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Authors: Janet Dailey

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“They did,” he confirmed.
“You imported some cattle,” Cat guessed and helped herself to a cracker mounded with crab salad.
“Not just any cattle,” Monte asserted with a hint of pride. “These are registered Highland cattle.”
“Highland,” Cat repeated. “Aren’t those the ones that have shaggy hair hanging around their horns, making them look like they have bangs?”
“Their appearance is quite distinctive,” Monte agreed with his typical flair for understatement. “But their attributes are many and valuable. Once the American public learns of them, the demand for Highland beef will soar.”
“What makes Highland beef better than any other beef?” Cat showed her skepticism.
“In my opinion, it tastes better, and the Queen agrees with me. But more than that, it is a naturally lean beef with lower amounts of cholesterol. In short, it is the ideal product for consumers who love beef but have to watch their cholesterol intake for health reasons.”
“Is that true?” Cat frowned and glanced at Jessy. “Is he pulling my leg?”
“Delightful as that exercise might be, I assure you that everything I said is absolutely true.” His mouth curved in a smile of understanding. “But please don’t take my word for it. Read up on the breed yourself.”
“Don’t Highland cattle have long horns?” Cat’s frown deepened in an effort to recall more about the breed.
“Yes, but nothing as impressive as those.” Monte gestured to the set mounted above the fireplace mantel.
Impressive they were. Taken from a longhorn steer named Captain, the horns were long and twisted, the span of them measuring more than five feet across. The brindle steer had led the first herd of Calder cattle north from Texas to Montana and each subsequent drive thereafter. When the longhorn had died of old age, Benteen Calder had kept his horns and mounted them above the mantel in the steer’s honor, making him forever a part of the family lore.
“Few modern-day longhorns grow sets like that pair of old mossy horns,” Jessy remarked.
In the living room, Cat’s nine-year-old son, Quint, let out a shout, and the big house echoed with the rapid thud of feet running across the hardwood floor. Quint dashed by the doorway toward the foyer. Trey raced after him, skinny arms pumping, his expression grim with determination to catch up with his older cousin.
“Hey, Dad!” Quint’s happy greeting reached all the way back to the den.
“Logan must be here,” Cat realized, throwing a glance at the rain-lashed windows. “I didn’t hear him drive in.”
“With all the lightning and thunder, that’s hardly surprising,” Jessy said.
Quint’s voice came from the foyer. “It must be really raining hard out there. The rug’s all wet where you’re standing.”
“Howdy, Sheriff.” The smaller voice belonged to Trey, who insisted on calling Logan by his official title rather than uncle. “Did ya catch any bad guys today?”
“ ’Fraid not,” was Logan’s low reply.
“Maybe tomorrow ya will,” Trey suggested, optimistic as always.
“Maybe,” Logan agreed, then asked Quint, “Where’s your mom?”
“In the den with Aunt Jessy and Mr. Markham.”
Three sets of footsteps of varying weight approached the den. Flanked by two boys, one the spitting image of himself, Logan walked into the room, minus his hat and raincoat, with his face still wet from the rain.
Seeing him, Laura grabbed up her coloring book and bounded off the chair. She ran up to him. “See the red dress I colored, Uncle Logan.”
Gray eyes skimmed the three adults standing near the fireplace before he bent his head to look at the picture. “Good job, Laura.” The comment had a perfunctory ring. Turning, he laid a hand on Quint’s shoulder. “Take the twins in the other room, Quint, and keep them occupied for a while.”
Alerted by something in his father’s tone, Quint tipped his head back and inspected his father’s face. When Quint was barely out of the toddler stage, the Triple C cowboys had dubbed him “little man” for his quietness and adultlike seriousness. His basic nature had changed little during the intervening years. As a result, Quint was quick to pick up subtleties that most nine-year-olds would have missed. His father’s somber expression made him uneasy.
“Is something wrong, Dad?”
Logan replied with a slow nod. “I’ll tell you about it later. Take the twins to the living room for me.”
Quint knew something bad had happened. As much as he wanted to stay and find out, he understood that he had been given the responsibility of the twins, and he had been taught that a man shouldered his responsibility; he didn’t protest or try to wiggle out of it.
Without another word, Quint herded the twins out of the den and into the hall. A short distance from the doorway, curiosity got the better of him. He steered the twins over to the wall and raised a finger to his mouth to shush them. Trey was quick to obey, certain it was the start of some new game. Laura twirled about, making the skirt of her sundress flare out.
“Are we gonna sneak up on somebody?” Trey asked in a stage whisper, causing Quint to miss the question his mother asked.
“Sssh,” he admonished and cocked his head to listen, grateful that his father hadn’t closed the doors to the den.
The low timbre of his father’s voice responded in answer. “About an hour ago, I received a phone call from the Fort Worth police. The news isn’t good.”
“Daddy.” There was fear in his mother’s voice. “Something happened to him.”
“There was an accident . . .”
The instant he heard the words, Quint felt all sick and scared inside. It was his grandfather, that big, tall man who had always seemed so rock-solid and strong. He had been hurt.
“He’s all right, isn’t he?” his mother rushed the words, then never gave his father a chance to answer. “We’d better call and have the plane fueled so we can take off as soon as the storm lifts.”
“Cat.” The name was spoken with firm command, and something died inside Quint. He didn’t even notice Trey making like a monster, teeth bared and fingers curled in menace as he stalked his pirouetting sister. “It’s no use. He was killed on impact.”
Not wanting to hear any more, Quint swung blindly away from the den. It felt like there was a hand at his throat, choking off his air while not letting a single sound escape. In a kind of trance he moved toward the living room, barely aware of Trey racing to get there ahead of him while Laura skipped alongside him, blond curls bouncing.
He threw himself onto the sofa, slumping in a heap, conscious of the tears welling in his eyes and the awful pain in his chest. Trey clambered onto the cushion beside him and bounced on his knees.
“Come on, Quint. Let’s play,” Trey urged with growing impatience.
“No.” His voice sounded strangled to his own ears.
Trey pushed his face close to Quint’s and peered intently at him. “Are you crying?” he said in disbelief.
Laura tipped her head to one side. “Did you hurt yourself?”
“No.” Quint worked to recover his speech. “It’s Grandpa. He died.”
Laura immediately propped her hands on her hips and declared with exaggerated scorn, “He’s not dead. He’s in Texas.”
Looking at the twins, he forgot his own pain and struggled to find a way to make them understand. “You’re right, Laura. He went to Texas. But he had an accident while he was there, and he died. Now he’s in heaven with your daddy.”
Her brown eyes grew big and dark, the brightness leaving them. “But Grampa said he’d come back.”
“When he told you that, he didn’t know he’d be in an accident,” Quint explained.
“He died and went to heaven like my daddy.” Laura spoke the words slowly as if trying to grasp the exact significance of them. “Does that mean he’s only gonna be a picture for me and Trey to look at?”
“That’s right.” But the thought that he would never see his grandfather again, never ride on roundups with him, never hear him tell the stories about the cattle drives, was beyond Quint’s imagination. His grandfather had always been there for him. Always.
“No!” Trey’s denial was instant and explosive. His mouth took on a mutinous set. “My grampa is not dead.”
“He is so, Trey,” Laura declared with great importance. “He’s up in heaven with Daddy.”
“He is not!”
“Is too!”
“Is not!”
As he listened to their war of wills, his own feelings of grief washed over him. Suddenly Quint didn’t know how to stop this battle of tempers. When his father appeared in the living room, he looked up with gratitude.
“All right, that’s enough shouting.” Logan broke up the pair.
Trey glared up at him, chin quivering in a mixture of rage and hurt. “I don’t care what she says—my grampa’s not dead!” With that, he raced for the stairs.
Logan threw a sharp, probing glance at Quint. Quint ducked his head, admitting, “I listened at the door.”
“I see.” Logan sat down at the sofa’s edge next to him and cupped his hand over the boy’s knee in silent comfort. “I’m sorry, Quint. I know how close you were to him and how much you are going to miss him. Anybody who knew him will—including me.”
The tears came in earnest. Quint tried to sniffle them back. “Why, Dad?” he murmured brokenly.
Logan curled a hand around the boy’s neck and pulled the nine-year-old into his arms. “I wish I knew.” He slid his fingers into the boy’s raven black hair, unconsciously ruffling it. “Your mother and I are going to fly down to Fort Worth in the morning.” He continued to talk in a calm, even voice while Quint sobbed against his shoulder. “We need to make arrangements to have his remains brought home for burial. While we’re gone, Jessy would like you to stay here and help her look after the twins. Can you do that?”
“I guess.”
Logan smiled at the mumbled answer. “I wish we could stay here with you. But from now on we all have to pitch in and help Jessy for a while. It’s what your grandfather would want.”
Pulling away, his head still down, Quint wiped away the tears with the back of his hand. “Does that mean we’ll move here?”
“No.” He combed some of the dark hair off Quint’s forehead with his fingers. “Jessy is in charge here. She’ll do fine.”
But that didn’t mean she would have an easy time of it, and Logan knew it. Distracted by the sound of light feet running down the stairs, he looked up to see Laura. When she reached the bottom, she made a beeline for Logan.
“Trey is in Grampa’s room. I told him to get out, but he wouldn’t listen.” Her dark eyes snapped with temper.
He had only to look at the anguish in his own son’s face to know that all three of these children were too young to endure this kind of grief. The twins hadn’t been old enough to understand when Ty was killed, but that wasn’t true anymore. He glanced in the direction of the second-floor bedroom.
“It’s all right if Trey stays in your grandpa’s bedroom for a while,” Logan told her.
Dissatisfied with his answer, Laura turned away. “I’m going to tell Mommy.” Off she went.
Chapter Three
W
ith dusk purpling the sky over Fort Worth, the streetlights flickered on. The mix of neon and backlit signs stood out above the storefronts. But the sweltering afternoon temperatures had yet to wane.
The air conditioner in Laredo’s pickup worked mightily to cool the cab’s interior. It brought only modest relief as he cruised down Main Street, a troubled frown creasing his forehead.
This detective business had turned out to be a bit more difficult than he thought it would. So far he had hit every saloon, bar, and restaurant in the Stockyards District, certain the man he called Duke had to have been at one of them on the previous night. Every time he had dragged out his carefully rehearsed spiel that he was supposed to meet a man there but had lost his business card and couldn’t recall his name, then offered his description of him. Each time he had struck out.
That troubled him. Duke was the kind of man who stood out in a crowd, even at his age. Yet no one remembered anyone matching his description. It was always possible that he hadn’t asked the right person. If necessary he would make the rounds again, but later.
Right now his focus was on hotels. Judging from the expensive cut of the suit Duke had been wearing, Laredo had decided to check out the more upscale hotels first. He pulled into the lot of the next one on his list and parked the pickup in an empty space.
Inside the foyer, he located the registration desk but paused before approaching it. At the two other hotels, he had learned that hotel clerks were stingy with information about possible guests, something their patrons probably appreciated, but it didn’t help him. Laredo glanced around and noticed that the bell desk was manned by a Mexican-American. He veered toward him.
“Buenas noches, amigo,”
he greeted the man, making use of his fluency in Border Spanish.
“Buenas noches, señor.
How can I help you?” the man asked in thickly accented English.
Laredo didn’t make the switch back to his own native tongue. Instead he continued to converse in Spanish, trotting out his customary spiel but giving it a few new wrinkles. Specifically he pleaded hard times, claiming he desperately needed the job the man had offered him.
The bellman repeated Laredo’s description of the man they had dubbed Duke and added a few more details in the form of a question. Laredo brightened immediately.
“Sí,
he is one
mucho hombre.”
“Ah,
señor
.” The bellman looked at him with abject regret. “The man you seek ees
Señor
Chase Calder. Eet grieves me to tell you, but ees dead.”
Startled, Laredo repeated in disbelief, “Dead? Are you sure?”
“Sí.
The police, they come here thees afternoon. I hear them talking to the manager. They say his car, eet crashed last night and he ees dead.”
“Gracias.”
His mind raced with a dozen possibilities. He started to turn away, then stopped.
“Señor
Calder, where was he from? Maybe this is the wrong man.”
The bellman lifted his shoulders in a shrug of uncertainty. “Some place up north, I theenk. Maybe Montana. I cannot say for sure.”
“Gracias.”
Laredo tapped a hand on the desk in finality and walked out of the hotel.
He climbed back into his pickup and drove out of the lot. This unexpected turn of events meant there was only one place he might get additional information. The next stop was the police station.
The desk sergeant glanced up with disinterest when Laredo walked in, but the glance made a practiced, sweeping appraisal of him just the same.
“What can I do for you?” The question was a half challenge.
“A man by the name of Chase Calder was killed in an auto accident sometime late last night. The family called and asked if I would come down and identify the body and spare them that ordeal. Could you direct me to the morgue?” Laredo counted on the fact that no one else had stepped forward as yet.
“Do they know you’re coming?”
“No.”
“What was the guy’s name again?”
“Calder. Chase Calder.”
“What’s your name?”
“Richard Hanson.” That was the name on the driver’s license in his billfold.
“Just a minute.” The sergeant called someone on the phone, repeated the gist of Laredo’s request, then nodded at the response he received. “Right,” he said and hung up. “Detective Stabler will be right out, Mr. Hanson.”
“Thanks.” Laredo moved away to cool his heels in the waiting area.
It was closer to five minutes before Detective Stabler made an appearance. A heavyset man in shirtsleeves and a tie, he walked up to Laredo and extended a hand.
“Hanson, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.” Laredo briefly shook hands with him. “You must be Detective Stabler.”
The man nodded in confirmation. “You wouldn’t be any relation to the Hansons of Hanson Oil, would you?”
“I wish.” Laredo smiled smoothly.
“Don’t we all,” he agreed. “But I thought I should ask. It seems Mr. Calder was an important man.”
“Yes,” Laredo replied, playing along, then repeated his previous request to identify the body on behalf of the family.
The detective gave him a sideways look. “You do realize that would be pointless.”
“Why?” Laredo asked in wary question.
“I guess you didn’t hear. But it appears the car’s fuel tank ruptured on impact and the whole thing went up in flames. By the time the responding fire units were able to put the fire out, the body was burned beyond recognition.”
“Then how were you able to determine it was Mr. Calder?”
The detective began to tick off the reasons, some Laredo had already surmised. “First, the car was a rental. When we checked the agency’s records, the car was signed out to one Chase Benteen Calder, Montana driver’s license. Among the personal effects that were recovered was a badly charred wallet, but the driver’s license was still readable. It was issued to Chase Calder. A hotel key was also found, which we were able to trace to the hotel where he was staying.” He stopped, his eyes narrowing on Laredo with a hint of suspicion. “Why would you think it wouldn’t be Mr. Calder?”
“No reason. I guess it was just the shock of hearing about the fire. It threw me for a minute.”
Satisfied, at least temporarily, with the explanation, the detective nodded. “I understand. Some of the family will be flying in tomorrow to claim the body.” It was one of those exploratory remarks to see how much Laredo knew and how close he really was to this family.
“That’s right. They are eager to finalize arrangements to have the body shipped home to Montana. I don’t know if they plan on flying it back on their plane or not.” He added the last to bolster his credibility in the detective’s eyes. “Thank you for your time, Detective. I’m sorry I took up so much of it for nothing.”
“No problem, Mr. Hanson.”
 
 
A blaze of sunlight through the window heralded the arrival of morning. The man called Duke sat up on the edge of the bed, relieved to discover the room didn’t spin even though his head continued to pound unmercifully. He donned the thrift-shop jeans and shirt and ventured out of the bedroom, following the smell of coffee.
He was still a little on the weak side, but definitely stronger and more sure of his step than he had been the day before. But that was the only improvement. His memory was just as blank as it had been.
When he crossed the threshold into the kitchen, Hattie Ludlow walked in the back door. Her gaze made a quick inspection of him. “I didn’t expect you up so early. Feeling better, are you?”
“Some,” he confirmed and looked out the window. There was no sign of the pickup. “Where’s Laredo? I never heard him come back last night.”
“It was close to midnight when he rolled in. He hollered at me just a few minutes ago and said he was going into town but he would come right back. Have a seat and I’ll pour you a cup of coffee.” She motioned to one of the chairs at the kitchen table.
He sat down at the chrome table. “What did he find out yesterday? Anything?”
“I don’t know. I only heard him come home. I didn’t get up.” Steam rose from the cup she set before him. “Are you hungry enough for some bacon and eggs?”
“Sure.”
“How would you like your eggs? Over easy, sunny side up, or scrambled?”
“Over easy, I guess,” he replied, irritated to find he didn’t even know how he liked his eggs fixed.
Soon bacon sizzled in its own grease, filling the kitchen with its distinctive aroma. Like so many things, the smell was familiar, but it triggered no memory, only more questions that probed for one.
He watched as Hattie broke two eggs in a bowl and deftly slipped them into a hot skillet. With a pair of tongs, she lifted the bacon strips from another iron skillet and laid them on a paper towel to drain. She checked the eggs again, then glanced his way, catching him looking at her.
“I’m not used to people watching me so closely when I cook,” she remarked with a touch of amusement. “Are you that hungry, or haven’t you ever seen anyone fix breakfast before?”
“Everything you have done is familiar to me. I must have watched a woman cook before, but I don’t know who she was.”
“It could have been your mother or your wife.” Hattie scooped up the eggs with a spatula and slipped them onto a plate. She carried it and the platter of bacon to the table, setting both in front of him.
“What makes you so sure I’m married?” He didn’t feel married. Laredo and the mirror had said he was up in years. But he wasn’t so old that he didn’t find a woman like Hattie attractive.
“I can’t imagine some woman letting you get away,” she informed him with a dry smile. “Although I doubt any woman married to you would have an easy time of it.”
“Why do you say that?” he asked, not sure what she meant by it.
“For one thing, you’re too used to being the one in command,” Hattie replied. She hesitated, measuring him with a long glance. “And I suspect you keep your own counsel. If there is a problem, you don’t talk about it until you have a solution. Most women prefer to be a part of that decision process since it will affect their lives as well. It can be very irritating to be informed of the problem and the solution after the fact.”
“I suppose it would.” He reached for a piece of toast.
“Out of curiosity, Duke,” Hattie poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table opposite him, “how do you plan on finding out who you are?”
“I’m not sure.” He broke the egg yolk with his fork and dipped a corner of the toast into it.
“You must have a few ideas.” She spooned some jam onto a piece of toast.
“A few. It will depend on what Laredo was able to find out last night, if anything.” An instant later, he realized her game and sent her an amused glance. “Are you happy that I proved your point and refused to discuss my problem?”
“You were slower to catch on than I thought you would be. Your head must be hurting.”
“Not as bad as yesterday.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t have anything stronger than aspirin for it.”
“I’ll survive.” He took another bite of eggs and chewed. “What kind of operation do you run here?”
“What do you mean?” Hattie frowned.
“Laredo said you have a small ranch. Is it a cow-and-calf outfit?”
“Do you know something about a cow-calf operation?” She studied him closely, her dark eyes bright with interest.
He thought about that a minute. “I guess I do.”
“Those cowboy boots aren’t just for show, then,” Hattie observed before answering his original question. “In my position, I can’t really afford the financial risk that goes with ranching. I need an income that is a bit more reliable. I worked a deal with a local rancher to run his cattle on my place. He pays me rent for the pasture and labor costs for looking after his stock as well as reimburses me for any hay or feed.”
“It’s not an uncommon arrangement. I understand quite a few small ranchers are opting for deals like that. It’s a bit like sharecropping in the old days,” he heard himself say. He didn’t understand how he could have knowledge of such things yet no recollection of his personal identity.
“It keeps the wolves away from the door,” Hattie replied.
“The financial kind, anyway,” he said with a knowing smile.
“Why, Duke, I do believe you are flirting with me.” Hattie mocked, but it didn’t mask the pleased look in her eyes, a look that hinted at her interest in him.
A dog barked outside, sounding an alarm as a vehicle approached. Rising from her chair, Hattie glanced out the window. The barking turned to excited yelps.
“Laredo is back,” she announced.
A new tension gripped him, heightening his senses. Each sound from outside came sharply to him—the crunch of tires on gravel, the sputter of a dying engine, the slam of the cab door, and the approach of footsteps to the rear door. Unwilling to betray his eagerness to hear the results of Laredo’s investigation, he didn’t look up when the cowboy walked into the kitchen.
BOOK: Shifting Calder Wind
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