Santa In Montana (4 page)

“Suggest it to Chase.” Laredo smiled. “I'm betting he'll think it's a helluva good idea.”

“I think I will.” The minute the words were out, Jessy felt that nameless tension easing from her. She headed toward the outbuildings with a new interest in assessing their potential use.

Laredo observed the subtle change in her mood, but wisely didn't voice it. Instead he kept Jake occupied, leaving Jessy free to look things over without any distractions.

When Jessy emerged from the caretaker's quarters, Laredo stood a short distance away watching Jake gallop his imaginary horse in a wide circle. His attention shifted to her as she approached him.

“Everything okay in there, too?”

She answered with an absent nod. “I'd forgotten the house had three bedrooms. We just might be able to use Wolf Meadow as an outcamp. Our manpower is spread a little thin in this sector. Usually it's not been much of a problem unless we have a hard winter.”

“That would mean putting a connecting road in,” Laredo reminded her.

“One of the old ranch roads used to come within three-quarters of a mile of old windmill eleven. Chase blocked it off and tore out the culvert when Tara gained title to Wolf Meadow. He wanted to make sure she couldn't use it.” She cast a thoughtful glance in the direction of the old road. “It will take some work to make that road useable again, but it wouldn't be as costly as putting in a whole new road.”

“It looks like you've come up with…at least a partial solution for this place,” Laredo said.

Just as Jessy opened her mouth to reply, there came a shouted “Whoa!” from Jake. Both turned to look. Laredo smiled in amusement at the sight of the young boy veering off his wide circle into some taller grass.

“Looks like Jake has himself a pretend runaway.” Laredo exchanged smiling glances with Jessy.

As always, Jessy used the opportunity to teach her grandson. “Let your horse run a bit,” she called. “Don't pull back on the reins right away. He'll just fight you. Make him go in a circle instead. That will slow him down.”

She watched in approval while Jake followed her instructions and brought his imaginary mount under control and started back toward them. Abruptly he stopped and stared at something to his left.

Jake pointed to it. “What's that little pen for, Grandma?”

There, half hidden by the tall grasses and weeds, were a series of fence posts that boxed in an area roughly ten feet square. Jessy stared at it for an uncomprehending second before she realized what it was.

“That's a cemetery plot, Jake,” she told him.

“You mean like that place we got down by the river where Grandpa's…buried?” He frowned his uncertainty of the word's meaning.

“Just like that,” Jessy confirmed. “Only this one's smaller. And badly neglected, too,” she added in an undertone to Laredo, then walked over for a closer look, joined by both Laredo and Jake.

“Who's buried here?” Laredo tried to make out the name on the gravestone through the high weeds.

“Buck Haskell and his father,” Jessy replied.

“Really.” Laredo frowned in surprise. “I didn't remember that.”

“Probably not. You probably hadn't been here on the Triple C much more than two or three years when Buck was killed in that head-on collision. We offered to have him buried in the ranch cemetery, but Vernon—Buck's dad—wouldn't hear of it. Of course, Vernon always blamed Chase for the way Buck turned out, insisting that if Chase hadn't testified against him, Buck would never have gone to prison that first time.”

“Prison can bring out the worst in a person.”

To Jessy's ears, Laredo's remark sounded like a statement of fact, as if from personal knowledge. She was reminded of how little she knew about his past. Just for a moment she was curious, but she quickly shut the door on the questions, leaving the past in the past, fully aware that knowledge of it wouldn't change anything.

“Have you noticed how quiet it's been?” Laredo asked.

“Peacefully so,” Jessy agreed and let her glance wander over the isolated spot, hearing the soft murmur of a breeze through the grass. “The quiet is something that always strikes me anytime I get away from the constant comings and goings at headquarters.”

“That's true, but I wasn't referring to that kind of quiet,” Laredo said.

Her sidelong glance was half amused and half puzzled. “Exactly what kind do you mean?”

His shoulders moved in a vague shrug. “It just seems we've had a long spell without anyone causing trouble.”

“Is that a complaint—or merely an observation?” During these years they had been together, Jessy had learned to trust his instincts. It made her wonder if he was sensing something now, enough that she couldn't laugh off.

“Not sure what it is,” Laredo admitted. “I just have this uneasy feeling I can't explain.” With quicksilver swiftness, a lazy smile stripped the serious look from his face. “Probably nothing.”

“Probably,” Jessy agreed, aware that she felt a new need for alertness.

A slightly bored sigh came from Jake. “Okay, Grandma, where to next?”

“I think it might be time we flew home. What do you think?”

“Yes!” he cried with a fist pump for emphasis.

 

In the Homestead's kitchen, Cat gave the simmering cranberries a testing stir. Satisfied that they were thoroughly cooked, she picked up the sauce pan and started to pour them into a cut-glass serving bowl. With the first splash of the ruby-red fruit, the timer went off with a strident buzz.

“The pies must be done,” she muttered, half in irritation.

“I'll take them out,” Sloan volunteered and retrieved a pair of oven mitts from the counter.

“You are a jewel,” Cat declared in appreciation. “Do you realize that once those pies are out of the oven, we're finished? The sauce is done, and all three casseroles are in the refrigerator, ready to be baked tomorrow. If you hadn't pitched in to help, I would still be at it this afternoon.”

“The thanks go to Jessy for taking Jake with her.” Sloan checked the centers of both pumpkin pies for doneness. “One of these might need another five minutes.”

“That one pie tin was deeper than the other so I filled it fuller,” Cat recalled and set the empty saucepan in the sink. Before she could carry the bowl of cranberries to the refrigerator, the telephone rang. Aware that Sloan was in the midst of transferring a hot pie to its cooling rack, Cat said, “My hands are free. I'll answer it.” She picked up the kitchen's cordless extension. “Triple C ranch, the Calder residence.”

“I'd like to speak to Chase Calder. Is he in?” The voice on the other end was a warm baritone, very male and very compelling.

And not one Cat recognized, which only piqued her curiosity about its owner. “May I ask who's calling?”

“Wade Rogers.”

The name wasn't one she was familiar with either. To her regret he didn't volunteer any further information. “Is this regarding business?” she guessed, certain a voice like that could sell anybody anything.

There was a definite hesitation before he answered. “It's personal,” he replied evenly, effectively blocking any further questions.

“Just a moment, and I'll see if he's available.”

“Thank you.”

Keeping the telephone to her ear, Cat exited the kitchen and made her way to the den. Chase was behind the desk, rocked back in his chair and idly staring out the window.

She paused in the doorway. “You have a phone call, Dad. A Mr. Wade Rogers.”

“Rogers?” he repeated with a slight frown.

“Yes. Wade Rogers. He said it was personal.”

“Rogers.” This time the name was said with recognition. “Of course.” He rocked the chair forward and picked up the desk extension. “This is Chase Calder.”

“Mr. Calder. This is Wade Rogers. I hope I'm not calling at a bad time.”

“Not at all,” Chase assured him and slid a glance at Cat, who remained in the doorway, the kitchen extension still held to her ear. “You can hang up the extension now, Cat. And close the doors when you leave.”

Startled by that unexpected request, Cat was slow to react. When Chase continued to look at her—without resuming his conversation with Wade Rogers, she belatedly punched the button, breaking the connection on her phone, and moved to close the den's double doors.

Chase nodded his thanks and said into the phone, “I just spoke to your father the other day. I'm glad to say he sounded well.”

As she drew the doors together, the front door opened and the silence in the house was shattered by Jake's voice shouting, “Mom! Mom, we're back! Where are you?”

Suddenly Chase's request no longer seemed so unusual to Cat as she guessed that he had probably seen Jessy drive up out front and knew Jake would come bursting into the Homestead, shouting the news of his arrival. And lately Chase sometimes had difficulty hearing if there was too much background noise.

With the doors closed, Cat crossed to the entry. “Your mother's in the kitchen,” she told Jake as Jessy and Laredo walked in. “You're back early. I thought you'd be longer at Wolf Meadow.”

“It didn't take as long as I thought either,” Jessy admitted and started across the hall. “Is Chase in the den?”

“Yes, but he's on the phone right now,” Cat replied, then added, “Somebody called Wade Rogers. Does that name mean anything to you?”

“No, not really,” Jessy said with a small shake of her head. “Why?”

“Just curious. I heard Dad telling him that he'd spoken to his father the other day, but I don't remember anyone named Rogers.”

“Chase has dealt with so many people over the years that you can't expect to know them all. Some of them were bound to be before our time.” Jessy shrugged it off as unimportant.

“True,” Cat conceded and let the subject drop. Yet it wasn't as easy to block out the memory of that baritone voice. Its warm timbre lingered at the edge of her mind.

“Something smells delicious.” Laredo sniffed the air. “You've been doing some baking while we were gone.”

“A lot of it. And it's all for Thanksgiving. No sampling before,” Cat warned.

“You do have coffee made, I hope,” Laredo said, using the inflection of his voice to make it a question.

“Always. In fact”—Cat hesitated, a thought forming—“I think I'll see if Dad would like a cup. You two go help yourselves.” As they headed for the kitchen, Cat retraced her steps to the den, rapped lightly on the door, then pushed it open and poked her head inside.

Chase looked up with a frown and cupped his hand over the phone's mouthpiece. “What is it?”

“Just checking to see if you'd like a cup of coffee.”

“No, but I damned well would appreciate some privacy.”

Stung by his abrupt response, Cat murmured a cool, “Fine.” And closed the door, muttering under her breath, “You old bear.”

A platter of succulent turkey, roasted to perfection, made its way around the Thanksgiving table, with each spearing a thick slice for their plate—except for Jake, who claimed the drumstick. The yeasty aroma of freshly baked dinner rolls mingled with the sharp fragrance of sage dressing and the sweeter smell of candied sweet potatoes.

Soon every plate was crowded with helpings from the green bean casserole, mashed potatoes and gravy, and tart red cranberry sauce. Only Chase and Jake restricted their portions to a small sampling of everything.

Conversation during the first few bites centered around the food being consumed. Only after the edge was taken off their hunger did the table talk swing around to the usual topic of the ranch.

Trey began it. “I keep thinking about this idea of yours, Mom, to bulldoze Tara's place at Wolf Meadows—”

Before he could finish his comment, Chase interrupted. “I think it's the best damned suggestion for the place that I've heard.”

“I don't disagree with it,” Trey qualified. “But it's going to take some organization to accomplish.”

“Only until the house is leveled,” Chase reasoned. “Then we're through with the place for good.”

“True, but in the meantime, we'll need to contact various auction houses and decide which one we want to use. Naturally the contents will have to be itemized, maybe even photographed.” He sent a quick glance at Sloan. “That's something you could handle.”

“Be glad to,” she agreed. “And I also have contacts at a couple auction houses. I could call them if you want.”

“I, for one, would be grateful for any help you can give us,” Jessy stated. “Ranching, I know. But this—well, it's out of my line.”

“Which reminds me,” Sloan said. “We'll need to choose a charity or charities that will benefit from the auction proceeds.”

“That won't be all that hard,” Trey said. “It's the logistics of the whole thing that I keep thinking about. You do realize everything in that house has to be crated up and hauled out of there, don't you?”

“You've just identified your first priority,” Chase told him. “Putting in a road to it.”

Trey answered with an agreeing nod. “We'll start on it tomorrow. I think we've got an old culvert at South Branch. I'll have it brought here to headquarters. Meanwhile Mike and I can put our heads together and figure out the best route to bridge that last mile.”

“Once that road's in, one of the first things I want you to do is dig up those graves. It's time Buck and his father came home,” Chase stated.

His announcement brought a moment of silence to the table. Cat broke it. “Are you sure that's what you want, Dad?”

He answered by saying, “Ruth would want her boy beside her.”

“Then that's what we'll do.” Jessy ended any further discussion of that issue.

Chase made sure of it by changing the subject. “Have you talked to your mom about the toy drive for the Marines?”

“Talked to her?” Jessy echoed his question on a laughing note. “I went over there to tell her about it and, almost before I had the words out of my mouth, she was on the phone calling other ranch wives. By now, she's probably finalizing a list of toys to get and organizing a shopping trip.”

“Speaking of Christmas,” Cat began and split her glance between Jessy and Trey, “if you can spare a couple of the hands on Monday, I want to haul the decorations out of the attic and get started hanging the outside ones.”

“No problem,” Trey assured her.

“Unless it snows,” Laredo inserted. “It's in the forecast for this weekend.”

“As long as it isn't coming down on Monday, it won't be a problem,” Cat told him. “In fact, it will add to the holiday atmosphere.”

“That reminds me,” Chase said. “Set an extra place for lunch on Monday. The son of an old friend will be dropping by.”

The phrase struck a familiar chord, sparking her immediate interest. “That son wouldn't be Wade Rogers, would it?”

Chase gave her a questioning look. “How did you know his name?”

“I answered the phone when he called and asked for you,” Cat reminded him, struggling to sound matter-of-fact and conscious that she felt on the verge of blushing.

“Just the same, I'm surprised you remembered.”

That voice wasn't one she was likely to forget, but Cat kept that bit of information to herself and asked instead, “Will he be staying long?”

“I doubt it. More than likely he'll leave early afternoon,” Chase replied then cocked his head. “Why?”

“I merely wondered whether I need to make sure there was a room ready for him.” She felt oddly disappointed that Wade Rogers's stay would be such a short one. Which was silly because she hadn't even met the man. For all she knew he could be fat and bald with hair growing out of his ears. Rather than dwell on that image, Cat pushed any further thoughts of Wade Rogers out of her head.

 

Come Monday morning seven inches of fresh snow covered the vast reaches of the Triple C ranch. No clouds remained, leaving the sun the sole occupant of the vivid blue sky. The air was brisk and the wind was still—a scene straight out of a Currier and Ives print. It was the ideal setting for holiday decorating—except for one thing.

Cat clamped gloved hands over her ears in a futile attempt to block out the deafening roar of the snowplow at work clearing the area in front of the Homestead. She wanted to scream at the driver to go somewhere else, then sighed in frustration, knowing she'd never make herself heard above the plow's diesel engine.

With teeth clenched, Cat lowered her hands and attacked the flaps of the cardboard storage box in front of her, one of several strewn across the pillared veranda, some empty and some waiting to be opened. Inside this particular box was a three-foot tall artificial tree, one of two that would occupy the decorative urns flanking the front door.

As she struggled to lift it out, first one flap then another got in her way. Try as she might, Cat couldn't muscle it out.

Just as she was about to give up and start over, a pair of gloved hands reached in and gave the tree the final tug, lifting it free of the box. At almost the same instant, a shrill whistle pierced the plow's loud din. Cat looked up and saw Laredo halfway up a stepladder holding a small wreath up to one of the front windows. He gestured to summon her.

Surrendering the tree to her helper, Cat pointed to the nearest urn, indicating it belonged there, then crossed to Laredo. With the snowplow's noise making conversation impossible, Laredo first held the wreath high on the window, then low, pantomiming his question of where it should hang. Cat responded in kind, using hand gestures until he had the wreath centered in the window.

After securing it in place, Laredo stepped off the ladder and tilted his head close to her, his glance flicking to a point beyond. “Who's the silver fox?”

Surprised that she could hear him, Cat first looked to confirm the snowplow was already some distance from the house and moving away; then Laredo's question registered. Suddenly she was conscious of an unfamiliar SUV visible in her side vision, but it was the tall gentleman standing at the front door who claimed her attention.

Everything about him screamed city—from his charcoal-colored topcoat and plaid muffler to his black-lace shoes, spattered with bits of snow. Not a hair on his bare head was out of place. And its color made Laredo's description “silver fox” singularly appropriate; it was a rich shade of pewter burnished with silver highlights.

“He must be Wade Rogers,” she realized. “Dad said he would be coming by today.”

Without waiting for a response, Cat hurried to greet their guest. When she reached him, he was about to knock on the door, an action that definitely marked him as a first-time visitor. Only strangers knocked; everybody else simply walked in.

“Mr. Rogers? You are Wade Rogers, aren't you?” Cat sought confirmation when he turned toward her.

“Yes, I am.” The instant he spoke, his voice provided further proof of his identity.

One look at his strong, masculine features, the attractive grooves making a parenthesis of his mouth, and the compelling brightness of his dark, nearly black eyes, and Cat wanted to laugh that she had ever thought he might be bald and fat. This was a man as handsome as his voice.

“Welcome to the Triple C. I'm Chase's daughter, Cat Echohawk.” She extended a hand to him.

“I believe we spoke on the phone.”

“We did.” She was secretly pleased that he recognized her voice even as she absorbed the sensation of his pleasantly firm handshake. The memory of it lingered after she released his hand and reached for the doorknob. “Please come in. I know my father is expecting you.”

He stepped back, allowing her to precede him into the house. Once inside, he paused on the rug and gave the bottom of his shoes a wipe on it. Cat first pulled off her gloves, then her stocking cap, and shoved them into the pockets of her parka before reaching up to fluff the ends of her hair, suddenly self-conscious about her appearance.

“Let me take your coat for you,” she offered.

“Thanks.” He shrugged out of the topcoat and passed both coat and scarf to Cat after tucking his gloves in a pocket. Underneath, he wore a dark sports jacket over an ivory-colored sweater. The bulk didn't at all detract from his trim build, Cat noticed.

“I imagine we'll find my father in the den,” she told him and started in that direction. “I hope you had a good trip here,” she added, feeling a need to fill the silence. “The roads weren't too nasty, were they?”

“For the most part, they were clear. I had no problems at all.”

“I'm glad to hear it.” As usual, the double doors to the den stood open. Cat walked in to find Chase seated behind the desk, as she expected. “Dad, Mr. Rogers has arrived.”

“So I see.” With some effort, he pushed out of his chair to stand upright with the aid of his cane.

Cat was pleased to see how quickly Wade Rogers moved to the side of the desk, without any appearance of haste, eliminating the need for the older man to come around to greet him.

“It's a pleasure to finally meet you face to face, Mr. Calder.”

“Same here,” he replied, shaking hands with him. “And the name's Chase to you. We don't stand on formality here at the Triple C.”

“Chase it is,” he said with a nod of understanding.

“Have a seat.” Chase motioned to the chairs in front of the desk and shifted to resume his own seat. “Cat, bring us some coffee. You'd like a cup, wouldn't you, Wade?”

“Black. No cream. No sugar. If it isn't too much trouble,” he added, directing a smiling glance at Cat.

“It's no trouble at all,” she assured him. “We always have a pot brewed.”

On her way to the kitchen, Cat paused in the entryway to hang up his coat and remove her own. As she lifted his coat onto the wall hook, she happened to glance at one of its sleeves. The texture and color of it brought another image flashing into her mind's eye. She turned with a start and stared toward the den, suddenly realizing that Wade Rogers had been the one who'd helped get the tree out of its box. A smile formed as she considered the thoughtfulness of the gesture, aware that he couldn't have possibly known who she was.

One more mark in his favor. She almost laughed aloud at the thought. Tallying up pluses and minuses on an attractive stranger—that was a schoolgirl's trait—and she was anything but a schoolgirl, or interested in a man's attention.

Yet even as the latter thought registered, Cat felt a little “And yet” sigh slip from her. Shaking it off, she hung up her parka and resumed her path to the kitchen.

Five minutes later she re-entered the den, carrying a tray with an insulated carafe of coffee and two cups. After she set it on the desk, she reached for the carafe, only to be stopped by Chase.

“Don't bother, Cat. We'll pour our own,” he told her. “And would you mind closing the doors on your way out? Jake's bound to come barreling in soon and I don't want my chat with Wade interrupted.”

“Of course.” Cat smiled in understanding, splitting it between her father and the man in the wingbacked chair that faced the desk. As her glance lingered on him for a moment, she was quick to note the way Wade Rogers casually lounged in the chair, much as a frequent visitor would. “We're almost finished with the decorations outside. Then I'll be in to start lunch.”

“Sounds like a teenager, accounting to me for her whereabouts, doesn't she?” Chase said to Wade, a twinkle in his eyes.

A little flustered and self-conscious, Cat was quick to justify her comment. “I just wanted you to know where I'd be in case you needed something.” With that she exited the room with as much dignity as possible.

As she paused to close the doors, she heard Wade remark, “That's the original map of the ranch on the wall back there, isn't it? My father described it to me many times.”

Her father's reply was lost to her when the double doors clicked together.

 

The yeasty aroma of freshly baked rolls filled the kitchen when Cat opened the oven door to remove the pan. Little Jake appeared at her side almost instantly and shadowed her when she carried them over to the counter and the cooling rack that awaited them.

“They smell good, Aunt Cat,” Jake declared with feeling. “Can I have one now? I'm hungry.”

“May I,” she countered, automatically correcting his grammar.

He gave her a puzzled look. “Don't you know if you can?”

It took an instant for his response to register. When it did, Cat laughed. “I think they're too hot right now.”

As he sighed his regret, Sloan came up and rumpled his hair. “You don't need one anyway. It'll spoil your lunch.”

“No, it won't. My tummy's real, real empty.” He pressed a hand against his stomach in emphasis.