Calder Storm (2 page)

“Did you two just drive in?” he asked when he joined them.

“We've been here long enough to check in.” Jessy eyed her tall, strapping son with a mixture of affection and quiet pride.

“I guess that means all I have to do is pick up a key.” His grin had a reckless and carefree quality to it that spoke of his youth.

When Trey reached over and took the suitcase from Jessy, she surrendered it without objection—this from a woman who staunchly believed everyone should pull his or her own weight, making no exceptions for either status or sex. But here was a son helping his mother, not an ordinary ranch hand carrying his boss's luggage.

Trey made a quick visual check of the truck bed, verifying that there were no more bags to be retrieved. “Gramps decided to stay home, did he?”

“Like he said,” Laredo answered, “someone needed to stay behind and keep an eye on things at the ranch.” He made no mention of the comment Chase Calder had added, saying matter-of-factly, “There's not much point in me going, anyway. All my contemporaries are either in rest homes or the cemetery.”

“As crowded and noisy as it's likely to be, I couldn't imagine Gramps coming, but I don't put anything past him.” Mixed in with the easy affection in Trey's voice was a deep note of respect for his grandfather.

It was hardly surprising. Following his father's death when, Trey was barely more than a toddler, Chase had stepped in to fill the role. At an early age, Trey had learned from his grandfather that as a Calder, he would be held to a higher standard. Like it or not, he would be expected to work longer, be smarter, and fight rougher than anyone else. No favor would be shown to him, no concessions made, and no special privileges granted because he was the son and heir. On the contrary, the reverse would be true. During his growing-up years, Trey was often assigned the dirtiest and hardest jobs, the rankest horses in the string, and the longest hours.
Any problems he encountered along the way were his to solve. If he found himself in trouble, he was expected to fight his way out of it with his fists or his wits.

Trey had never really known the fine line his mother and grandfather had walked to push him as hard as they dared without pushing too far and breaking his spirit. It was all preparation for the day when he would take control of the Triple C.

It had been no easy job to carve out a ranch the size of some eastern states back in the days of the Old West, and in these modern times, it would be no easy job to keep it. Some in Trey's place might have shrunk from the pressure of that job, but he had always viewed it as a challenge he was eager to tackle. Maybe that was due to the way Chase had put it to him, or the belief he sensed that his mother and grandfather had in him that he could do it.

At the age of twenty-four, Trey shouldered responsibility with the ease of one accustomed to its weight. It hadn't dulled the gleam in his dark eyes, the gleam that said there still lived in him the boy he had once been, reckless and a little wild. For the most part, Trey kept that side of himself reined in, but it was still there.

“You should have heard Gramps carrying on last night, reminiscing about some of the crazy shenanigans that went on during past bucking-horse sales.” That gleam in Trey's dark eyes now became an impish twinkle as he addressed his mother. “He even told me about the time you took Uncle Mike's place in the chutes and rode the bronc he'd drawn. Gramps said the gasp that came from the crowd nearly sucked up all the arena dust when your hat flew off and all that blond hair tumbled loose.”

Laredo turned a laughing look at her, both amused and curious. “Is that true?”

“I did it on a dare,” Jessy admitted with neither regret nor pride, regarding it as simply a foolish escapade of youth. “My brothers goaded me into it.”

“According to Gramps, you stayed on for the full eight seconds and probably would have scored the highest ride of the day if the judges hadn't disqualified you.”

“That was a long time ago,” Jessy said, dismissing the incident. To ensure that it stayed that way, she asked, “What took you so long getting to the hotel?”

“Johnny and Tank wanted to scope out where they're pitching their tents,” Trey said, then explained with a grin, “You know Johnny—he isn't about to spend a dime for something if he can figure out a way to get it for nothing.” A pair of short, sharp honks of the pickup's horn drew Trey's glance to his compatriots parked a few spaces away. “Do you get the feeling they want me to hurry up?” Despite the careless toss of the question, he obligingly swung toward the motel entrance, striking out with long strides to take the lead while adding over his shoulder, “They're anxious to get out to the fairgrounds and find out what their draw is for tonight.”

“Tank doesn't usually ride the bulls,” Jessy said with some surprise.

Trey stopped to explain. “Johnny talked him into it. The riders get paid a few bucks just for climbing on board, and Johnny convinced Tank he had a fifty-fifty chance of drawing a bull that couldn't buck worth a damn. 'Course, ever since Tank found out that a contractor is unloading his rodeo stock at this year's sale, including two bulls selected for the National Rodeo Finals a couple years ago, he's been sweating his draw.”

“With cause, I'd say,” Laredo remarked dryly.

“Damn right.” Trey flashed the older man a look of grinning agreement as he reached for the door and gave it an outward pull. He came to a dead stop one second before he walked into a brunette on her way out. Having shifted to one side to allow Jessy to precede him, Laredo had a clear view of the near collision. He saw the startled looks that were exchanged, one male and one female, and sensed a primitive current of something more that shimmered between them like a living thing.

Recovering, the brunette murmured a faintly apologetic, “Excuse me,” and Trey pivoted out of her path. His gaze tracked her as she slipped past him and headed for the parking lot. The dazed and
rather avid look in his eyes was that of a man whose hunger was fully aroused.

“You look like you were just struck by a thunderbolt,” Laredo observed after the girl had disappeared among the parked vehicles.

“Something like that,” Trey murmured in admission, then turned back to them. “Who is she? Do you know?” He looked straight at Jessy.

“No one I've ever seen before,” she replied without hesitation.

“Me either.” Trey tossed a last thoughtful glance toward the parking lot, then flashed Laredo and Jessy a grin. “She was sweet, though.”

In the process Trey almost convinced himself he had identified the force of the attraction that had struck him so hard. Yet it didn't explain the sudden surge of restlessness that flowed through him, leaving him with a vague feeling of discontent and unsatisfied needs, a sense of something missing. All of which he had experienced before, but this time the feelings seemed a lot stronger.

Like always, Trey used physical action to sweep the uncomfortable thoughts away, his quick, long strides carrying him into the relative dimness of the motel lobby after he told Jessy, “I'll bring your suitcase as soon I get my key.” He slowed only long enough to allow his vision to adjust from the sun's bright glare to the interior's fluorescent glow.

The owners of a neighboring ranch were just collecting their keys when Trey arrived. That old edgy impatience surfaced again, even though his wait for the clerk's attention was a short one.

“Trey Calder,” he said to the clerk after a brief nod of greeting to his ranch neighbors. “My mother already signed in for me.”

“Sure thing, Trey. I've got your key right here.” The man pushed it across the counter to him.

Trey laid a hand on it, then paused, something prompting him to ask, “That brunette who just left when I came in, can you tell me who she is?”

The clerk shook his head. “Sorry, I must have been busy. I don't remember seeing her.”

“Blue eyes, five-seven or thereabouts.” Trey struggled to call up more specific details, only to realize that he had focused only on the deep blue of her eyes and the ripeness of her parted lips. “Her hair was long, I think,” he added, recalling the vague impression of its darkness framing her face.

“Good-looking, was she?” The clerk smiled in understanding.

Irritation rippled, but Trey wasn't sure whether it was directed at himself or the clerk. Again he deliberately made light of his interest in the brunette. “You know she was.”

He scooped up the key card and moved away from the desk toward the hall, again seeking to push the encounter from his mind.

T
he rodeo grounds were a hive of activity. Few seats in the open-air grandstand were vacant, and unseated spectators—garbed in the almost-requisite boots, blue jeans, and cowboy hats—milled about the grandstand's front apron, either doing a bit of socializing or standing in line at the concession stands. For the time being the bulk of their attention wasn't focused on the arena. The collective sound of their voices created a steady thrum of background noise.

Over the loudspeakers the auctioneer maintained his steady singsong chant while a big gray bull trotted loose in the arena, having dispatched the rider from its back. The bull's breeding was mostly Brahman, as evidenced by its size, the distinctive hump on its back, and the pendulous dewlap that hung from its neck. After halfheartedly hooking a horn at a rodeo clown safely ensconced in his barrel, the bull trotted for the open gates and the holding pens beyond. As if on cue, the auctioneer brought his gavel down.

“Sold!” The emphatic announcement swept through the crowd. Once again eyes swung toward the arena with the expectation for action even as the announcer declared, “You've bought yourself a good one, Fred.”

A fresh flurry of movement broke out around the chutes, most of it centering on the number two chute, its side rails clotted with cowboys. Teamwork was required to get the rigging looped under an animal, and a number of fellow riders were always on hand, ready to lend a hand with the task. There were the usual snortings and clash and clatter of hoof and horn slamming against the chute as the bull protested both the cowboys' efforts and the tight quarters that trapped him.

In the crowded alleyway behind the chutes Trey listened to the commotion from chute two with only half an ear. The air had an electric feel to it. The familiar smells of dust and animal excrement were in his nostrils.

There was also the faint scent of fear, most of it coming from the fresh-faced cowboy standing before him, double-checking the fit of the padded flak jacket he wore.

“I kinda wish I had one of those helmets some of the pro riders are wearing,” Tank Willis murmured on a wistful note. Although given the name Marvin at birth, his penchant as a boy for swimming in stock tanks had long ago saddled him with the nickname of Tank.

“You don't need it,” Johnny Taylor scoffed, a wad of chewing tobacco tucked inside his left cheek.

“Oh no? Well, get a load of the horns on that bull,” Tank countered with heat.

Unconcerned, Johnny responded with a mild shake of his head. “The weight of the helmet can throw you off if you're not used to it. 'Sides, that bull shakes out to be an easy ride. He'll take a couple hops out of the chute and start spinnin' to the left. All you gotta do is stay on your hand and don't slip into the well.”

“I don't know why I let you talk me into this,” Tank grumbled, not for the first time. “I should'a stuck with the broncs.”

“In that case,” Trey said with a grin, “all you have to do is tell yourself that you're straddling a bronc with horns.”

Tank found nothing remotely humorous in Trey's remark.

The gate was opened on chute two, releasing the bull and rider
it contained. With Tank due to ride next, the time for further advice—well-meaning or otherwise—was over. Spurs jangling, he climbed onto the chute rail.

“You can do it, Tank.” Trey gave him an encouraging slap on the back.

Out of the corner of his mouth, Tank muttered to Johnny, “You're buying the beer tonight, by God.”

Trey found a vacant perch along the arena-side rail next to the chute and hauled himself onto it. He had a glimpse of the rider from chute two getting flung to the dirt.

A scattering of applause from the crowd accompanied the announcer's call of “No time.”

Meanwhile Tank had lowered himself into the chute within inches of the white-faced bull's back. Its horn spread was nearly as wide as the chute. As the auctioneer broke into his rhythmic call for bids, Tank took up some of the slack in the buck strap. The bull snorted and swung its big head, cracking a horn against a side rail.

“Easy. Easy,” Tank murmured uselessly and waited a beat for the animal to settle down before inching the strap tighter.

The bull lunged upward, front hooves reaching for the top of the chute. A half dozen hands, Johnny's among them, hauled Tank out of harm's way while a skinny photographer in a billed cap and multi-pocketed vest snapped a couple of quick shots of the action before abandoning his perch at the head of the chute.

Once all four feet were back on the ground, Tank again inched his way closer to the bull's back, his features set in a look of grim determination. By the time the auctioneer finished the bidding on the previous bull, Tank was pounding his leather-gloved fingers over the rope to ensure a tight grip. The bull shifted, muscles bunching when it felt the rider's weight settle on its back.

With his free hand in the air, Tank didn't give the bull a chance to throw another fit in the chute. He gave the gateman a short, sharp nod, and the gate was thrown open.

The big Brahman cross exploded out of the chute. “Stay with
him, Tank!” Trey shouted as Johnny climbed onto the rail beside him.

His gaze fastened on the bull and rider, Johnny said, “Do you reckon I should've told him that bull can be hell for a cowboy on foot?”

“He's going to find that out himself right about…now,” Trey said, grinning.

After two hard-jarring jumps out of the chute, the bull made a snaking twist to the left in midair that whipped Tank to the right. The successive clicks of a camera registering the action came from somewhere behind Trey's left shoulder as Tank was slung sideways through the air.

When the white-faced bull swung back to look for him, a rodeo clown quickly put himself between the bull and the downed rider. Momentarily distracted from its original target, the bull gave chase while a second clown pulled Tank to his feet and gave him a directional push toward the fence without letting his attention stray from the bull.

Tank tossed a glance in the animal's direction to verify its lack of interest in him before he limped toward the fence. His slower pace was a contrast to the darting swiftness of the clowns, and one that the bull was quick to spot.

“Look out, Tank!” Johnny shouted the warning at almost the same instant that Tank heard the approaching pounding of hooves.

The limp forgotten, Tank scrambled to reach the fence with the bull hot on his heels. Certain that his buddy wouldn't be able to scale it in time on his own, Trey leaned down, grabbed Tank by the back of his belt, and hauled him across the toprail, dislodging the photographer who had occupied the spot. The fence shook when the bull sideswiped it before swinging back to the arena.

Immediately Tank started swearing a blue streak, proof in itself that he was no worse for the ride. In the edges of his vision, Trey registered the image of the photographer lying flat on the ground, the camera protectively raised. Something wasn't the same, though, and it drew the fullness of his glance.

The billed cap had fallen off, exposing a tumble of sun-streaked brown hair. The skinny photographer was a female. Trey swung off the fence and moved to her side as she sat up, a sleek curtain of hair falling forward to conceal her face from him.

He caught hold of her arm, helping her roll to her feet. Not until she was fully upright did she allow the strap around her neck to take the full weight of the camera. Immediately she started brushing the dust from the back of her pants.

“Are you all right, ma'am?” The question was prompted by an inexplicable need to see her face.

With a screening lift of her hand, she flipped her long hair aside and glanced up. Crazily, Trey wasn't at all surprised to find himself face to face with the girl from the motel. The sight of those blue eyes looking back at him was like a clean wind sweeping through him, all heady and fine.

“I'm okay,” she said. Then recognition set in, and her lips curved slightly at the corners. “We meet again.”

“That's my good luck.” And Trey knew he had never uttered a truer statement as he drank in the details that had escaped his notice before, like the thickly stroked arch of dark eyebrows, the soft jut of cheekbone, and the cleanly angled line of jaw. But he kept coming back to the frank boldness of her returning gaze. “I didn't catch your name the first time.”

“I don't recall throwing it at you.” Her laughing smile took any sting from her mocking rejoinder. “But it happens to be Sloan.”

“Just Sloan?” he questioned.

Her blue glance made a rapid and assessing sweep of his face, a note of caution surfacing in her eyes. “I think that's enough,” she said and quickly began scanning the ground around her feet.

“Mine's Trey,” he volunteered, then reached down and scooped up her ball cap. “Looking for this?”

“Thanks.” She took it from him, dusted it off against her leg, then slipped the bill between her teeth, and set about winding her hair atop her head to once more confine its length under the cap.

Although he'd been raised not to trespass on another man's ter
ritory, it was her hesitancy to share more information about herself that prompted Trey to ask, “Do you belong to someone?”

“Yes,” she said, even though her fingers were bare of any rings. As she slipped the cap over the knot of hair, she slanted him a curious look. “Aren't you going to ask who that might be?”

“Whatever you'd say, I wouldn't like the answer.” His reply was a little curt—a reaction to the sudden twisting in his gut at the news she already had a man in her life.

“I never said it was a man,” she chided dryly.

A puzzled frown cut a thin crease in his forehead. “Then who?”

There was more than a little pride in the sudden lift of her chin. “I belong to myself.”

All the knots suddenly smoothed, and Trey was quick to take advantage of the green light she had just given him. “Are you going to the street dance when you leave here tonight?”

“Is that an invitation?” She tipped her head to one side, all the while making another careful study of him in an attempt to determine the degree of danger he might be to a woman alone.

“It is,” Trey confirmed.

After a slight pause, she made her decision about him. “Where should I meet you?”

“How about by the stage where the band will be playing?” he suggested.

“That's fine with me.” She lifted her camera, tipping the lens up and blowing softly to remove any dust particles on it, then flicked him a quick glance. “I need to get back to work. I'll see you there, Trey.”

“I'll be waiting,” he replied, as she crossed to the arena fence and began scanning the action inside. Softly, for his hearing alone, Trey murmured the name she'd given him. “Sloan.”

It was an unusual name. But nothing about her seemed ordinary to him, certainly not his own hungry reaction to her. This time Trey made a point of noticing the black turtleneck she wore beneath the bulky vest, the slim khaki slacks, and the thick-soled hiking boots on her feet.

Someone jostled his shoulder. All the noise and activity that had receded into the background now asserted itself. Belatedly Trey looked around for Johnny and Tank. He spotted them on the opposite side of the open alleyway and waited for a gap in the intermittent flow of cowboys moving behind the chutes, then crossed the space to join them.

When he noticed Tank hunched over, rubbing his right kneecap, Trey recalled the way he'd limped in the arena. “How's your knee?”

“Aw, he just twisted it a little.” Johnny dismissed the injury.

“How would you know?” Tank threw him a challenging glare. “It ain't your damned knee.” He shot a look at Trey. “That's the last damned bull I'll ever throw my leg over. Whatever you do, don't ever believe anything Johnny tells you.”

“Come on,” Johnny protested. “It was just the luck of the draw.”

The phrase reminded Trey of his own luck in running into that blue-eyed brunette again. Sloan. The mere thought of her name brought a quicksilver rush of feeling. He looked over his shoulder, his glance running arrow-straight to her. Head bent, she was busy switching a new roll of film for an exposed one, accomplishing it with practiced ease. Anticipation flowed through him, keen and sweet, for the evening to come.

Johnny said something to him, dragging Trey's attention away from Sloan. The next time he looked, she was gone from the spot. A few minutes later, he caught a glimpse of her farther down the line.

Johnny was among the last group of bull riders. To Tank's never-ending delight, he was thrown a quarter of a second short of making the eight-second buzzer. Tank was happier yet when the bull stepped on Johnny. Thanks to the padded jacket, his friend escaped with only a bruised rib.

Tank needled him as they made their way to the pickup parked in the infield. “Hurt to breathe, does it, John-boy?” he observed on a note of feigned sympathy. “Not to worry. It's nothin' but a little bruise.”

“Shut up, Tank.” Johnny pushed the words through gritted teeth.