Stands a Calder Man (31 page)

Impatience made the stem line of his mouth appear even harder. He flashed a dark look at the woman called Ruth. “I want to know the minute he comes to.”

“I'll call you,” she promised and drew a chair next to the bed to begin her vigil.

But it was the middle of the second night before Webb stirred. Ruth had just come into the bedroom so Lorna could get some sleep. She was at his side with the first sign of movement.

“He has a slight fever.” Lorna Calder wrung out a wet cloth to lay on his forehead and handed it to Ruth.

As she laid it on his forehead, Ruth noticed his lips moving. She bent closer to quiet him, then froze as she heard him murmur something that sounded like
Lilli.
Her gaze jerked to Lorna Calder.

“Is he conscious?” Lorna asked anxiously.

“No. That is—” Ruth faltered. “Do you know anyone named Lilli?”

A stillness came over Lorna's features. “No, I don't know anyone by that name,” she denied. Then she gave Ruth a considering look. “I'd rather you didn't mention this to Benteen.”

“The man who brought Webb here, was he fairly old—with a gray beard?” Ruth asked, feeling the sharp pain of suspicion and trying to conceal it.

“Yes. Why?” Lorna Calder eyed her closely.

“I just wondered,” Ruth murmured and lowered her gaze. Although she had asked how Webb had got shot, Lorna had indicated to her that she didn't know. At first, Ruth had thought that likely, since Webb hadn't regained consciousness. But if it was the same man who had brought him here that Ruth knew to be the husband of that young woman Webb had danced with at the Fourth of July celebration, it seemed very possible the shooting had been over that woman.

At some point this year, she had lost Webb and hadn't even known it.

Benteen, please remember he's very weak,” Lorna cautioned her husband before they entered Webb's room.

“I will.” But he was impatient with the minor delay caused by her brief comment. Now that Webb had regained consciousness, he wanted to find out the actual circumstances that had surrounded the shooting. After two days of being gnawed by the old man's claim, Benteen couldn't accept it as true. “But there's some things I've got to find out.”

As she opened the door, Lorna gave him another warning look that asked him to stay calm and take it slow. Ruth was sitting on the bed, spoon-feeding Webb some broth. Benteen was shaken by the whiteness of his son's face. It made the blackness of his hair and eyes and the stubble on his cheek all the more pronounced. An array of feather pillows supported him in a semi-reclining position. Benteen felt a stirring of anger again for the man who had laid low his vital, strapping son.

“Ruth, would you leave us alone with Webb for a few minutes?” Lorna requested.

Benteen needed the time to compose himself and bring his emotions under control. He was trembling, and he shoved his hands deep into his pockets so it wouldn't show. While Ruth gathered up her tray to leave, Benteen ranged alongside the bed, searching the pale features of his grown son. He didn't say a word until Ruth had left the room.

“How are you feeling, son?”

“All right.” His voice lacked strength. “I guess it's a
good thing I've got a hard head.” The effort of speaking seemed to send shock waves through his head, increasing the pounding pain that fluctuated between a steady dullness and a stabbing sharpness.

“I want to know about the shooting, Webb,” Benteen stated, broaching the issue that had brought him to the room. “I want to know what happened and who did it.”

It wasn't a physical pain that closed Webb's eyes. “Forget it.”

“Forget it?” The retort came back fast and sharp, loaded with temper.

“Benteen.” Lorna issued a quiet warning from her position at the head of the bed.

He struggled to lower his voice and it came out rough with the effort. “I'm not going to accept that. Now, are you going to tell me what happened and why?”

“I said forget it,” Webb repeated, opening his eyes to challenge his father. But Lorna saw the film of moisture in them and felt her heart twisting for her son. It was a stupid code that men had to do their crying on the inside, and she wished she could cry Webb's tears for him. “This is my business. It has nothing to do with you,” Webb insisted.

“Like hell it doesn't!” Benteen towered beside the bed. “You are a Calder, and that makes it my business, too!” His hands came out of his pockets to thrust a finger at Webb. “Nobody shoots my son—nobody shoots one of my riders—that I don't take a personal interest in the reason!”

“It had nothing to do with the ranch.” Webb sank tiredly against the pillows; the argument was costing him what little strength he had.

“It doesn't matter if it's personal or business,” his father insisted. His mouth was compressed in a tight line as he waited for a response and didn't get it. “The man who brought you here claimed he caught you with his wife.” He challenged Webb to deny the information. When the denial didn't come, he was forced to demand, “Is that true?”

A silence ran through the room before the simple, one-word answer was given. “Yes.”

“By God, you'd better have more of an explanation than that.” His father's voice vibrated. The line of his jaw stood out, muscles harshly clenched. “How could you become involved with a married woman?”

“I love her.” His candor touched Lorna, but it didn't sway Benteen at all. “I would have taken her away from him if I could.” Webb didn't expect his father to understand, so he wasn't disappointed by his reaction.

“You weren't raised to take what belongs to another man,” his father condemned him in hoarse anger.

“Benteen, I think you'd better leave.” Lorna came between them, confronting her husband with a determined look he had seen before. “You found out what you wanted to know. The rest can wait until later, when Webb is stronger.”

“How can you defend him?” he challenged.

“He's my son, and he's your son,” she countered without hesitation. “Right now, he's too weak to lift his head, let alone take on you.” She faced him squarely, not giving an inch. “I mean it, Benteen. Leave the room.”

“All right,” Benteen conceded grimly. “I'll wait until he's out of that bed.”

He turned on his heel and walked briskly from the room. Lorna waited until the door had closed behind him before shifting her attention to Webb.

No matter how much he had been prepared for his father's anger, it still added to his broken despair. His memory of the shooting was laced with an unreality that didn't quite make anything clear, even less reveal how he had survived. He guessed Lilli had somehow kept Reisner from killing him. Lilli. What had happened to her? He damned the wound that had taken his strength.

When he saw the sadness and regret in his mother's expression, he sighed tiredly and aggravated the fiery pain in his side. “Don't apologize for him, Mother,” he said. “I expected it.”

She combed her fingers through his hair in a loving gesture and smoothed it away from his forehead. “She is the young woman who was injured at the fire,” she guessed, and Webb nodded his head, not surprised by his mother's astuteness. “I thought so,” she murmured and changed the subject. “We've had all your things brought over from the bunkhouse. You're going to stay here in your old room where we can take care of you.” She ran her hand over his scratchy beard and tried to smile. “You need a shave, but first some rest, I think.”

“I am tired,” he admitted.

His mother started to leave his side, then turned back. “Webb,” she began, “I know your father seemed unnecessarily harsh, but remember—his mother ran away with another man when he was a boy. I thought he'd gotten over it, but. . .” She hesitated. “He knows what that did to his father. It's hard for him to accept that his own son would deliberately try to break up a marriage.”

No reply was necessary as his mother left the room. Webb stared out the window at the polar-blue color of the sky. It was a detail of his father's past that he'd forgotten. His mother had told him of it, but it was something his father never discussed.

His pain-troubled mind didn't dwell on that thought long. Soon the color of the sky was conjuring up images of Lilli and the incredible blue of her eyes. “If he laid a hand on you because of me, Lilli, I swear I'll kill him,” Webb muttered, already drifting into the blackness of exhaustion.

That evening, Barnie Moore came to The Homestead, ostensibly to report on the effects of the storm, but he was tired of the waiting and speculating. He'd known Chase Benteen Calder since they were both wild pups, and his son Nate was Webb's best friend. Others might not dare to question the continuing silence from The Homestead, but Barnie wasn't one of them.

A fire crackled in the den's huge fireplace. The tongues of flames licking over the logs were the objects
of Benteen's brooding attention as he sat in a leather-covered chair, a twin to the one Barnie occupied.

“On the whole, the herds have fared pretty well,” Barnie said, wrapping up his discourse on the subject. “So far, the winter kill is running light.”

“Good,” Benteen grunted, but it seemed to be a response given automatically without being aware of what was said.

“How's the boy doin'?” Barnie started out with a safe inquiry.

“He's regained consciousness. You know that.” Benteen slid him a short glance, aware the word had gotten around. Barnie confirmed it with a nod. “He's weak as a baby. It'll take him some time to get back on his feet.”

“I figured that.” Barnie struck a match and carried it to the tailor-made cigarette, cupping the flame to the tip and looking across at Benteen. “I expect he was strong enough to tell you how he got shot.”

With a flash of irritation, Benteen pushed to his feet and approached the fireplace. “It was an accident.”

Barnie managed to blow out the smoke he inhaled before he choked on it. “An accident?”

“He was cleaning his rifle and it accidentally discharged,” Benteen snapped at Barnie's skeptical response. “It happens all the time.”

“And the knot on his head? I suppose he got that when he fell,” Barnie doubted, and was even more convinced when he saw the bunching muscles on Benteen's back, signaling a controlled anger.

“Yes, I suppose he did.” The clipped agreement accepted Barnie's reasoning.

“Then how do you explain how those farmers got ahold of him?” Barnie challenged quietly.

Benteen whipped around. “How the hell should I know!” he flared. “Maybe he took refuge at their place to wait out the storm.” But he knew the explanation had holes in it, because it didn't provide a reason for Webb's not being at the line camp. “As far as you and
everyone else is concerned, the shooting was an accident. That's all you need to know.”

Without making a reply to that, Barnie rolled slowly to his feet and walked to the fireplace to toss the burned match into the flames. “Is it all right if Nate comes to see him?” he asked instead.

“He's up to having visitors.” Benteen nodded.

“He'll be by, then,” Barnie said. “I'm glad to hear Webb's doin' better. You know we all feel like we've had a hand in raising him.”

“Yeah.” Benteen wondered if that was the problem. Maybe Webb had too many fathers. Or maybe it was his own mother's blood that ran in his son, making him irresponsible and unprincipled. Maybe Webb was a throwback to her. It had taken him a long time to accept his mother for what she was, but he couldn't tolerate those traits in his son. Some hard and painful decision had to be made.

He didn't hear Barnie leave the room.

Bare-chested, Webb stood in front of the wood-framed mirror. His middle was bound in a wide bandage that completely encircled him, while a pair of Levi denim pants hugged the length of his legs and hips. His face was half-covered with shaving lather, two swaths cut through it by the razor in his hand.

His hand trembled when he raised it to make a third wipe at his beard, his arm feeling incredibly heavy. Webb cursed this frightening weakness that still gripped him after more than a week and attempted to force his hand to carry out its task. He felt the sting of pain as the sharp blade nicked his skin. Cursing again, be reached for the towel to blot the blood from the cut There was a quick knock at the door.

“Come in.” He irritably gave permission for the person to enter.

The door opened and Ruth came in with his breakfast tray. “Good morning.” She looked at him as she set the tray on the stand next to his bed. “What do you
think you're doing?” she asked as he turned back to the mirror and rinsed off the blade in the basin of water.

“Shaving,” he answered shortly, eyeing her reflection in the mirror next to his own.

She took away the towel he had pressed against the cut. “It looks to me like you weren't satisfied with the amount of blood you lost and decided to get rid of some more. Sit down.” She gently pushed him toward a straight chair. “I'll finish that for you.”

With mixed relief, Webb sank into the chair. His legs were rubbery and weren't up to standing for long periods. He'd been nearly to his limit, so part of him didn't mind letting Ruth take over the chore. He tipped his head onto the back edge of the chair and closed his eyes as the razor began making clean, firm strokes across his beard. He opened them to look at Ruth bending over him.

“You're pretty good at this,” he remarked.

“I should be with as much practice as I've had on you.” It was a simple statement, not meant to be bold or provocative. “Hold still and don't talk, or I'm liable to cut you. I'm not that good.”

Webb fell silent, reminded by her remark of all the hours she'd spent with him since he'd been hurt. She'd fed him, washed him, shaved him, and read to him, not talking unless he did and going quietly about her work when he didn't.