Calder Storm (39 page)

“Sloan's in Blue Moon. She has Jake with her—and Tara.” He shot a questioning glance at his mother. “Are the keys in the Suburban?”

“Under the seat,” she confirmed.

“I'll ride along,” Laredo said, “just in case you need somebody to watch your back.”

 

The whine of a semi coming from the south invaded the natural stillness, but Donovan wasn't concerned about the approaching vehicle. All his attention was on the man walking along the highway. He remained motionless, his back pressed tightly against the rear wall of the coal mine's former operations office. His own vehicle was parked on the shoulder of the highway, its hood raised to indicate mechanical trouble. Any passing motorist seeing it wouldn't think twice about why it was there or where the driver was.

Donovan counted himself lucky that no one else heard the plane land. Such an occurrence was just enough of an oddity to draw the curious. With the abandoned airstrip a mile from town, the few residents of Blue Moon had evidently mistaken the sound of its engines for highway traffic. It suited Donovan that he was alone there, and he suspected that was exactly the way Rutledge wanted it.

Satisfied that man from the flight crew was far enough away that a backward glance from any of them was unlikely to detect
any movement, Donovan slipped around the corner of the building and worked his way to the front. Briefly, he considered approaching the old hangar area where the plane was parked, but there was too much open ground to cross. Until Rutledge arrived, Donovan didn't intend to show himself unless it became necessary.

He made a quick scan of the sky, but there was no sign of another plane yet. Halting at the building corner, he peered around it. The door to the plane's cabin was latched open, its steps lowered, but he failed to spot any movement, either inside the plane or out.

Catching the sound of a vehicle on the highway, he crouched low, making himself less visible from the highway, and automatically slipped a hand over the gun in his pocket. But the pickup zipped on past the padlocked entrance without slowing.

Donovan relaxed, then tensed again when he thought he heard someone talking. It was nothing distinct, yet its pitch suggested the voice of a woman. He stole another look at the plane, thinking one of them might have stepped outside, but there was no one in sight.

Logic told him that the plane was too far away for him to be picking up conversation from inside it. Same with the hangar. Which made the office building itself the most likely location.

Keeping a cautious eye on the aircraft, Donovan inched around the corner to a dusty window and peeked in. One look confirmed the presence of both women. Unwilling to risk being seen himself, he didn't chance another look. Instead he acted on the assumption they had the baby with them and backed away from the window.

As he slipped around the corner, he spotted an incoming plane low in the sky. The winds aloft carried the sound of it away from the strip. A check of the highway verified the absence of any traffic, coming or going.

The drone of throttled engines reached Donovan as the sleek aircraft neared the end of the landing strip. The wheels touched down with a short, skidding squeal. Then the craft was rolling smoothly while the engines roared in a reverse thrust.

A short distance from him, the door to the office opened. “It was a plane I heard, Sloan,” a woman's voice declared. “It just landed. I'll bet they flew in that part we need.” As if drawn by the sight of the aircraft, Tara Calder stepped across the threshold to watch it, a hand lifted to shade her eyes from the sun's glare. Donovan immediately walked forward. She swung to face him, all stiff and cool with challenge and said, “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you, Mrs. Calder,” Donovan apologized smoothly. “The name's Donovan. We met last year. I own The Oasis, just up the road.”

“I remember now.” But there was no friendliness in her look.

“I heard a plane land a little while ago and got curious. What's going on? Are you planning to open the pit again?” The questions were a means to keep her focus on him, not the plane taxiing closer.

“No, I'm not.”

“That's a shame. It would have been good for my business if it was up and operating again. The place doesn't look like it's suffered much from standing empty.” Feigning a casual interest, he poked his head around to glance inside. “Why, Mrs. Calder! I didn't realize you were here.”

Sloan looked up with an almost guilty start. That's when Donavon noticed, in addition to holding a baby, she was trying to place a phone call.

“I see you have that new baby of yours with you.” Even as he spoke he was slipping past Tara into the building, moving with an easy swiftness that prevented Tara from reacting in time to block him. He walked straight to Sloan while she worked feverishly to punch in the last of the numbers. “It's a little boy, isn't it?”

Deliberately, he bumped her arm when he reached to push the blanket away from the infant's face. There was just enough force in it to knock the phone from her hand. When it clattered to the floor, he bent to pick it up.

“That was clumsy of me. I'm sorry.” Donovan held the phone
to his ear as if checking to make certain it still worked. “A busy signal,” he lied and clicked it off before handing it back to her. “At least I didn't break it.” Again he switched his attention to the infant. “He's a healthy-looking little guy. What's his name?”

It was Tara who answered. “It's Jacob,” she asserted, moving to Sloan's side.

“Jake. That's a good, strong name for a boy. Is it a family name?” His questions were nothing more than a ploy to distract them from the aircraft outside. Donovan sensed that Sloan had guessed that. Yet she seemed uncertain what to do about it, except to keep darting glances behind him.

“No, it isn't.” Sloan added nothing more that could invite further conversation.

Undeterred, he directed his question to Tara. “Do you often land here when you fly in?”

“No. We had a small mechanical problem. The crew is taking care of it now.”

“Do you need a ride into town? I'd be happy to give you a lift.

“No, thanks,” Sloan refused, “my husband's on his way to take us home. Is that what you wanted to know, Mr. Donovan?”

“I don't know what you mean, but I'm glad to hear you aren't stranded.” Yet the only thought in his mind was the need to get this vital piece of information to Rutledge. And right away. “Since it seems you have everything under control, I won't bother you anymore. That's a good-looking baby you've got, Mrs. Calder,” he said and backed to the door.

The muscled bulk of his torso briefly filled the doorframe, blocking the light. Then he was outside and moving away.

“There should be something you can push to call the last number dialed.” Sloan hurriedly shoved the cell phone into Tara's hand, an urgency in her voice and action.

Tara stared at the foreign object she held. “Who am I trying to call?”

“Trey. Hurry,” Sloan urged and started toward the door to see which way Donovan had gone, not trusting that he had actually
left. “Oh my God.” The words came out in a strangled murmur when she saw the familiar sight of Max in his wheelchair. At the moment he was halted in conversation with Donovan. In a burst of near panic, she turned to warn Tara. “It's Max. He's here.”

“Max? You mean that was his plane?” Her expression mirrored Sloan's initial shock “But how did he know we were here?”

“That isn't important now. Is there another way out?” Sloan looked around with a desperation that had her wrapping both arms around her son, gathering him close.

“There's a back door, but I wouldn't bother to try for it,” Tara replied, turning all shrewd and cool. “Even if we did make it out, we'd never get to the plane. That Donovan character would stop us. Obviously, he's Max's man here.”

“We could try for the road,” Sloan reasoned, following Tara's lead in fighting down her panic. “Trey's on his way and—”

“Exactly,” Tara stated. “All we need to do is stall Max until he arrives. After all, he isn't about to drag you out of here by force. Between my flight crew and his, there are too many witnesses.”

“You're right.” With that realization, Sloan felt an iron calm settle through her. The only fear that remained was the kind that heightened the senses.

W
hen Sloan caught the telltale whisper of slender wheels rolling across the gritty concrete outside, she turned to face the door. There was Donovan, walking behind Max's chair. When they reached the door's raised threshold, it was his hands that rocked the chair over it and into the building.

“Max, how on earth did you know we were here?” Tara declared in feigned amazement.

But Max never looked her way, his dark gaze fastening itself on Sloan. “Thank God, I finally caught up with you, Sloan,” he declared, his wide shoulders sagging in a show of relief. “What are you doing here? Don't you realize that if the Calders find out you're here, they'll take your son from you?”

“What else could I do?” Sloan lifted her chin in defiance. “You were just using me—and Jake—to get even with the Calders.”

“What nonsense is this?” Max frowned, looking properly stunned. “I've done everything I know to help you keep your son. I thought that's why you came to me.”

“Is that what you were doing when I overheard you talking on the phone the other night—I assume, to Mr. Donovan here?” she challenged.

“You were listening.” He sighed, in regret. “That's unfortunate. It's better if you know nothing about such things.”

“What things?” Sloan demanded, cold with anger. “The lies you had Donovan spread about Trey having an affair? Or the phone calls he obviously made to convince me it was true?”

His frown deepened in confusion. “You're the one who told me that your husband was seeing another woman. I had nothing to do with that.”

“Just like you'll have nothing to do with Trey being caught with drugs, I suppose,” Sloan taunted.

“Like I said earlier, it's unfortunate you overheard that,” Max admitted with a contrite look. “But I don't think you realize what an ugly thing a custody battle can become. The Calders already have people digging to uncover anything they can about you that might be twisted into something damaging. What they can't find, they'll manufacture and find somebody who'll swear to it. What you overheard about the drugs was just my way of striking first. I admit that. But this suggestion that I had anything to do with your husband's affair is false. You must have misunderstood something I said.”

“So you're saying that I made it all up?” Sloan knew better, but she stopped short of calling him a liar. Time was what she needed, and little of that could be gained through open hostility.

“It's the only logical explanation,” Max replied. “Considering the strain you've been under, it's understandable. What with the anxiety of being a new mother, the loss of sleep from all the nighttime feedings, and your fears about losing custody of your son, you've been a bundle of nerves lately. Is it any wonder your mind has started playing tricks on you? There's only so much anyone can take before something snaps.”

Fear shivered through her at the convincing picture he had painted of an unstable woman in need of professional care, too distraught to know what she was doing. Worse, she had established the pattern herself, fleeing first to Texas, then running again.

“I'm not your enemy, Sloan,” Max continued in his calm and
reasonable tone. “Haven't I looked after you all your life? And I always will. Deep down, you know that. The danger isn't from me. It comes from the Calders. But don't take my word for it. Ask Tara. She can tell you the deplorable way she was treated by them—despised by the family, cheated on by her husband. You must have heard the way they talk about her. Believe me, she has no love for them, either.”

There was no mistaking the certainty in Max's voice that he had an ally in Tara. Stunned, Sloan looked at her in disbelief. “Are you in this with him?”

“Don't be ridiculous.” When Tara made a reassuring move toward her, Sloan instinctively recoiled from her reaching hand. “What is the matter with you, Sloan?”

“Careful.” Max raised a cautioning hand to check Tara. “No one is trying is trying to hurt you, Sloan. We're here to help.”

“There is nothing wrong with me,” she insisted, more forcefully than she intended. “You make it sound like I'm crazy. I'm not.”

“Of course you aren't,” Max soothed. “You'll be fine. We just need to get you and the baby home. My plane's right outside. Come on. Let me take you home.”

 

As the Suburban barreled north along the highway, Trey kept his gaze fixed on the empty road ahead and a heavy foot on the accelerator. Laredo lounged in the passenger seat, a relaxed looseness about him that was at odds with the vigilance of his gaze.

A thick silence lay between the two men, as it had since Trey had filled Laredo in on the few details of Sloan's phone call. Laredo had asked only a few questions and offered no speculation on what awaited them when they reached their destination. Neither had Trey. Privately, though, Trey thought there was a fifty-fifty chance Sloan had told him the truth.

The roofs of Blue Moon jutted into the skyline. Trey reduced the Suburban's speed at the sight of them and started watching for the entrance road to the abandoned pit mine. He spotted it about
the same time he noticed a vehicle parked beyond it on the shoulder, its hood raised. The longer he studied it, the heavier the certainty settled in his gut.

Braking, he made the turn onto the mine road and drove all the way to the padlocked gate. With an economy of movement, Trey climbed out of the vehicle, walked to the back, opened its rear door, and removed a rifle and box of shells from its trunk.

“It looks like it might be a trap after all,” he told Laredo and nodded in the direction of the vehicle parked up the road. “That looks like the car Donovan usually drives.”

“I wondered if you noticed it,” Laredo drawled, “Or if you even knew what he used for wheels.”

“You did warn me to check the shadows,” Trey reminded him with a slightly grim smile and finished loading the rifle. “Sorry I can't supply you with a rifle, but we only keep one in the Suburban.”

“No problem. I carry a friend in my boot.”

“Ready?”

Laredo nodded. “Let's do it.”

“Tara said they were at the old mine office. We'll make that our first stop.”

Ignoring the padlocked gate, they slipped under the side fence and angled toward the office, skirting the dirt road. Halfway there, Laredo signaled with two fingers and pointed to the two planes parked some distance apart. Trey nodded in response, aware of the new questions they raised and recognizing that he had to be ready for anything.

As they neared the building, he saw that its front door stood open. Immediately he altered his course, steering clear of its field of vision to approach the building from the side. Before he reached the shelter of its wall, he caught the sound of voices coming from inside. The alert tilt of Laredo's head told Trey that he heard them as well.

“You're frightened, Sloan. Too frightened to know what you're doing.”

Laredo caught his eye and mouthed the name Rutledge. Trey
nodded, recognizing the man's voice. But who else was in there with him? Sloan for sure, probably Tara and Donovan. He held up four fingers, then added a thumb and shrugged his uncertainty, Laredo nodded agreement and inched closer to him.

“If this place was built to code,” he said in a low murmur, “it has to have two exits. I'll slip in the back way. Give me five minutes.”

Trey didn't ask how Laredo intended to deal with a door that was bound to be locked. A man resourceful enough to carry a gun in his boot wouldn't be stopped by a lock. Trey watched him slip along the outer wall, barely rustling the weeds growing up against it, then inched closer to the corner himself, trying to practice the same brand of stealth.

“I'm not getting on that plane with you, Max, and that's final.” Sloan's voice rang out, sharp and determined.

But it was the force of her assertion that raced through Trey like a fire, erasing all doubt about where she stood. He was eager now for the confrontation that was to come as he realized just how much was riding on it.

“You don't seem to understand the danger you're in,” Rutledge insisted with his first show of anger. “You don't think the Calders are going to welcome you back with open arms, do you? Sure, they want the baby. But not you. If you set foot on that ranch, the chances are you'll never leave it. My God, Sloan, these people have a man on their payroll who's wanted for murder. That's their answer to everything. Violence. Why else would they have him?”

“Am I supposed to believe that simply because you say so?” Sloan was too angry to care what she was saying. “I know you wish that I'd be that stupid, but I'm not.”

“You think that's a lie, do you?” Rutledge jerked a set of folded papers from inside his suit jacket and thrust it to her. “Read it yourself. Among his many aliases is the name Laredo Smith.”

“The hell you say.” Donovan grinned broadly while Sloan stared at the papers with a sudden feeling of dread. “I knew the minute I laid eyes on him, he could be lethal.”

“Take it.” Max shook the papers at her. “And tell me you can still trust the Calders after you read this. Or maybe you just don't have the stomach for the truth.”

It was like the jab of a spur to her pride. Reacting to it, Sloan snatched the papers from his outstretched hand and moved away, keeping Jake tightly cradled in one arm. One-handed, she shook open the folds. A quick skim of the first page confirmed everything Max had said and more.

“This is talking about something that happened over twenty years ago—before he ever came to the Triple C.” It was hardly justification. Yet it was the only argument Sloan could find.

“Doesn't it make you wonder why they would harbor a fugitive all this time?” Rutledge challenged with a certain smugness.

“Not as much as it makes me wonder if this document is real, or something you made up to trick me.” Sloan countered. “It would be rather simple for someone with your money. You can buy anything. Even a lie. Which is what this probably is.”

“Let me see them.” Curious, Tara reached to claim the papers.

Sloan immediately held them behind her back. “This piece of art is something Max gave
me.
”

“Stop it, Sloan,” Tara snapped with impatience. “I know something about forgeries. Let me look at them.”

Distracted by Tara's persistence, Sloan failed to notice when Donovan bent toward Rutledge and said in an undertone. “We may have company. I caught a glimpse of shadow outside.”

In response, Rutledge looked directly at Sloan. “We have no more time to waste arguing about this. I'll ask you one more time—are you going to get on that plane or not?”

Sloan answered with equal sharpness. “Never!”

“So be it.” Rutledge glanced sideways at Donovan and nodded.

His hand moved to the controls of his wheelchair, sending it into a pivoting turn toward the open door. At the same instant she was taking in that sight, Sloan saw Donovan coming toward her.

“I told you I'm not getting on that plane.” Instinctively, she drew back from him.

“Stay here if that's what you want.” His broad, muscled shoulders moved in a seemingly careless shrug. In the next instant, the shrug became a precursor of a lightning-fast movement that wrested the baby from her grasp. “But your kid's going on that plane.”

“No!” With that strangled outcry, Sloan threw herself at him. But with one back-handed sweep of his arm, Donovan flung her aside. The impetus of the blow sent her sprawling to the floor. Sloan fell hard, pain shooting through her knee, hip, and shoulder. Fighting through it, she struggled to rise as a frantic Tara sank to the floor beside her, hands reaching in a helpless need to do something.

“Sloan. Are you hurt?”

Deaf to everything but the uncertain whimpers coming from her son, Sloan scrambled awkwardly to her feet, pressing a hand to her sore hip. Only vaguely was she aware of the painful tingling in her knee.

Rutledge observed the first hobbling step she took after Donovan said, “Let's go. She'll follow.”

Five minutes hadn't passed yet, but time had run out. Trey couldn't wait for Laredo to get into position. He lunged into the doorway, blocking the exit, and snapped the rifle to his shoulder, cocking the hammer and sighting down the barrel at Rutledge.

“You better hold it,” Trey warned. “You're not going anywhere.”

In a fraction of a second, his senses registered a dozen details at once—the building's dusty and closed-up odors, the sight of Rutledge in his wheelchair, with the muscle-bound Donovan off to the side, a small fist waving from the blanket-wrapped bundle clutched in one arm, the gasping call of his name by Sloan, the feel of the cold steel in his hand, and the heavy, solid thud of his own heartbeat.

Donovan backed up a step, his glance flicking to the rifle in Trey's grip. Rutledge reversed his chair by a foot as well, then stopped, his hard gaze boring into Trey.

“You're bluffing, Calder,” Rutledge mocked. “You're not going to shoot—not in such close quarters where even a slight miss could mean it's your son who might get hit.”