by Janet Dailey
“Quint Echohawk with the Cee Bar Ranch.”
After a small hesitation, the man stepped back to allow admittance. “Wait here, I will inform Mr. Rutledge that you’re here. But I can’t say whether he will see you.”
“I understand.” Privately, Quint had no doubts at all that Max Rutledge would agree to see him.
He stepped through the doorway and moved to one side, allowing the man to close the door behind him.
“Wait here,” the man repeated the instruction and withdrew.
Out of habit, Quint removed his hat and made a visual inspection of his surroundings. The spacious entrance hall provided glimpses of its adjoining rooms, but not enough to encourage exploration. Like all the rest of the ranch, the house seemed designed to impress the visitor, both with its scale and its artful appointments.
The whisper-soft tread of the man’s footsteps faded into another part of the house. With typical patience, Quint waited as the seconds ticked by.
The snicking click of a latch drew Quint’s glance to the front door an instant before it swung open and Boone Rutledge walked in. He flicked a disinterested look at Quint, then came to a dead stop when recognition set in. He stared at him in bald-faced shock.
“Hello, Boone.” Quint nodded, aware that he was likely the very last person Boone expected to see.
As expected, Boone didn’t bother to extend a hand in greeting, honest not to pretend a civility he didn’t feel. A dark displeasure was in the narrowed look he aimed at Quint.
“What are you doing here?” But there was a ring of falseness in the question that revealed Boone had already guessed the answer.
Before Quint could reply, the servant reappeared in the entry hall. “Mr. Rutledge will see you now.”
Boone made a quick dismissal of the man. “I’ll show him to the den, Harold.” With a slight nod, the man moved away. “Follow me.” Boone struck out, taking the lead, then cast a questioning look at Quint. “I guess I should have asked if this was an official visit.”
“No.” Quint smiled, knowing it was the first question he should have asked, but Boone didn’t appear to be very adept at thinking on his feet. “In fact, I quit the ATF shortly after my father’s funeral.”
“I didn’t know.”
“There’s no reason why you should.”
Crossing to a set of double doors, Boone pushed them wide as he walked through the opening into the spacious den. A wheelchair-bound Max Rutledge glided silently from behind a gleaming wood desk and rolled forward to meet Quint when he entered.
Boone rushed quickly to make the introductions. “I don’t believe you’ve met Quint Echohawk, Max. He’s the grandson of Chase Calder.”
“I’ve heard of you, of course. Welcome to the Slash R, Quint.” After a slight pause, he added, “Although I can’t help wondering what brings you here.”
The unabashed curiosity in Max Rutledge’s expression seemed utterly genuine. Quint took it as a warning of the man’s canny shrewdness.
“He didn’t come on official business.” Boone crossed to the bar. “Quint’s already told me he quit the ATF.”
“I didn’t think for one moment he was here in any official capacity,” Max said easily.
“I suppose you could call it official,” Quint said with a smile and added the qualification, “at least in the sense that Jessy asked me to come down and take charge of the Cee Bar.”
“Really?” Max said with a startled widening of his eyes. “I guess I assumed you would be looking after your mother’s ranch. Although I seem to recall it adjoins the Triple C. I suppose it would be a simple matter for the Calders to assume management of it.”
“That’s right.” From the bar area came the clatter of ice dropped in a glass.
“Do you have time to join us for a drink?” Max asked.
Quint’s hesitation was only slight, but deliberately calculated. “Sure,” he agreed. “Whiskey Seven.”
“Pour Quint a whiskey Seven, Boone,” Max ordered. “And I’ll have my usual bourbon and branch.” He swung his wheelchair toward a conversational grouping of chairs and swept out his hand in an inviting gesture. “Have a seat.”
“Thanks.” Quint crossed to a cowhide-upholstered chair and laid his hat on its wide armrest as he folded his tall frame onto the seat.
“How’s Chase these days?” Max positioned his wheelchair in the open space within the grouping.
“Doing remarkably well, considering his age.”
“Your grandfather is a remarkable man in many ways.”
“I agree,” Quint said and smiled. “Although naturally I am prejudiced.”
“As you should be.” A smile grooved deep lines in Max’s gaunt cheeks. Then a small line furrowed his brow in a faint show of puzzlement. “You said earlier something about taking over the Cee Bar. What happened to the ranch manager you had running it? What was his name?” He turned a frowning look to Boone for the answer when he arrived with their drinks.
“Evans, I think it was.”
“He’s gone now.” Quint took his drink from Boone’s outstretched hand.
“Help is always a problem, isn’t it?” Max remarked in a commiserating fashion. “The good ones are too often lured away by better offers. And the bad ones—well, you don’t want to keep them anyway.”
“Very true.” Quint raised his glass in a toast. “To finding good help and keeping them.”
Boone and Max acknowledged the toast with a slight lift of glasses. The gesture was followed by the muted clink of ice against the glass sides as each took a sip. Boone drifted off to the side and hooked a long leg over the high armrest of a leather sofa, but Quint was conscious of the heavy bore of his gaze. If, as he believed, the Rutledges were orchestrating the current spate of trouble at the Cee Bar, the son was likely the muscle behind it, and the father, the brains. And it was on the latter Quint centered his attention.
“It just occurred to me,” Max began, “did your mother come with you?”
“No,” Quint replied with a slight, negative movement of his head.
“I thought she might have welcomed a change of scenery, not to mention the warmth of a southern winter. And with Tara in Fort Worth, it seemed likely. I know they are former sisters-in-law, but it’s always been my understanding that the bond between them has remained a close one.”
“I know Tara is of that opinion.” Quint’s impression was that his mother had retained a healthy suspicion of Tara. Although in recent years Tara had been more of a pain in the neck to the Calders than the troublemaker she once had been. “Actually my mother has moved back to the Homestead to look after Chase. Right now, though…” He paused, idly swirling the liquor in his glass. “Most of the family is in England to attend Laura’s wedding.”
The remark was designed to get a rise out of Boone. Quint observed Boone’s reaction to the comment in his side vision—the faint jerk of his head and the white-knuckle tensing of the hand holding the drink glass.
“Yes,” Max interposed smoothly. “I recall reading something in the society page about Tara flying over to attend the nuptials.”
“I thought she’d already married him.” Boone’s jaws barely moved as he pushed the words out.
“There was a ceremony in Montana,” Quint confirmed. “But it was a small one. And you know Laura—she likes things on a grand scale.”
“That’s Laura, all right.” There was something wistful about the smile that briefly touched Max Rutledge’s mouth. But when he looked at his son, there was something hard and unforgiving in his eyes. “It was a sad day for this family when Boone let her slip through his fingers.”
Boone straightened from his perch on the armrest with the swiftness of a scalded man. “The mistake was hers, not mine.” He growled the words, his voice low and hot.
“Unfortunately”—Max’s lip curled ever so slightly in derision—“the mistake was mine for ever believing she would marry the likes of you. Now go freshen your drink and shut up.” Making it clea
r that he regarded that particular discussion to be closed, Max smoothly swung his attention back to Quint. “I’m surprised you didn’t go to England with the rest of your family.”
“We couldn’t all go.” Quint smiled, conscious of the cold fury that emanated from Boone in waves, holding him motionless.
“I suppose not,” Max agreed, completely ignoring the looming figure of his son. There was no doubt in Quint’s mind whose will was stronger. He wasn’t surprised when Boone abruptly turned and carried his drink to the bar. “So when did you arrive in Texas?”
“The first part of the week,” Quint replied, certain that Max already knew that. “It took me a couple of days to familiarize myself with the place and get a handle on things or I would have stopped by sooner.”
“I understand,” Max assured him. “I imagine you had your hands full when you arrived. After you’re here awhile, I think you’ll find that things in Texas are different from the way you’re used to them back in Montana.”
“There isn’t much doubt about that.” Quint knew Max was referring to more than just ranching methods.
“You know”—Max clasped his hands together in a thoughtful pose, his elbows resting on the arms of his wheelchair—“it’s been a good many years since a Calder set foot on the Cee Bar. It’s almost like the ranch has been the Triple C’s forgotten stepchild.”
Quint was forced to agree with that assessment. “I suspect it has.”
“It’s never been a secret that I would like to make the Cee Bar a part of the Slash R,” Max declared, his hands separating to grip the ends of the armrests, rather like a king on his throne. “I offered to buy it from your grandfather, but he wasn’t inclined to sell. Businesswise it makes no sense to hang on to it. The Cee Bar’s too small to show much of a profit, especially when you have to pay someone to run it.”
Quint was slow with his answer. “I have a feeling that he bought the Cee Bar for the same reason that makes him determined to keep it. And that reason had nothing to do with its viability as a working ranch.”
“Whatever his reason, let him know my offer stands if he should change his mind.”
“I’ll tell him.”
“Good. And I hope we have you as a neighbor for a while.” Another possibility seemed to occur to him. “Or will you be staying only long enough to find a replacement for Evans?”
“It’s hard to say how long I’ll be here,” Quint admitted. “It depends on many other things.”
“If you’re still here when the holidays roll around, I hope you’ll join us for Christmas dinner. My ward called a few minutes ago to say that she was planning to come. She is the daughter of a late business partner of mine, Hamilton Davis.”
“I’ll keep the invitation in mind,” Quint promised and took a small sip of his drink.
“I hope you do,” Max said. “In the meantime, if there is anything you need, just give us a call. We’ll be happy to help if we can.”
“I’m glad you said that.” Quint seized the opening. “There is something I need.”
“I hope it isn’t a hired man,” Max cautioned. “We’re too shorthanded to spare any of ours.”
“My biggest need right now is hay. I have a load coming in next week, but I could use some square bales to tide me over until it arrives. I thought I might talk you into selling me some.”
“Only a few bales? We can spare that,” Max replied without hesitation.
“Consider them sold,” Quint stated. “If it isn’t too much trouble, I’ll throw them in the back of my pickup when I leave.”
“No trouble at all,” Max assured him. “Boone, ride down to the barn with Quint and give him a hand loading the hay.”
Boone responded to the order with a resentful glare, but offered no objection. “I’ll take you down whenever you’re ready to leave,” he said to Quint.
“Let’s make it now.” Quint set his half-finished drink aside. “I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”
“You come anytime,” Max insisted.
But the minute Quint left the room, his smile turned into a thin angry line, lips tightly compressed. Hunching his shoulders in thought, Max went back over their conversation in his mind, studying each word Quint had said and considering the ones he hadn’t. None of it was to his liking.
In fact there was nothing about his meeting with Quint Echohawk that Max did like.
He was still in the same spot, deep in thought, when Boone returned to the den twenty minutes later. Max reared his big head and flipped the control stick to pivot his chair around.
“Echohawk left, did he?”
“He was halfway down the lane when I came in.” Boone flicked a cold look in his direction and walked straight to the bar. He took a fresh glass from the shelf and proceeded to pour himself another drink. “I thought the plan was to make sure he didn’t get his hands on any hay.” He threw an accusing look at Max.
Max returned the look with one of contempt. “You would have been stupid enough to openly declare war over a half dozen bales, wouldn’t you? It’s a measly amount. Why do you think he asked for it? He knew if we refused, we’d be tipping our hand. Aren’t you smart enough to figure anything out?” He whipped his wheelchair around and sent it speeding toward the desk, then stopped and swung it back. “It’s that semi load of hay he’s got coming in next week that you have to make sure he never gets to use.”
“And just how the hell am I supposed to do that?” Boone shot back as he roughly shoved the bottle of bourbon back in its rack. “Hijack the truck?”
“Leave it to you to come up with a harebrained idea like that.” Max shook his head in disgust.
“I suppose you have a better one.” The attempt at a jeer fell short of its mark, mostly because Boone knew he wasn’t as clever as his father. And it was this feeling of inferiority that he hated more than almost anything—except the way his father constantly reminded him of it.
“I can easily come up with a half dozen, but the hay isn’t something we have to be concerned about until next week. Right now we have other things to worry about.”
“Such as?” Boone resorted to sarcasm and quickly bolted down a swallow of liquor to cover his own ignorance of the answer.
But Max was already aware of it. “Such as why Echohawk is here.”
Boone frowned, regarding the answer as obvious. “Just like he said—to take over the Cee Bar.”
“But why him? Why not one of their veteran hands with years more ranching experience?”
“I don’t know,” Boone muttered, irritated at how out of his depth he felt. “They were tied up and he was available.”
“It’s a possibility,” Max conceded. “But I’m convinced it’s a remote one. Somehow the Calders sensed the Cee Bar wasn’t having ordinary problems. That’s why they chose Echohawk. He was raised on the Triple C so he’s bound to know enough about cattle to handle that end of things. But it was the training and experience he had working for the government. They know he won’t accept things at face value. He’ll probe to find out why and how—and who.”
Understanding registered in Boone’s expression. “Then coming here to the Slash R could mean he suspects we’re behind it.”
Max raised an eyebrow in mock approval. “Well, well, you can add two and two after all.”
“That’s why you sold him the hay,” Boone realized. “To try to throw him off.”
“And four and four makes eight. Amazing. And?” Max questioned in a prompting fashion.
But Boone could only frown. “And what?”
Max sighed. “And that’s why I insisted you help him load the hay—so he wouldn’t have a chance to question any of our ranch hands and maybe get his hands on information that he shouldn’t.”
“They don’t know anything,” Boone declared with arrogant unconcern.
“They know enough. Don’t kid yourself,” Max muttered. “And there’s another thing that bothers me—he never said anything about needing a hired man. Twice I gave him a
chance to bring up the subject, and he ducked it both times. Why?”
“You already told him we were shorthanded, so he already knew you wouldn’t be sending anybody his way if they came here looking for work.”
“Maybe.” Max had considered that. “Or maybe he’s already hired someone.”
Boone released a scoffing laugh. “Not a chance. People around here know better than to go to work for the Cee Bar.”
Max didn’t dispute that. “Unless the man isn’t from around here.”
“Where else would he—” Boone cut off the question. “You think he might have brought one of the Triple C ranch hands with him?”
“You’ve added two and two again. Maybe there’s hope for you yet,” Max said dryly.
“But if he does, what then?”
“First let’s make sure that’s the case. Then we’ll decide what to do about it.” He wheeled his chair toward the desk.
Chapter Six
There is something about Saturday night that has always drawn a cowboy to the lights of town, and Quint was no exception. While drinking and carousing had never been part of his nature, a cold beer, a good meal, and a change of surroundings held a definite appeal for him.
Fort Worth with its array of nightspots sat northeast of the Cee Bar with other towns of varying sizes lying in between. Quint left the ranch with no particular destination in mind, but he turned in the direction of Loury. The Corner Café hadn’t crossed his mind until he saw the fluorescent glare of its lighted windows. The sight summoned up an immediate image of Dallas with her pale copper hair and unusual light brown eyes.
Quint found himself wondering whether she was working tonight. At almost the same moment, he remembered all the times in the past when he had been a stranger in a strange town and experienced the loneliness that could be found in a crowd. A familiar face suddenly had more appeal than a beer and a good meal. In the blink of an eye, the decision was made and he swung the pickup into an empty parking slot in front of the café.
Dallas saw him when he walked through the door. One glimpse of his high cheekbones, the slight bronze cast of his skin, and the black gleam of his hair when he slipped off his hat, and she identified him instantly. Oddly, her spirits lifted. The night suddenly didn’t seem to be as dull and ordinary to her as it had before he arrived.
