Calder Storm (40 page)

“I don't miss a sitting target.” Trey shifted the barrel, aiming at Rutledge.

“Be careful.” Tara's plaintive voice came from his left. “Don't hurt the baby.”

His side vision gave Trey a glimpse of Tara pushing Sloan farther from Donovan and Rutledge. He could feel Sloan's eyes on him, but he didn't allow himself to look at her. A sudden sharp wail came from his infant son.

“You're scaring your boy, Calder.” Donovan smiled and lightly jiggled the bundle in his arm. The action served to screen the movement of his other hand producing a short-barreled pistol from his pocket. “I guess this could be called a Mexican standoff, except I've got your kid.”

“Put the rifle down,” Rutledge ordered.

Briefly, Trey tightened his grip on the weapon and silently debated his chances. But the risk was too great; too many things could go wrong. As much as he wanted to see Rutledge dead, he wanted his son alive more.

“You win.” He uncocked the hammer and lowered the rifle from his shoulder.

“Lay it on the floor. Carefully.” Donovan gave a warning emphasis to the last word. The barrel of his pistol tracked along when Trey crouched and slowly set the rifle on the floor. “Now slide it to the side.” Trey did as he was told, then straightened again. “Step inside. Over there.” A twitch of the pistol ordered Trey to the right.

“Sorry.” Trey never moved, straining to catch some sound that might tell him Laredo had made it inside. “You'll have to go through me.”

“You, a half-crazed husband who shows up to take his son at gunpoint? That's not a problem.” Still smiling coldly, Donovan
extended his arm out straight from his body and used Trey's chest as a target.

When he saw Donovan's finger slide onto the trigger, Trey glanced at Sloan one last time.

Suddenly there was Tara, her face contorted in a strange mask of fury and fear, rushing at Donovan, arms outstretched. Donovan saw her at the last second. He fired just as she struck his arm. Rutledge lurched to the side, but no bullet ripped into Trey. He took a step into the building, intending to charge Donovan, as Tara pulled the baby out of Donovan's arm, leaving him clutching an empty blanket. Screaming at Sloan to take the baby, Tara held him out to her.

At almost the same instant, Trey saw Donovan bringing his gun around again. There was too much space between them. Trey dived sideways after his rifle.

“Sloan!” Laredo shouted from the opening to the rear hall.

Trey had a glimpse of Sloan running, the baby in her arms, and Tara right behind her. Laredo's yell had drawn Donovan's attention. He whipped around and snapped off two quick shots. There was a short cry of pain, and Trey knew somebody had been hit.

Not Sloan!
he thought even as he rolled onto his back, pointed the rifle barrel up, and squeezed the trigger, firing at Donovan just as Donovan shot at him. A bullet plowed into the wall an inch from Trey's head, and Donovan crumpled to the floor, the pistol falling from loose fingers. Trey's own muscles went limp for a moment.

The silence that followed was eerily loud. It didn't last, as Laredo plunged into the lobby, gun in hand and quickly kicked Donovan's gun away from his body, then bent to feel for a pulse.

“Sloan?” Trey asked and forced his limbs to push himself back onto his feet.

“She and the little one are fine. We're going to need an ambulance for Tara, though. She's been hit bad. These two won't need one.”

Laredo's oblique reference to Rutledge had Trey's glance snapping to the wheelchair and man slumped sideways in it. He felt not an ounce of regret at the man's death.

Leaving the rifle on the floor, Trey pulled out the cell phone and placed an emergency call as he headed into the hall. He found Sloan, sitting on the floor, holding the baby and cradling Tara's head on her lap. Blood streaked the front of her top, and an unnatural pallor was in her face. Then Sloan lifted those midnight blue eyes to him, gazing at him with an inexpressible hunger for all the good things they had shared.

Gripped by the same feeling, Trey went down on one knee and kissed her with rough need until a tiny fist punched his chest. Drawing back, he caught hold of the little hand and looked with relief at his son.

Only then did Trey resort to words. “You're both okay?”

“Yes.” Her gaze clung to his face an instant before, dropping to the ghostly pale, dark-haired woman lying motionless on the floor. “It's Tara.”

“An ambulance is on the way.” That was the only hope Trey could offer.

Laredo reappeared with a couple of diapers from Sloan's bag. “Let's try to put some pressure on the wound with these.” Kneeling, he rolled Tara toward him, exposing her bloodied left side. When he applied the absorbent pads, pressing hard, she groaned.

Long, black lashes fluttered. She mumbled something that was unintelligible to Trey, but Sloan seemed to understand.

“Jake's right here, Tara. He's fine. You saved him,” Sloan said, an emotional catch in her voice.

Tara's red lips curved in something close to a weak smile, and she mumbled again, “…such a beautiful bab…” The rest was lost in a thready sigh.

Laredo immediately felt for a pulse. “I think we just lost her.”

Sloan looked at Trey in silent anguish. But there was no time to mourn, as the thudding sound of running feet, more than one set, reached them. “It's probably the crew,” Trey guessed. “They must
have heard the gunshots. Better get the hell out of here, Laredo. The same way you came in.”

Laredo grinned at him. “You're right. I was never here.”

He slipped down the hall at a silent run while Trey helped Sloan to her feet. “Come on. Let's get Jake a blanket and cover him up.”

They walked into the lobby just as Tara's copilot and two of the crew from Rutledge's plane barged into the building and stopped short at the sight of the two bodies. One took a step toward Rutledge.

Trey stopped him. “I don't think the police will want you touching anything.”

“What the hell happened here?” Tara's copilot demanded and glanced at the second body. “Who's that guy?”

“His name's Donovan,” Sloan answered.

Trey could tell by her expression that she was preparing to launch into a recounting of all that happened. He never gave her a chance to start.

“He moved to Blue Moon last summer and bought the bar up the road. I don't know much about him except he's an ex-Marine. He must have had a flashback or something. We'll probably never know why,” Trey stated, then suggested, “It'll be best if you wait outside. I know the police will need a statement from all of you.”

“We didn't see anything,” one of them protested. “We just heard what sounded like gunshots.”

“I guess that's what you tell the police when they get here,” Trey replied.

With one more glance at the bodies, the three men walked out and drifted toward their respective aircrafts. Trey watched them a moment, then turned to Sloan.

Glancing at him, she shook out an extra receiving blanket that had been stowed in her bag. “Why did you tell them that?”

“Sometimes the truth is too complicated. The story I gave them is much easier to believe,” Trey answered. “As it is, there's going to be plenty of headlines, with both Tara and Rutledge dead, but the story will be short-lived. Agreed?”

Sloan didn't have to think about it. “I do. Stories of vengeance, broken marriages, and lies belong in novels, not the eleven o'clock news.”

“That's what I thought.” Understanding flowed between them, a warm and uniting kind.

Sirens wailed in the distance, a reminder that this wasn't over yet. Still, Sloan smiled when she spread the blanket on the settee and lay Jake on it. She was fully aware that there was much more they needed to say to each other, but all those words could wait until they were alone.

Then she remembered something that couldn't wait.

“Oh my God. Where are they?” She cast a frantic look around the room.

“What are you talking about?” Trey frowned.

By then Sloan had already spotted them, lying on the floor a few feet away. Leaving Jake lying on the blanket, she darted over and scooped up the folded sheets.

“That's the information about Laredo that Rutledge gave you,” Trey guessed immediately.

Sloan nodded and hurriedly began folding the papers into a small square. “The police don't need to find them,” she said and tucked them inside Jake's little suit pants before wrapping him in the blanket and gathering him into her arms. Finished, she turned to Trey. “We can burn them after we get home.”

He moved to her and cupped a hand to her cheek, gratitude, love, and approval shining in his dark eyes. “You know what we call that out here?”

“What?” Sloan was conscious of the quick hammer of her pulse at his nearness.

“Riding for the brand,” he said, referring to the oldest term for the pledge of loyalty in the West.

Shouts came from outside, accompanied by the clump of more feet. Turning, Trey curved an arm around her shoulders, drawing her protectively to his side. “It's all going to be fine.”

“I know,” she said.

A
fternoon sunlight slanted through the Suburban's windshield, heating the interior. Trey was behind the wheel, driving one-handed, with Sloan nestled close against his side, his arm around her shoulders. The east entrance was behind them, and the rugged, rolling land of the Triple C stretched on either side. With the warm feel of her against him, there was a rightness to his world again.

Trey stole a glance over his shoulder, the corners of his mouth lifting at the sight of his baby son in the carrier, safely strapped in the backseat. It was the same carrier he had angrily tossed in the Suburban after leaving the hospital without his wife and son. But Trey chose not to remember that.

“He's still sound asleep,” he told Sloan.

“It'll be just about time for his next bottle when we get home.” It was an idle remark, indicative of the way a new mother marked time.

“It's going to feel like a home again with you in it.” When he looked at her, Trey didn't see the drying bloodstains on her top, only the strong beauty of her profile and the sheen of her dark hair. “It was nothing but a big, empty house when you were gone.”

“You don't know how much I regret that.” A thread of unease ran through Sloan's voice. “I only hope your family understands, although I wouldn't blame them if they didn't—not after all the trouble I caused.”

“That was Rutledge's doing, not yours.” Trey was definite about that.

“But I believed his lies,” Sloan reminded him.

“And I should have seen his hand in what was happening. There's plenty of blame to go around in this,” he told her. “But it's over now. We've weathered our first storm.”

“There will be others, though.” Sloan saw the potential of another one coming. She decided to face it now. “Trey, I have to know. Do you object to me having a career of my own?”

He hesitated and her heart sank. Then he said, “I know how much you love photography, Sloan.”

“That isn't what I asked.” She kept her gaze fixed on the road ahead, pain squeezing her heart.

“Look, I don't expect you to give it up.” There was an impatient edge to his voice, a little hard and angry. “But I don't deny that sometimes I resent it “

Stunned, she turned a demanding look at him, ready to fight. “Why?”

“I know it's wrong to feel that way,” Trey began in his own defense. “But, dammit, Sloan, when you have a camera in your hands, you shut everything else out—including me. It's like you're in another world, and I'm not part of it at all.”

Relief washed through her, eliciting a soft, amused laugh. “You don't know how wrong you are, Trey,” she told him. “You're there in every picture I take.”

“Right,” he replied in a voice dry with doubt.

“It's true.” It suddenly became very important that she convince him of it. “Before Jake was born, I was updating my portfolio. That's when I saw it. Before I met you, all my photographs have a cold and lonely quality to them, full of shadows. The ones I took afterward are filled with light and warmth. They aren't
empty landscapes, but places with people in them. They're rich with life now—the way I am with you.”

Trey looked at her with new eyes, slightly humbled. “I didn't know.”

“You do now.” Then it was her turn to hesitate. “Just the same, I do realize that my work may cause some problems in the future.”

“Why?” Trey frowned.

“Well, your aunt isn't going to be there forever, running the household and entertaining all your guests. At some point—”

Trey broke in. “Good God, Sloan.” His smile was wide with amusement. “We can hire somebody to cook and clean, and if it becomes necessary, we'll find a social secretary to handle the rest.”

“You don't mind?” Sloan couldn't keep the amazement out of her voice.

“I'll mind that you're off somewhere taking pictures instead of being with me, but I'll survive, knowing that you'll come back home when you're done.”

“And I always will come back,” Sloan promised.

“You'd better.” There was that crooked smile again that raised such havoc with her pulse. “Or I'll come after you.”

She smiled and snuggled a little closer to him. Ahead of them, rising tall against the horizon, was The Homestead in all its pillared bigness. Home. Contentment eased through Sloan with the realization that she finally had one. And a family to go with it.

All were on hand to greet them when they pulled up to the house. There was a lot of touching and hugging, along with expressions of relief that they were unharmed.

Once inside, little Jake became the center of attention. Chase wasted no time clumping to a wing-backed chair in the den and lowering himself into it. He propped his cane against the armrest and held out his arms.

“Come on. I've waited long enough to hold my great-grand-baby. Hand him over,” he ordered.

More than happy to oblige him, Sloan placed her son in his arms and stood back to watch. Wide-eyed, Jake frowned at this
craggy-faced man holding him, but Sloan was warmed by the incredible gentleness and love in Chase's eyes.

Beside her, Jessy laughed softly in amusement. “Doesn't it look like he's trying to figure out who this strange man is?”

“I'm a Calder, just like you,” Chase stated. “And I've got a heap of stories to tell you—like those horns above the fireplace mantel. They belonged to an old brindle steer named Captain.”

Listening to him, Trey was reminded of all the times he'd been told the story of that first cattle drive to Montana. Now his son would hear all the legends and lore of the Calders. The sense of continuity was a good feeling.

Laredo drifted over to him, feigning an interest in the sight of the youngest and oldest Calder together. In an overtone he asked, “Everything go all right after I left?”

“It went fine.” Curiosity made Trey ask, “How long have you been back?”

“About an hour. Jessy had Jobe Garvey come get me.” Refusing to be diverted, Laredo returned to his primary concern. “So the law bought the story that Donovan went on a rampage?”

“Why not? That's what happened.” Just for a moment, Trey met the other man's gaze—calm, cool, and sure in his lie.

“Right.” Laredo smiled to himself.

Cat bustled into the den, clutching a bottle of infant formula in her hand. “I warmed the bottle for Jake,” she rushed, then paused, half disappointed to see him lying content in Chase's arms. “I thought he'd be hungry by now.”

“What d'ya say, little guy?” Chase asked. “Are you ready for a drink?” The response was a forceful coo and a waving of a fist that drew chuckles all around. “I think that was a ‘yes,'” Chase declared.

With some reluctance Cat surrendered the bottle to him, then gathered herself. “You two must be hungry, too. I'll go make you a quick lunch.”

As she started to leave, the phone rang. Cat automatically
turned to answer it, saying, “I'll get it,” but Laredo waved her off and stepped to the desk, picking up the phone. “Calder ranch.”

“May I speak to Mr. Calder, please?” A male voice requested.

“Who's calling?” Laredo was instantly wary.

“My name's Allen Forrester, a reporter with—”

“Sorry,” Laredo cut him off. “The family isn't taking any calls. A formal statement will be released later.”

“Could you confirm just one thing for me?” the reporter inserted quickly.

“What's that?” Laredo waited.

“I understand a member of the Calder family was at the Dy-Corp coal mine today when Mrs. Tara Calder and Maxwell Rutledge were killed by an ex-Marine. Would you verify his name?”

Pausing, Laredo glanced at Trey, standing tall next to his grandfather's chair, and mentally compared the strong, rugged lines of their features. The similarities went deeper than a mere physical resemblance—it went to the heart and will.

“His name is Calder,” Laredo told the reporter. “Chase Benteen Calder.”