KNIGHT IN A WHITE STETSON

by Claire King

  "I'm at the motel. I'm fine."

  "I want you to get in that pickup and get back here. Now."

  "Henry…"

  "Calla, do as I say. I'm not in the mood to argue with you right now."

  His fury burned through thirty miles of phone line. She wondered if it might singe her ear.

  "I can't."

  "Listen to me, Calla." He seemed to make some effort to control his tone. "I do not want you talking to Clark until we see what Pete has found out."

  Calla was momentarily baffled.

  "What does Pete have to do with Clark?"

  "I'm not going to explain this over the phone. Is he there with you?"

  "No. I don't know when he'll be back. Look, Henry. I just called to tell you I'm sorry about last night, it wasn't fair to you, but I couldn't go through with this without knowing, and … no matter what, Henry … I won't regret…" The words backed up in her throat. "I'm sorry." She gently replaced the phone on its hook. She could hear a roaring male voice just before it clicked home.

  "Who was that?"

  Calla whirled at the sound of the cultured voice. Clark stood in the doorway of the shabby room, his key in his hand.

  "Clark," Calla breathed, wiping furiously at her swollen eyes. "You scared the sh— You scared the daylights out of me."

  "Sorry, Calla, but you are in my room." He came forward, leaving the door open behind him, and tossed his keys on the nightstand. "I'm glad to see you. Your father told you, I presume, that I can't drive out to the ranch anymore. I suppose I'll have to rent a sedan from here on out. I hate sedans. They're so pedestrian."

  "Dad told me. What are you doing here, Clark? You weren't supposed to be in Idaho until next week."

  "I came to give you something." He walked to the door and closed and locked it.

  "What?" A ring, probably. A token of their engagement. Her stomach throbbed with the same dull ache she'd had since she'd awakened this morning in Henry's arms and realized it was Saturday.

  "The agreement we spoke of." He pulled a sheaf of papers from his sport jacket pocket. Calla had always wondered why he bothered to wear a jacket in Paradise. Not only did he look out of place, he looked unbearably hot.

  "What agreement?" She took the offered papers and stared at them blankly. She saw her name at the top, and Clark's name. "What is this?"

  "Calla," Clark began soothingly, "I know you had some doubts at the beginning, but you seemed to understand the importance of this."

  She looked at the papers again. A prenuptial agreement. She had agreed to it, Clark had said. Was that true? Had she ever agreed to something like a prenuptial agreement?

  "Calla?" Clark was tapping his foot. "Do you want a pen?"

  "I … I want to read it."

  "Of course, Calla. By all means. I would think you a fool if you didn't."

  Why the hell did he talk like that? I would think you a fool? Who talked like that? Calla sank backward onto the bed and began to leaf through the papers. She didn't really care what they said, she realized. She wouldn't be signing them.

  Because it's Henry I want to spend the rest of my life with. Henry, and Henry's humor and his beautiful hands and his warm heart. Not Clark. Not this man with the prenuptial agreement and the perfect East Coast manners. Henry. And to hell with the rest of it. Together, she and Henry would make a new family legacy to pass on to the children of the next hundred years.

  She was about to tell Clark that when the name of her ranch caught her eye. It was on the prenuptial paper. She began reading. A minute later, she was no longer blurry eyed. In fact, her eyes were as clear and cold as shards of ice. She looked up slowly at the man opposite her.

  "Clark, what exactly do you want with my ranch?"

  "Your ranch? Why would I want your ranch?"

  "You tell me. It's in this prenuptial agreement." She thrust the sheaf of papers under his nose. "Page eight, paragraph four, under Community Property. That you get half ownership of it in case of divorce. My ranch. The homestead my great-grandfather carved out of the Idaho desert, Clark."

  "I'm telling you, Calla, that isn't what that clause is supposed to mean. As I am the main property holder in this partnership, I wanted something to protect myself. It never even occurred to me that you would consider your ranch of any importance."

  What had never occurred to him, Calla thought, was that she would figure it out. Developers. Dupree. With half ownership in Hot Sulphur Lake, he could force her to sell out. Calla tasted bile in her mouth. Was she going to be sick? Surely not. This was hardly a time for hysterics.

  "I'm listening to you talk, Clark, but I can't understand a word you're saying. It's as if everything that's coming out of your mouth is in another language or something."

  Clark misunderstood, and was visibly relieved. He shook his head indulgently, as if trying to avoid becoming exasperated with a petulant child. Calla recognized the action. She realized he'd made that little gesture a thousand times before. Had he always been so condescending? Why hadn't she smacked him for it?

  "I know. Legal talk can be very confusing." He smiled gently. "It's even confusing to me sometimes, Calla. But don't worry. We'll go over everything very slowly, just you and I. Okay?" He sat down next to her on the bed and patted her knee companionably.

  "What property do you own, Clark?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "I said, what property do you own? I thought everything was in your father's name. All the development property was in your father's name."

  "W-well," Clark stuttered, "technically, that's the letter of the law, I suppose. But there are many ways around that, as I'm sure a good divorce attorney could tell you. That's why we need the prenup."

  "So I don't bother hiring a good divorce attorney?"

  "Exactly. I mean, no. Calla, look, you seem very emotional right now. Perhaps we should talk about this in the morning. Why don't you sign this silly thing now and I'll fax it off to my attorney? I have so many things to tell you about the wedding. My secretary found a wonderful caterer."

  "You don't have much respect for me, do you, Clark?"

  "I'm sorry?"

  She spoke very slowly. "You have no respect for me. You think I am a witless, overly emotional female you can screw over with a prenuptial agreement."

  "Calla, please. Your language."

  She got off the bed and walked to the tiny bathroom that adjoined the room. She lifted the lid of the toilet, ripped off the sanitary strip the maid had slung across the seat, and dropped the crumpled prenuptial agreement into the water. Then, apologizing silently to Jerry, who would have to come clean up the mess, she deliberately flushed the toilet and watched Clark's plans for her great-grandfather's homestead clog the drain. Water began to spill over the sides. She walked back into the room to face her indignant ex-fiancé.

  "That was very childish," he said, his voice a high-pitched squawk. "I hope you know I'll expect reimbursement if the motel charges me for that…" he pointed, sputtering, to the water cascading out the toilet and across the bathroom floor "—that … mess."

  "Did your father make an offer on my ranch?"

  Clark was nonplussed. His mouth formed words for several seconds, but no sounds came out. His accusing finger appeared frozen in midair.

  "I have no idea what you're talking about," he finally managed to reply.

  "That's ending a sentence with a preposition, Clark. Did your father make an offer on my ranch?"

  "What would my father want with your pathetic, weed-infested, drought-stricken little piece of wilderness?" he snapped at her. Calla admired his recovery time. He was an excellent liar. She hadn't noticed that before. She'd apparently not been seeing things clearly. But she was seeing them clearly now.

  "I think," she answered slowly, "your father wants my ranch and my hot springs for a revolting little spa and hunting club, doesn't he, Clark? He made a below-market offer to Dupree, and when I wouldn't accept it, he talked you into this prenuptial agreement. And I, in
feriority-complex-ridden fool that I am, walked right into it. Did you have a good laugh when you told him I asked you to marry me?"

  "I care for you, Calla," Clark said, desperation tainting his voice. The old college try, Calla thought. She'd have to remember to tell Henry that Dartmouth gave it the old college try. He'd get a kick out of that.

  "Why did you call me last year, Clark, when you first came to Boise? I never really thought you liked me enough to remember my name after only a few dates."

  After a moment's hesitation, Clark shrugged his narrow shoulders. "I didn't," he said simply. "My father read about the warm-water springs at Hot Sulphur Lake Ranch in a cattle magazine or a Western magazine, something like that. He did a deed search. When he came up with your name, I remembered you from Dartmouth. I looked up your name in the phone book when I got to Idaho."

  Calla remembered the magazine article. A freelance reporter had done a story on the five oldest Idaho homesteads that still belonged to the original families. Hot Sulphur was among them. She'd mentioned the hot water springs to the reporter in passing.

  "There are plenty of places in Idaho with hot water. Why me?"

  "Well, I knew you, for one. And Hot Sulphur really is unique. It's protected on all but one side by federal ground, so there's little chance of nearby resort development. The views are spectacular… Why are we discussing this?" He looked at the water now seeping across the carpet of the room with revulsion. "I'm calling the front desk."

  "Wait. I want to ask you one more thing, Clark."

  "For God's sake, what?" He was already picking up the phone.

  "How long did you plan to stay married to me?"

  He rolled his eyes. "I knew you didn't read that prenuptial very carefully. It said six months. My Lord, Calla. Take some correspondence courses, at least."

  He turned and tapped in the number for the front desk. Calla walked to the door and let herself quietly out. Clark's rented sports car sat in the sloped parking lot that overlooked the river. Paradise was not for everyone, Calla knew, but it did have wonderful views of the Snake. She fished the car keys she'd taken from Clark's nightstand out of her pocket, opened the door to the little car and slid inside.

  Calla started the car and gunned the engine. She looked out the open door and found a lovely, head-size lava rock. Ah, Paradise. How she loved it. Lava rock everywhere you looked.

  Calla picked up the rock and placed it near the gas pedal. Just as she finished carefully checking the mirrors and looking over her shoulder, Clark appeared at his motel room door. Calla noticed his mouth was open in astonishment. The flies will get in, she thought. She smiled. Henry was so funny.

  She jammed the little car into Reverse, stepped out and popped the emergency brake. And rolled that lava rock with the toe of her boot until it hit the gas pedal. As she calmly walked to her pickup, Calla heard Clark's high-pitched shriek and the sickening crash of his rented car hitting the rimrock as it bounced toward its watery grave.

  "I doubt that's on your list of approved roads, Clark," she said as she stepped up into her truck.

  She didn't see the white pickup, the newer match to her own, until it stopped in a skid next to her. Henry leapt from the driver's seat and stalked around to her window. He didn't seem to notice the commotion going on at the other end of the parking lot. The desk clerk, along with a handful of other motel occupants, had come out to gape over the edge of the rimrock cliff at Clark's car, which was now floating downriver toward Boise.

  "Are you all right?" he inquired tersely when Calla rolled down her window and gave him a shining smile.

  "How did you get your truck started?" she asked.

  "I hot-wired it," Henry said. He was searching her face, ignoring Clark's anguished wailing in the background. "Are you all right?"

  Calla reached out and touched his face. The muscles in his jaw were set so firmly, Calla wondered if his teeth were going to crack. She soothed the lines across his forehead.

  "I'm all right. You forget. I'm the knight in shining armor. I'm always all right." She glanced over Henry's shoulder, to where Clark paced furiously back and forth on a short path between Calla and the cliff. He was shouting incoherently at the hapless desk clerk. She returned her gaze to Henry. "Where did you learn to hot-wire a truck?"

  "That is hardly an issue right now, is it?" Henry captured her hand and held it away from his face. "I am furious with you," he said through his clenched teeth.

  "I know. I didn't run over your bare feet back there, did I?"

  Henry gave an exasperated grunt. "No, you did not." For the first time, he appeared to notice the tumult Calla's prenuptial revenge was causing. Without releasing Calla's hand, he glanced over her shoulder. "What happened to Dartmouth? He looks hysterical."

  "His car went over the cliff. And to think he signed that liability waiver."

  Henry appraised her for a moment. "How did his car go over the cliff, Calla?"

  "It's a long story. I'll tell you when we get home. Can we go home now?"

  "You don't need to say anything else to Clark?" Henry asked her. Calla saw an odd glimmer in his eyes. Suspicion? No, it was pain. Her heart went to her throat. Calla reached out with her other hand.

  "I don't have a single other thing to say to Clark. Ever."

  Henry let go of her hand. "Then go home."

  Calla started her pickup. "Aren't you coming, too?"

  "I'll be along after a while." He started toward Clark.

  "Henry?"

  He turned back. "What?"

  "Do you want your keys?"

  "That would be very convenient, yes." She handed him his keys and then drove slowly through town toward the ranch.

  * * *

  Henry surveyed the scene of Calla's revenge. Paradise's lone police officer, a frighteningly frail-looking middle-aged man with an enormous gun strapped to his bony hip, had made his way down the block from his office and was now escorting Clark, still ranting, to his police car for questioning.

  Henry strode toward the officer, a respectful smile on his face.

  "Sir?" He reached out a hand. The policeman took it automatically. Henry felt bones. It was like shaking hands with Barney Fife. "Roy, right? You were at Lester and Helen's wedding. I ate three pieces of your wife's pie, darn it. Next time you come out to the ranch, you tell her not to bring any pie. I'm getting as fat as a tick." Henry plowed every friendly ounce of drawl he could into his well-educated voice. The skinny cop beamed at him.

  "Well, I'll tell her that … uh, I'm sorry? What's your name again, son? I know you work out there at the McFadden place, right?"

  Clark scowled first at the cop and then at Henry.

  "What do you want, you son of a bitch?" he growled. "Get out of here. This is none of your business. If you came here to protect her from the consequences of her actions, well, you're wasting your time."

  What a pompous ass, Henry thought. How had Calla endured the way he talked?

  "Geez, Roy." Henry turned, his hands on his hips, and surveyed the crowd that had gathered from almost every home and business in Paradise to stare at the wreckage left by Clark's little rented sports car, which, from what Henry could tell from the excited exclamations of the townspeople, was stuck upside down on a willow-wrapped sandbar downriver. "Whatcha got here? Looks like somebody's car went over the cliff."

  Clark lunged for him. "You son of a bitch." Roy grabbed at Clark before he reached Henry. Henry was impressed by the strength of the skinny older man. Clark was stopped in his tracks, struggling ineffectively. The action of the officer seemed to inflame Clark further. "It was Calla. She pushed my car over the cliff. The bitch."

  He was screaming now, and the crowd turned with interest toward the noise. Henry looked back at Clark, and narrowed his eyes imperceptibly. How many times had he imagined smashing in that smug yuppie face? Henry wondered. It was going to feel wonderful. Soon, he promised himself. Very soon.

  "She pushed your car over the cliff?" Henry raised his eyebrow
s ironically at Roy, who tried to look impassive. "What does Calla weigh, you think Roy? You've known her all her life. What, about 120? 130?"

  Roy hid a smile.

  "She didn't push it, you idiot. She drove it off the cliff." Clark was puffed up like a sage hen, all feathers and rage.

  "I'm sure you're mistaken, Clark. Calla has been at the ranch with me. I just left her. This looks like it happened real recently."

  "You're lying. The desk clerk saw her here. She drove my car off the cliff." Clark looked helplessly toward the river. "I'm going to kill her."

  "Clark. You know better than to make threats like that." Henry shook his head knowingly at the officer, who was taking a keen interest in the exchange. "Especially after what's been going on around here lately, eh, Roy?"

  "What's been going on lately?" Roy asked.

  "Geez, Clark. I thought you would have told him." Henry shook his head again, wearily. Clark scowled at him in confusion. Henry turned to Roy. "Someone has been following Calla, Officer. I think he was from Salt Lake, but I can't be sure. Big mustache, 'bout five-ten, five-eleven. Stayed here at this motel, didn't he, Clark? Anyway, Calla has been out of her wits about it. Poor thing. She really is pretty naive, growing up here and taking care of her family all her life, and all. She really hasn't the kind of experience the rest of us have."

  Roy nodded gravely. "Ain't that the truth? You say somebody's been following Calla?" He directed the question at Clark, who was staring open-mouthed at Henry.

  "I … uh…"

  "Yep," Henry said, "she's been holed up at the ranch. Even went up to cow camp to get away for a while. Scared to death. You ever been up to the McFadden cow camp, Roy? Oh, it's beautiful up there."

  "No, I never did. I went hunting with Lester a couple years back and we stayed at the Hole in the Wall…"

  "What does any of this have to do with my car?" Clark exploded. "I want to make out a complaint!"

  "That's a hell of an idea, Clark," Henry said smoothly. "You know, I think it's about time we filed a report on the man who was stalking Calla, too. Let the professionals handle it. Stalking is a federal offence now, isn't it, Roy? Maybe we can get the FBI in here. I talked to the guy briefly the day of the wedding. I don't think he'd be too hard to find." Henry gave Clark a meaningful stare. The man from Dartmouth was white as a grub, Henry thought.