Calder Storm (30 page)

“It was a lot more convenient when we had the clinic in Blue Moon, but we all knew it was bound to close sometime,” Cat agreed, then smiled in encouragement. “At least you received a glowing report from Doctor Wilson. He told me he hadn't seen two healthier patients than you and the little guy.”

Sloan absently rubbed her side. “One more week,” she murmured on a wistful note. “I just hope he comes on time. One of the other women there told me she went three weeks past her due date.”

“Calder babies usually arrive on time,” Cat assured her with a touch of pride.

The near boast was like a scrape across nerves that were already raw. For a moment, Sloan almost surrendered to the urge to tell Cat how sick to death she was of hearing how great the Calders were. If they were so perfect, why hadn't her husband taken her to the doctor instead of going off to some calving shed—assuming that was really where he was. But she said nothing and looked away when she noticed the massive stone pillars wings that marked the east entrance to the Triple C Ranch.

Again, music filled the silence that fell between them. Sloan kept her attention focused out the side window, without ever seeing the utility poles and fence posts that raced by. The seemingly never-ending discomfort soon had her changing positions again.

It was with relief that she felt the Suburban slow its headlong pace and saw the buildings of Blue Moon. When Cat braked to make the turn into the combination gas station, grocery store, and post office, Sloan made a quick check of the vehicles parked in front of The Oasis. There were only two, and neither had the Triple C insignia on its doors. Sloan couldn't decide whether she was glad or sorry, but she'd been torn like that for weeks now—full of doubts and suspicions, yet wanting desperately to believe they were unwarranted.

Reaching around her protruding stomach, Sloan unbuckled her seat belt the instant the Suburban rolled to a stop in front of Fedderson's. After riding so long in the heated vehicle, the coldness of the outside air was a bracing shock when she climbed out. She stood for a moment, breathing it in, a hand resting lightly on her back while she stretched muscles stiff and sore from the ride.

At a much slower pace, she followed Cat into the store. The proprietress, a slightly built brunette, was behind the counter, chatting with another customer. When she saw Cat walk in, she quickly excused herself and emerged from behind the counter.

“I've got your shrimp in back,” she told Cat. “They aren't as big as the ones Ross usually gets. If you want to pass on them, I'll understand.”

“They should be fine.”

“Take a look at them first to be sure,” Marsha urged.

“Okay,” Cat agreed and glanced at Sloan. “I won't be long.”

“Don't hurry on my account,” Sloan told her and wandered over to a display of handcrafted items near the counter. She didn't have any real interest in them but used them as an excuse to keep moving and ease some of the cramping of her muscles.

Almost immediately she felt herself under the scrutiny of the customer still standing by the cash register. She was a sandy-haired woman, a year or two younger than Sloan, her dark blue parka unbuttoned to reveal the tan cable knit sweater she wore with a pair of jeans. The instant Sloan glanced her way, the woman seemed to take it as invitation to speak.

“You're Trey's wife, aren't you?” Curious hazel eyes studied her with an almost avid interest.

“Yes,” Sloan confirmed.

“You probably don't remember me. I'm Annie Walters. We met last November outside church. My boyfriend Gil is the calf-roper that used to compete with Trey in jackpot events.”

“Of course.” Sloan pretended to remember the encounter, but it was little more than an extremely vague recollection that included no memory of faces. “How are you?”

“Just fine.” As if feeling the need to keep the conversation going, the young woman volunteered, “I was just over to The Oasis, grabbing a bite of lunch, and they told me Ross had brought some shrimp back on his last trip. So, like you, I thought I'd swing by and get some—although I'm so stuffed from lunch that the thought of food doesn't haven't a lot of appeal. They have the best soup at The Oasis today. Beef pepperpot, I think they called it. It was delicious. You oughta try it.” The words were barely out of her mouth before she got a panicked look. “Sorry. That's probably the last place you want to go. Forget I said anything.”

That was an impossibility, and they both knew it. Too hurt and too angry to speak, Sloan stared at Annie, who guiltily ducked her head and picked up the sack on the counter.

“I'd better get going before this shrimp thaws. Tell Marsha I'll talk to her later.” She moved quickly to the door.

Her departure from the store coincided with Cat's return to the front with the owner. Wrapped in her own little world of pain and fury, Sloan never said a word to either and never heard the words they exchanged while the sale was rung up.

On the way back to the Suburban, Sloan was careful not to look directly at Cat when she asked, “Do we have to go straight back to the ranch? I'm a little hungry. A cup of soup might tide me over until dinner. Annie was just telling me how delicious the soup was at The Oasis.”

After an only momentary hesitation, Cat shrugged. “There's no
big rush to get home. I think I'll forgo the soup, though, and have a slice of pie.”

Only one other customer was in The Oasis when Sloan and Cat entered it, and he was an old-timer, sitting at a back table, nursing a cup of coffee and reading a newspaper. Darkly tinted windows allowed little of the sunshine to filter inside, leaving the place dimly lit in both the bar and eating areas. There was no clank and clatter from the slot machines, and the jukebox was silent.

Pausing a few feet inside the door, Cat scanned the interior and murmured to Sloan. “This used to be such a bright and cheerful place when Sally owned it. Now it's—” She checked the rest of her comment when she noticed the new owner emerging from the bar's shadows to approach them.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” Donovan greeted them. “At this hour, you have your choice of tables. Would you like menus?”

“No, thanks,” Sloan answered for both them.

“Have a seat then.” He gestured to the tables. “Your waitress will be right with you.”

Cat nodded an acknowledgement and led the way to a table situated at a midway point between the front door and kitchen. The entire time Sloan's gaze never stopped moving, searching in every dark corner. For what? She wasn't sure. But it was goaded by the high tension that screamed through her, demanding answers.

Her gaze continued its watchful dart as she sat at a table and slipped off her coat, letting it drape over the back of her chair. High heels made a sharp, clicking sound on the wooden floors. Certain it came from the bar area, Sloan looked in that direction.

A cold anger swept through her when she saw a redhead sauntering toward them, dressed in a jumpsuit of metallic blue spandex that hugged every line and curve of her body. The front of it was partially unzipped to reveal the deep cleavage created by her ample breasts. Sloan's catty side immediately dismissed them as implants.

There was an air of supreme nonchalance about the redhead when she paused at their table and divided her glance between the two of them. “What can I get you ladies?” Her pouty red lips twitched with a smile as if secretly amused by the term.

Looking at the woman, Sloan saw nothing but red—in more ways than one. Everything about the waitress screamed sex, from the tumble of titian hair and overdrawn scarlet lips to the slinky, skintight outfit and staggeringly high heels.

“Do you have any banana cream pie?” Cat asked.

“Sure.” The redhead stood hip-locked, a play of amusement still in evidence.

“I'll have a slice of that and a glass of water,” Cat ordered.

With an effort, Sloan managed to find her voice. “A cup of soup, please.”

“Cream of broccoli or beef pepperpot?” The redhead fixed her gaze on Sloan, something smug and knowing in her expression.

“The pepperpot.”

“Anything to drink?”

“Milk.”

“I'll bring it right out,” the redhead promised and made an unhurried turn away from the table. Hips swaying, she angled for the free-swinging kitchen door.

Chair legs scraped the floor as Cat pushed back from the table. “My hands smell like shrimp. I'll wash them before I get that pie. I won't be a minute.”

Sloan responded with an absent nod, tension coiling through her nerves. Mere seconds after Cat left the table, the redhead sashayed out of the kitchen, a serving tray negligently balanced on her right palm. Again her gaze made an amused skim of Sloan when she approached the table.

Halting next to Sloan's chair, the redhead reached in front of her, first to place a glass of water, then a napkin-wrapped setup at the place Cat had occupied. Sloan kept her gaze rigidly fixed on the table area in front of her, refusing to look up. But she couldn't
avoid seeing the scarlet-nailed hand that kept passing across her vision—or the gleam and glitter of the diamond bracelet that draped the redhead's wrist. Instinctively Sloan knew it wasn't a piece of costume jewelry.

Suspicion was running too thick to allow Sloan to ignore it. “That's a lovely bracelet you're wearing.”

“Gorgeous, isn't it?” Keeping the hand extended in front of Sloan, the redhead turned her wrist to let the diamonds flash in the low light. “They're real diamonds, too. Not CZs. My guy gave it to me.”

“How nice,” Sloan murmured, tasting bile.

Regret was in the sigh the redhead expelled. “I don't get to see him as much as I'd like. He tries to make up for it with little things like this.”

“I wouldn't call that so little.” A cold fury tightened Sloan's jaw.

“It sure isn't.” Her red lips had a feline curve to them as she set a glass of milk before Sloan. “When's the baby due?”

“Soon.” The single word was all Sloan you could manage.

“I'll bet it can't be soon enough for you.” The redhead slid a setup onto the table. “You must be feeling really fat and miserable.”

Infuriated by the insulting comment, Sloan looked up, but the redhead was already walking off, the loud tap of her stiletto heels masking the sound of Cat's returning footsteps.

Sloan barely glanced at Cat when she sat down at the table. Instead she reached for the milk glass, wrapping both hands around it in a stranglehold, and fervently hoped that Cat wasn't in one of her chatty moods. Sloan doubted that her nerves could tolerate a round of idle conversation.

But Cat simply went about the task of unrolling her silverware and arranging the napkin on her lap with a calmness that made Sloan want to scream, especially when she was torn between wanting to throw everything within reach and getting up and walking out the
door. But either action would require an explanation. One of the first lessons Sloan had learned in her life was never to let anyone know how deeply she'd been wounded.

Again the swinging door to the kitchen rocked open and the redhead emerged, this time with their food order on her tray. As Sloan watched her approach, inwardly seething, a little voice inside her head demanded to know how much more proof she wanted? Did she intend to subject herself to the humiliation of actually catching the redhead in Trey's arms?

Wise up,
the voice ordered.
Why show loyalty to a man who abuses it?

The final jab came when Sloan was reminded that she was surrounded by people who didn't trust her. She wasn't even sure why they tolerated her. Then the baby moved, and Sloan knew the reason. The only reason.

She never registered the sight of the redhead setting the cup of soup in front of her, but there it was, with a spoon nestled on its plate. Nothing had ever looked less appetizing. Still, Sloan picked up the spoon and dipped it into the soup. It was tasteless on her tongue. After two spoonfuls, she gave up the exercise and laid the spoon on the table while leaning back in her chair.

Observing the action, Cat glanced over in question. “Is something wrong with the soup?”

“It's a little too spicy,” Sloan lied and pressed a hand against one of the tightly banded muscles in her back.

“Are you feeling all right?” Again, concern filled Cat's expression.

“I'm fine. My back just hurts.”

“You're sure it isn't labor pains? When I had Quint, that's the way mine started.”

“I don't think so,” Sloan replied, then almost laughed. “But how would I know? I've never had a baby before.”

All uncertainty vanished some ten minutes later when the first contraction twisted through Sloan. The Triple C's east entrance was in sight. But Cat didn't slow to make the turn.

“There's probably plenty of time,” she told Sloan. “But I think we'll play it safe and drive straight to the hospital.” One-handed, she fished the cell phone out of her purse and held it out to Sloan. “You'd better call Trey and let him know. I have his cell number on speed-dial. Just press four.”