Calder Storm (33 page)

“I never would have been allowed to leave the ranch with little Jake. That's why I couldn't go back there—why I had to take my son and run while I had the chance.”

“You did the only thing you could do,” Max assured her. “We both know that. If you're worrying that Trey will show up—”

“He doesn't know I'm here. I never said anything in the note about where I was going.”

“By now he's bound to have guessed.” Max had no illusions about that. “It hardly matters, though. He'll never get within five feet of this house. I've hired extra guards to patrol the grounds and every access point on the Slash R. Your son will be perfectly safe here, and so will you.”

Surprised and confused, Sloan tipped her head to one side. “It almost sounds like you think Trey would try to kidnap Jake.”

“I wouldn't put it past him,” Max replied. “The Calders have been the law in their part of the world for a long time. They probably think they can act with impunity. That's why I insisted that you and your son come here. I knew I could protect you from anything they might try.”

“They aren't taking my son from me.” The battle light was in her eyes, born of the fierceness of a mother protecting her young. “I have every bit as much right to him as they do. If they think otherwise, they have a fight on their hands.”

“I'm glad to hear it. This is one time when you can't afford to be tenderhearted, because they aren't going to worry about what's fair,” Max warned, determined to feed her distrust of the Calders until it became an all-consuming thing. He doubted that this would be difficult to accomplish. “I have a top-notch divorce lawyer lined up for you, one of the best in the country. You're to call him in the morning. It's important that you remain the aggressor and keep the Calders reacting to your moves instead of making their own.” He handed Sloan a slip of paper with the lawyer's name and telephone number on it.

“I'll contact him first thing in the morning,” she promised.

M
orning sunlight flashed across the private jet's cockpit as the craft taxied to a stop near the FBO terminal. A member of the ground crew trotted up and set the wheel chocks in place.

Inside the aviation terminal, Quint Echohawk stood near the glass door that led to the concrete apron. High, hard cheekbones and the deep black of his hair spoke of his Sioux ancestry. The gray of his eyes was his father's gift to him, but the granite jaw and strong, straight nose came from the Calder side of his bloodline.

His sharp eyes watched as the plane's door swung open and the steps were lowered. First to descend them was the copilot, toting a dark leather carryall. Then Trey came down, a brisk impatience in his movement. With little more than a nod to the copilot, he took the bag from him and struck out for the terminal.

Quint tossed a quick glance at the silver-haired man dressed in a business suit and tie and seated at one of the tables, a closed briefcase at his side and an open laptop before him. “He's coming.” Then he gave the door a push, swinging it open to admit his younger cousin.

One look at the cold set of Trey's features advised Quint that
no innocence of youth remained, and the hard vitality that blazed in Trey's eyes now had a cynical twist to it.

“Is everything set?” Trey's quick question checked any words of regret Quint might have expressed.

“It is,” Quint confirmed and turned sideways to include the silver-haired man, who stepped forward, the laptop once again stowed in his briefcase. “This is Wyatt Breedon. You spoke to him on the phone last night.”

“Mr. Breedon.” Trey briefly gripped the man's hand, the abruptness of his handshake revealing more of the restless impatience that churned behind his cool exterior.

“Make it Wyatt,” the attorney replied. “That ‘mister' business just makes everything sound a little too formal, and that's not the tone we want to convey when we meet with Mrs. Grunwald. Were you able to get your hands on all those documents before you left this morning?”

“They're right here.” Trey patted the bag he carried.

“Good. I've got a car waiting for us.”

Trey started toward the exit, then paused to glance at Quint. “Are you coming with us?”

“No. I need to get back to the Cee Bar before Rutledge's people start wondering where I went,” Quint replied, then added, “I already told Wyatt, Rutledge has guards stationed all around the ranch, and more patrolling it. You can't get within an inch of his fences without somebody seeing you.”

“It doesn't surprise me.” There was no change in Trey's iron composure.

“It's always better to go in the front door, anyway.” Quint smiled encouragement. “If you need me, you only have to call.”

“Thanks.” But Trey knew this was one thing Quint could have no part in.

High atop the glass and granite building of his corporate headquarters, Max Rutledge sat in the darkened boardroom and watched the computer-generated presentation of the proposed expansion of the company's oil business. He paid little attention to
the droning voice that explained the numerous facts and figures that flashed on the screen. He was too busy calculating the net revenue increase that would result.

A door opened behind him, spilling light into the room and breaking his concentration. He flashed an irritated look at the brunette who attempted to tiptoe to his wheelchair.

“I thought I left instructions that I wasn't to he disturbed, Miss Bridges,” he muttered.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Rutledge.” She bent close to his chair, enveloping him in her expensive perfume. “But Deputy Sheriff Krause is on the phone. I told him you were in a meeting, but he insisted it was important that he speak with you at once.”

Rutledge went still for an instant while he considered the possible reasons for the deputy sherriff's call. “Have there been any calls from the ranch?”

“No sir.”

Her response did little to allay the new concern that needled him. “I'll take the call,” he told her, then signaled to his personal secretary and chief assistant. “Continue the presentation. I shouldn't be long. Make notes on anything that you feel should be brought to my attention.”

With the instructions issued, Max sent his wheelchair gliding toward the connecting door to his executive office. A remote button opened the door before he reached it, allowing him to wheel through without any pause in speed. He rolled straight to his corner desk and picked up the phone.

“This is Rutledge. What is it?”

“Yeah, it's Deputy Krause.” In the background was the whining roar of a passing semi. “I know I'm not supposed to call you at the office, but I figured you needed to know this.”

“Know what?” Rutledge snapped, annoyed by useless explanations.

“Anna Grunwald, the old battle-ax over in the child welfare office, called thirty or forty minutes ago and asked for a uniform to go along on a call she had to make. It sounded like a dog job,
so dispatch sent the rookie Hobbs. I heard him radio in a couple minutes ago. He's on his way to your ranch.”

“He didn't say who was with him?” Max questioned, quietly furious that he hadn't anticipated this move by Calder.

“No, and he didn't say why he was going there, either. I know Clyde and his wife's got some kids, but—”

“Right. You hear anything else, you let me know,” Max said and hung up, then pressed the intercom button. “Get Yancy Haynes on the line, and I want him now! Then alert the pilot that I want my helicopter ready to fly.”

He sat back in his chair and let his mind sort through the potential problems this could create while seeking the right counter-moves for them. As far as he was concerned, this setback was purely a temporary one.

The intercom buzzed. “Mr. Haynes is on line two, sir.”

Without acknowledging the message, he picked up the phone and punched the blinking line. “Yeah, Haynes, this is Rutledge—”

“How are you, Max? I phoned earlier to let you know that I spoke with Mrs. Calder, but I was told you—”

“Never mind that now,” he interrupted. “My helicopter is leaving to pick you up. I just learned that someone from child welfare is on the way to the ranch. More than likely, Calder is with her, and I don't want him alone with Sloan for one minute. Do you understand? Not for one minute!”

“I'll have to cancel—”

“I don't give a damn what you have to do. Just get there.” Rutledge slammed the phone onto its cradle.

 

Alone at the expansive dining room table, Sloan dipped a spoon into her soup and carried it to her lips. As tasteful as it was, she found little enjoyment in it. She laid the spoon down and picked up her bread knife to butter the crusty roll on her side plate.

Each soft clink of her silverware seemed loud in the room's crushing silence. Sloan realized how accustomed she had become
to the ebb-and-flow conversation that marked mealtimes at The Homestead. Eating alone was another of those things she would have to relearn, just like sleeping alone.

She took a bite of the fresh roll and chewed, then picked up the spoon and tried the soup again. Restraining a sigh, she dabbed at the corners of her mouth with the napkin, then spread it over her lap again.

The ever observant Vargas moved from his post near the doorway. “If the soup is not to your liking, senora, I will be happy to bring you something else.”

“It's fine,” she assured him and reclaimed the soupspoon.

From another room came the muted br-r-ring of the telephone. It was the third time in the last five minutes, which was a curiosity in itself, considering the phone rarely rang at all until Max came home. A hushed voice answered it. Sloan couldn't make out what was said, but she recognized Harold Bennett's voice.

As at previous times, the conversation was short. But at the end of it, Sloan heard the soft squeak of rubber-soled shoes approaching the formal dining room. She looked up as the male nurse appeared in the archway.

“Excuse me, but I thought I should inform you that we are about to have visitors.”

The note of caution in his voice produced a frisson of alarm. “Who?” Sloan asked.

“A representative from the local child protection office, accompanied by a sheriff's deputy and two other men. One of whom is your husband.”

“Trey is here?” The spoon clattered from her fingers as she stood up, mindless of the napkin that fluttered to the floor near her feet. “He's here to take my son, isn't he?”

Bennett raised a calming hand. “That isn't the purpose at all. This seems to be an official visit to verify your son's location as well as his safety and well-being. Nothing more. Your attorney, Mr. Haynes, has been informed of this, and he's already en route. He should be here momentarily. So you have nothing to be worried about.”

The initial wave of panic receded as Sloan took note of how ready Bennett had been with his explanation. “The phone calls that came—this is what they were about, isn't it?” she guessed.

“Security has been stalling them at the gate to give your attorney time to arrive. Unfortunately, all their delaying tactics have been exhausted and they had to let them through.”

The melodic chime of the doorbell served to confirm his statement. Her heart jumped at the sound, tension skittering along her nerves.

“That's them.” Sloan took a step toward the living room.

Bennett stopped her. “Vargas will answer the door. We need to gain every second we can to let your attorney get here. It's a fine line to walk—stalling without testing their patience too much.”

“I understand.” She glanced over her shoulder, surprised to find the soft-footed servant, Vargas, had already left the room.

“Everything will be fine,” Bennett assured her. “Mr. Rutledge has made sure that everything will be handled with no problems.”

Looking back, she could see Max's hand at work behind the scenes—the phone calls summoning the attorney, the stall tactics, all the while shielding her from unnecessary worry. It was a thoughtful gesture; at the same time, she would rather have known what was going on instead of learning about it at the last minute.

The faint murmur of voices came from the entryway. Stiffening, Sloan listened intently but failed to detect Trey's voice among them.

Vargas entered the dining room, carrying a small silver tray with a business card on it. He offered it to Sloan. “There is a lady at the door who wishes to speak with you, senora.”

She went through the motions of examining the card, but little registered other than the official insignia for the state of Texas and the woman's name, Anna Grunwald. “Thank you, Vargas,” she began, then saw the quick warning shake of Bennett's head. Sloan quickly altered what she had been about to say. “Please tell her I'll be right there.”

“
Si,
senora,” Vargas replied while Bennett nodded approval behind him.

When the servant passed him to retrace his steps to the entrance, Bennett murmured something to him in Spanish. Sloan had been kept ignorant of too much to allow this to pass without questioning him.

“What did you say to him?” she asked.

“I told him to walk slow, like an armadillo out for a midnight stroll.” There was a hint of self-satisfaction in the smile that touched his mouth, giving Sloan the impression he was pleased that he had come up with an excuse to gain more precious seconds.

Those seconds passed with excruciating slowness. Then Vargas reappeared. “I delivered your message, senora.”

“
Gracias,
” Sloan murmured in thanks.

Again Bennett signaled that she should wait. But the strain of that was already more than she cared to tolerate. Ignoring him, she walked out of the dining room, maintaining a steady but unhurried pace.

Approaching the spacious entryway, Sloan caught her first glimpse of Trey. She thought she had steeled herself for it, but she was surprised to feel that old familiar fluttering of her pulse. And she realized that love was an emotion slow to die, regardless of how badly it had been abused.

The minute Sloan walked into the entryway, a rather benign-looking, immaculately clad woman with gray hair stepped forward to meet her. “You must be Mrs. Calder.” Her grandmotherly smile matched her rosy cheeks. “I'm Anna Grunwald. I see the servant gave you my card.”

Sloan had forgotten she was still holding it. “Yes, he did. How do you do, Mrs. Grunwald?” Even as she extended a hand in greeting to the woman, her glance skipped to Trey and the silver-haired man in business suit and tie standing next to him.

Trey had his head tipped down, the muscles in his jaw and cheek tautly defined. There was an almost glacial coldness about him that froze her out. She felt the chill of it despite the distance between them.

The older man with him acknowledged Sloan's glance with a courteous nod, then stepped forward. “We haven't had the pleasure of meeting, Mrs. Calder. My name's Wyatt Breedon,” he declared in a drawl as thick and smooth as Texas oil. “Your husband engaged me to represent him.”