Calder Storm (26 page)

A man's voice spoke above a background din of music and voices. “Is Johnny there?”

“Johnny?”

“Yeah, I was given this number and told to ask for Johnny. This is the Calder Ranch, isn't it?”

“It is, but Johnny isn't here. Who is this?” Trey couldn't place the man's voice.

“My name's Al. I'm the bartender at The Oasis. We got one of your cowboys here who's too drunk to stand, let alone walk or drive. Sounded like he said his name was Tank, but it's probably Hank.”

“No, it's Tank,” Trey acknowledged.

“Well, Tank is tanked. He said this Johnny fella would come get him.”

“There's bound to be other Triple C hands there who can give him a ride home.”

The initial response was a partially muffled, “Yeah, yeah, I'll be right there.” The promise obviously was issued to someone else. “Look, this place is packed,” he said to Trey. “I haven't got time to poll the customers and find out who works where. Donovan said I should call out of courtesy since a lot of our business comes from the Triple C. But I don't really care whether the guy spends the night in the drunk tank or not.”

Sighing in grim resignation, Trey glanced in Sloan's direction, but she appeared oblivious to his conversation. “Give me an hour,” he told the bartender.

“That's all you got,” the man replied and hung up.

Trey pushed down the disconnect button, then released it, and punched in Johnny's phone number. Sloan continued to ignore
him. Trey waited for the phone to ring. Instead, the intermittent buzz of a busy signal came over the line.

Turning, he said to Sloan, “That was the bartender at The Oasis. I guess Tank passed out. I have to run into town and get him. There and back, it'll probably take me a couple hours—maybe longer with this snow.”

“Be careful.” The phrase sounded more like a perfunctory statement than an expression of concern.

“I will.” He was almost irritated enough to leave it at that. But Sloan was pitting her will against his. As much as he had always admired her strength and determination, this was something he couldn't allow to continue. “While I'm gone, you can think about this,” he told her. “You're my wife, Sloan, even when I totally disagree with you. So get that damned chip off your shoulder.”

Her eyes flashed to him in surprise, but he was already striding toward the door. Downstairs, Trey paused long enough to inform his mother where he was going and why, then headed to the door and collected his coat and hat from the rack.

Snow covered the windows of the pickup. While he let the engine warm up, Trey brushed the snow from the windshield and side mirrors, then took a few swipes at the side windows as well before he slid behind the wheel.

The ranch yard was blanketed in white, all previous tracks obliterated by the new-fallen snow. And more flakes continued to fall when he reversed away from The Homestead. On impulse, he pointed the pickup toward the Taylor house.

Johnny's mother came to the door when Trey knocked. Rather than track snow into the house, Trey waited on the porch while she went to get Johnny.

“Something wrong?” Those were the first words Johnny spoke when he came to the door.

“I got a call from the bartender at The Oasis. Tank's drunk,” Trey explained. “I'm headed into town to go get him. Somebody will have to drive his pickup back. Want to ride along?”

“He's drunk?” Johnny said in surprise. “Hell, it ain't even half
past nine. 'Course, he did take off right after he picked up his paycheck. It'd be just like that fool to try to drink it up in one night. Let me grab my coat and I'll be right with you.”

Taking him at his word, Trey retraced his footsteps to the pickup. Johnny climbed into the truck only seconds after Trey did. The minute the door closed after him, Trey set off, aiming for the east lane that would take them to Blue Moon.

“Can't help wondering why he called you,” Johnny mused. “Tank knows you've got a wife with a little one on the way.”

“The bartender asked for you when he called.” Snowflakes swirled in the pickup's headlight beams, and the wipers maintained a fast, steady cadence to prevent the flakes from accumulating on the windshield. “I figure Tank got the phone numbers mixed up and gave him ours instead of yours.”

“More than likely,” Johnny agreed. “I don't imagine your little woman was too happy about you going out on a night like this, though.”

“She was fine with it.”

Trey's somewhat clipped response suggested something entirely different to Johnny. He ran a considering glance over Trey's profile, noting the closed-up expression on his rawboned features, visible in the dim glow of the dashboard lights.

“Glad to hear it,” Johnny replied. “I know some women can get real emotional when they're carrying and fly off the handle at the smallest thing.”

“When did you become such an expert?” Trey mocked.

“I remember how touchy my mother was when my little brother came along so unexpected-like. Dad always claimed that no matter what he said, it was the wrong thing. She'd either bust into tears or blow up like a rank bull out for blood. I learned real quick to walk soft around her. 'Course, after little Joey was born, she was fine again. Kelly tells me it's a hormone thing that makes their emotions get all out of whack. So it wouldn't surprise me if your wife's a bit testy.”

“She's a little more sensitive, but that's about all.” Trey wished
he could blame hormones for their current rift, but there was more to it than that.

“You're lucky, then,” Johnny said and lapsed into silence.

Not in a mood for idle talk himself, Trey made no attempt to break the silence. Instead, he focused his attention on the snow-covered road ahead of them, its track delineated by the fence posts that ran parallel to it.

A few miles from the Triple C's east gate, Johnny remarked, “The road crews are gonna be busy tomorrow plowing off all this snow. It sure won't melt in a hurry, not as deep as it's getting.”

“According to the forecast, we could get as much as a foot.”

“Let's just hope that wind don't start howling,” Johnny murmured.

Snowplows had already been at work on the highway, exposing the bare pavement when they reached it. With a cleared road ahead of him, Trey increased the pickup's speed. It wasn't long before he spotted the lighted canopy over the gas pumps at Fedderson's. The lights of The Oasis were a fainter glow on the opposite side of the highway.

There wasn't an empty parking space to be seen when they pulled into the lot. “This place is really jumping tonight,” Johnny observed.

“We won't be that long,” Trey said and parked behind another vehicle near the door.

Entering the bar was like walking into a wall of noise. The jukebox was cranked up to its full volume, blasting out a honky-tonk, beer-drinking tune. Voices and laughter were loud, as folks tried to make themselves heard above the din, while the slot machines rattled and rang in the background.

Trey paused a few steps inside and surveyed the crowded area. He spotted dozens of familiar faces, but he didn't see Tank sprawled anywhere.

“Where's Tank?” Johnny spoke near his ear.

“We'll check at the bar.” Trey said and struck out for it.

Donovan was working the far end of the bar, filling drink or
ders for the waitresses. The second man was closer. Trey shouldered his way between two customers and leaned an arm on the counter.

“Are you Al?” he asked.

“Yeah.” The man looked up from the mug he was filling with beer. “What'll you have?”

“Where's Tank? We're here to pick him up?”

“Who?” The man frowned. Then his expression cleared. “Oh, you mean the cowboy.” He jerked his thumb upward. “Top of the steps, second door on the right.”

Shoving himself back from the bar, Trey swung to Johnny. “Upstairs,” he said in a near shout and repeated the bartender's thumb signal.

The staircase to the second floor was narrow and dimly lit. They climbed it single file, Trey going first. Bypassing the first door on the hall's right side, he proceeded to the second. He knocked twice, but with all the noise filtering from downstairs, he doubted that anyone inside could have heard him, certainly not Tank if he was as drunk as the bartender claimed.

Turning the knob, he gave the door a push and followed it when it swung noiselessly inward. The only light in the small bedroom came from a bedside lamp with a scarlet shade that cast a diffused red glow over the room. There was Tank, sprawled across a satin coverlet, his shirt unbuttoned except for the last one.

Trey stopped short when he noticed the redhead crouched on all fours next to the bed, scrubbing at a spot on the rug. As if sensing the presence of someone else, she looked back in irritation.

“This room is occupied, mister,” she snapped.

“I know,” he said. “We're here to take him home.”

“Too bad you didn't get here before he threw up on my rug.” She gathered up the rag and a can of spot cleaner, then stood up, giving the hem of her red leather miniskirt a downward tug as she turned her back to both of them.

Johnny walked to the opposite side of the bed and jiggled Tank's shoulder. “Up and at 'em, Tank.”

But Tank only groaned and flung a limp arm out in protest. “You're gonna have to carry him out of here,” the girl declared.

“How'd he get this drunk?” Johnny grumbled in annoyance.

“He got into a chugalug contest.” A match made a raspy strike against a rough surface. A flame erupted, and the redhead held it against a candlewick on the bedside table. “Somebody bet him fifty dollars he couldn't drink two pitchers of beer. Your friend won, so we came up here to celebrate. Then all that beer hit him.”

“Where's his jacket?” Trey asked.

“In the corner, on the chair,” she answered without turning as a spicy and cloying fragrance drifted through the room. “His hat, too.”

“Time to go home, Tank.” Johnny put a knee on the bed for leverage and hoisted his friend into a sitting position, propping him up against the headboard's brass posts.

Trey retrieved the coat and jacket from the corner chair, but it took both of them to get Tank into the jacket. Johnny added the final touch, shoving Tank's hat on his head and pushing it down around his ears. Then he stepped back.

“I'll carry him,” Trey said.

Johnny waved aside the offer. “I can manage. First we'd better dig those truck keys out of his pocket. I ain't about to dump him in that cold pickup and have to start searching for the keys to start the thing.”

After a search of his jeans pockets failed to turn up the keys, they found them in his jacket pocket. Johnny tucked them in his own pocket, then rolled a semiconscious Tank onto his shoulder and straightened.

When Trey started to follow him out of the room, the redhead called out, “Wait.”

Pausing, Trey turned back around.

“His wallet.” She held it out. “He's liable to miss it come morning.”

“Thanks.” He walked back to take it from her and automatically glanced at the edges of some bills that poked out of it.

“Don't worry,” she said with cynicism. “It's all there. I didn't take any.”

“I never said you did,” Trey replied evenly.

Her head lifted in a defiant toss, and she looked at him for the first time straight on. “You thought it.”

Trey stared at the swollen area on her left cheekbone. Its redness already showed signs of purpling into an ugly bruise. “What happened to your face?”

“Your friend.” There was a bitter and angry curl of her lip when she spoke. Again she turned at right angles, showing him only the unblemished side of her face. “It really finishes my chances of making any money tonight.”

“Are you saying Tank hit you?” Trey questioned in disbelief. “I don't buy that.”

“Why? Because he's your friend?” she jeered. “You men are all the same. You take one look at someone like me and see a green light to indulge in rough stuff.”

“You're wrong. In my book, no man ever has a good excuse to hit a woman. I don't care who she is.” The statement was calmly worded.

She studied him for an instant, a look of wonder stealing into her eyes. “You mean that, don't you.” Long, red-nailed fingers lightly touched his cheek. “I wish more guys like you visited me.” Before he could guess her intentions, she rose on her toes and planted a quick kiss on his cheek, then drew back. “Thanks.”

Her fingers again touched his cheek. “Sorry, I got lipstick on you.”

“No problem.” He pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his cheek, then tucked it back away. “Thanks for returning Tank's billfold.” With a nod in parting, Trey headed for the door.

“Your friend didn't hit me.” Her voice came after him. “He was getting undressed and grabbed me when he started to fall. We both went down, and I cracked my cheek against the foot rail.”