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Authors: Janet Dailey

BOOK: Green Calder Grass
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Over the years, he had learned all the places that drove her wild. He explored them again, resisting the urgent press of her hands before finally stretching her arms above her head and slipping into her.
There was nothing between them. It was skin to skin, flesh to flesh, and need to need. This coupling between man and wife was old as time and new as tomorrow, full of heat and building pressure as they each strained for release, their bodies bucking in harmony when it came.
 
 
Jessy lay tucked along Ty’s side, her head pillowed on a shoulder, one leg draped over his muscled thigh. A liquid contentment flowed through her, leaving her feeling all limp and satisfied. She idly slid her fingers into his wiry chest hair, conscious of the slowing
thud
of his heart.
“I’m glad you threw me on the bed,” she murmured.
“Enjoyed it, did you?” His voice emanated from someplace deep inside. She felt the vibrations of it beneath her hand.
Jessy lifted her head and turned to look at him, resting the point of her chin on his shoulder. “Something tells me you made very sure I would.” A small, pleased smile touched her lips that he would care that much.
Ty shifted slightly to study to her face, noting the aftereffect of their lovemaking visible in her kiss-swollen lips, the lack of tension in her face muscles and the sated look in her heavy-lidded eyes. He took great male satisfaction in knowing he had put them there, not some other man.
It was a simple leap from that thought to the next. “Ballard could never make you feel like that.”
In that split second, all the good feelings were gone. Jessy rolled away and slipped off the opposite side of the bed.
“For your information, he will never have the chance,” she replied in a hard, flat voice then stalked to the tall bureau and began jerking open drawers.
Ty’s reaction was instant and firmly grim. “You’re damned right he won’t.” He levered up on an elbow.
“As if you have any say in it,” Jessy muttered, irritated, not for the first time, by such a possessive male attitude. “What is it going to take to get it through that thick head of yours that Ballard is simply a friend.” Jessy snatched up a set of underclothes and began tugging them on. “I have known him almost as long as I’ve known you.”
“Calders don’t have friends.” Ty sat up. “If you need proof, ask my father about Buck Haskell.”
“And just what category do you put Tara in?” In bra and panties, Jessy pulled a pair of jeans and a sweater out of the closet.
“It is strictly business between us,” Ty snapped the retort.
“No doubt that’s the reason she calls you ‘darling’ all the time,” Jessy mocked.
“Dammit, you know that is just Tara’s way.”
“And maybe it’s just Ballard’s way to be kind and considerate.” She pulled on her jeans one leg at a time and tugged them over her slim hips.
“Ballard is a woman chaser. That’s why he hangs around you every chance he gets.”
With both arms in the sweater sleeves, Jessy paused before pulling it over her head. “In all honesty, I can’t call Tara a man chaser. But by your definition, she’s a Ty chaser. She hangs around you all the time.”
Ty stood up and snatched the oversized towel off the bed and wrapped it around his middle. “I told you, it’s business with Tara. We’re not talking about her anyway.”
“And my dealings with Ballard are business.” Jessy yanked the sweater down around her waist. “But you choose to forget that. And let’s definitely not bring Tara in this. If we did, you might have to admit that a double standard is being applied here.”
“The circumstances are different, and you know it. I don’t trust Ballard.”
“Then that makes us even,” Jessy retorted. “Because I don’t trust Tara.”
“Tara has her faults. At times, she can be thoughtless, self-centered, and spoiled, but she isn’t mean-spirited or vindictive.”
“Which shows how much you know about women. I would sooner trust a cornered rattler than Tara. At least a rattler will give you some warning before it strikes.” Jessy shoved a foot into a boot and stomped it into position. “With Ballard, the worst he’ll do is make a pass. And if he does, I guarantee you he’ll be walking around hunched over and spraddle-legged for a week.” As soon as the second boot was on, she headed for the door. “You still need that shower. You’d better go take one. I’m going downstairs and give Sally a hand with dinner.”
Grim-lipped, Ty stared after her. “Meek” had never been an adjective that described Jessy. But “stubborn” was proving to be very accurate. She was a fool to think Ballard was harmless. No man was harmless. And no woman, for that matter.
Yet Ty couldn’t help thinking that there was one name they hadn’t discussed—Buck Haskell. Ty had a nagging feeling that Buck wasn’t about to fade into the background. They would be hearing from him again.
 
 
Dust swirled about the stock pens at the Triple C headquarters, kicked up by milling cattle, bawling in confusion. Their noise was underscored by the clatter of cloven hooves as animals were prodded up the wooden chute and into the slat-sided stock trailer. The curses and shouts from those on the ground and on horseback added to the racket.
In the midst of it all, a photographer and his assistant darted about, seeking the right angle and lighting for the shots they wanted, and further spooking the range-wild cattle in the process. Watching it all from his perch on the top rail, Ty kept his mouth shut with difficulty. For two cents, he would yank them out of the pen, shove them in their car, and tell them to get the hell down the road.
A pair of small white hands gripped the rail next to his leg. He glanced down as Tara pulled herself up to lean against the top rail, her arm brushing against his leg.
“How is the photo shoot going?” She scanned the pen to locate the photographers.
“Don’t ask,” Ty replied as the photographer knelt in the middle of the stock pen, his camera aimed at a horse and rider working hard to turn a bunch of cattle toward the chute. The same cattle the photographer had just scattered. “These cattle should have been loaded and gone an hour ago.”
“It will be worth it,” Tara stated confidently. “A feature article with photographs—that’s free publicity.”
“That’s why I haven’t kicked them out of here yet. But they’ll be damned lucky if they don’t get roped and hog-tied by one of the ranch hands.”
“As soon as they get the shots they want of this, they will be all finished.”
“It can’t come soon enough.”
“Oh, I almost forgot. Chase wants you at the house. He’s closeted in the den with those lawyers.”
Ty frowned in surprise. “They’re here?”
Tara nodded. “Their plane landed a few minutes ago.”
“Keep an eye on those two. If you can hurry them along, do it,” he said and vaulted to the ground.
He signaled to Art Trumbo that he was in charge, then struck out for The Homestead. The brim of his hat shielded his eyes from the morning sun, sitting midway up in the sky. For the first of April, the temperature was unseasonably mild. But Ty was too preoccupied to notice, his thoughts already centering on the coming meeting with the lawyers.
Any hope that they might have arrived with good news died the minute he entered the den and saw the professional masks they wore, serious and businesslike, projecting an aura of competence. He shook hands all around and endured the jovial backslap from the blustery Justin Farnsworth, dressed as always more like a cattleman in cowboy boots and a flashy bolo tie. But his interest was piqued by the presence of Ed Talbot in the group, a former police detective and crack investigator.
Convinced the lawyers had arrived with some news, Ty walked over to the side table and poured himself a cup of coffee. Farnsworth resumed his seat in the wing-backed chair facing the desk.
“Chase was just telling me that you are shipping the cattle off to market,” Farnsworth remarked, settling back in the chair and assuming an attitude of ease. “That is probably best.”
Cup in hand, Ty hooked a leg over a corner of the desk and leaned on it. “What have you found out about the land?”
The investigator studied the steer horns mounted above the mantel, saying nothing and looking for all the world like an accountant. It was Farnsworth who answered Ty’s question.
“It’s just as we suspected. The environmentalists appear to be behind this one. I don’t have to tell you how strong their lobby has become these last few years.” He waved a hand in Chase’s direction. “Save the trees. Save the whales. Save the snail darter. They are always hot to save something.”
“And now they want to save my land, is that what you’re telling me?” Chase rocked back in the big swivel chair, his hard gaze fixed on the lawyer.
With a politician’s deftness, Farnsworth neither confirmed nor denied it. “You heard the hue and cry they raised about the damage done by cattle grazing in the national forest lands. It doesn’t seem to matter to them that a hundred years ago herds of buffalo, numbering in the millions, used to roam the same land. Or that the herds of wild horses that they are so determined to see run free do more damage than cattle. And horses aren’t even a species indigenous to this continent. But that is neither here nor there,” he admitted. “Now, they have turned their attention to grass. Native grass, like the kind growing on your land. They have decided it needs to be protected, too.”
“From whom? Certainly not from us. Calders have taken care of this land for well over a century now. Do you see that map on the wall behind me?” Chase jerked a thumb toward it. “There is native grass still growing on all of it.”
“I’m sure there is.” Farnsworth nodded his head.
“Are you saying the government plans to set aside that land as a nature preserve?” Ty asked, trying to cut through the rhetoric.
“Something of that sort seems to be afoot,” the lawyer confirmed.
“That is the stupidest thing I ever heard.” Chase’s voice was thick with disgust. “Nature never intended grass to grow untouched. It was meant to be cut by grazing animals, cropped close to stimulate more growth. The damage comes from overgrazing.”
“I quite agree with you. And I don’t know of a single rancher who wouldn’t.”
“How can we stop this?” Ty asked.
“That’s what we are trying to figure out. You see, there appears to be a slight problem.” Farnsworth slid a brief glance at the investigator.
“What’s the problem?” Ty directed his question to Talbot.
At a nod from Farnsworth, Talbot replied, “It seems the government no longer holds title to the land.”
Chapter Ten
S
tunned, Ty came to his feet as Chase shot forward in his chair. “Seemed?” Chase pounced on the word. “Either they own it or they don’t. Which way is it?”
“They don’t,” Talbot confirmed with obvious regret.
“Who does?” Ty watched the man with narrowed eyes.
“It’s Dy-Corp, isn’t it?” Chase guessed, then glared at the lawyer. “Environmentalists, my eye. It’s not the grass. It’s the coal they’re after. I warned you to watch out for them.”
“I know you did.” Farnsworth’s glance fell under the weight of Chase’s hard look. “But we can’t say for certain that Dy-Corp is behind this. You explain, Talbot.”
Once again the investigator was the cynosure of all eyes. “I can tell you that title to the land is held by a Delaware corporation called Montana, Inc. Its sole stockholder is another corporation. Its name is unimportant since it is also owned by another company. So far, I have followed the ownership trail through five corporations. The last one is an offshore company by the name of Arateel. And I haven’t been able to bribe, steal, or strong-arm a single piece of information from anyone.” He paused and cast a considering glance over both Ty and Chase. “It has been like trying to find your way through an elaborate maze. Someone has gone to a lot of trouble to conceal his identity.”
“It has to be Dy-Corp,” Chase concluded grimly.
“It could be,” Talbot conceded. “But why? What would be the point? I can’t tell you that Dy-Corp isn’t at the bottom of this, but my gut says they aren’t.”
Ty studied the man, convinced his opinion was based on more than just instinct. “Who do you suspect is behind this? And why is Farnsworth so certain it’s an environmental group?”
“To answer that, let me tell you what we do know,” Talbot began. “One of the companies in the corporate trail appears to be a philanthropic organization with a past history of purchasing other property for preservation purposes. According to a secretary for one of the more influential environmental lobbyists in Washington, a representative from that particular company met with her boss. After the representative left, her boss asked for a detailed map of Montana and told her to gather all the information they had on virgin prairies. A few days later, a hefty check arrived in the mail. That set in motion a bunch of high-level meetings. Shortly after that, you received official notice of the government’s decision not to renew your grazing permit.” His mouth twisted in a smile without humor. “This is one of those cases where, if it looks like a rat, walks like a rat, and smells like a rat, it has to be a rat. Can I prove the connection? No. But I can see it as clearly as I see my own hand.”
Farnsworth shifted in his chair, the movement drawing focus to him. “In my mind, the information Ed uncovered explains how and why your particular acreage was singled out. I grant you other ranchers have recently had difficulties obtaining permits for land they have grazed their stock on for years. Invariably, however, it has been in areas already set aside as national forest land or something similar. Your land has never been given any such designation.”
“But it isn’t my land anymore, is it?” Chase leaned back in his chair, his gaze hard with challenge.
“Regrettably no.” Farnsworth dipped his head in acknowledgment.
“And you can’t tell me who owns it other than some corporation called—” Unable to come up with the name, Chase looked to Talbot.
The investigator supplied it. “Arateel.”
“Whoever the hell that is,” Chase grumbled in disgust.
“In our opinion, Chase,” the lawyer began, both elbows propped on their respective armrests, his fingers steepled in front of him, “given the connection to the environmentalists, it seems highly likely that the new owner or owners intend to leave the land untouched. What else can they do?” He opened his hands, palms up. “The property is completely landlocked by yours. Assuming you are correct and Dy-Corp is somehow behind this, what good would the land be to them? I don’t care how rich the coal deposit might be. They have no way to get their machinery in or the coal out. And you are under no legal obligation to grant access to it.”
“That is all well and good, but it doesn’t change the fact that we don’t own the land,” Ty stated and glanced to the window as a diesel truck, stock trailer in tow, rolled toward the lane, the muffled rumble of its cranking motor penetrating into the house. “Do you see that semi out there? It’s loaded with three-, four-, and five-year-old cows, each capable of producing a calf every spring for the next ten years and more. Do you have any idea how much money that represents in lost revenue? We need that land. We need its water and its hay as well as its grass. Without it, we will probably have to cut back our operation even more.”
“It has been a critical loss, I know, even for a ranch this size,” the lawyer began.
“That’s a major understatement, Farnsworth,” Chase declared.
“Of course. But as crippling as this loss may be right now, I believe it can ultimately work to your benefit.” Farnsworth leaned forward, determined to put a positive spin on the situation. “You know the hell we have been through these last few years trying to deal with the government. Now the property is in private hands. As soon as we can identify the new owner, we can begin negotiations—preferably for the purchase of it, or at the very least, a lease.”
“How long will that take?” Ty wanted to know.
“It is difficult to say. Talbot has three of his associates working on it right now. We may not get the answer tomorrow or next week, but hopefully it will come soon. Isn’t that right, Ed?”
“Nothing stays a secret forever,” Talbot replied. “Sooner or later we will ask the right person or grease the right palm, and we will learn who is behind the corporation. Once we have a name, tracking that individual down will be a snap.”
The minute Talbot finished, Farnsworth spoke up again. “Obviously, we would have preferred to come here armed with that information. But when it became apparent that it wasn’t likely to be forthcoming in the next few days, we realized that we needed to apprise you about the turn of events. Given the unexpectedness of them, we felt we should tell you in person rather than over the telephone, even though we couldn’t fill in all the blanks.”
Talbot raised his cup. “Is there any coffee left?” His question signaled an end to any further information. The conversation reverted to a rehash of facts and supposition, and exploration of their options.
 
 
Tara sailed into the house, the denim collar of her silver-studded jacket turned up about her neck. As she passed the door to the den, she caught the hum of male voices coming from within. Her mouth curved in a feline smile of satisfaction. She continued without pause through the living room, heading toward the sound of banging pots.
The smile was still in place when she walked into the kitchen and paused at the sight of the twins. Armed with a wooden spoon, Trey pounded on an aluminum pot with relish while Laura scowled furiously at him. Jessy was at the sink, washing up some baking dishes, and Sally was bent over the oven’s open door, where the aroma of freshly baked cookies emanated.
“Who is making all this racket?” Tara chided in a playful voice.
Laura let out a squeal of delight and made a beeline straight for her, toddling as fast as her young legs could carry her. “Tatie, Tatie, Tatie,” she cried, which was the closest she could come to saying Tara’s name, and stretched her arms out to Tara.
Laughing, Tara scooped her up. “How’s my favorite little girl?”
Laura flashed her a big smile and immediately transferred her attention to the shiny silver studs that adorned Tara’s jacket. After a short pause, Trey resumed his drumming practice.
Still holding Laura, Tara crossed to the sink. “How on earth do you two hear yourselves think?” she asked, raising her voice to make herself heard above the banging.
An absent smile played across Jessy’s mouth. “You learn to tune it out.” She rinsed a mixing bowl under the tap water and set it on the rack to drain. “Have the photographers left?”
“They are loading the last of their equipment now. Do you mind if I borrow one of your vehicles? I have a couple of errands I need to run in town, and the ranchhands talked so much about Blue Moon that the photographer wants to see it. I told them they could follow me into town.”
“Sure. The keys to the Blazer are on the hook by the back door.” Jessy nodded toward them, her hands once more immersed in dishwater.
“Thanks.” Tara set Laura on the floor. Immediately the toddler scrunched her face and opened her mouth to hiccough out the first sob. Tara patted her blond curls. “Don’t worry, sweetie. I’ll be back in a couple hours,” she told her, then turned to Sally. “I’ll grab a bite in town, so don’t bother to set a place for me at lunch. Is there anything you need from Fedderson’s while I’m there?”
Sally frowned thoughtfully, then shook her head. “I can’t think of anything,” she said then reconsidered. “Although you might see if they have any fresh strawberries. Shortcake for dessert tonight would be a nice change.”
“Will two quarts be enough?” Tara plucked the set of keys off its hook.
“Plenty,” Sally assured her.
With a wave, Tara went out the back door. Young Trey didn’t bother to look up as Laura wailed a protest and toddled to the back door.
 
 
A steady stream of dump trucks, loaded with coal, rolled past the mine office. A fine black dust sooted the building’s windows and metal siding. More of it darkened the vehicles parked in the lot next to it. Buck Haskell parked his truck in a slot marked for visitors. He wasn’t sure that he exactly qualified as a visitor, but it was the closest to the front door.
Conscious of the nervous churning in his stomach, Buck climbed out of the pickup, tucked his shirttail a little deeper inside his jeans, and made the long walk to the door. As he opened it, another truck rumbled past, kicking up a fresh swirl of road dust and soot.
The receptionist looked up when he entered. Like nearly everybody in Blue Moon, she was a stranger to him. But that didn’t ease his tension any.
“May I help you?”
Buck opened his mouth to answer, but his throat locked up. After all the years he had spent in prison, it angered him that a mere slip of a woman could scare him into silence.
Buck tried again. “I’m here to see a Mr. . . . uh—” For a split second, he blanked on the name. Then it came to him. “Mr. Daigle.”
“And this is in regard to what?”
“A job interview.” His palms felt sweaty. Buck buried them in the pockets of his tan windbreaker.
“And you want to see Mr. Daigle?” She eyed him in surprise.
He faltered a second then insisted gruffly, “That’s the name he gave me when he called for me to come in.”
Clearly skeptical, she picked up the phone. “Let me check,” she said, then paused, her fingers above the buttons. “And your name is?”
“Haskell. Buck Haskell.”
“Just a moment.” She punched in a number, waited, then slid a look at Buck and said into the mouthpiece, “There is a Mr. Haskell here. He says he has an appointment with you.” She shot Buck another look and nodded. “Of course. I’ll send him right in. He’s expecting you,” she said to Buck as she hung up the phone. “Down that hall, the second door on your right.”
Nodding his thanks, Buck moved away from the desk and started down the hall. As he approached the door, he felt his throat tightening up again and swallowed nervously.
The door opened before he reached it. A burly man in shirtsleeves and a tie stepped out, his mouth curved in a polite smile of inquiry. “Mr. Haskell?”
“Yes, sir.” Buck halted, automatically squaring his shoulders in reaction to the authority the man exuded.
“We have been expecting you.” The man stepped to the side and motioned for Buck to precede him into the room.
He hesitated a split second, then moved past the man and through the doorway. It was one of those grand offices with lots of gleaming wood, bookshelves, and an oversized desk with a pair of facing chairs. But it was the petite, dark-haired woman, dressed in a flashy denim outfit, who claimed his attention. She stood by the window, her back to the door.
She made a slow, regal turn to face him. The beauty of her face was not one that a man of any age would forget. Even as it made its impact on him, Buck remembered exactly where he had seen her before. It stiffened him. At the same time, the anxiety he had felt toward the coming interview vanished completely.
Her glance bounced off Buck and centered on the man behind him. “That will be all, Daigle. Thank you.”
Swiveling at the hips, Buck looked back as the burly mine manager made a slight bow and withdrew from the office, closing the door behind him. When Buck turned around, she had moved away from the window to approach him. Every step of the way, he was conscious of the measuring inspection of her eyes on him.
“We haven’t been formally introduced, Mr. Haskell.” There was a musical quality to her voice, with just a touch of Texas in it. “I am Tara Calder.”

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