Calder Storm (23 page)

But they hadn't heard the last of Tara. The second week of November a delivery truck arrived. The driver made trip after trip into The Homestead, hauling the larger boxes on a dolly and carrying the smaller ones. All were addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Trey Calder, and all identified the sender as Tara Calder.

When everything was opened, Sloan could only stare at the lavish assortment of baby items in amazement. There was everything from a new crib, baby dresser, and changing table to a complete layette, a crib bumper, and custom-made bedding based on the colorful cowboy mobile. She couldn't see a single thing a baby might need that wasn't there.

Not every item was one she would have chosen, but at the same time, she could find little fault in Tara's taste. Still, she couldn't
shake that sense of disappointment at being deprived of the pleasure of shopping for these things herself.

Jessy was the first to return to The Homestead that evening and view the munificence. A dry smile tugged at her mouth when she glanced at Sloan.

“Let me guess,” she said. “This is from Tara.”

“Yes.” Sloan tried to look happy about it.

“You're lucky,” Jessy told her. “At least you have a few practical items here. You should have seen the store-full of toys, stuffed animals, and fancy outfits she sent when the twins were born.”

“I almost wish I could send some of it back,” Sloan murmured.

“It wouldn't do you any good. She'd just send more. So just keep what you like and we'll give the rest away.” There was a warm glint in her eyes. “That's what I did.”

Just for a moment, Sloan felt as if she and her mother-in-law were co-conspirators. “So will I.”

In the end there were only a few items that Sloan chose not to keep, but she felt better knowing the choice had been hers and that she still had a few things to buy.

Naturally, Trey didn't understand why she was giving away things that she'd have to go out and replace. In the end, he gave up trying to reason with her and told her to do what she wanted. Which Sloan had every intention of doing anyway.

S
now fell soft and steady out of a leaden sky. With no wind to scatter them, the flakes accumulated in layers, blanketing the Montana plains in a thick mantle and capping the trees' barren branches in white.

In the hush that settled over the land, the hum and click of the gasoline pump dispensing fuel into the pickup's tank seemed loud. Trey stood next to the truck, his gloved hands thrust deep in the pockets of his sheepskin-lined jacket, his shoulders hunched against December's bite and his collar turned up. His warm breath created a steamy vapor that mixed with the smell of gasoline fumes.

Idly stamping his feet to keep the blood flowing to them, he made a visual sweep of the area. Lights gleamed from the windows of the houses where the married ranch hands lived. At first glance, he seemed to be the only one out and about, but there was another pickup parked in front of the commissary, a thick dusting of snow already coating its windshield.

The pump kicked off. For a moment there was absolute silence. Trey pulled his hands from his pockets, squeezed the nozzle's lever to top off the tank, then set it back on its cradle and screwed on the gas cap.

Finished, he struck out for the commissary to sign the gas ticket. Johnny Taylor walked out the door, his down jacket unzipped, exposing his chest to the weather, ungloved hands holding a letter and the envelope it came in. Intent on reading it, Johnny was oblivious to the crunch of Trey's approaching footsteps until he was nearly upon him.

“Trey.” Startled, Johnny came to a full stop. “I didn't know you were out here.”

“Got a letter from Kelly, did you?” Trey guessed.

There was a touch of embarrassment in Johnny's quick smile, but it couldn't compete with the way the rest of his expression brightened. “Yeah. Looks like she can come home for the ranch Christmas party. She's been working part-time to help with costs, but she's got the weekend off. I told her if she did, I'd pick her up and drive her back.”

“That will cost you some gas money. Sounds like things are getting serious.”

Johnny dipped his head and pushed around some snow with the toe of his boot. “I been thinking about asking her to marry me. Not right away o' course,” he added, hastily shooting a glance at Trey. “She's got her heart set on becoming a nurse, so she has her schooling to finish first. But I figure it'll be a good thing to have a nurse in the family.”

“Should cut down on the medical expense.”

But the teasing gibe didn't register with Johnny. “That's the way I looked at it, too.” Hesitating, he turned solemn. “This marrying business—it's working out okay for you, isn't it?”

“It couldn't be better.” And Trey meant every word of it.

“Sloan being a photographer, sort of a working girl, and all, that isn't causing any problems, is it?”

“She won't be doing much of that with the baby coming.”

“I guess not,” Johnny conceded and angled toward his truck. “See you around.”

As he started to move away, Trey noticed the cassette tape that poked its head out of Johnny's jacket pocket. “What's that you
got there? Don't tell me you're going to sit home on a Saturday night and watch a movie?”

“I gotta start saving my money.”

“I've never known you when you didn't,” Trey retorted. “You probably got the first quarter the tooth fairy gave you.”

“Damn right I do.” But Johnny grinned when he said it, making light of his tightfisted ways.

Chuckling softly to himself, Trey headed into the commissary, signed the fuel ticket, came back out, and climbed into the pickup. Snow was still falling, and the windshield wipers slapped away the powdery flakes as he drove to The Homestead.

Tracks left by other feet made a path through the snow to the front steps and onto the porch. Trey followed them all the way to the wreath-clad door. Pausing on the mat, he knocked the worst of the snow from his boots, then turned the knob.

A toasty warmth engulfed him when he walked in. As he shrugged off the heavy jacket, Trey noticed Cat in the dining room adding the finishing touches to the table settings.

“Where's Sloan? In the kitchen?” he asked.

“Upstairs. She wanted to finish her Christmas cards before supper. It's in the oven now. Be about another hour before it's done.”

“Thanks.” Leaving his jacket and hat on the coat rack by the door, Trey crossed the living room and climbed the stairs to the master suite.

A small, but cheery fire crackled in the sitting room's fireplace to greet him when he entered. There sat Sloan, curled up in an easy chair next to it, a mix of blank Christmas cards and addressed envelopes spread over the ottoman in front of her and an address book balanced on the chair's broad armrest. The flames' flickering light shone on her face, enhancing its natural glow.

She looked up in surprise, the pen in her hand poised in mid-stroke. “Is it that late, or are you home early?”

“I'm a little early,” he admitted while he made his way to her chair. “You look like a contented little kitten, curled up in front of the fire.”

“A very pregnant kitten.” There was a definite roundness to her stomach now that not even her bulky sweater could disguise.

“A pregnant and beautiful kitten,” Trey corrected and bent to exchange a warm and lingering kiss with her.

“Your lips are cold,” Sloan murmured when he lifted his head.

“In case you haven't noticed, it's snowing outside.”

“I did notice a few flakes drifting by the window.”

“I'll have you know there's more than a few out there.”

“Personally I hope it stays on the ground through the holidays. It's been years since I saw snow on Christmas day.” A wistful quality was in her voice.

“You might just get your wish this year.” Trey straightened up from the chair. “Speaking of Christmas, how are the cards coming along? Cat mentioned you were trying to get them done before supper.”

“Only three more after this one.” Sloan tapped the card with the half-finished note on her lap.

“If you just signed your name instead of writing those newsy little notes, they'd go a lot faster,” he teased.

“You're trying to get a rise out of me, but it isn't going to work. Sit down here by the fire and get warm and tell me all about your day like a good husband.” She started to lean forward to clear a space for him on the ottoman.

“Sit back. I'll do that.” He scooped the unused cards into a stack and set them on the table next to her chair. The sealed envelopes he pushed to one side, clearing a space on the ottoman.

Sloan waited until he sat down. “So what's new?”

“Not much, although I did run into Johnny Taylor when I stopped to get gas. He told me he's thinking about asking Kelly to marry him.”

There was utter surprise in her expression. “Was he serious?”

“Johnny isn't the kind to joke about such things,” Trey answered dryly.

“Do you think she'll accept?”

“Who knows? I never thought they'd ever have more than one
date, but they went everywhere together this summer. Which shows how wrong I was.”

In an attempt to arrange his long frame in a more comfortable position on the low seat, he stretched his legs and jostled the ottoman in the process. The stack of addressed envelopes shifted toward the edge. Sheer reflex enabled him to catch them before they slid to the floor.

“Isn't she in nursing school? She wouldn't quit, would she?”

“Johnny doesn't want her to.” The envelopes were turned every which way, corners catching in the flaps of those above it. One by one, Trey straightened them until his eye was caught by the name on one of the envelopes. He felt like he'd been gut-kicked. “What's this?” He showed it to Sloan, his hard gaze dark with questioning.

“It's a card to Uncle Max. What did you think it was?” she asked with amusement.

“Max Rutledge is the man you call Uncle Max?” The statement bordered on an accusation. “Why am I just now finding this out?”

“How should I know? It was never any secret,” Sloan insisted.

“Then why didn't you tell me?” Trey demanded.

“Why didn't you ask?” She hurled the question in response and angrily shoved aside the card and ballpoint pen from her lap, then struggled awkwardly out of the chair. “What difference does it make, anyway?”

“Maybe none—and maybe a lot.” And that thought kept twisting inside him.

“You're not making any sense, Trey. What have you got against Uncle Max?” Temper was in her eyes, challenging him to explain.

“Personally, I have nothing. But I'm not sure Rutledge could say the same about us.” Trey stood as well, every ounce of his attention trained on her, watching and waiting, and all the while wanting desperately to believe the innocence she showed him was no act.

“Stop talking in riddles, and tell me what you mean!” Sloan all but shouted the demand.

“Are you saying that you didn't know his son Boone died in a fight with my cousin Quint?”

“Quint.” The shocked and dazed look on her face seemed genuine. Sloan partially turned from him. “I heard Boone had been killed in a fight, but—” There was a small, uncertain movement of her head. “Boone was such a bully and a brute, I just assumed it was some barroom brawl.” She looked back at Trey, her blue eyes all dark and troubled. “I was on an assignment and couldn't get away to attend the funeral. When I did talk to Uncle Max on the phone, it didn't feel right to ask for details—the how and the who. But…you say it was Quint. That's hard to believe. How? Why?”

Trey found himself in a private debate, trying to decide how much he should tell. Sloan was his wife; he should feel free to confide anything and everything to her. Yet he was instinctively hesitating, and that troubled him more than finding out Max Rutledge was her former guardian.

“There was a fight. Boone came at Quint with a knife. In the struggle, Boone was killed. It was self-defense.” He stated the facts, with no embellishment.

“But what were they fighting over? With Boone, I know it never took much, but there had to be something.”

“Our Texas ranch shares a boundary with Rutledge's Slash R. Rutledge tried to buy it from us. When we turned down his offers, he tried to force a sale by making sure no one would work for us, arranging for our credit to be cut off, burning our hay along with some five hundred acres of pasture, and infecting our herd with anthrax. The anthrax was where he slipped up. Quint was able to prove he was behind it.”

Sloan shook her head in instant denial. “Uncle Max wouldn't have done that. That kind of sneaky, evil thinking is the way Boone's mind worked.”

“Boone definitely became the convenient scapegoat.” Like the rest of his family, Trey was certain Boone had done nothing that Max hadn't told him to do.

Quick to pick up on the cynicism in his voice, Sloan gave him a sharp look. “You believe Uncle Max is responsible, don't you?”

“Do you honestly think that a man like Max Rutledge wouldn't know what his own son was doing?” Trey countered.

“It's possible,” she insisted, but it was purely a defensive reaction.

“Maybe it is, and maybe it isn't,” Trey responded tightly. “Either way, it isn't likely that Max Rutledge has any warm feelings for the Calders. If anything, he may think he has a score to settle with us.”

“Wait a minute.” Sloan stiffened, hurt and anger combining in her expression. “You thought he was using me as an instrument of that revenge, didn't you?”

“No, of course I didn't—”

“You're lying.” Her voice shook with emotion. “I saw the way you looked at me—like I was a stranger.” Hot tears gathered in her eyes. “I'm your wife. It's our baby I'm carrying! How could you?”

When she spun away and took the first step to flee from him, Trey moved quickly to stop her, catching her by the shoulders and pulling her back against him, but making no attempt to force her to face him.

“That isn't true, Sloan.” He was conscious of the stiff way she held herself, resisting his touch, and the silent, shaking sobs that trembled through her. His head bent close, his face brushing against her hair, as he tried to explain. “What you saw was the shock of finding Max Rutledge's name on that envelope. It was the last thing in the world I expected to see. Dammit, you've got to understand that.”

She twisted angrily out of his hold and turned to glare at him, stormy-eyed, cheeks wet with tears. “You're wrong about Uncle Max, and you're wrong about me.”

“I'm not wrong about you. I love you, Sloan. Just because Max Rutledge is your former guardian, that doesn't change the way I feel.” That much was true, lending conviction to his voice. “I love you,” he repeated and saw a crack in her resistance. “I know
you're a little oversensitive right now, with the baby and all. A part of me wishes I'd never said anything when I noticed that card. But you need to look at it from my side. I had to ask about it. I didn't do it to hurt you.”