Mistletoe and Holly (25 page)

As the sound of her footsteps retreated, Ty pushed his hat back. Raising his arms, he cupped the back of his head in his hands and stared at the ceiling. There was a rawness in him that was close to pain. He had no one to turn to, no one to whom he could talk out his frustrations. He was too old to go crying to his mother, and since it was his father’s respect he so desperately wanted to earn, he couldn’t very well go running to him with his troubles. He wanted to work them out on his own, but so far no one was giving him a chance. There were so many things to learn that just when he felt he was grasping the rudiments of one thing, something new was thrown at him, and always the hazing and the handing out of misinformation until he felt like some gullible dimwit.

The return trip to The Homestead, the name given to the house occupied by the head of the Triple C, took the best part of two hours. The sleek twin-engine plane parked by the private airstrip near the buildings of the ranch’s headquarters advised Chase that Senator Bulfert had arrived in his absence.

Leaving the truck parked in front of the imposing two-story house, Chase mounted the steps to the wide porch running the length of the south
front and crossed to the solid wood double doors. The house had been built decades ago with a craftsman’s care and possessed that rare quality of character. Two hundred years from now it would still be standing and, if Chase had his way, a Calder would still be living in it.

When he entered the large open foyer, Chase heard voices coming from the study on his left. Doug Trumbo, one of the ranch hands, was carrying an armload of luggage up the staircase leading from the living room to the second floor and its guest bedrooms.

With a shift in direction, Chase headed for the open doors of the den, where his guests had obviously gathered. Upon entering, his glance first sought out Maggie. She was sitting in a chair near the window, her black hair gleaming in the sunlight and an arm resting on the protruding roundness of her stomach. The sight of her always had the power to stir a hungry response in him while at the same time evoking feelings that were profoundly tender.

Her smile greeted him as Chase walked to her chair, pulling off his gloves and stuffing them in his coat pocket. Even as his attention was divided by the guests in the room, he was reaching to take her small hand in his large one.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t on hand when you arrived,” Chase apologized and let his gaze travel over his four guests. The ruddy-faced senator and his aide, Wes Govern, he already knew.

“No problem. Made better time than we thought. Had a good tail wind,” the quick-talking senator replied. Age was beginning to sag his round cheeks, leaving jowls and pockets under his eyes. “Just arrived a few minutes ago. Wes hasn’t had time to pour a round of drinks yet.” With a slight turn of his head, he issued a booming directive to his assistant. “Chase drinks whiskey, Wes.”

“I remember.” The man nodded and added another glass to the liquor tray.

“How have things been? Well, I hope,” the senator declared and continued without giving Chase an opportunity to respond. “No more land purchases you need my help with, are there?” he inquired with a conspiratorial wink.

“None.” There was a dryness about Chase’s eyes at the reference to the purchase of ten thousand acres of land from the government that Bulfert had arranged some years ago. It was the last parcel of previously leased land to come under the Calder title. He now owned all the land that constituted the Triple C Ranch.

“Chase, I want you to meet Eddy Joe Dyson.”
The politician curved an arm around the shoulders of a slightly built man, the gesture and body language suggesting to Chase that the two were united in their cause, whatever it was. “Been looking forward to getting the two of you together for quite a while. E. J., meet Chase Calder.”

Chase stepped away from Maggie’s side to shake hands with the older man, dressed in an expensive navy pinstripe suit, styled in western lines with a yoked front and boot-cut pants. Chase put the man’s age somewhere in the middle forties. The man’s hand was smooth of any calluses, and his skin didn’t have the leathery tan of a cattleman despite the white felt Stetson on his head.

“Welcome to the Triple C, Mr. Dyson.” The western clothes were just a facade, but Chase didn’t detect any shallowness in the level gaze that returned his silent inspection. If anything, he noted a hint of shrewdness.

“It’s my pleasure,” the man drawled. “And my friends call me E. J. I’d be pleased if you and your wife did the same.” He half turned to invite the second man forward. “This is my business partner, George Stricklin.”

Ten years younger, tall, with yellow hair, the man wore gold wire glasses which he removed and slipped precisely into the breast pocket of his suit
jacket. Despite his athletic build, there was a studious and silent quality about him. His fingers were long and finely shaped, and Stricklin did no more than nod when he shook hands with Chase.

Dyson spoke again. Angling his head toward Maggie, he inclined it in a courtly gesture. “I must say that I thought our Texas ladies couldn’t be matched for beauty, but I’ve been forced to revise my opinion since meeting your lovely wife.”

“I believe I’m much more prejudiced,” Chase murmured and glanced backward into Maggie’s vibrantly green eyes. Now that the phase of morning sickness had passed, she looked positively radiant. He’d heard it said that women were more beautiful when they were pregnant and had dismissed it. But he was now willing to concede that it might be in the eye of the beholder, because Maggie had never looked more beautiful to him than she did this minute.

“You’re from Texas?” Maggie inserted, skillfully directing the conversation away from flattering comments about her. No matter how healthy and happy she felt, there was still that feeling of gaucheness and awkwardness which insisted compliments be turned aside.

“Yes.” The slow, twanging drawl in his voice was both smooth and attractive, like oiled leather.
“That set of horns above the mantel makes me feel right at home, too,” he said, indicating the mounted pair of longhorns on the massive stone fireplace that dominated the room with its size and cheery log fire.

“They belonged to a Texas steer. I guess you could say this ranch was founded on Texas long-horns,” Chase admitted and accepted the short glass of whiskey and ice from the senator’s aide.

“I remember your father telling me your family came from the Fort Worth area.” The senator took a fat cigar from his pocket, then glanced inquiringly at Maggie, who silently nodded her permission. “That’s E. J.’s home turf.” He felt his pockets for a light, but his assistant produced a lighter before the senator found one. “Something of an entrepreneur, eh, E. J.?”

The relationship between Dyson and his partner had always struck the senator as an unusual one. Once he had described Stricklin as the brains of the company and Dyson as the guts of it. Every act, every move, of the silent Stricklin was deliberately thought out beforehand by that computer-like mind. Logic and reason dictated his decisions. But Dyson acted on instinct and had the guts to gamble on his hunches. It was a curious blend in a partnership, one balancing the other, with Dyson naturally
appearing to be the dominant member of the team.

“I do have several business interests,” Dyson admitted while eyeing Chase as if he were the source of his next.

“If you’re thinking of venturing into the cattle-ranching business, it means investing a lot of money in nondepreciable assets,” Chase warned dryly.

There was a quick glance exchanged between the politician and the Texan. “I guess you could say I’m more interested in what’s under the ground than what’s on top of it. Which is why I asked the senator to introduce me to you. I dabble in oil and natural-gas exploration.”

An eyebrow quirked in mild curiosity as Chase let the statement sink in. Taking his time, he set his glass down on the table by Maggie’s chair and shed his coat. The flames crackled in the fireplace, filling the brief silence.

“I think you’re in the wrong part of Montana,” Chase stated finally. “You want to be over in the Badlands, or in the Powder River country.”

“Drilling companies are already working those fields,” E. J. disagreed. “Now, I don’t pretend to be an expert, but I try to hire them. I like to gamble my money on finding new fields, not striking it in old ones and having to fight the big companies.”

“Am I to surmise that you’re here because you think there is oil to be found on the Triple C?” Chase was vaguely bemused by the idea.

“If you know about the Powder River and the Badlands, then you must know they’ve made some finds near the base of the Rockies. They’re near the western edge of your boundaries,” he reminded Chase in a calm and knowing tone. “I could have brought my geologist with me and let him tell you all about rock strata—and how promising a section of your land looks. It wouldn’t mean any more to you than it does to me, and I don’t know one from the other. Now, Stricklin, he’s gone over all the figures and calculations and says there is more than a good chance of finding oil. So I’m here to see about acquiring those rights.”

There was no change in expression to indicate Chase’s inner feelings. He looked at Maggie and took a sip of his drink. When his gaze finally returned to the man, it was sharply measuring.

“The subject is certainly open to discussion.” He’d hear the man out, but it wasn’t a decision he was going to make quickly.