Lone Calder Star (7 page)

"You can say that again." Empty worked to sound bluff and hearty and keep the sense of desperation out of his voice.

Until now, he hadn't realized how much he wanted the job. He wanted to feel like a man again, useful and productive, instead of a washed up old codger who couldn't fasten his own pants. As a result, Empty wasn't above using a little emotional blackmail.

" With the holidays coning on, that extra money I'd get from for you would give me a chance to buy my granddaugher something nice for Christmas. It's a little hard to make my social security check stretch to include presents. So ... you want me to start tomorrow?" Tension held him motionless, not breathing.

"No, I won't be here most of tomorrow. A tow truck will be here first thing in the morning to haul the pickup in for repairs. I need to return the rental car and pick up the loaner. By the time all the paperwork is finished, it will probably be late in the afternoon before l get back to the ranch. Let's make it the day after."

"Sounds good," Empty said, and hesitated. "I just got one problem. Would it be too much trouble if you picked me up? We've only got one vehicle, and my granddaughter needs it to get hack and forth to her job. I can be ready by eight."

After a long pause, the reply came. "I'll pick you up at eight then."

The setting sun made an inglorious departure from the sky, leaving behind only a pale golden arc on the horizon to mark its passage. The west-facing windows of the Slash R's sprawling ranch house briefly reflected the amber glow of its dying light. Built low to the ground with wide overhangs to block the penetration of the summer sun's hot rays, the house made a giant footprint on the hilltop, its square footage massive enough that no visitor could doubt the wealth of its occupant.

And Max Rutledge was a full-fledged Texas billionaire. The Slash R ranch was only a minuscule part of his vast holdings, but it was his showplace and personal retreat.

Max Rutledge wasn't a man that anyone would ever mistake for an ordinary Texas rancher.

Crippled in a car accident that had taken the life of his young wife and forever robbed him of the use of his legs, he was confined to the wheelchair, albeit , the most advanced wheelchair money could buy.

The sight of the wheelchair and the atrophied legs might evoke an initial reaction of pity, but one look at his thickly muscled torso, the harsh gauntness of his face, and the hooded glare of his dark eyes, and any sense of pity instantly vanished. No one walked away from a meeting with Max Rutledge still harboring any doubt that his reputation for being utterly ruthless was not well earned.

Manipulating the hand controls with practiced ease, Rutledge sent the wheelchair gliding across the living room's stone float, its motor emitting little more than a soft hum. The double doors to the den stood open, revealing the bright blaze of flames burning in the fireplace, the room's focal point. With a flick of the controls, he swung the wheelchair toward the open doors.

It was a decidedly masculine room, paneled in lustrous wood with exposed beams providing a rustic touch. The decor had the requisite Texas touches. The overstuffed armchair by the fireplace was upholstered in leather and cowhide. A Russell bronze stood on the fireplace mantel while a Navajo blanket lay artfully draped over the leather sofa.

None of it caught Max Rutledge's eye when he wheeled into the room. His hard gaze continued its scan until it landed on the tall man standing at the window, staring out at the twilight's gray landscape, a drink in his hand. His hair was dark and thick, with an unruly tendency to curl.

There was a muscled trimness to his physique that exuded strength and power. But it was the rough and raw virility that stamped his features that always claimed attention.

This prime specimen of manhood was his son, Boone Rutledge. But Max's heart didn't lift with pride at the sight of him. If anything, it turned stone-hard.

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"I should have known I'd find you in here." His voice had a contemptuous edge to it. "Instead of standing there doing nothing, make yourself useful and fix me a drink."

Boone turned, banked anger in his dark eyes. "Bourbon and branch."

"That'll do." Max engaged the controls and glided over to the fireplace, positioning his chair to face the warming flames.

He stared silently into them and listened to the firm tread of his son's footsteps as Boone crossed to the bar. The sound was followed by the thud of a glass on the leather-topped counter, the clink of ice cubes, and the splash of liquid over them. Then footsteps approached his chair.

Max took the proffered drink without glancing up.

"Sykes called this morning," Boone said. "He thought we'd want to know that a cowboy came into the feed store this morning and tried to charge some grain to the Cee Bar. When Sykes told him the account was closed, the guy paid cash for it." He swirled the cubes in his drink. "So it looks like the Triple C has managed to hire somebody."

"What are you doing about it?" The question was more in the way of a challenge than a demand for an answer.

"I thought I'd send Clyde Rivers over there tomorrow and see what he can find out about this new man."

Max released a derisive snort and shook his head in disgust. Boone reacted with an angry glare.

"What's wrong with that? That's exactly what we've done every time a new man came on board."

Max lifted his grizzled head and viewed him with contempt. "You don't have the slightest clue why this time should be different, do you?" He observed the flicker of confusion and turned away. "Why did I get stuck with a son with more muscles than brains?" he muttered.

His jaw ridged in anger, Boone pivoted sharply and stalked back to the bar. "Maybe you'd care to let me know what you think the next move should be," he taunted and snatched the whiskey bottle off the shelf, then sloshed more liquor into his nearly empty glass.

"You're the one who's going over there, not Rivers," Max snapped.

"Me?" Shock held Boone mothionless for an instant. Confusion reigned in his expression when he recovered. "Why would you want me to go? You've always insisted we have to keep our distance from all of this."

"Since you're obviously not smart enough to figure it out on your own, I'll tell you. Now that Cee Bar is without a ranch manager, what's the most logical thing for the Calders to do to fill that void-temporarily, if nothing else?"

Boone's frown deepened. "Hire somebody. What else can they do?"

"Send one of their own down here, that's what," Max retorted with impatience. "They won't want to take some stranger's word for what's going on down here. They'll want to check it out for themselves."

"That still doesn't explain why you want me to go over there," Boone protested, recrossing the room.

"Then you might try remembering how much time you spent at the Triple C this past summer trying to convince that Calder girl to marry you. Unsuccessfully, I might add," Max tacked on spitefully.

"It isn't my fault that she was stupid enough to marry that fortune-hunting Englishman instead of me." Boone stood facing the fireplace, a rigid set to his shoulders.

Max ran an assessing eye over his son and muttered, half under his breath, "Unfortunately, her choice wasn't all that stupid. But that's whiskey in the river." He sighed a dismissal of the subject.

"You must have met quite a few of the ranch hands while you were at the Triple C, certainly ones in positions of responsibility. That's why I want you to pay àneighborly' call on the new man.

With any luck, you'll recognize him."

Understanding at last dawned in Boone's expression. "That makes sense."

"At least you can see that. Of course I had to spell it out for you first."

Boone whirled around, a black rage glittering in his eyes. "Damn it, will you lay off me?"

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Max alnost wished Boone would sununon up the guts to hit him, but he knew that would never happen. "Save that show of toughness for a time when you'll need it. We've got our work cut out for us now. I've heard those Triple C riders are a close-knit hunch, supposedly loyal to the core.

But first we have to find out who it is they sent. Then we'll decide our next move."

The cold front had retreated to the north again, leaving behind a startling blue sky, swept clean of all clouds. The high, rolling Texas hills lay beneath it, basking in the warmth of the midmorning sun. But the air remained invigoratingly brisk.

A lone tan-and-white pickup traveled along the paved state read, its doors emblazoned with the name SLASH R RANCH. Boone Rutledge occupied the driver's seat, his hands gloved in the finest caIfskin leather. He dipped his head to peer ahead and locate the entrance to the Cee Bar Ranch. Spotting it, he slowed the truck to make the turn.

The board sign above the gate sported a shiny new chain on one end, but the wood itself still carried the scars of old bullet holes. The pickup rolled beneath it and headed up the winding tract, bouncing over its many ruts and potholes. If this was Slash R land, Boone knew he would have long ago called in a grader to blade the drive and smooth out its roughness.

Chickens squawked and flapped their wings in panic as they scurried out of his path when he pulled into the ranch yard. But they were the only sign of life he saw. There were no vehicles ground, no horses in the corral. Nothing.

Boone wasn't fool enough to think that it meant that there was no one about.

He pulled up to the old ranch house, stepped onto the truck's running board, and reached back inside to give the horn a couple of long blasts. He listened, his gaze scanning the pastures beyond the yard. A horse whinnied in the distance and a chicken clucked in annoyance, but there was no other response. Boone swung to the ground and gave the doer a push. Its closing sounded loud in the stillness.

In no hurry, Boone idly gave his gloves a tightening tug and surveyed the ranch yard and its few structures. All of them had a dingy, timeworn look that not even a fresh coat of paint could cure.

It definitely wasn't a place a man could point to with pride.

For the life of him, Boone couldn't guess why the Calders hung on to the ranch. Supposedly it had once been owned by a long-ago ancestor. Yet it had been years since any of the Calders had set foot on it.

Considering that a ranch this size could never show much of a profit, the Cee Bar couldn't be anything more than a headache to the Calders. Boone smiled, thinking how much worse that headache was going to get. Sooner or later they'd wash their hands of it and sell; it always worked that way.

After another look around, he headed for the house. He paused at the door and rapped loudly on it. As he expected, there was no stirring of movement inside.

With curiosity getting the better of him, Boone cast a quick glance behind him and tried the knob. It turned easily under his hand. He pushed it open and stepped inside.

Still cautious, he called out, "Hello? Anybody home?"

There was nothing but the echo of his own voice.

Satisfied that he was alone, Boone wandered through the old ranch house, snooping to see what he might find. The place was remarkably tidy and clean. All the beds were made, and dishes sat in the drying rack next to the sink counter. Boone found virtually nothing of interest lying about.

Even a search of an old desk in the living room failed to unearth anything of importance. The kitchen table yielded the only noteworthy items: two local newspapers folded open to the wantad section. Circles had been drawn around ads offering hay for sale.

Boone smiled when he saw them. He'd given his foreman orders yesterday to buy up all the hay in the surrounding counties. He knew there was no longer any to he had in the area. Calder would have to truck in his hay, and that wouldn't be cheap. He lingered in the house a while longer. When no one showed np, he let himself out, climbed back in his pickup, and drove away.

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It was after three in the afternoon when Quint arrived back at the Cee Bar. He had managed to switch his rental car for a black pickup that came equipped with a gas tank lock and security system. Both of which he'd left instructions to be installed in the ranch pickup once its repairs were complete.

He collected the part for the broken windmill from the pickup's rear bed and started for the house. Sundown came early at this time of year and there might not be enough daylight left to get the parts switched and the windmill up and running before dark. He decided to give Empty the task tomorrow while he did a little fence-riding and checked on the cattle and pasture conditions.

Quint pulled the screen door open, caught it with his shoulder, and reached for the thin black cord he had shut in the door when he left. But it was lying on the threshold.

There had been a visitor at the Cee Bar while he was gone.

It took Empty Garner most of the morning to get the windmill back in operation. After lunch, he gave Quint a hand replacing a long stretch of fence, using steel posts in place of old tree limbs and stringing new wire. By then, it was after four o'clock; time to call it a day.

Empty hauled his muscle-weary body onto the black pickup's passenger seat and settled back for the ride into town. His thoughts drifted back over the day's work. It had been months since he had felt this tired. But it was a good feeling, a kind of honest, achy soreness.

He cast a considering glance at the man behind the wheel, recalling how Quint had sweated and strained right alongside him, sometimes even shouldering more than his share. It wasn't a trait he'd necessarily seen in young cowboys anymore-especially ones that had gotten a taste for giving orders. Those usually did more riling than doing.

It never occurred to Empty to comment on his observations. He was of the opinion you didn't praise a man for doing what he should. When he did speak, it was as a former rancher. "I don't know how many cattle you're supposed to be running, but I've got the feeling if you do a count, you're going to come up short. "

"That's what I thought, too," Quint acknowledged.