by Janet Dailey
“I wouldn’t make that call to security until you’re sure your boss wants them,” he warned, and fired a glance at the man in the wheelchair. “Do you, Max?”
After a small pause, Max waved a hand. “Put the phone down, Edwards.”
“Smart move,” Quint told him as Boone struggled upright in the chair and appeared on the verge of launching himself at Quint again.
With an almost noiseless whirr, Max rolled his wheelchair from behind the desk and glided between them. “Stay where you are,” he told Boone, a curl of disgust on his lip, “before he makes a fool of you again.” His hand manipulated the control stick, squaring his chair around to face Quint. “What is it you want, Echohawk?” he asked in a perfectly reasonable voice.
Before answering, Quint pointedly divided his glance between the man behind the desk and the brunette poised in the doorway. “You might prefer to have this conversation take place in private.”
The touch of his glance seemed to loosen the brunette’s tongue. “I’m sorry, Mr. Rutledge. I tried to stop him—”
“That will be all, Miss Bridges,” Max told her, then directed a look at the third man. “Close the door on your way out, Edwards.”
Silence reigned while the two exited the office. During it, Max Rutledge settled more comfortably in his wheelchair and viewed Quint with a look of great tolerance. Boone displayed no such control, pushing himself out of his chair and pacing over to a floor-to-ceiling window, his body rigid in anger and resentment.
With the click of the door latch, Max assumed charge of the meeting. “Now what is it that’s so all-fired important to talk about?” He smiled in amused indulgence.
“It isn’t so much what we have to talk about, Max,” Quint responded with a cool smile of his own, “as it is what I have to tell you.”
“And what might that be?”
“So far you’ve been dealing all the hands in this game, and I’ve played them as they came. But not anymore,” Quint stated. “I’m taking over the deck. From now on, I’ll do the dealing, and you aren’t going to like the cards.”
Massive shoulders lifted in a vague shrug of indifference. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“In that case we’ll start with the most recent one. Anthrax.”
The reaction from Boone was instant. He spun from the window, a look of rage on his face. “Damn it, I told you that was a pack of lies. She made up that whole thing as a way to get back at us! Why the hell do you think I hit her?”
Quint never so much as glanced in Boone’s direction, choosing instead to observe the sharp, assessing look Max gave him, and the tightening line of displeasure around his mouth.
“You see, Max, I know you infected those cows with anthrax.” Quint stated it as a fact. “I didn’t need Dallas to tell me that Boone had admitted it to her.”
To Max’s credit he showed no reaction to that statement, probably anticipating it.
“Yesterday”—Quint stressed the word—“I put a team of investigators on it, all pros. They’ll find out where you got the bacteria, who gave it to you, and any middleman you may have used.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Max scoffed. “I had nothing to do with your cattle dying of anthrax.”
“Yes, you did. And I’ll prove it. Want to know why?” His smile of challenge was full of confidence.
There was an involuntary twitch of a muscle in a gaunt cheek, but Max offered no reply, choosing instead to match Quint stare for stare.
“I’ll tell you why.” Quint leaned down and braced his hands on the wheelchair’s armrests, pushing his face close to Max and destroying any illusion Max might have entertained that his wheelchair was some kind of throne. Fury and loathing warred in the glaring look Max gave him.
“You’ve been the he-bull around here too long. That breeds overconfidence every time. And that means you’ve made a mistake somewhere. Anthrax is an ugly word, Max, and your son has already tied you to it. People who would have kept their mouths shut in the past might be inclined to talk now.”
“You’re talking nonsense,” Max insisted, not quite able to pull off a tone of utter indifference.
“Am I?” Quint challenged, with a cold smile of certainty. “Right now your mind is racing, cataloguing everyone who knew or could have known about the anthrax, wondering if any of them let something slip—or might, if questioned, like your son did. You’re even wondering if there’s someone you can pay to take the fall for this. But you don’t dare approach them to make sure there aren’t any more leaks, for fear that you would lead my investigators right to them. And you would. But don’t think that’s your only worry. The team has orders to look into all your dealings. And we both know they’ll find something, because your hands are dirty, Max.”
“Are you finished?” His temper shortening, Max all but spat the words.
“Not quite,” Quint replied, peripherally aware of Boone watching the exchange with a kind of shock. “I’ll make you a deal, Max.”
“A deal? You stand there and threaten me, then have the nerve to offer me a deal?” His forceful voice trembled with suppressed rage.
“Isn’t that the way you work, Max?” Quint countered. “You make all your threats, then offer an alternative. That’s all I’m doing. And just like you, I’ll carry out my threats if it’s necessary—and it’ll be the Rutledge name smeared all over the headlines.” He paused as Max ripped his gaze away from him. “Are you finding it hard to swallow some of your own medicine?”
“What are the terms?” Max growled.
“The terms are simple: back off.” The steel in Quint’s voice matched the steel in his eyes. “Back off from the Cee Bar and the Calders.”
Max turned back to him, thrusting his chin forward. “If I agree, are you going to call off your dogs?”
This time, Quint straightened himself away from the wheelchair to tower over the man. “No. Because I can’t trust you to keep your word, Max. But I will agree to sit on anything I find.”
“That’s no deal at all,” Max retorted.
“It’s the only one you’re going to get. Now it’s up to you to decide whether it’s worth the price you might have to pay just to try to get your hands on the Cee Bar—especially now that you know the Calders are going to fight back every way they can.”
“You are assuming I had anything more than a passing interest in acquiring the Cee Bar,” Max retorted with some of his former poise.
“Is that your answer?” Quint challenged. “Because this is a onetime offer. You take it or leave it right now.”
“I don’t know why I should agree with your ridiculous proposal when I had nothing to do with the trouble you’re having at the Cee Bar. But if agreeing will give you some peace of mind, I’ll do it,” Max declared with dismissive ease.
A smile quirked one corner of Quint’s mouth. “I always knew you were an intelligent man, Max. Just remember—I’m going to hold you to this.”
He flicked a glance at Boone and walked out of the office. For a moment both men stared at the door. Then Boone finally found his voice.
“He made you back down,” he murmured in a dazed and awed tone. “I never thought I’d see the day when someone could do that to you.”
Max whipped his chair around, a malevolence in his expression unlike anything Boone had ever seen. “And you never would have if it wasn’t for your big mouth! I swear to God you have screwed up for the last time.”
“Me? What are you talking about?” But Boone knew exactly what he meant. A kind of panic set in. “I never admitted anything to that Garner woman. She made it all up. You can’t blame me just because she managed to convince Echohawk with her lies.”
“You don’t even have the guts to own up to the truth, do you?”
“I tell you I didn’t say anything,” Boone protested vehemently. “Are you going to take Echohawk’s word over mine?”
“You’re damned right I am,” Max fired back. “Unlike you, Echohawk is no fool.
Regardless of what he might have suspected, he would never have set foot in this office today if you hadn’t confirmed his suspicions.”
“I tell you she lied to him!”
“And I say you are the only liar around here!” Max bellowed, his gaunt face mottling with rage. “From the time you were able to talk, it’s been one lie after another. I’ve never been able to trust a single thing you say. And I sure as hell have never been able to depend on you to do even the smallest thing right. If you had been anyone other than my son, I would have shown you the door a long time ago. That was my mistake. But it isn’t one I’ll make again.”
“It’s always my fault, isn’t it? One little thing goes wrong, and I get blamed for it,” Boone hurled bitterly, but he was addressing a moving target as the wheelchair zipped Max to the desk. Boone went after him and halted at its side, gripping the edges and leaning forward to vent his pent-up wrath. “Nothing I do ever pleases you! Not the great Max Rutledge.”
Deaf to his tirade, Max picked up the telephone and punched the speed number for the main house at the Slash R. The instant it was answered, he ordered curtly, “Pack Boone’s things at once. I want every single item of his gone before I arrive home tonight.” A question on the other end of the line caused Max to flick a glance at Boone. “No, he won’t be by to get them. Send them to the Adolphus for now. He can pick them up there,” Max stated and hung up.
“What the hell is this?” Boone demanded, a cold chill creeping in.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Max’s voice and stare were like iron. “I want you out of my house and my life. As far as I’m concerned, I no longer have a son.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Disbelief was first, then a fear that struck deep. “You can’t do that!”
“I can and I am,” Max stated. “A check will be deposited in your account on the first of every month, and that is the only contact we will have from now on. You have two seconds to get out of my sight before I call security and have you thrown out.”
For Boone, there was an unreality to the moment, a disbelief that this could truly be happening to him. As always, the right words wouldn’t come.
When he saw that big hand reach for the phone, he knew Max would carry out his threat and order security to escort him from the premises. Rather than suffer the ignominy of such treatment, Boone straightened up from the desk and walked stiffly from the office, bitter black thoughts whirling in his head.
He didn’t remember the elevator ride to the lobby, climbing into his truck, or driving out of the lot. The first thing to register was a beer sign in the window of a bar. The sight of it and his own dry-mouthed feeling had Boone pulling up in front of it and going inside.
The place had the sour reek of beer tinged with stale cigarette smoke, but Boone never noticed as he crossed to the empty stools at the counter and climbed onto one. In a numb kind of haze, he ordered a beer and drank down half of it, then sat there, hot with resentment.
His mind started playing that dreaded and all-too-familiar game of if-only. If only he hadn’t let Dallas trick him into admitting they had infected the cattle with anthrax. If only Echohawk hadn’t come along when he did. If only she hadn’t told Echohawk what he’d said.
His fingers curled into tight fists. If it wasn’t for that bitch, none of this would have happened; the certainty of it filled him.
And with it came the first glimmer that maybe there was a way out of this. Maybe there was a way to prove to Max that he wasn’t a liar. And Dallas could do that.
It didn’t matter to him at all that it would be another lie. Max wouldn’t know it, and that was all that counted.
He downed the beer in his glass and ordered another.
Chapter Eighteen
Cloud wisps drifted across the blue of the afternoon sky. The sun was bright, but the air was winter cool, making the sleeves of the sweatshirt that Dallas wore a welcome cover for her arms. She waited next to the tractor, the punctured tire from its nose gear propped against her leg, while Empty backed the white pickup into position.
It braked to a stop a few feet from her. Dallas rolled the tire over to the back of the truck while Empty climbed out of the cab and came around to give her a hand loading it. His assistance wasn’t really required, but she didn’t object when he helped to hoist it into the truck bed.
Once it was settled into place, Empty lingered, his glance touching on her before skipping to the ranch lane. A believer in dressing for the season, he wore a hat and gloves and an insulated jacket zipped up to his neck.
“I figure Quint’ll be back before long.” Again his glance bounced back to her, probing with empathy. “If you want, I can take my time getting this tire patched. It might be easier if it’s just you and him.”
“There’s no need.” Dallas had already made up her mind that she would accept whatever decision Quint made, without argument, even if it went against her.
“Quint’s a fair man,” Empty said in an attempt at reassurances. “After all, no man alive can ever truly understand the crazy way a woman reasons. He might make allowances for that.”
Dallas wanted to smile at his slightly sexist statement, but there was too much heaviness within to leave any room for the lightness of amusement.
“Maybe.” She was careful not to hope too much. It would only hurt that much more if—but she couldn’t finish the thought; even the suggestion of it brought a great hollow ache in her chest that closed off her air.
Empty sighed, a long and forlorn sound. “I’ll tell you one thing, I’ll be glad when Quint gets back. All this waiting and wondering is working on my nerves.”
“True,” Dallas agreed, caught somewhere between a blessed numbness and an agonizing tension.
Pushing off, Empty headed back to the front of the truck and opened the door on the driver’s side. He paused with one booted foot on the running board and waved a hand in the direction of the opened barn door.
“You might want to close that. No need to advertise to the Rutledges that we got a delivery of hay,” he told her.
“I will.” But it was his use of the pronoun “we” that made Dallas realize just how much of a home this ranch had become for both of them. It was far from a showplace, but she knew how much she would hate to leave it—and Quint.
With a sharp, quick lift of her head, Dallas turned toward the barn, refusing to anticipate what the eventuality would be, good or bad. While the white pickup rattled out of the ranch yard, heading for town, Dallas crossed to the open barn door and the strong smell of hay that came from within.
Small, round bales stacked two high filled the alleyway. Putting a shoulder to the heavy door, she pushed it, rolling it across the entrance and stopping it within a foot of its jamb, leaving room for the chickens to scamper in and out.
When she stepped away from the barn, the white pickup had already disappeared from sight. Dallas was alone, completely at loose ends. Between putting away the groceries and the arrival of the truck with the hay delivery, she had managed to keep herself occupied. Suddenly she had nothing to do, and too much time on her hands.
Determined to find something that would keep her too busy to think, Dallas headed for the house. The secret was to keep moving, and that was easy with all the inner agitation that pushed her.
But the minute she walked into the house, its silence was almost more than she could stand. Immediately Dallas turned on the radio, leaving it tuned to the country station that always carried the noonday market reports.
With guitar and fiddle music filling the kitchen, she crossed to the sink and put away the lunch dishes drying in the drain rack. After tidying up the counter area, Dallas moved to the living room and straightened it up. It was all busywork—plumping pillows, arranging magazines into neat stacks, and returning the odd glass to the kitchen.
She was on her way to the bathroom to collect the dirty towels from this morning’s showers and set out clean ones when a light flashed against the living room, the kind that
came from sunlight bouncing off a windshield. Dallas halted in place, her heartbeat skittering like a mad thing.
Suddenly she was all jittery nerves. She pulled in a deep, steadying breath, aware that she would soon find out if knowing would turn out to be worse than the not knowing.
The music on the radio failed to completely drown out the metallic slam of a door and the hard striding footsteps crossing the porch. Bracing herself for that first glimpse of Quint’s face and the expression she might see in it, Dallas turned toward the door.
She froze in shock when Boone Rutledge barged into the house, a brutish kind of anger twisting through his features. His raking glance scoured the room and stopped when it reached her.
“I figured you might be here when I didn’t see you with the old man in town.” The glitter of satisfaction in his eyes had an ugliness to it.
“What are you doing here, Boone?” Every instinct said to run, but Dallas held her ground.
“As if you don’t know,” he jeered.
“I think you’d better leave. Quint will be back soon,” she warned.
“Is that supposed to make me shake in my boots?”
His voice, there was a slight slur to it. He’d been drinking; she was certain of it, and that brought a new sense of fear.
“Let him come,” he growled. “We won’t be here anyway. You’re coming with me.”
Boone moved toward her and made a grab for her arm. She pulled it out of reach and took a hasty step back.
“Where are we going? Why?” With a corner of the living room behind her, Dallas had no avenue of escape.
“Max needs to see you. Now. So come on.” When Boone reached for her again, Dallas knew she had to act fast.
“Max? Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” she said in disgust and pushed his hand away before it could encircle her wrist. She used the movement to brush past him. “My purse is in the kitchen. I’ll get it and be right with you.”
There was maneuvering room in the kitchen—and a back door. She was almost to the doorway when his hand snared her arm. This time there was no twisting away from it.
