Calder Pride (13 page)

“Go ahead and carry on like some high and mighty princess. It won’t do you no good. Folks know what you are now.” Her narrow lips curled in contempt. “You had ’em fooled for a while, carrying on the way you did over the Taylor boy, and making sure my boy went to prison for it.”

“I am not responsible for your son going to prison,” Cat flashed.

“You as good as turned the key to lock him in,” the woman declared. “He was a good boy, but that didn’t matter to you. There was no forgiveness in your heart, not a grain of mercy. You wanted him punished. You didn’t care that it meant we’d lose everything we owned, that we’d wind up old and poor, living on the dole. Well, ‘as ye sow, so shall ye reap.’ And you’re gonna be reaping your rightful harvest. Folks around here will have no mercy on a trollop like you.”

“I don’t have to listen to this.” With her jaws clenched in fury, Cat spun on her heel and made to walk away.

“That’s right, run away.” Emma Anderson came after her. “We don’t want your kind around here, spreading your legs to any and every man that comes along.”

Cat swung back, hotly indignant. “That is a lie!”

The woman sneered at that. “You think people can’t remember the way you threw yourself at the Taylor boy, rubbing yourself all over him even when you were out in public. And he wasn’t the first, I’ll wager. Which is why your pa always kept you on such a short rope around here—and it’s probably why he sent you off to boarding school the minute he saw you were going to turn into a wild little Jezebel just like your mother.”

“How dare you talk about my mother like that?!” Cat demanded, white with rage. “You aren’t fit to even mention her name.”

“The O’Rourkes are trash. They always have been, and they always will be. Blood tells, and you’re an O’Rourke through and through.”

Culley appeared beside her, coming up from behind in that soundless way he had. “Shut your mouth, old woman.” His voice was low and thick with threat.

Emma reared her head back, focusing on him like a snake about to strike. “You can’t scare me into shutting up, Culley O’Rourke.”

“I ain’t trying to scare you, old woman. I’m telling you not to be talking bad about my sister or Cat,” he warned, then paused, his expression taking on a sly and crafty look. “If I hear that you been blackening their names, I may have to do me some talking of my own about those
two
jailbirds you raised.”

The woman went white for an instant, a look of alarm leaping into her eyes. Something flat and ugly took its place. “Lath and Rollie are good boys. It’s the law that done ’em wrong,” she stated and struck out across the snow, her boots crunching through the snow’s brittle crust.

Cat watched her. “I have never come so close to hitting anyone in my whole life,” she muttered and buried her fisted hands deep in her pockets.

“You can forget about her. She won’t be spreading any more lies about you. If she does, she knows I’ll be telling some tales of my own,” Culley made it a vow. “And mine will be true.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Cat pulled her gaze from the woman and started out once again to retrace her steps to the Blazer. “She was only saying what others are thinking. I just never realized the talk had gotten that bad—to where they think I’m—”

“You ain’t that kind of girl, and we both know it,” he cut in and fell in step with her, his hat pulled
low on his grizzled head, his hands shoved in the pockets of his sheepskin-lined denim jacket, and his shoulders hunched against the nipping wind. “Some folks just got dirty minds. When something like this happens, they just let them go wild. One person says something, then somebody adds to it, and the next guy starts swearing it’s the gospel truth. That’s how rumors start and lies get spread.”

“I know,” she said on a gusty breath that billowed in front of her like a cloud. “It’s just so unfair.” Cat felt the sting of tears, which only made her angry all over again.

“Humans ain’t the kindest creatures on this earth,” Culley pronounced. “Some take real delight in kickin’ a fella when he’s down, and the rest just scatter like a herd does when a pack of coyotes attack a lamed cow.”

“There’s a cheerful thought,” she murmured dryly.

“Sorry, but…” He paused, struggling to get his tongue around the right words. “When Maggie—that is, your ma—found herself in this same fix, she went off to California where all this kind of talk couldn’t reach her. Maybe that’s what you should do.”

It was the same suggestion he had made when Cat first told him she was expecting a child. Her answer was the same now as it had been then. “I can’t do it, Uncle Culley. This is my home. I won’t leave, especially not now. If I did, it would be the same as admitting that everything they’ve said about me is true. And I won’t do that. I can’t.”

Culley walked with his head bowed for several strides, thinking about her answer. “If you’re determined to stay, then you’d better learn to guard your feelings. You’re too quick to let people see that their talk gets to you. You can’t let them rile you like that
old woman did back there at the clinic. You need to be more like your father. Calder is a master at not revealing what he’s thinking or feeling. Ty’s good at it, too,” he said with a decisive nod. “That’s the way you have to be, Cat.”

Coming from Culley, that was saying something. For years the only good thing he’d say about Chase Calder was that he loved Maggie, maybe as much as Culley had loved his sister.

“I’ll try, Uncle Culley,” Cat said a little wearily. “I’ll honestly try.”

“You’ve got to do more than try,” he told her. “Or they’ll make your life hell.”

“I’m beginning to see that.” But she refused to be daunted by it. Resolute in her decision, she lifted her chin a little higher in a gesture that was typical of her, and pulled a hand from her pocket to link arms with her uncle. “I’m glad you came into town today. Somehow you always manage to be around when I need you.”

“I remembered you had a doctor’s appointment this morning, and I’d heard some of the talk going round.”

“So you decided to show up in case you needed to come to my defense, which—as it turns out—you did.” She thought back to the confrontation with Emma Anderson and recalled the comment he had made that had brought a quick end to it. “How did you find out the Andersons have another son in prison?”

He had a sly and knowing look on his face again. “I run into old Sheriff Potter a couple weeks back, and he hinted as much to me. Then last week I saw one of the deputies in Fedderson’s and asked him about it. He’s the one who told me Lath was doing time down in Texas.”

“What did he do?”

“It was something about illegal weapons, either buying or selling. I didn’t get the straight of it.”

“I see,” Cat murmured.

“I figured it could be useful information,” Culley explained. “That old lady was a Hatton before she married Anderson. The Hattons always were a grudge-holding sort.”

Cat nodded absently, finding it all suddenly depressing. Determined to throw off this gloomy talk, she turned to her uncle with a quick, bright smile. “I haven’t told you the news—I’m going to have a boy.”

It would have been better if it had been a girl, Culley thought. Folks around here would give a boy a rougher time of it. He started to say so, but Cat looked too happy so he said nothing.

O
n the last Sunday before Christmas, upward of two hundred people from all four corners of the ranch converged on the headquarters. The annual party for the workers and their families was a holiday tradition on the Triple C. As always, it was held in the one-hundred-year-old barn with its long, wide alleyway that had once garaged the buggies, wagons, hayracks, and plows used in the ranch’s early days. And, as always for the occasion, the huge barn was transformed into a festive hall, complete with strings of lights hanging from its massive oak beams, a Christmas tree decorated with paper chains, popcorn strings, snowflakes, and ornaments made by the ranch children, both past and present, and a large piñata—a custom brought to the ranch by those first Texans who had made the Triple C their home.

Since early morning, large salamanders had blown their heat through the cavernous alleyway, taking much of the chill from the air. The assemblage of people did the rest. Now children ran about in heavy sweaters and sweatshirts, and the roar of the portable heaters was drowned by the chatter of voices, the laughter of chil
dren, and Christmas carols that came over the tape deck’s speakers.

Ty came back from the groaning buffet tables carrying a plate mounded with turkey, ham, candied sweet potatoes, sage dressing with gravy, cranberry sauce, and green beans. Jessy got up from the seat she had saved for him, took one look at the food piled on his plate, and shook her head in amusement.

“If you manage to eat all that, Ty, you won’t need a pillow to fill out that Santa suit,” she said, ribbing him about his new role at the Christmas party as she had done ever since Chase had announced he was relinquishing it.

“Watch it, or I’ll have a Mrs. Claus outfit made for you,” he warned, a lazy gleam shining in his eyes.

“In that case, I promise to be a good girl, Santa,” Jessy countered with mock contriteness, then slipped in a final gibe, “but you’d better practice your ho-ho-hos.”

“And you’d better get in line before all the food is gone.” He gestured toward the buffet tables with his fork.

“I’m not worried. I saw how much food Tucker fixed. Right now,” she paused and craned her neck to scan the far end of the barn, “I think I’ll give Mom a hand. She’s trying to get the kids corralled so we can get the Christmas program under way.”

“Good luck.” Ty picked up his knife and fork to slice off a bite of ham.

“We’ll need it, as always,” Jessy replied.

The children’s Christmas program was a tradition at the employee party, and long one of its highlights. This year Judy Niles had received the dubious honor of being named coordinator of the event. Naturally, she had roped Jessy into helping.

Truthfully, Jessy hadn’t minded, although she
still squirmed when she recalled some of her own less-than-shining moments as a participant—such as the time she had beaten up on Tommy Summers after he had razzed her one too many times about being a “sweet little angel.” She had ended up with a black eye—plus tattered wings and a crooked halo.

After an initial sweep of the area failed to turn up her mother, Jessy sought out her father. Stumpy Niles was leaning his squatly built frame against one of the stalls, busy finishing off a large slice of pumpkin pie with whipped cream.

“I can’t find Mom. Have you seen her?” Jessy turned to survey the throng of milling mothers and excited children.

“Gabriel—alias Ricky Goodman—refuses to put on his costume,” Stumpy explained between bites. “He insists only girl angels wear robes. Your mom took him off to have a private talk and see what they could negotiate.”

“A private talk? Here?” Jessy raised an eyebrow in skepticism.

He smiled in agreement, then nodded to a spot across the way. “Some kids are over there snickering outside the stall where they’re keeping the sheep.” He scooped up the last bite of cream-smeared pie. “I figure that’s where she took him.”

Jessy looked across the way and spotted four young girls huddled outside one of the stalls, giggling behind their hands. “I think I’ll let Mom straighten Gabriel out on her own while I get the heavenly choir organized. Have you seen Cat? She promised to help me.”

“She was over at the dessert table, giving Tucker a hand dishing up the pie.”

Catching a telltale glimpse of the bright red sweater Cat had been wearing earlier, Jessy nodded. “I see her.”

“She should have had more sense than to wear that color.”

Jessy whipped her head around, stunned by the unusually caustic comment from her father. “What do you mean? It’s Christmas red.”

“Some might call it scarlet,” he said with dry censure.

“Dad, you are wrong about Cat,” she said, suddenly impatient with him and with the quickness of others to look harshly on her. Jessy knew there had been talk about Cat.

Stumpy turned a cool eye on her. “You mean she ain’t pregnant?”

“Of course she is, but—”

“Then I’m not wrong.”

“It wasn’t the way you think, Dad. I can’t believe you can be so quick to condemn her for what happened.”

He looked off into the middle distance. “I don’t know if I can explain it, but it boils down to this—she’s a Calder.” He held up a hand to stave off her protest. “I know you’re going to say that it isn’t right or fair—that it isn’t modern thinking. But that’s the way it is here.”

The truth of his words was inescapable. Jessy recognized it and said nothing as he moved away. Perhaps elsewhere in the country, such strict moral conduct was no longer expected. But it was in this remote stretch of country called the Triple C.

“Miz Jessy.” A small hand tugged at the hem of her sweater. Jessy glanced down into the earnestly serious face of six-year-old Beth Ramsey. “Miz Niles says she needs you to get the heavenly choir together.”

“Tell her Cat and I will be right there.”

“Okay.” The girl started to leave, then turned back with a swing of her long, beribboned braids.
“Miz Jessy, how come nobody’s got the part of Round John?”

“Round John?” Jessy repeated with a puzzled frown. “Who is Round John?”

Beth rolled her eyes and sighed with weighty exasperation. “You know—the guy in the song—Round John Virgin.”

Laughter bubbled up. Jessy swallowed it back and struggled to keep a straight face. “Beth, I think you should go ask Mrs. Niles that question,” she said and watched the girl head off across the way. Then, grinning to herself, Jessy went to get Cat.

The Christmas program came off with the usual cases of stage fright, flubbed lines, and missed cues. Santa Ty arrived and led everyone in the singing of “Silent Night,” then supervised the breaking of the piñata. While the children scrambled after the candy and trinkets, Cat hurried Santa out a side door into the sharp cold of a biting north wind.

“You were a terrific Santa. The kids loved you,” Cat told him as she ducked around a corner to the sheltered side of the barn.

“They would have loved anybody in a red suit,” he muttered, then swore, “Damn, this beard itches.” He pulled it off and scratched at his cheeks, never checking the long strides that carried him swiftly along the length of the barn to the opposite end. His pace forced Cat into a running walk, which she welcomed, as cold as it was outside.

“Where did you leave your things?” she asked through numbing lips, her breath billowing in a cloud about her face.

“In the feed room.” Ty had the hat and wig off by the time they reached its outside door. He tossed them to Cat when she followed him inside. She closed the door behind her, breathing in the room’s enveloping warmth and the sweet smell of oats and
corn. “I still think Dad makes a better Santa,” Ty said.

“Only because he has had more practice.” She laid the hat, beard, and wig in the suit’s storage box, which had been left atop a grain barrel. “You need to work on your ho-ho-hos, develop a lower register in your voice before next year.”

A wide smile split his face. “Everybody’s an expert.”

“Naturally.” Cat grinned back, then cast an assessing glance over him. “Do you need any help getting out of that?”

“I can manage.” He pulled out one of the three pillows that gave the necessary roundness to his flat belly. “Go back to the party, but stay away from the punch. Somebody spiked it.”

“So what else is new?” Cat mocked wryly. “Someone does that every year.”

“Yes, but this year you have a little one to think about.” His glance flicked to her stomach, concern and gentleness mixing in his expression.

Cat smiled softly in return, instinctively sliding a caressing hand over her belly, conscious of the slight flutter of movement within. “I think about him all the time,” she told Ty, then crossed to the feed room’s inner door that opened onto the barn’s wide alley.

When Cat stepped through the doorway, she found herself in the midst of a dozen cowboys, mostly single men, grouped together. A couple of Repp’s friends nodded to her. Cat smiled in response and cut through their circle in blithe unconcern, intent on locating her father.

An arm snaked out, hooking her waist and swinging her around. Her upraised hands collided with the wide chest of the ranch’s would-be Romeo, Dick Ballard. Her arms stiffened in surprised resistance.

“Hey, fellas, look what I caught me,” he called over his shoulder. “Didn’t I tell you I’d get lucky standing under this mistletoe?”

Cat shot a quick look overhead and saw nothing but the Christmas lights strung across a massive beam. “There isn’t any mistletoe.”

“It’s on my hat, sweetie. It’s on my hat,” he informed her with a cocky grin.

A year ago Cat would have laughed and planted a loud, smacking kiss on his lips, and everyone would have thought her a good sport. In the flash of an instant, Cat knew such an action would be held up to an entirely different light this year.

Thinking fast, she reached up and flipped off his hat. “Sorry, the mistletoe seems to be gone. Nice try, Ballard.”

A few of his friends chuckled in approval, but Ballard wasn’t amused. His expression darkened, a redness creeping under his tan.

His arms immediately tightened around her. “That’s what you think, sweetie,” he muttered and came at her openmouthed.

Cat twisted her head down and away. His mouth landed in her hair as she strained against his hold, struggling to get free. Binding her with one arm, he trapped her chin in his hand and forced her head up. Cat instantly clamped her fingers over his mouth and pushed his face away.

“Let her go, Ballard.” Ty’s barked order had his hand shifting from her chin to her arm.

“Don’t go getting all riled up, Ty. All I want is a little kiss,” he declared, his glance then sliding down to Cat. “And everybody knows she’s free with them.”

“I’m not as free as you think I am,” she snapped in a fury of temper.

Ty took one long stride forward, but before he
could intervene, Chase stepped into the circle. An instant hush fell over the barn, electric undercurrents charging the air.

“How long have you been on the Triple C payroll, Ballard?” he asked with an iron coolness, his gaze locking on the cowboy, never once straying to Cat.

“About five years,” he replied with the belligerence of a man convinced he was about to be fired.

“Around here, Ballard,” her father began evenly, “it is always a woman’s prerogative to say no. And it is always a man’s obligation to accept it. It’s time you learned that.”

Without a word of anger or threat, he had switched everyone’s focus from Cat’s conduct to Ballard’s. Sensing the shift in attitude, the cowboy reddened visibly and released Cat, stepping back and bobbing his head in apology. “My mistake,” he said to her.

A moment ago her temper and sense of outrage would have had Cat responding with sharpness. But she knew at once that it wasn’t what her father would do.

Copying the levelness of his tone, she said, “We all make mistakes, Dick. Heaven knows I have.” Reaching down, she picked up his hat and handed it to him, conscious that people had begun turning away, losing interest in them.

Dick fingered the sprig of mistletoe on his hat band. “I guess this wasn’t such a good idea.”

“I wouldn’t blame the mistletoe,” Cat said quietly.

“I guess not.” He looked at her with a new measure of respect, then donned his hat and nodded to her, grinning with a ghost of his former cockiness before moving away to rejoin his compatriots.

When she walked over to her father, Cat saw the
approval in his eyes, though he said nothing to her. It was Ty who asked, “Are you okay, Cat?”

“Of course.”

Still grim-lipped, he eyed the cowboy. “I’ve never liked Ballard that well.”

Cat glanced after the cowboy. “You can’t fire a man for thinking the way he did about me, Ty. If you did, you might find yourself without anybody on the payroll.”

“I’m glad you realize that.” Her father wore a quietly pleased look.

“I do.” She realized that and much more.

With his words alone, her father had totally changed the way others would remember the incident. If they talked about it at all, it would be to discuss his clear and simple statement of the treatment he expected women to be accorded in order for their opposite number to be regarded as a man. It was a measure of the respect his men had for their boss that it was important to them to be seen as such by him.

Noble had always seemed a pretentious word to Cat, certainly not one to be applied to her father. He was strong, quietly confident, hard at times and loving at others, a leader of men definitely, but more than that, a man of the land who lived by old codes. Nobler codes.

For the first time in her life, Cat took pride in that. Her uncle Culley had been right—she would do well to emulate her father. In some corner of her mind, she understood that it was the only way to regain the respect she had lost.

She saw that it wasn’t enough to simply
be
a Calder; she would have to
act
like one. Which meant she would have to work longer and harder than anyone else, without complaint—woman or not, pregnant or not; that her conduct would have to be above
reproach at all times; and that she would have to curb her emotions, especially her lightning-quick temper, and use her head, as her father had done only moments ago.