Lone Calder Star (Calder Saga Book 9)

by Janet Dailey

  Before she reached the opening, Quint stepped out, hatless and holding the shotgun at his side, the muzzle pointed at the ground.

  “It’s only me,” he said. “Sorry if I gave you a scare.”

  “You did. I was sure—” Her initial wave of relief was replaced with a new concern. “What were you shooting?”

  “A raccoon,” Quint replied and held up the lifeless body of a big male. “I heard the chickens making a racket and thought I’d better check it out in case the intruder was the two-footed kind. I’m glad it wasn’t.”

  “So am I,” Dallas murmured, feeling a bit like a yo-yo on its downward spin as she absently watched him lay the dead animal on a pile of wood next to the barn.

  “I’ll bury him in the morning—which isn’t far away,” Quint added, moving within range of the yard light when he turned toward her. The barn’s shadows no longer concealed his slightly tousled hair. His denim jacket hung partially open, exposing a narrow wedge of chest hairs and a strip of tautly muscled flesh. Her heart started thumping crazily.

  With an effort, Dallas dragged her gaze up to his face and was immediately mesmerized by the soft light in his eyes. More than four feet separated them, but it seemed slight, something easily spanned. And with each passing second of silence, the sense of intimacy swirling between them thickened.

  Dallas tried to think of something to say and break the spell of it, but her mind was blank, and her feet were rooted to the spot.

  “How did your test go?” The gentleness of his voice was like a caress.

  “Fine, I guess—I hope,” she corrected hastily and struggled to focus her thoughts.

  A slow smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “If you’re like me, by the time I finished the last exam, I was too tired to care how I did. That lasted about as long as it took for the results to be posted.”

  “I’m beat, that’s for sure.” Dallas was quick to seize the excuse he offered. “I’d better call it a night before I fall over.”

  She turned away, eager to escape from him while she could still deny that she felt anything more than a physical attraction. She climbed into the cab of the pickup and deliberately didn’t offer him a ride to the house. The last thing Dallas wanted was to spend any more time alone with Quint, especially tonight.

  For once, luck was on her side, and she reached the privacy of her bedroom as Quint walked into the living room to lock the shotgun back in its cabinet.

  A midnight-blue Ferrari rolled to a stop in front of the Adolphus Hotel in Dallas. On a nearby street corner, a group of Dickens’s costumed carolers broke into a rousing rendition of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.” Boone Rutledge took no notice of them as he climbed out of the Ferrari and tossed the keys to the doorman at the curb.

  “I shouldn’t be more than five minutes. Keep it handy,” he ordered and strode to the door.

  He paused a few feet inside the hotel lobby for a quick scan of its occupants, totally ignoring the sweeps of evergreen boughs twinkling with Christmas lights. Within seconds, Boone spotted his father, dressed in an impeccably tailored black tuxedo with a white tie, gliding across the marbled lobby in his wheelchair, bound for the bank of elevators. As always, Harold Barnett accompanied him, walking directly behind the wheelchair.

  Boone quickly crossed the lobby to intercept them. Both men stopped when they observed his approach, and Max angled his chair toward him and raked his glance over the suit Boone wore.

  “Formal dress is required for tonight’s dinner,” Max curtly informed him.

  “I have other plans this evening. I told you that this morning,” Boone reminded him with cool stiffness.

  “In Little Mexico, I suppose,” Max replied with a small curl of contempt. “So why did you bother to come here at all?”

  His nostrils flared slightly in anger, but Boone managed to keep his temper in check. “I thought you would want to know it’s been confirmed. The Garners have moved onto the Cee Bar.”

  “You’re certain of that?” Max demanded.

  “Dallas arranged for the phone and utilities to the trailer to be turned off yesterday. Not a single possession was left in the trailer.”

  Max folded his hands together in his lap and digested this piece of news. “It never occurred to me that Echohawk would move them onto the ranch with him.”

  “I remember the Calders mentioning that Echohawk had a tendency to pick up strays.”

  “It’s a pity you didn’t remember that before,” Max said in dry rebuke. “We could have anticipated the possibility if you had. Now it complicates things.”

  “I know,” Boone agreed.

  “We’ll have to find a way to use it to our advantage,” Max stated and shot a challenging look at his son. “What have you done about the hay?”

  “Nothing yet.”

  “Why not?” Max asked in harsh demand.

  “There’s a new moon Sunday night,” Boone replied. “That’ll be the best time to take care of it.”

  “See that you do.” Once again his hand was at the controls, sending the wheelchair toward the bank of elevators and leaving Boone standing there by himself.

  Evergreen trees of varying heights and types were propped along the front of the grocery store, scenting the air with their pine smell. The minute he climbed out of the truck, Empty Garner walked over to survey the selection. Having just come from church, he was dressed in what he persisted in calling his Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes—a western-cut suit, a bolo tie, and a spotless black cowboy hat.

  As Quint joined him, Empty pulled out a tree that stood about five feet tall. “This looks like a good one.”

  Dallas veered away from the entrance when she noticed him inspecting the tree. “What are you doing, Empty?” She frowned.

  “Exactly what it looks like,” he retorted with a trace of impatience. “I’m picking out a tree. It won’t be Christmas without one.”

  She darted a hesitant glance at Quint. “But it isn’t our house, Empty,” she reminded him.

  “You’re living in it. I think that makes it your house, too,” Quint replied with a smile. “And I agree with Empty. It won’t be Christmas without a tree.”

  “In that case, I guess we’ll have a tree,” Dallas said with a faint sigh of concession. “But it means we’ll have to dig out those boxes with the tree stand and ornaments that we put in the barn.”

  “We haven’t got anything better to do this afternoon, do we?” Empty countered in light challenge.

  “I guess not.” This time she managed a smile. “You two pick out the tree while I get the milk and bread and other items we need. But don’t be long,” she warned. “Because I won’t.”

  By late afternoon, the living room furniture had been rearranged to make a space for the tree. Six inches had been trimmed off the trunk to accommodate the room’s low ceiling and the additional height the metal stand gave it.

  It stood proudly in the corner, ready to be trimmed. Boxes of ornaments were scattered about the room. With one string of lights untangled, Empty was busy working on the second.

  Quint sat on the floor, patiently searching for the burnt-out bulb or bulbs on a third string of multicolored lights plugged into the wall socket. From the kitchen came the sharp patter of corn popping.

  The instant Quint switched out one bulb, the entire string lit up. “Found it.”

  “At least we got two strands that work now—maybe three if I ever get this one unsnarled,” Empty muttered as he tugged loose another knot.

  “Want some help?” Quint unplugged the light string and stood up.

  Empty was on the verge of accepting his offer when the telephone rang. “You need to answer that. I can manage.”

  Quint slipped into the popcorn-scented kitchen and picked up the old rotary-style phone that sat on the oak desk, sliding a glance at Dallas as she emptied a pan of freshly popped corn into a large earthenware bowl.

  “Cee Bar Ranch.” The words had become automatic to him.

  “Hi, Qui
nt. It’s your mom,” came the answer.

  “Hi. What’s up?” Quint immediately pulled out the desk chair and sat down, certain the conversation wasn’t likely to be a short one.

  “Nothing much,” his mother replied. “I just finished the last of the Christmas cards and thought I’d give you a call before I started wrapping presents. So what have you been doing?”

  “We’re in the middle of trimming the tree,” he answered as Dallas returned to the stove, poured oil in the large pan, and measured more kernels into it, then set it on the burner.

  “You’re having a tree. How nice. Wait a minute, did you say ‘we’?” she asked and immediately answered herself. “That’s right. Jessy told me that your hired man had moved in with you, along with his granddaughter. You know, if I’m not mistaken, the Christmas decorations were always stowed in the attic at the Cee Bar. I’ll bet they’re still there.”

  “I’ll check, but the Garners have plenty,” he told her, then carefully changed the subject. “How’s Gramps doing?”

  “He’s grumpy as usual.”

  Quint smiled at the description. “What’s he complaining about this time?”

  “We’re having the Triple C Christmas party this coming weekend, and he thinks it should be closer to Christmas. I don’t suppose you can come home for the party. Everybody would love to see you.”

  “I’ll have to miss it this year, I’m afraid.”

  A faint sigh of resignation preceded her response. “I had a feeling you’d say that. As long as you’re here for Christmas, that’s what counts.”

  “I’m going to try.” But Quint wasn’t willing to promise anything beyond that.

  “Now, Quint, there’s no reason why you can’t, especially now when your hired man is right there to do the chores and look after things while you’re away.”

  “With any luck, that’s the way it will work out.” The first smattering of popping kernels rattled in the covered pot. Dallas immediately began moving it back and forth across the burner more vigorously.

  “You’d better be here,” Cat warned and would have said more on the subject, but there was an eruption of exploding kernels. “What is that noise, Quint?”

  “Dallas is making popcorn.”

  “I thought you were trimming the tree.”

  “We are. The Garners have a tradition of stringing popcorn and draping it on the tree.” Seeking to divert the conversation away from more talk of Christmas, he asked about Trey.

  Fortunately his mother needed little urging to launch into other topics, bringing him up to date on family happenings as well as things at the Triple C. It was a good ten minutes before she wound the conversation to a close.

  “Tell everyone hi for me,” Quint said. “And let Jessy know things have been quiet here the last few days. Hopefully they’ll stay that way.”

  “I’ll tell her,” she promised. “I love you, Quint. See you at Christmas.”

  “Love you, too,” he said and hung up.

  When Quint returned to the living room, the tree was a-twinkle with an array of red, blue, green, and yellow lights. Dallas was standing on the four-foot stepladder, rearranging the light strand around the top branches for a more visually appealing look. Empty was in his chair, a bowl of popcorn balanced on his lap, a long needle in one hand, and a piece of fluffy white popcorn in the other.

  “I see you managed to get the lights untangled,” Quint remarked. “The tree looks beautiful.”

  “It better,” Empty grumbled and nodded to a second bowl of popcorn on the coffee table. “Grab yourself a needle and thread and some popcorn and start stringing.” He shoved the needle through the popcorn and ran it down onto the thread. “Dallas got carried away with the popcorn. There won’t be room on the tree for any ornaments.”

  “That’s because I knew you’d eat most of it,” she countered, sending him a knowing smile.

  “It does smell good.” Quint grabbed himself a handful on the way to the couch, pushed aside a box of ornaments, and sat down. “Is there any trick to this?” he asked and popped some kernels into his mouth.

  “About the only trick is threading the needle,” Empty replied, then glanced at him curiously. “Haven’t you ever strung popcorn before?”

  “Nope, never have,” Quint admitted and reached for a long needle sticking out of a strawberry-shaped pincushion, noticing the spool of ultra-heavy-duty thread beside it.

  “There’s nothing to it,” Dallas assured him. “Just make sure you don’t jam the popcorn too closely together and accidentally push it off the end of the string.”

  “I know folks mostly use store-bought garlands these days, but I thought everybody had strung popcorn when they were kids,” Empty declared.

  “Not me. Although I remember one year cutting strips of colored construction paper and gluing them into a chain for the tree.” Quint reeled off a length of thread. “How much do I need?”

  With the lights arranged to her satisfaction, Dallas hopped off the step stool and crossed to the sofa to show him. As she bent to unroll more thread, her ponytail swung forward, brushing past his face. She automatically flipped it to the other side, but not before Quint caught a whiff of the strawberry-scented shampoo she used.

  This was the first time Dallas had gotten this close to him since the day she arrived at the Cee Bar. And her nearness stimulated his senses, doubling his awareness of her and making it difficult for him to respond naturally.

  “That should do it,” she said after she had unrolled another foot of thread. Taking the scissors, she snipped it off the spool. “You shouldn’t have any trouble threading it, big as the eye is on that needle.”

  When she remained close to observe the process, Quint had to check the urge to catch hold of her hand and draw her down to the sofa cushion beside him. Instead he concentrated on slipping the thread through the needle’s eye, and succeeded on the first attempt.

  “Very good.” Her expression was a mixture of approval and surprise.

  “I’m no stranger to a needle and thread,” Quint informed her with a mild and jesting smugness. “My mother told me a long time ago that I had two choices—either find a reliable laundry that would faithfully restitch hems, sew on buttons, and mend torn pockets, or learn how to do it myself. I quickly discovered it was a handy skill for a bachelor to have, almost as necessary as cooking.”

  Her smile was quick and warm, and equally teasing. “A man who listens. That’s even more amazing.”

  “I thought you’d be impressed.” As he tossed her a teasing smile, Quint unwittingly let his glance slide down to her lips.

  It lingered on their soft, full shape a few seconds too long. Immediately he sensed the cooling in her attitude toward him, and that easy camaraderie that had so briefly existed was gone.

  Just like that, Dallas turned away. “I think I’ll start hanging ornaments while you two work on the popcorn.” Lending action to her statement, she picked up the nearest box and carried it to the tree.

  Much of Quint’s enjoyment of the moment left with her. But Empty was oblivious of all of it as his age-gnarled fingers continued to lengthen the amount of popcorn on his string.

  “I seem to recollect that our kids made paper chains when they were small,” Empty recalled. “Course back then, we made our own paste out of flour and water and glued them together with that. Paper chains and popcorn. Call me old-fashioned if you want, but that’s the way a tree ought to be decorated. Nowadays they go to swooping wide ribbons all over the tree, and it ends up looking like a maypole.”

  “Now you sound like my dad,” Quint said with a slight smile, recalling his father’s aversion to the Victorian style of Christmas decorations.

  “He doesn’t like it either, huh?” Empty surmised.

  “No.” But Quint didn’t correct his use of the present tense.

  “Does your father work at the Triple C, too?” Dallas hooked an ornament on one of the higher branches.

  “No, he was the local sheriff.”


  She swung around to face him, her eyes wide with question. “Was?”

  Quint responded with a slow nod, then felt the need to speak bluntly. “He was killed this past summer when he stopped to get gas and walked into a robbery in progress.”

  “I’m sorry.” Those two, softly murmured words carried a depth of feeling that seemed to reach across the room to offer comfort.

  “You couldn’t know,” he said gently.

  “Just the same…” Dallas let her voice trail off.

  “It’s a hard thing,” Empty declared with a sad shake of his head. “Goes with the badge, I guess.”

  “It does,” Quint agreed. “The irony is he planned to retire next year when his term was up, and start ranching full-time. We had a small spread, smaller than the Cee Bar,” he explained. “But my dad never wanted anything bigger. He wanted to keep it a one-man operation, something he could handle by himself. There wasn’t a tractor on the place. Everything was done with draft horses, from mowing hay to hauling it out to the cattle.”

  “You had to sell the place after he died, did you?” Empty guessed.

  “No, my mom still has it, but she’s got the Triple C running it for her.”

  The old man frowned. “How come she never turned it over to you?”

  “Empty,” Dallas said in sharp reproval. “It really isn’t any of your business.”

  “Don’t you be shushing me,” Empty retorted, all indignant. “It’s the most natural thing for a son to take over the running of things when his daddy passes.”

  “Since I work for the Triple C now, you could say I still do.” As far as Quint was concerned, making that claim was easier than explaining his mother’s ambition for him at the Triple C. Especially when he didn’t share it. But that was a private matter between his mother and himself.

  “And you got paid to do it,” Empty realized, then remembered, “At least you did until you came down here.” He paused and turned a thoughtful eye on Quint. “I reckon your daddy taught you a thing or two about the law and handling ruffians like the Rutledges. You aren’t gonna be the kind to pack up when things get rough, are you?”