Calder Storm (16 page)

“Wouldn't that look great?” Sloan countered. “I take off and leave your grandfather and aunt to cope with the chaos I caused. Thank you, but I don't think so.”

“It isn't going to last forever, you know.” Trey was gentle in his reminder.

“Sometimes it feels like it,” she declared, then sighed. “Sorry. I guess I'm having my own little pity party. It's just that”—she turned to him, earnest and intent—“I really wanted them to like me, and I've gotten off on the wrong foot.”

“Last I heard, there wasn't a deadline,” Trey reasoned. “It seems to me you have plenty of time to switch to the other one. And a rip-roaring, shoot-'em-up movie with John Wayne would be a good start. Between you and me”—he darted a quick look around them, then leaned close, as if sharing a secret—“
The Searchers
is his favorite.”

“Then that's the one I'll get.” She located it on the rack, paused, and glanced questioningly at Trey. “There isn't a DVD version here?”

“Probably not,” he admitted and waited while Sloan removed the cassette case from the rack, then followed her to the rear counter.

An apple-cheeked woman looked up at their approach. Sandy-haired and in her forties, she wasn't the clerk that Sloan was used to seeing, but her face was familiar. Sloan knew she had met her before.

“Hi, Sloan,” the woman greeted her with familiar ease. “Now I know why Trey took off like an arrow a minute ago. Obviously he caught sight of you.”

“I didn't know he was here, either, until he walked up,” Sloan
replied, stalling while she discreetly scanned the front of the woman's blouse, searching for a name tag. But they didn't bother with such things on the Triple C, where everybody knew everybody else.

Trey came to her rescue, slouching against the counter and resting an elbow on it. “Mark us down for a movie, Nancy.”

“Will do. By the way, that part should be here no later than Tuesday.” She retrieved a clipboard from under the counter and glanced at the title on the case. “
The Searchers.
Chase will like that.”

“That's the plan,” Trey confirmed.

“So how have you been, Sloan?” The woman asked as she jotted down the particulars on the clipboard's sheet. “I don't think I've seen you out and about for a while.”

“No, I've been sticking close to The Homestead,” Sloan admitted.

“How's the redecorating going? I swear the whole ranch is buzzing about it.”

“The progress has been slow but steady,” Sloan lied.

“I'll bet you're at the point where you're ready to tear your hair out,” the woman guessed. “We remodeled the kitchen at our place a few years back, put in new cupboards and everything. After two weeks of living in that mess, I was in tears. Of course, it was too late to have my old kitchen back, no matter how happy I would have been to have it.”

“I think I'm at that stage right now,” Sloan admitted.

“Believe me, I understand,” the woman assured her, and Sloan suspected she really did. Strangely, she felt better knowing that. Finishing her notations, the woman announced, “You're all set.”

“Thanks.” Sloan picked up the cassette case and started to leave.

“Sloan—” the woman began, then hesitated when Sloan turned back. She seemed to gather her courage. “Could I ask you a favor?”

“Sure.” Not sure what was coming, Sloan darted a quick glance at Trey, but he didn't seem to have any more idea than she did.

“I know I shouldn't ask, but—Mike will be leaving for college this fall, and Donna will be a senior in high school. Roger thinks I'm silly, but I really want to have a family picture taken while we're still all together. And Roger absolutely refuses to drive all the way to Miles City to have one done.” Worried and uncertain, she hesitated again. “I really hate to impose on you, but—you're a professional photographer. I thought, maybe, you might be willing to take one of us. I'll be happy to pay you for it,” she added with a rush, as if sensing Sloan's withdrawal.

Trey had also observed the way Sloan had tensed up in an instinctive resistance to the suggestion. Unwilling to have Nancy Taylor get the wrong idea, he came to Sloan's defense.

“Ordinarily that would be the perfect solution, Nancy,” he began. “Unfortunately, Sloan isn't a portrait photographer—”

Sloan immediately broke in, “What he means is, I don't have the lights and the different backdrops that they have in portrait studios. But if all you really want is a family photo, I know I could take a really good one of all of you outside. We can make it informal, so your husband won't have to wear a suit and tie.”

“You'll really do it?” The woman's gaze clung to her.

“Of course.” Sloan smiled with confidence. “How about Sunday afternoon? Will that work for you?”

“I think so. I'll have to check. The kids might have some plans. If they do, they can change them.” Another flicker of uncertainty crossed her expression. “Are you sure it's all right if we don't dress up?”

“Since we're taking the picture outside, I think it will look more natural if you're in casual clothes. Everyone will be more comfortable and relaxed in them, too,” Sloan assured her, then realized that wasn't the woman's major concern. “Don't worry. I'll stage everything so it will have that professional look.”

“With you doing it, I'm sure it will.” But the woman reddened a little, then smiled tremulously. “I can't thank you enough for this, Sloan. You just don't know what this means to me.”

“It'll be my pleasure,” Sloan insisted. “Unless I hear from you otherwise, I'll meet you at three-thirty on Sunday by the old barn.”

Trey searched, but couldn't detect a note of falseness in Sloan's voice or expression. Puzzled by her ready agreement, he said, as they walked out of the commissary, “I thought you never took portraits.” There was a subtle demand for an explanation within his comment.

“You saw her face, Trey,” Sloan countered. “She didn't understand. To her, a photographer is a photographer. How could I turn her down without coming across like some prima donna who considered such a request beneath her? She wouldn't have said anything, but she would have been hurt, and I'd have had a black eye. Besides,” she added, “it isn't that I can't take portraits, they just haven't been my focus.”

Trey sensed there were two forces at work in her decision: her own caring nature and the need for acceptance. Not mentioning either, he simply smiled. “You made her very happy.”

“That makes me feel good,” Sloan admitted. “But you know what's even more amazing? I'm actually looking forward to Sunday. Do you know it's been weeks since I had my hands on a camera?” She cocked her head to one side, eying him with a teasingly flirtatious look. “Is there any chance I can talk you into acting as my assistant on Sunday?”

“I might let you twist my arm,” he agreed, knowing it was what she wanted.

On the one hand, Trey was glad to see her looking so happy and excited, considering how low her spirits had been. Yet, on the other hand, he couldn't forget that he'd had no part in her switch of moods; it was that damned camera again.

“Wonderful,” she declared as her thoughts shifted to something else. “I'll need to talk to Cat, though.”

“Are you going to need her help on Sunday, too?” Trey frowned.

“Not Sunday.” She absently chewed on her lower lip. “But I will need to figure out where I can set up a darkroom—at least temporarily—so I can develop the film.”

Everything inside him bristled at the thought. “Can't you send it out to be developed like everyone else does?”

“For this, I probably could, but I prefer to control the process. Which means, sooner or later, I'll need to set up a permanent darkroom, but I planned to wait until all the redecorating was done. We're in enough chaos now.” Her attention shifted to the big white house on the high knoll. “I'd better go talk to Cat. See you later.”

The words of parting seemed to be offered almost as an afterthought. Trey stood there for a moment, watching as Sloan struck out for The Homestead, an energy in her stride that couldn't be ignored. His lips thinned a little at the sight of it.

In the next instant, he pivoted on his heel and headed for the first-aid dispensary, a hard impatience pushing him. In a twist of irony, he was now the one in a sour mood, but with no justifiable cause.

Inside the dispensary, Kelly Ramsey ran a dust cloth over the front windowsill, supplying herself with a ready excuse for standing there in case the ranch nurse Liz Carlsen came out of the treatment room and saw her at the window. But the whole of her attention was on Trey, just as it had been ever since he came out of the commissary with Sloan at his side.

Kelly had been watching for him ever since he left—for reasons she couldn't explain even to herself other than it had become a habit these last few years, and habits were hard to break. Yet that long habit had given her an insight into his body language. She could tell that the careless ease that had marked him earlier was gone. The long strides and hard strike of his boots suggested impatience and annoyance—or a kind of new tension at the very least.

Right away Kelly wondered what he and Sloan had been talking about. He certainly didn't give the impression he was any too pleased with the outcome. Considering all the talk about how extensive the redecoration of the master suite had become, Kelly suspected it was the source of their disagreement. It crossed her mind
that Sloan might have made some new change without consulting him. Nothing would get a man's dander up quicker than that, and definitely a Calder's.

As Trey drew closer, Kelly turned away from the window and stuffed the dust cloth in the pocket of her white lab coat. There was no way she was going to let Trey walk in and find her cleaning. Instead she crossed to the counter, picked up a folder, and carried it to the filing cabinet. She had the metal drawer pulled out and the folder partially inserted when Trey walked in.

“Back already?” she said, throwing him an over-the-shoulder glance while removing the folder from the drawer. “That was quick.”

“Isn't Hank done yet?” An edge of impatient demand was in his voice. It seemed to match the dark glitter in his eyes.

“I think he's arguing with Liz about the need to come back and have the bandages changed. You know Hank—he always likes to give Liz a hard time about something. He should be out any second.” Kelly returned the folder to its place atop the counter, then swung back to face him, self-consciously slipping a hand in her pocket to disguise the bulge made by the dust cloth. “So, did you find out when that part will be in?”

Trey flicked an absent glance in her direction. “Next Tuesday,” he replied and darted another look at the closed door to the treatment room. “Johnny tells me you're going to nursing school this fall.”

Normally she would have been happy that he was showing an interest in her future plans, but it was too obvious that he was making conversation to kill time. “I might even go on to become a nurse practitioner like Liz. When I mentioned it to Liz, she said that since I was going help out here this summer, I might as well get a taste of all the paperwork that comes with the job.” But her only response from Trey was an absent nod. “How's the redecorating going?” she asked. “I've heard everything is really torn up.”

“They're making progress.” His brief response was far from informative.

“After a while, it's bound to get on the nerves, though,” Kelly suggested, hoping he might be more forthcoming.

“It's harder for Sloan. She's there with it all day. I'm not.” The flat statement and disinterest in his voice seemed to dismiss the ongoing work as any source of contention between them.

“Sounds like she could use a break from it,” Kelly ventured, unable to think of anything else to say. “I'd suggest that you take her out to dinner, but I don't know where you'd go, now that Harry's is closed for remodeling.”

His eyes met hers in surprise. “Since when?”

“I don't know,” she admitted with a shrug. “Johnny stopped at noon and told me. He went into Blue Moon this morning and saw a sign on the door that said ‘closed for remodeling.' When he asked Marsha over at Fedderson's about it, she said the new owner doesn't plan to open up for a couple weeks. Can you imagine anything worse? I mean—what's going to happen come Saturday night? Everybody always hung out there. After all, where else is there to go?”

“You'll think of something.” His attention immediately shifted away from her, drawn by the releasing click of a door latch.

Hank Tobin hobbled out of the treatment room, a wide elastic bandage wrapped around his right thigh. “Sorry it took so long, Trey. I had to convince this female sawbones that there was no way in hell she was cutting off my pant leg. Why, these jeans aren't no more than a year old. Ellie'd have my hide if I let her ruin 'em like that. She'll be mad enough as it is 'cause of the mending they'll need. Say, did you hear Harry's is closed?”