Calder Pride (37 page)

“Good job, Dad,” Cat said when the image on the screen switched to aerial footage of the Triple C headquarters.

“The fifty-thousand-dollar reward should start the phones ringing,” Logan added.

“In a related story,” the newscaster said, “fire investigators have determined the wildfire that threatened the town of Blue Moon last night was deliberately set. There is speculation it may have been started by the kidnappers as a diversion. Calder’s son-in-law, Acting Sheriff Logan Echohawk, was called to the fire, leaving his wife and son alone
at their ranch. Cynthia Tate has more on that story. Cynthia.”

“Do you think they could have started it, Logan?” Jessy sat on the arm of Ty’s chair, watching when they switched to a shot of a willowy redhead, a fire-blackened prairie filling the background. “Would the kidnappers have had time to start the fire and knock out the transformer, too?”

“It’s possible.” Logan’s hand rubbed the point of Cat’s shoulder in an absent caress.

“Logan, that’s you,” Cat murmured in surprise when a shot of him came on the screen. “You didn’t tell me you’d been interviewed.”

“I wouldn’t call it that,” he began.

She shushed him and sat forward to listen, studying his face on the screen. Beard stubble shadowed his jaw and accented the hollows of his cheeks. There were hints of weariness and lack of sleep around his eyes. At the same time, there was a sense of alertness and bottomless energy.

When the reporter asked him about the possible connection between the kidnapping and the arson, his response was a simple but firm, “I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation.”

“What about the reports that your wife collapsed after last night’s ordeal, that she is heavily sedated and under a doctor’s care?”

He leveled cool gray eyes on the reporter. “My wife is a Calder, and Calders are cool under pressure. A little night riding isn’t about to shake her.”

“Then she’s all right?”

“My wife is fine. My wife and son are both fine.”

Moved by the way he had chosen to defend her, Cat settled back against him. “That was a beautiful thing to say.”

“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” Chase agreed.

“It was the truth,” Logan said, his eyes smiling down on her. “You never lost your head. Our son is upstairs asleep because of what you did. You’re quite a woman, Cathleen Calder Echohawk.”

“Thanks to you.” Cat looked at him with proud love.

“I have to agree with my sister,” Ty said. “There was a time when Cat would have tried to fight them off.”

“Let’s hope the day never comes when she’s forced into that situation.” Logan’s voice was much too serious; it sent a little chill shivering up her spine.

When the station went to a commercial, Ty picked up the remote and flipped through the channels. “Ty, go back.” Jessy pressed a hand on his shoulder, urgency in her voice. He switched to the previous channel. “Look.” Jessy pointed to the television. “It’s Lath Anderson.”

His hat was pushed to the back of his head, the sun full on his face with Sally’s restaurant and bar visible in the background. “…whoever tried to snatch that kid was a fool. Ask anybody here—” he waved a hand toward the small crowd gathered outside the building—“and they’ll tell you, no matter what else you might think about him, Chase Calder is the original Big Jake. You ain’t gonna get anything from him but a whole heap of trouble.”

“Let’s hope the kidnappers hear that,” Jessy murmured.

Logan knew the sound bite was the kind of catchy comment the rest of the media would pick up—one that could prove to be an effective deterrent. Yet he was bothered by the cocky way Lath looked directly into the camera and winked.

“My brother, the television star.” Rollie thumped Lath on the back.

“That oughta throw Echohawk and those FBI boys off the scent.” He got up from the kitchen table and walked over to switch off the portable television set on the counter. Delighted with himself, he laughed and shook his head. “Now I ask you—who’s gonna really believe those nasty kidnappers would make another try for the kid after I just told ’em Calder might not come up with the ransom money? Nobody. Absolutely nobody.”

“That’s true, but I don’t know what good that will do us as long as they hole up at the Triple C with the kid. Did you see all those men they had guarding the place?” Rollie asked. “It looked like a damned fort.”

A loud harrumph came from Emma. “I knew you’d get cold feet.” She glanced with scorn at her youngest.

“I don’t have cold feet,” Rollie insisted, reddening. “I’m just smart enough to see that we haven’t got a chance at the kid as long as he stays in that house.”

“You’re just scared to go up against Calder.” Rising from her chair, she began gathering up the dirty cake plates. “That man as good as sent you to prison, and look at you—trembling at the mere thought of walking into his house. Lath’s clearly the only one with guts in this family.”

“You saw all those men guarding the place,” Rollie protested.

“You’d better take another look at those men.” She swiped at the cake crumbs on the table, using a corner of her apron. “Those were nothing but cowboys. Calder was just putting on a show for your benefit. He can’t keep ’em standing around there much more than a week before he’ll have to put ’em
back to work. Then what’ve ya got?”

She faced him, one hand on her hip in challenge. She was waiting for an answer, but Rollie had no idea what it should be.

“I don’t know.” He shot a look at Lath, trying to see if he knew. But Lath watched their mother with a rapt and curious attention.

She sniffed her disgust. “Use your eyes. You got a big house sitting off by itself, all white and proud and important-looking. There’s nobody living within shouting distance of it. Don’t you know it’d kill Calder if you snatched the boy right from under his nose?”

Chuckling, Lath came up behind her and gave her a big hug, smacking a kiss on her cheek. “Ma, you are a jewel. You’re right as rain. That house is about as isolated as you can get.”

Rollie couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “But look at how big that thing is,” he argued. “How are we supposed to find the kid? We can’t go searching through the whole place.”

“You don’t have to. All the bedrooms is upstairs, and there ain’t but six of them,” Emma stated. “Somebody told me once that Calder’s got the big one in the southeast corner. And I’d guess the family would have the other bedrooms that faced the front so they could look out and gloat over all they own.”

“You see, little brother,” Lath said, grinning. “It ain’t as impossible as it sounds. You just gotta think.” He tapped his head.

“Maybe,” he conceded. “But logic tells me that there’s only two of us and a whole lot more of them.”

“You only got two people to worry about,” his mother stated. “Echohawk and that crazy O’Rourke, if he’s hanging around. Those two’ll be the ones who’ll react the quickest. You get rid of
them, and you’ll only have the Calders to deal with. This time, though,” she added, “you better make sure that tramp isn’t slipping out the back door with the kid.”

“You can count on that, Ma,” Lath promised.

O
utside Quint’s bedroom window, rose light flooded the ranch buildings of the Triple C headquarters, strengthening to a rawer red along the sky’s western rim. Finished with his prayers, Quint clambered into bed and waited for Cat to draw the covers around him.

“Why can’t I stay up till Dad comes? I’m not tired.” The weariness in his eyes told Cat otherwise.

“Maybe you’re not, but it’s already past your bedtime.”

He gave an adultlike sigh. “I know, but—where is Dad?”

“He had to go feed the horses and check the stock.” Cat sat on the edge of the bed and smoothed the hair off his forehead.

“When are we gonna go home, Mom?”

The longing in his voice tugged at her. “Soon. Maybe in a few days.”

“Raindance is gonna forget me.”

“It’s only been two weeks. I don’t think Raindance will forget you that quickly.” Two weeks. In some ways, it seemed much longer than that.

“He could, though,” Quint insisted.

“But he hasn’t.”

“Don’t you want to go home, Mom?”

“Yes. Very much,” Cat answered truthfully, surprised that she felt it so strongly.

She loved The Homestead and the Triple C as deeply as she always had, but this wasn’t her home anymore. Her home was the Circle Six, with Logan and Quint. It wasn’t something she could easily explain, not even to herself.

“Mom, I don’t think I can go to sleep.”

“Why don’t you try closing your eyes?” she suggested.

“It won’t work.”

“Try.” Bending, Cat tapped his nose and gave him a goodnight kiss.

By the time she reached the door, his eyes were already drifting shut. She left the door standing slightly ajar and went downstairs to wait for Logan.

A nearly full moon had begun its climb into the night sky when headlight beams flashed across The Homestead’s front windows,” signaling Logan’s return. Cat met him on the porch and went straight into his arms, greeting him with a long, welcoming kiss.

“You must have been reading my mind,” Logan murmured against her lips. “I’ve been thinking about kissing you for the last ten miles.”

“I’ve been thinking about it longer than that.” Cat locked her hands behind his neck and added suggestively, “Among other things.”

He slanted a hard, quick kiss across her lips. “Hold that thought until after I’ve had a shower.” He reached up to pull her hands from around his neck.

“Yes, I noticed you’re wearing every rancher’s favorite cologne—Eau de Manure.” She let him draw her hands down between them.

“A cow got stuck in the mud. I had to dig her part way out before I could pull her free. I hosed the worst of it off before I left.”

“How are things at the ranch?” Cat wasn’t ready to go inside yet.

“Fine.”

“Quint wants to know when we’re going to move back. So do I.”

“I don’t know. Maybe next week.”

“Why not tomorrow?” She saw the refusal forming in his expression and quickly reasoned, “Everything is almost back to normal. The media pulled out last week and the FBI two days ago. You don’t honestly believe we’re in any kind of danger or you wouldn’t have told Dad he could take his men off guard duty and let them go back to their regular work. So why do we have to wait until next week?”

“Blackmore reports back next week,” Logan explained. “When he takes over as sheriff, I’ll have regular hours again. I’ll be able to spend more time at home, especially in the evenings. I won’t feel comfortable leaving you and Quint alone at night, not for a while. And that’s not the right frame of mind to have when you go out on a call.”

Cat understood his reasoning. She didn’t like it, but she understood it. “All right,” she gave in, with a sigh. “Next week.”

Beer in hand, Lath strolled over to the jukebox and glanced over the selections. Rollie adjusted his angle on the cue ball and took aim on the seven ball near the corner pocket. Drawing the pool cue back, he let it fly. There was a crack and a rumble followed by the solid thud of the seven ball falling into the pocket.

“What was that noise?” Lath turned from the
jukebox, a heavy frown on his face.

“
That
was the seven ball.” Rollie moved around the pool table, his eye measuring the best angle on the eight ball. “You might as well get your money out now, Lath. This game is mine.”

“No, I heard something else.” Still frowning, he looked toward the front windows, his head cocked at a listening attitude.

“You aren’t going to break my concentration playing that old diversion game,” Rollie told him and bent over the table. “Eight ball, side pocket.”

“It’s no game. I swear I heard something.” Lath came back to the pool table.

“Then maybe you should go check it out.” Rollie did a practice stroke.

“I forgot—how much was the bet?”

“Ten dollars. You can lay it right there by the chalk.” Rollie nodded to it.

“I thought it was five.”

“It was ten and you know it.” A sharp tap sent the cue ball rolling forward. It clipped the edge of the black eight ball, tumbling it into the side pocket. Grinning, Rollie turned to his brother, rubbing his thumb across his fingers in a “gimme” gesture. “Pay up.”

As Lath reluctantly dug in his pocket, the restaurant door flew open. “Call the police,” somebody shouted. “A tanker rig just flipped over on the highway. It’s blockin’ both lanes.”

“Come on. Let’s go have a look.” Lath headed for the door.

Rollie went after him. “You owe me ten dollars, Lath.”

“Forget about the damn money,” he muttered and pushed Rollie out the door ahead of him. “This could be what we’ve been waiting for.”

Outside, Lath wasted no time getting more infor
mation. As soon as he confirmed the accident had ruptured the tank, spilling some kind of chemical on the highway, he grabbed Rollie and shoved him toward the pickup.

“This is it,” Lath said. “We’re going tonight.”

Rollie’s stomach gave a nervous little jump, right before a kind of excitement kicked in. He didn’t have to ask where they were going; he knew.

Logan got the call shortly after he stepped out of the shower. Cat watched him dress. A selfish side of her wanted to interfere with the process, spend a little time exploring that smooth ripple of muscle. But she had been born a Calder; duty was something she understood.

“You did say Blackmore would be back next week?” she said when he retrieved his gun from the closet’s top shelf.

“Yes. Why?” He glanced up while he strapped it on.

“Because this isn’t the way I envisioned the night ending.”

“Me either.” The glow of desire was in his eyes when he crossed the room and gathered her to him, his mouth coming down with a hungry need.

“Maybe you could wake me up when you get back,” she murmured, breathing in the fresh, light hint of soap on his skin.

“Maybe I will.” He skimmed his lips over her cheek before he drew back.

Cat saw the hesitation, the flicker of concern in his eyes. “You get that chemical spill cleaned up, and don’t worry about us. We’ll be fine.”

With a small smile, he touched a finger to her cheek and left.

“That damned moon is like a spotlight.” Rollie hunched over the van’s steering wheel, peering up at it.

“It’ll make it easier to run without lights.” Busy attaching the silencer to his automatic, Lath glanced up long enough to see they were almost to the end of the lane. The highway was just ahead. “Turn right. We’ll go to O’Rourke’s first.”

“O’Rourke’s?” Rollie shot him a surprised look.

“Yeah. If he’s there, we’ll take him out. If he isn’t, then we gotta worry about him bein’ somewhere around the Calder house.”

On that sobering thought, Rollie fell silent. It wasn’t hard to figure out why Lath hadn’t said anything about O’Rourke before now. He thought Rollie would chicken out. Truthfully, Rollie felt a little sick at the moment—and a whole lot scared. He saw the logic in it, just as he’d seen the logic of carrying guns in case they had to shoot their way out. But killing someone that way seemed more like an accident and less like murder.

He clung to the hope O’Rourke wouldn’t be home, knowing it was stupid, knowing that it could mean the old man might be at the Triple C, that he could screw up the whole works.

A half mile from the Shamrock ranch yard, Lath told him to kill the engine and let the van coast. It rolled to a stop about a hundred feet short of the house. No lights showed from its windows.

“It doesn’t look like he’s there,” Rollie whispered.

“I’ll take a look.” Lath pulled on his ski mask, adjusted it, then zipped up his jacket.

All the bulbs had been removed from the van’s interior lights before they left the Simpson place. The door latch clicked under Lath’s hand. Then he was outside the van, the moonlight glinting on the automatic’s metal silencer.

Nervous, Rollie chewed at the inside of his lip, watching while Lath darted into the shadows of the
nearest trees. Almost the instant he melded into the darkness, a door slammed. Rollie jumped at the sound and broke into a cold sweat.

A second later, he saw O’Rourke’s thin shape moving across the moonlit ranch yard, a rifle loosely carried in his swinging hand. He scanned the shadows under the trees, searching for Lath.

“O’Rourke!” The ski mask partially muffled the barked call.

The old man swung in a half Grouch, then jerked as if he’d been punched in the stomach and crumpled to the ground. Rollie hadn’t heard anything but the crunch of gravel under O’Rourke’s boot. Lath came out of the shadows near the yard and approached the man on the ground with caution. Pausing, he looked down on him, took aim and fired again.

Swearing bitterly, Rollie looked away, fighting tears and a churning nausea. He didn’t say a word when Lath climbed into the passenger seat.

“Let’s go. Let’s go!” Lath ripped off the mask, sounding breathless and high all at the same time.

There was no turning back now. If there had been a chance before, there was none now. Recognizing that, Rollie started the engine, a cold anger welling inside.

Back on the highway again, they followed it for a short distance, then turned onto a side road that took them to the Triple C’s seldom-used north gate. The last time they’d tried to snatch the kid, Rollie had been a bundle of nerves. This time he felt nothing. It was as if everything inside him had turned to ice. Hot ice.

He drove straight to the big house and parked behind it, out of sight. In silence, he donned the ski mask and pulled on a pair of thin leather gloves while Lath did the same.

“Got the tape?” Lath asked.

Nodding, Rollie patted the bulge in his jacket’s zipped pocket. Lath jammed a clip in the second automatic, its silencer already attached, and passed it to Rollie, then gathered up his own. At a signaling nod from Lath, he slipped out of the van. Quickly they found the breaker switch and cut the telephone line.

The back door was locked, but the massive front door wasn’t. They stepped inside and closed it carefully behind them. A pulsating silence greeted them, heavy and thick. Lath snapped on his penlight. It lanced the darkness, touched on the rounded back of a sofa in an area directly ahead of them before Lath switched it off.

The living room. According to their mother, the staircase emptied into it. Their rubber-soled sneakers made only a whisper of sound as they crossed the room to the staircase. Lath went first. Rollie followed, wincing when a board creaked under his weight.

At the top of the steps, they paused to listen. But all was quiet. Concentrating on the front section of the house, Lath streaked the penlight over the room doors. One was open a crack. Rollie pointed to it. When he was a kid, his mother had always left the door to his room ajar like that.

Lath nodded, and Rollie wondered if he remembered the same thing. He waited, fingers flexing around the trigger guard, while Lath went to check it out. Within seconds, Lath was motioning him to follow.

It was the kid’s room. Rollie couldn’t believe their luck. Moonlight flooded through the windows, spreading to the boy lying on his stomach. Rollie handed Lath his gun and quickly got the tape out of his pocket, tore off a wide strip of it and moved to the bed.

The kid mumbled a sleepy protest when Rollie turned him over, but he didn’t wake up, not until
Rollie slapped the tape over his mouth. He grabbed the slender arms that came up to fight him off, held them easily in one hand and wrapped the tape tightly around them, then went to work on the wildly kicking legs.

Even in sleep, Cat’s hearing was tuned to any sound coming from her son’s bedroom, however faint. She raised up, propping an elbow under her, and struggled to throw off the heaviness of sleep. A muted thump came from Quint’s room.

Pushing aside the covers, she Swung out of bed and reached to turn on the lamp. The knob clicked under her fingers, but no light came on. Alarm shot through her, jolting her fully awake. Fighting panic, Cat picked up the telephone. The line was dead.

Her blood went cold.

She shot off the bed and out of the room, surprising two dark-clad figures near the stairs. One had a wiggling bundle under his arm. It was Quint.

Cat threw herself at them, screaming, “No, you can’t take him! Let him go!”

In her haste to reach Quint, she ran into the first man as he wheeled toward her. With a backward shove of his arm, he hurled her away with a force that slammed her against the wall. Stunned by the impact, Cat stumbled to her knees.

Ty came out of his bedroom. “Hold it—”

There was a loud, spitting sound. At almost the same instant Cat saw Ty spin back into the door and crash to the floor.

“Go, go, go,” an urgent voice whispered.

Feet clumped down the stairs in rapid flight as Cat struggled to her feet, a hand automatically touching the back of her head where the throbbing pain was centered. She started toward the top of the steps, but her father caught her.

“Stay back,” he ordered. “They have guns.”

“They took Quint.”

“Oh, my God, Ty,” Jessy murmured from the far doorway, then called, “He’s been shot.”

“I’m coming.” Chase released Cat to go to his son. “How bad is it?”