorry. I had no call to jump down your throat like that. It’s been a long day.”

  Zane took a seat, then gestured to the whiskey bottle. “If you’re not planning on drowning yourself in that after all, how about pouring your old man a drink?”

  Share a drink with his father? Now there was a first. In his youth, Cal had done his drinking with his rowdy crowd of friends, carousing on Saturday nights just to spite the old man. The police had carted him home more than once. Well, at least until he’d
brought Nalini home. That poor, neglected mare had likely saved his life. Knowing she was there at home, needing a calm spirit, a quiet voice, and a gentle hand—if he was lucky enough that she let him touch her—kept him home and sober. He shook the thought away.

  “A drink? That’s not against doctor’s orders?”

  Zane’s face darkened thunderously. “There’s nothing wrong with me that I can’t handle that little drop of whiskey.”

  Cal bared his teeth. “Relax, I was baiting you.”

  Zane swore, then closed his eyes and sighed heavily. “I know you were. That’s the worst of it, that I still rise to it.”

  Cal dug another glass out of the bottom drawer of his desk. Thumping it down, he poured the last finger of Canadian Club into it and pushed it toward his father.

  “And you still open every conversation with a criticism. I just lash back out of habit. That’s why I got defensive over the bar charts.” Cal nodded toward the computer screen, which had winked out. “I just assumed you were going to dump on it.”

  His father picked up the glass, swirling the amber liquid but not drinking it. Cal picked up his own glass and took a sip. His old leather chair creaked as he settled back in it, then the room fell silent but for the white noise of the computer. It took about ten seconds for the silence to become extremely uncomfortable.

  “Do I really do that?” Zane asked.

  At his father’s words, Cal glanced up, only to find his father staring into his own glass.

  “Do what?”

  “Open every conversation with a criticism?”

  Cripes, and here he’d thought the silence was uncomfortable. If he wasn’t careful, this could turn into a real conversation, another one of those things he didn’t know how to share with his father. Best to skate quickly over it, then change the subject.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about it, Dad. It’s like the chicken and the egg thing, hard to tell which came first. Did you disapprove of me because I acted up or did I act up because you disapproved of me? I guess it doesn’t really matter.”

  Zane’s head came up. “I never disapproved of you.”