Calder Storm (17 page)

“Kelly just told me.”

“You'd better warn Pete over at the cook shack that he's liable to have a crowd come Saturday night,” Hank advised. “Sure be nice to pick up a couple kegs before then, though. I bet that new owner doesn't know how much money he's losing by shutting down. And for what? There was nothing wrong with that place just as it was.”

“He probably wants to spruce it up a bit, make a good first impression with everybody,” Trey replied and turned to leave.

Hank grumbled behind him, “Closing the doors ain't the way to go about it.”

M
iles from anywhere, the town of Blue Moon hugged the sides of the two-lane highway that sliced through it. Born in the early days, when cattle was king, it had boomed with the invasion of homesteaders to the area and withered, like their crops, when the region's drought cycle came. The grain elevator that had once stood as a testament to those days had been torn down some years ago when it became apparent it was no longer structurally safe.

For years Blue Moon had clung to existence by catering to the local ranchers and the odd traveler. Few had much hope for its future. Yet it boomed again when Dy-Corp arrived and established an open-pit mining operation to extract the coal that lay beneath the grasslands. The population mushroomed seemingly overnight; old structures were bulldozed, and new buildings sprang up in their place. The influx of new blood once again turned the town into a bustling, thriving community.

But the coal supply was finite. When it ran out, Dy-Corp locked the gates, leaving its workers without jobs and with no prospects for new ones. A mass exodus ensued, once again making the streets and buildings of Blue Moon mostly deserted.

And, again, the town was little more than a wide spot in the highway, anchored on one side by a combination gas station, grocery store, and post office called Fedderson's. On the other side stood a two-story structure that had gone by various names: Jake's Roadhouse, Sally's Café, and most recently, Harry's Hideaway.

Already the building had been stripped of the sign that had spelled out its former name in gaudy green neon. Workers crawled around on its roof, laying new shingles, while more scraped at the chipped and cracked paint on its siding.

Another crew was busy inside. Only one man stood idle, but his sharp eyes were alert for any hint of slacking by the others. Standing an inch under six feet, he wore a white T-shirt that revealed his bulging biceps and the insignia of the Marine Corps tattooed on the left one. His brown hair sported a butch cut that allowed its few strands of gray to merge with the white of his scalp. With his military-correct posture and stern-jawed features, Gordon Donovan looked every inch exactly what he was—a former Marine Corps sergeant who knew how to follow orders as well as give them.

This was the new owner of the restaurant and bar.

The door to the rear office opened, and a bleached blonde in high heels and shorts lolled against its frame, jaw working as she cracked the gum in her mouth. “Hey, Donovan,” she called in a loud and bored voice. “You're wanted on the phone. It's long-distance.”

Jaw ridged in anger, he crossed the intervening space with long strides. When she turned sideways to let him pass, he seized her wrist and gave it a savage twist, indifferent to the fear that leaped into her eyes.

“You stupid slut,” he growled the words, his voice pitched low, intended for her hearing only. “I never told you to answer the damned phone. I said to call me if it rang.”

“I'm sorry.” The apology was barely more than a scared whimper.

He pushed his face close. “Don't ever touch my private line again, or your ass is grass. You got that, sweetie.” Lips curling, he
gave her wrist an extra twist, drawing a tiny outcry from her and a quick nod. “I can't hear you.” Threat was in his low taunt.

“Yes sir.” Pain trembled through her voice. “I'll never do it again. I swear.”

“Damn right you won't. Now get.” He jerked her out of the doorway and sent her stumbling into the now-vacant bar area. “And don't go strutting around the workers. Not till payday.”

Staring after her, Donovan waited until he saw her start for the stairwell door that led to the rooms on the second floor. After a quick visual check of the workers, he stepped inside the small office, closed the door, and locked it. Only then did he cross to the desk and pick up the receiver lying atop its precisely organized surface.

“This is Donovan,” he said, crisp-voiced, and lowered his muscled frame into the desk's companion chair.

“Who was that woman who answered?” Rutledge's familiar voice was on the other end of the line, just as he had anticipated.

“Sorry, sir. It was one of the girls. I've already made sure it won't happen again.” He offered no excuse, aware that none were acceptable.

“See that it doesn't,” came the terse reply. “What progress have you made?”

“About all I can, until I get this place open and have some traffic through here. There isn't much to learn from the people here in Blue Moon. Like I told you, it's one step away from being a ghost town.”

“How soon before you open?” There was an underlying tone of irritation at the delay.

“It'll be another week at least.” Donovan ran a disparaging glance over the dingy office. “You bought yourself a pigsty.”

“I didn't buy anything. You did.”

“Right.” Donovan nodded and muttered under his breath, “Lucky me.” Louder, he said, “The last of the new kitchen equipment is being installed as we speak, and the electrician is finishing up all the wiring for the machines. They're due here on Monday.
The new menus are all set, and the food's scheduled to be delivered next week. I'm pushing to have a big blowout of a grand opening the weekend after next, complete with invitations sent to everyone within a hundred miles. I think I can count on the Calders being here.”

“Good. I need all the information you can get me. No matter how meaningless it sounds to you, pass it on. I'll judge what's worthless and what isn't.”

“You'll know everything I do,” Donovan assured him. “Which reminds me—I don't know if you're in the market for a ranch, but according to the gal that runs the gas station across the road, the Kaufman spread might be coming on the market.”

“I don't think I am, but send me the information on it anyway. What else have you heard?”

“Nothing about the Calders, except that the lack of rain is hurting them just like it is all the ranchers in the area. For the most part, all the locals want to talk about is the good ole days when the pit mine was up and running, and the town was really hopping. If you want stories about that, I've got plenty of them.”

“That was Dyson's operation,” Rutledge mused, giving Donovan the impression he was talking to himself.

“That's right. His daughter Tara was once married to old man Calder's son. There are all kinds of stories about her and how extravagant she is. Nobody around here likes anything about her, other than her money. According to them, she treats it like sand in a desert. Right now she's footing the bill to redecorate some rooms at the main house as a wedding present for the Calder newlyweds. The price is going to be steep, I hear. But it sure made it easy for me to import all my workers without offending the locals.”

“Has there been any talk about the mine reopening?”

“Just some wishful thinking. But it isn't something people around here would know, with the exception of Dyson's daughter.”

“I doubt even she would know. Not that it matters. That coal operation won't be of any use to me anyway.”

“It's your call,” Donovan agreed readily. “My job is to get you information.”

“Then get that place open and get me some. The Calders aren't invulnerable; nobody is. There's a way to get to them. Find it.”

“Yes sir.” But the line had already gone dead.

 

Spurs and cowboy hat in hand, Jessy closed the bedroom door behind her and headed to the staircase. The only sound to be heard was the hollow echo of her own footsteps. Silence had become so alien these last few weeks that Jessy couldn't fail to notice it. Automatically she glanced at the open door to the master suite.

A mix of curiosity and memories pulled her to the opening. She paused in the doorway, a hand on the jamb, and looked around the sitting room, not so much noting its new wall color or its sparcity of furniture, as remembering her own time in it.

Before the past could take hold on Jessy, Sloan came out of the adjoining bedroom, armed with rags and glass cleaner, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She came to an abrupt halt.

“Jessy,” she said in surprise. “I thought you left over an hour ago.”

“I forgot my hat, which shows I haven't spent much time outside lately.” Again Jessy let her glance drift over the room. “It's close to being done.”

“Finally.” The ghost of remembered frustrations was in the sigh that followed Sloan's emphatic statement. “Now we're just waiting for the rugs and the rest of the furniture to arrive. Then it will be just a matter of dressing the rooms with pictures and things, and we can move back in.”

Currently an overstuffed sofa with a side table and an old walnut rocker were the only articles of furniture in the room. But it was the old rocker that caught Jessy's eye.

“I see you still have that old chair in here,” she remarked.

Sloan nodded. “It has good lines, and it's much more comfortable than it looks.”

“I know.” Jessy wandered over to it and absently touched the back of it to start its rocking motion. “After the twins were born, we turned the sitting room into a nursery. I spent many an hour rocking one or the other of them in this chair.”

“I didn't know that,” Sloan admitted with some surprise. Yet she couldn't help noticing that far-off look in Jessy's eyes that suggested she was remembering when she had occupied the master suite with her late husband. A little uneasy, she asked, “Does it bother you? All the changes we've made in here, I mean.”

“No. It was time.” The statement was made with a calm certainty that showed Jessy was completely comfortable with the situation. An easy smile curved her wide lips. “By the way, Nancy Taylor showed me the pictures you took of her family. She couldn't stop talking about what a great job you did. Deservedly so.”

“Thank you. I thought they turned out well.” Sloan was always more critical of her work than others were, but she did think the pictures had turned out well. “They may have opened the floodgates, though. Nancy must have shown them to nearly everyone on the ranch. Now they all want me to take pictures of their families. I guess it's a good thing Laredo set up that temporary darkroom in the basement for me.”

Jessy laughed softly in understanding. “You'd better cross your fingers that Nancy doesn't take them into Blue Moon on Saturday night, or you'll be getting phone calls from everyone in the area. From what I hear, they're all going to the grand opening of Harry's old place.”

“Yes. Trey told me we were invited.” Sloan wasn't exactly enthused about the idea, aware that it was likely to be crowded and noisy, neither of which conditions appealed to her.

“A night out will do us all good.” The words were barely out of Jessy's mouth when a horn honked outside. “That must be Laredo. He said he'd pick me up. See you later.”

 

In place of the tall neon letters that had once identified the place as Harry's Hideaway, lights shone on a painted sign that proclaimed the new name,
THE OASIS
. In smaller letters were the words “Bar and Grill.” Brightly colored pennants were strung along the covered porch, and the parking lot was packed with cars and pickups of every shape and size.

Chase leaned on his cane and surveyed the changes to the building. “Looks like this new owner spent his money where it matters—on a new roof and a fresh coat of paint.” He arched a questioning glance at Cat. “What did you say this fellow's name was again?”

“Gordon Donovan,” she repeated patiently.

“Donovan,” he murmured to himself, then asked, “Do we know where he's from?”

It was Laredo who answered him. “From somewhere in Wyoming, I heard.”

Chase was too wise to accept rumor. “I guess we'll find out soon enough. At least it doesn't look like he has any ideas in his head that this place is more than a local watering hole.”

Behind him, Trey leaned close to Sloan to add quietly, “From the sounds of it, there are a lot of thirsty people in there tonight.” The steady hum of voices and muffled music that emanated from the building offered its own brand of proof.

“I just hope there's a place for us to sit,” Sloan offered in response.

“Don't worry about that,” Cat assured her. “I called to have a table reserved for us.”

“Then let's don't be standing around out here,” Laredo declared and gave Chase a joshing prod. “Get the lead out of that cane and let's get going.”

Chase cut him a look. “We'll see how fast you move when you're my age,” he declared and started forward.

With Chase leading the way, they trooped inside and were immediately surrounded by the seemingly nonstop chatter of voices
interspersed with laughter and the distinctive dinging of slot machines.

The interior lights had been turned low, creating an abundance of shadowy spaces, not only in the bar but in the eating area as well. It was the first change that Chase noticed on the inside.

Bells went off somewhere to his right, and a cowboy hooted at his luck. The sudden flurry of excitement drew Chase's glance to the slot machines that lined one whole wall.