Calder Storm (27 page)

“That, I believe,” Trey replied and stepped into the hall, pulling the door closed behind him.

Johnny was just driving out of the lot in Tank's pickup when Trey emerged from The Oasis. He tooted the horn and pulled onto the highway. Trey soon followed.

On the plowed and salted highway, the going was relatively easy. Within a few miles, Trey had the red taillights of Tank's pickup in sight. The driving conditions deteriorated rapidly, though, when he turned onto the main ranch road. Blowing snow reduced the visibility to a matter of yards and created deep drifts that had to be negotiated with care. The last thirty-odd miles to the Triple C headquarters Trey covered at a crawl. It was close to midnight when he finally pulled up in front of The Homestead.

Upon entering the still and darkened house, Trey paused to remove his heavy jacket and snow-encrusted boots. In stocking feet, he made his way to the staircase without bothering to turn on a light. Only one tread creaked under his weight, but that was all that was needed.

A door opened as he neared the top step, and his mother's slim shape, clad in a pair of tailored pajamas, filled its gap. “Is Tank all right?”

“He's fine,” he assured her, then added wryly, “But he's bound to have the mother of all hangovers come morning.”

“Were the roads bad?”

He nodded. “This storm is trying to turn into a blizzard.”

“Let's hope not. Good night,” she murmured and faded back into her bedroom.

“Good night,” he echoed and crossed to the master suite.

All was dark in the sitting room, but Sloan had left on the bathroom light for him. Tired as he was, the thoughtful gesture brought a smile to the corners of his mouth. He glanced at the bed where Sloan lay on her side, the white of the pillowcase framing her dark head. The slight rise and fall of her breathing told him that she was sound asleep.

Not wanting to disturb her, Trey undressed quietly. But the instant he lifted the covers to slip into bed, she stirred, her head lifting and turning drowsily in his direction.

“You're home,” she murmured thickly.

“Yes.” He slid under the sheet, stretching out beside her.

She started to snuggle her head back into the pillow, but first she looked at the digital clock's lighted numbers. “It's already midnight. How come you're so late?”

“The snow started blowing, and that made it hard to see the road.” It pleased him that she was concerned, considering how cool she had acted toward him when he left. Maybe everything was going to be all right between them after all, in spite of this business with Rutledge. Rolling toward her, he reached under the covers for her. But the second his hand touched her rib cage, she flinched.

“Your hands are like ice,” she protested.

Trey searched but found nothing in her tone that suggested she was interested in warming him up. He withdrew his hand and leaned over instead to brush a kiss on her cheek.

“Go back to sleep,” he said.

She made an agreeing sound in her throat, the sleepy kind that said she was close to doing that very thing. Yet something drifted to her, something that shouldn't have been there. She tried to identify it, but it eluded her. Sloan let it go and drifted back to sleep.

It wasn't until after breakfast the next morning when she was straightening up their bedroom that any memory of it came back to her. It happened while she checking the pockets of Trey's jeans before tossing them in the clothes hamper and found the handkerchief with its lipstick smear. The scarlet color was definitely one she had never worn. That's when she recalled the cloying fragrance of some cheap perfume that had lingered in the air when Trey returned last night.

She stared at the handkerchief and thought of The Oasis, the so-called waitresses, and the bitter words she and Trey had exchanged before he left.

Trembling with anger, Sloan shoved the handkerchief into his pocket and put his jeans back where he'd left them.

A
long about midmorning, the snow stopped falling and the wind died to a murmur. Less then an hour later, the last of the clouds moved on, and the sun came out, creating a sharp contrast between the vivid blue of the sky and the pure white of the snow-covered ground.

The wide blades of the road graders ripped paths through the snow, digging deep enough to cast off dirt with the snow. The rattle of their tire chains and rumble of their engines competed with the roar of the tractors to shatter the winter stillness.

Activity was everywhere as water tanks were checked to make sure they were clear of ice and hay was hauled to livestock where it was needed. Shovelers were out in force, flinging snow in all directions, while children played in it, roly-poly figures squealing with glee whether hurling snowballs at each other or making angels in any blank white patch they found.

This was one Sunday on the Triple C when nobody rested except Sloan. She had little else to do except think about that lipstick-stained hankie in Trey's jeans pocket.

A light lunch was served at noontime instead of the usual Sunday feast. Jessy had made a run to South Camp with Laredo after learn
ing the snowfall had been much heavier there, marooning cattle in isolated areas, and Trey was off helping the ranch electrician with some downed power lines. Which left only Sloan, Cat, and Chase to eat by themselves.

“So much for decorating the Christmas tree this afternoon. It seems we'll have to put it off until one evening this week,” Cat said with regret, then explained to Sloan. “Decorating the tree is something we've always done as a family.”

“That's a nice tradition,” Sloan murmured, unable to summon much interest in it, not when her thoughts were otherwise occupied.

“When the children were small, they absolutely loved it. Unfortunately, most of the ornaments ended up on the lower branches. Remember how quick they were to notice when we tried to move a few of them higher, Dad?”

“They didn't like it all,” he recalled. “But you were just as bad when you were little.”

“Of course I was. After all, I was Daddy's little girl. All I had to do was pout and climb on your lap, and you'd see that I got anything I wanted.”

Sloan paid little attention to their conversation as she dipped her spoon into the hearty homemade stew and went through the motions of eating it. But her silence didn't go unobserved by Chase.

“You're very quiet, Sloan,” he remarked.

“Too busy eating, I guess. The stew's delicious,” she added in support of her half-truth.

“You didn't have a lot to say at breakfast this morning, either, I noticed.” His gaze traveled over her in an assessing fashion. “After last night, I imagine you feel uncomfortable with us. It's only natural that you would. But understand this—we respect your opinion about Max Rutledge. At the same time, we totally disagree with it,” he stated simply. “Now you know where we stand. By the same token, we know where you stand. Marriage into this family doesn't mean that you're obliged to share all of our opinions. The Lord knows, my late wife and I disagreed on several points. It
made for some heated arguments at times. Seeing how angry you got last night reminded me of that. My Maggie was full of spunk when she thought she was right.”

“And was she ever right?” Sloan asked with a touch of challenge.

“Sometimes,” Chase admitted, then smiled, showing her some of that old Calder charm, “And sometimes I was.” When Sloan laughed softly in spite of herself, Chase nodded in approval. “That's more like it.”

Sloan might have felt easier about their differences if she hadn't noticed that Cat failed to echo his comments. Instead, the older woman maintained a tight-lipped silence and kept her gaze averted.

“I'm glad you feel that way, Chase,” Sloan said, still finding it difficult to refer to him as “Grandfather.” “Because I certainly never meant to cause hard feelings.”

“This is one time when I think all of us hope that you are right about Max Rutledge.”

Sloan started to assert that she was, then chose a more conciliatory reply rather than stir up those waters again. “Thank you.”

Chase noticed it and winked. “You're learning.”

After lunch, Sloan helped clear the dirty dishes from the table while Chase hobbled into the den to await the coffee Cat would bring him. With so few dishes, cleanup was quickly accomplished.

Leaving Cat to fix Chase's coffee, Sloan headed upstairs to the rooms she shared with Trey. Almost the minute she stepped inside them, she was reminded of the hankie that had yet to be explained and the angry things they'd said to each other before Trey went into Blue Moon. When the walls started to close in, Sloan rummaged through her wardrobe for her winter boots, a woolen scarf, and mittens to go with her heavy parka.

Bundled against the cold, she made her way down the steps. As she reached the landing, she heard voices coming from the den, but it was the sound of Cat's voice, edged with impatience, that prompted Sloan to pause and listen.

“I wish I could be as open-minded as you are, Dad,” Cat said.
“But I can't forget the way Rutledge forced Dallas to provide him with information about what was going on at the Cee Bar. For all we know, Sloan could be his plant here.”

“I'm aware of that,” Chase replied.

For a stunned moment, Sloan stood motionless. Then the sickening realization washed over her. All Chase's friendly talk at the table was nothing more than an attempt on his part to lull her into thinking the family no longer regarded her presence as suspect, when the opposite was true.

All her life Sloan had felt like an outsider, but the feeling had never been as strong as it was at this moment.

Abruptly, she turned and went back up the steps, angry with herself for being so foolish as to think she might have found a place where she actually belonged. It was obvious the Calders only tolerated her because she married Trey—and because of the baby she carried. But this baby was the one thing that was hers.

Sundown came in an explosion of color that tinted the snow-scape with pastel shades of coral and magenta. But Sloan never noticed. She stood at the window and watched for Trey's return to The Homestead. The lavender of dusk was creeping across the land when his pickup finally pulled up to the house. Sloan moved away from the window before he climbed out of the cab.

She heard the faint slam of the pickup door, and in her mind she tracked his progress up the front steps and across the columned veranda to the door, then visualized him shedding his coat and hat in the entry hall and pausing outside the den to exchange a few words with his grandfather before continuing to the staircase. She was only a minute or two off in her estimation when he walked into the sitting room.

Those hard, angular cheekbones of his were ruddy from winter's cold temperatures. A touch of the same color shaded the end of his strong nose. His dark gaze was quick to locate her. There was something intimate in the way his glance touched her that made her throat ache with longing for those early days of the marriage when everything had seemed so right.

“You look cold,” she remarked.

“Frozen is more like it,” Trey corrected dryly, a betraying stiffness in the movement of his lips that lent credence to his words.

“Why don't you change out of those clothes,” Sloan suggested. “I'm not sure you'll have time for a shower before dinner.”

“Probably not,” Trey agreed, heading for the bedroom.

Sloan waited until he passed her, then followed him into the room. Sticking to her carefully planned script, she said, “You can put on those jeans from last night. I left them on the chair for you.”

As Trey scooped them up, he noticed the faint chalky line near the leg hems. “It's the dirty clothes basket for this pair. Looks like I got road salt on them.”

When he turned toward the hamper, Sloan said quickly, “Better check the pockets first.”

The first pocket he checked was empty. It was the second that contained the handkerchief. Sloan watched his expression, but he seemed oblivious to the red smears on it as he dipped a hand in first one hip pocket then the other.

“Is that blood on your hankie?” Sloan silently applauded herself for how unsuspecting she sounded.

Trey checked the stain and shook his head. “No, it looks like lipstick.”

“It can't be mine. I never wear red.”

“You know what? I'll bet it belongs to that redhead at The Oasis,” Trey said with dawning recollection.

“And what's your explanation for her lipstick being on your hankie?”

Quick to note the undertone of righteous anger in her question, Trey shot her a quick look, puzzled and a little wary. “It's not what you're thinking,” he said. “Tank was with her. She gave me a peck on the cheek. That's all.”

“Of course.” A cool skepticism coated her voice.

“You've decided that I cheated on you, haven't you?” Trey demanded, his voice low and heavy.

“You wouldn't be the first man to look for sex outside marriage.” Sloan made it a flat condemnation of his gender. “It's too bad I woke up when you got home, isn't it? Otherwise I wouldn't have known how late it was.”

“I told you the roads were bad—” He started to say more, then checked himself. “Johnny would tell you the same thing, but you'd probably think he was only saying it to cover for me, wouldn't you?”

“Well, wouldn't he?” Sloan countered with some defiance.

“You want to believe that, don't you? You want to believe all of it. Why?” The frown he wore was dark with confusion.

Pride lifted her head, her chin tilting at a mutinous angle. “I'm not one of those women who will turn a blind eye to her husband's philandering ways.”

“You don't happen to be married to a man who goes in for that,” he stated curtly. “You're going to believe what you want. But that happens to be the truth.”

His words were too close to the ones she had used when addressing his family. Which made it impossible for Sloan to dismiss them. As a consequence, she had her first doubts about the conclusions she had drawn.

“Maybe.” She hesitated, still warring with her pride. “Maybe I was wrong.”

He stared at her for a tick of seconds, his features all tight and hard. Then his broad chest lifted with the deep breath he inhaled. Briefly, he tipped his head down and away from her, letting the indrawn breath rush from him in a long sigh. When he looked at her again, the hardness was gone from his face.

Unhurried, Trey moved to her. “I'm told women in your condition can be highly emotional at times. In this case, I think it's your imagination that became overactive.”

“Just as yours is about Uncle Max,” Sloan was quick to retort.

“Now, wait a minute. Before we start another argument, let's clear up this one first.” His hands settled on the rounded points of her shoulders, a gentleness in their touch. “And I'll begin by saying
there's nothing and no woman out there better than what I have right here with you. I know, because I looked before I ever met you.”

“But you were angry with me last night,” Sloan reminded him, unable to let go of all her suspicions.

“That doesn't mean anything. You're the only woman for me, Sloan. I knew it the first time I saw you. We can have all the arguments in the world and it won't change that.”

With only the slightest pressure, he drew her to him, looking down at her face when she tipped it up. There was no smile on her lips, but they were parted and waiting. When he kissed her, Trey felt again that rush of inexpressible tenderness through him. He had to know if it was the same for her. But when he lifted his head, the pull of her hands brought it back down, and he met her lips again. Somehow they never got around to arguing about Max Rutledge that night.

 

Feet propped on the desk, Donovan rocked back in the old office chair, ignoring its protesting squeaks. One muscled arm was raised over his head, holding the phone to his ear.

“I've gotta hand it to you, Max. The word spread like you said it would. What's it been—a little over two weeks since I planted the rumor? Already I have customers whispering to me about the marital problems Trey Calder and his wife are having. For the most part, everybody's putting the blame on the wife, either claiming that she can't stand the cold and isolation of Montana after living in Hawaii or else that she married him for the Calder money but hasn't been able to get her hands on it.”

“We can't let that continue,” Rutledge stated. “You'd better arrange for one of your girls to receive a very expensive piece of jewelry. And make sure it gets known that it's from someone she met on the sly—not at your place where he would be recognized. The way people's minds work, it won't take them long before they'll link one rumor to the other and conclude that Trey's got himself a mistress on the side.”

“Consider it done,” Donovan replied. “By the way, my anonymous phone calls are beginning to get to her. I've been careful not to call too often, just once or twice a week. The last time, though, she was really mad, demanding to know who was calling and why I didn't speak.” He gloated a little. “I swear, nothing makes a woman more suspicious of her husband than to answer a phone, hear music and noises in the background, and have the caller hang up.”