This Calder Sky (35 page)

At dawn the next morning, three parties of riders separated to patrol the long fence line on the northern boundary of the ranch. Chase rode with Nate's group. Every man had a loaded rifle in his scabbard with orders to use it if he had to.

Chase wondered if he'd guessed wrong. Maybe there were other ranchers on his west boundary, or to the south, who were in worse shape. But the Triple C range in those areas had been fairly well grazed over, and water was scarce. Every instinct insisted that if he was going to have trouble with his neighbors, it would be here on the north range, where there was plenty. This was where the trouble would come—if there was going to be any, which he hoped to God there wouldn't be. He wanted to be wrong.

It was mid-morning when they heard the distant
bellow of cattle and rode toward the sound. As they came within sight of the combined herds streaming through the gap in the fence where the wires had been cut, Chase reined in his horse. It danced impatiently under him, tossing its head and pulling at the bit.

He reached down and removed his rifle from its scabbard, his action signaling the other riders to do the same.

The riders fanned out behind him, with Nate moving onto his right side. Chase sent his horse forward at an extended trot while the others followed. His gaze skimmed over the gaunt-ribbed cattle, noting the mixed brands. Then he picked out the respective owners of the ranches, grouping together in a trio to confront him—MacGruder, Hensen of the Circle Six, and Culley O'Rourke. He couldn't help noticing how skinny and hollow-eyed Culley was, but the gleam of hatred was in the green eyes—a look that reminded him of Maggie. But he couldn't afford that memory to soften him, so he blocked it out.

He and his riders stopped their horses in front of the cattle, slowing down the flow through the fence and scattering the cows. The animals immediately started tearing hungrily at the grass.

“You're trespassing on private property,” Chase stated. “Turn your cattle around and drive them back on your own side of the fence.”

“You got plenty of grass here.” It was Culley who challenged him. “And water, too. Our cattle are starving. We need this grass and you don't.”

There was no use in trying to reason with a cattleman who was watching his herd getting weaker every day. He didn't want to hear about the need the Triple C would soon have for this grass. He didn't care about the Triple C—only about saving his own cows.

“I'll give you one minute to turn the herd,” Chase warned.

“Or you'll do what?” Culley taunted and glanced at the drawn rifles. “Start shooting at us?”

“No.” Chase felt the curious glance that Nate darted at him. “I don't need to shoot at you. You brought your cattle here to save them. If you want them alive, you'll move them off Calder land.”

“Are you threatening to shoot our cattle?” Bill MacGruder sat straighter in his saddle, frowning in disbelief.

“If you don't start turning them in—thirty seconds, I will,” he stated and watched the three ranchers look at one another.

Then Culley scoffed, “You're bluffing.”

Chase said no more, shifting with his horse as it stomped at a biting fly. Mentally, he counted off the seconds while he watched the uncertainty on the faces of the three men. Finally, he lifted his rifle and sighted it on a white-faced cow. He squeezed the trigger and didn't wait to see it drop as he pumped another shell into the chamber and dropped a second animal. The other cows around the downed pair scattered in a brief panic at the explosion of shots.

“You murdering bastard!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Chase saw the horse and rider charging him and swung his horse in a rearing spin to avoid it. He glimpsed the spilling rage in Culley O'Rourke's expression as he tried to grab for the rifle. Chase reversed the direction of the barrel and clipped his attacker on the jaw with the rifle butt. The blow knocked Culley out of the saddle. Behind him, he heard the lever action of rifles as his men turned their muzzles threateningly onto the remaining two ranchers, whose hands had gone down for the rifles they were carrying in their scabbards.

“Are you going to turn the herd?” he challenged them, aware that Culley was groggily pushing himself to his feet.

“Dammit, Chase! These animals are starving!” MacGruder appealed to him.

“Nate, I want ten more head to join those two on the ground,” Chase ordered without looking at the foreman. “And ten more for every minute they wait.”

A mixture of shock and outrage entered the expressions of the two ranchers as there was the immediate crack of a rifle, followed by the grunt of a falling animal. Chase counted off the shots in his head while the dazed ranchers watched their cows fall one by one. Even Culley was staring in grief-stricken shock.

“You can't do this!” Hensen protested when silence finally followed the tenth shot.

“Turn them.”

The fools continued to hesitate until they heard the click of a rifle bullet being levered into the chamber. “All right!” Bill MacGruder shouted and raised a hand for them to hold their fire. “We'll drive them back. For God's sake, don't shoot anymore!”

Culley glared his hatred as he caught the trailing reins of his horse and remounted to join his partners. They moved quickly to bunch the herd and push it back through the gap in the fence while Chase and his men watched.

Nate eyed the man sitting so tall in the saddle, unyielding in the way of the Calders, and murmured in a voice that no one heard but himself. “The king is dead. Long live the king.”

Chase climbed the porch steps of The Homestead and paused to look over his shoulder. Pride unconsciously registered as his gaze swept the headquarters of the Triple C. Running the ranch had become second nature to him in the five years since his father's death. During the first few months, he had been tested at every turn. Concealing whatever self-doubts he had, he had faced every challenge and the Triple C was intact, and operating smoothly and efficiently. This was the job he'd been born and bred to do, and he did it well. If some regarded his pride as arrogance, then it was an earned arrogance.

He squared around and walked to the front door, his measured strides sounding loud on the wooden floor of the porch. Swinging the door closed after he had crossed the threshold, he started directly toward the den.

“Chase?” Ruth Haskell's hesitant voice made him pause and turn to glance in the direction of the dining room. After his father's death, she had begun to show
her age. There always seemed to be a haunting sadness lurking in the shadows of her blue eyes.

But it wasn't Ruth his gaze fell on. There was a moment when Chase thought he was seeing a ghost as he stared at the pale-faced man standing beside her. He was holding his cowboy hat nervously in front of him, exposing curly, dark blond hair. There was hardly any light shining in the blue eyes, certainly not the dancing gleam Chase remembered.

“Hello, Chase.” The voice was subdued and hesitant, unsure of his welcome.

But it was Buck's voice. For a fleeting moment, Chase was consumed by the urge to cross the space that separated them and clasp the hand of his long-lost friend. Then he remembered the circumstances under which Buck had left the ranch, and he remained where he was.

“Hello, Buck. I didn't know you were out.” His voice was as expressionless as his face. His gaze slid to Ruth, noting the way she was biting her lip. She had known, he realized, and simply omitted mentioning it to him.

“They released me yesterday, reduced my sentence on account of ‘good behavior,' if you can imagine that!” His laugh rang hollow and Buck lowered his head, nervously fingering his hat. “I know to say ‘I'm sorry' probably doesn't mean much, Chase, but I want you to know I am.”

The line of his mouth thinned as Chase pressed his lips together. He disliked seeing Buck humble himself and was glad when Ruth slipped out of the room to leave them alone. Since he didn't know what to say, he remained silent while Buck walked awkwardly into the entryway.

“There's nothing I can say that will excuse the way I behaved toward you,” Buck continued, “or make you forget the things I said. When it hit me that I was going
to jail for what I'd done, I panicked. Have you ever been scared, Chase—I mean really scared, all the way down to your toes? I was like an animal caught in a trap that turns and starts biting himself.” He paused and sighed heavily, finally lifting his gaze to meet Chase's unwavering eyes. “I had a lot of time to think about all this in prison. I just wanted you to know how I feel. And I was sorry to hear about your dad. I know it must have been rough on you. The two of you were always close. Well”—he fingered his hat again and smiled stiffly—“I won't keep you. I know you're busy, so … I'll be going.”

There was a conflict raging inside Chase as he watched Buck start to turn away. Half of him was saying to let him go, but the stronger side was remembering the good times.

“How about a drink?” he asked and smiled for the first time when he saw the old brightness return to Buck's eyes.

“I'd love one,” Buck declared. “I haven't tasted good whiskey in almost ten years.”

“We'll correct that.” His hand rested naturally on his old friend's shoulder as they entered the den together.

“The place hasn't changed much.” Buck glanced around the room as Chase walked to the bar to pour each of them a drink. “Everything is the way I remember it.”

“What do you plan to do now?” Chase handed him a glass.

“Find me some work. You don't happen to know someone who might be willing to hire a rusty cowboy who's been out of circulation for a few years, do you?” he mocked with some of his old sparkle.

Chase stared at his glass for a minute, the conflict rising again. “I might.”

“Hey! I wasn't hitting you up for work,” Buck insisted quickly. “I mean—”

Chase slanted him a sideways glance, measuring him. “Do you mean you don't want to work for the Triple C again?”

“I'd be lying if I said I didn't.” There was a yearning quality in his sighing answer. Buck swirled the liquor in his glass and watched the changing amber shades. “Coming home is all I've dreamed about for ten years.” He shook his head in silent regret. “But it isn't right for me to expect you to give me a second chance.”

“I'll decide that, Buck. And if I discover that you don't deserve it, I will personally kick you out on your ear.”

“Hey, I'd paint sheds, clean out barns, repair windmills—whatever you say,” Buck promised. “You don't even have to put me on a horse until I prove myself again.”

“Sorry.” Chase shook his head. “I'm only interested in hiring Buck Haskell, the cowboy.”

“I'll work longer and harder than anybody you ever saw. I promise you that, Chase.”

By the end of the second month, Chase believed him. Buck was the first one out every morning and the last one in at night. There were times when he did the work of two people. He didn't go into Jake's and rarely drank, except for a cold beer or a glass of whiskey with Chase if he happened to be at The Homestead in the evenings, which wasn't often. From all Chase had been able to gather, he didn't spend his money wildly, but saved some of each paycheck. And he didn't try to pick up their friendship where it had left off, either, as if he knew he had to earn Chase's trust before the old bonds could be established once more.

Elizabeth toyed with her appetizer, broiled grapefruit sweetened with a mixture of sugar and Galliano
liqueur, usually something she enjoyed very much. Phillip studied her quietly from the opposite end of the table and recognized the introspective mood, guessing its cause.

“You heard from your brother today.”

She looked up in startled confusion. “How did you know?”

“I can tell,” he murmured and laid down his serrated grapefruit spoon. “What did he have to say?”

“Just the usual things.” Maggie shrugged and explained no further. Phillip had read enough of Culley's letters to know he had ranted on about Chase Calder. It worried her sometimes at how obsessive her brother's hatred had become. Her own had dulled with time and Phillip's loving influence, which had healed much of her pain.

“Have I ever met my uncle?” Ty asked with a deep frown.

At ten, nearly eleven years old, he was acquiring an even more striking resemblance to Chase. Maggie was more conscious of it at certain times than others, like now, when Culley's letter had freshened all her memories of the man.

“No, you haven't.” She quickly changed the subject. “Where are you and Jeff going tonight?” Jeff Broad-street was a friend of Ty's. Both boys attended the same private school. Jeff's parents were taking the two out for the evening.

“To a movie, a Western. Jeff said the previews really looked good,” he enthused. “Doesn't Uncle Culley own a ranch?”

“Yes,” Phillip answered when Maggie failed to respond to the question.

“How come we never go visit him? That would really be neat to stay on a real ranch. Can we go sometime, Mom?”

“We'll see,” she said crisply. She knew they never would, but she didn't tell Ty that because it would require an explanation.

“How about this summer?” he suggested.

“We are going to London this summer,” she reminded him.

“London is nothing but a bunch of old buildings and stuffy museums,” Ty complained. “I'd rather go to the ranch.”

“We are going to London,” Maggie stated. “All our reservations have been made and it's too late to cancel them.” She realized how sharp her voice had become, so she softened it. “London is a fascinating city. You'll enjoy it. Your father and I had a wonderful time there on our honeymoon.”

“I thought you went to Paris for your honeymoon.”

“We did, but we spent a few days in London, as well,” she explained.