Calder Pride (Calder Saga 5)

He lifted a hand to comfort her, then let it fall back to his side, uncertain what to do or what to say. He turned and looked out the window at the dust plume left in the wake of the departing ranch pickup.

TWO

The small town of Blue Moon hugged the edge of the two-lane highway that raced past it. To the rare passing motorist, it was an oasis of buildings plunked in the middle of nowhere, proof that civilization had reached into the heart of this grass desert. That it existed at all was due to the simple fact that Blue Moon was the only town for miles in any direction. In recent years, its population had tripled after Texas-based Dy-Corp began strip-mining coal on the old Stockman place not far from town. Progress had definitely come to Blue Moon. Some thought it was a good thing; some didn’t.

But for the first time in half a century, the Triple C Ranch was no longer Blue Moon’s biggest customer. That position now belonged to Dy-Corp, with all its employees and their families. Yet a Calder was still regarded with considerable respect by the town’s longtime residents.

When the Triple C vehicle pulled up to the combination grocery store and gas station, Emmett Fedderson spotted Chase Calder right away. He broke off his conversation with the former sheriff and went to greet him, out of politeness and respect.

“Chase. Ty.” He nodded to the two of them when they climbed out of the truck. “I’ve been expecting someone from the ranch to come by, but I never figured on it being you. How you been?”

“Fine, Emmett. Just fine.” Chase switched his cane to the other side to shake hands with the man. “We thought we’d take a look at the truck.”

“It’s totaled, I’m afraid. I had Beeker unload both trucks around back so the place wouldn’t start looking like a junkyard,” he said. “I guess your insurance man will be coming around to check the damage for himself.”

“The agent indicated that the adjuster probably wouldn’t get out here until sometime next week,” Chase told him.

“Figures. They drag their heels about paying off a claim, but you better not be late with a premium. That’s the way of it,

I guess,” Emmett Fedderson declared wearily. “I feel sorry for the Taylors, losing their only boy like that. It sure was one hell of an accident. I was just telling Sheriff Potter about it.” He waved a hand in the direction of the old man sitting on the planked bench in front of the store.

At the mention of his name, Potter spoke up. “I told Emmett he ought to park both wrecks out front, right by the highway. Might slow down some of these drivers going hell-for-leather by here.”

“It might.” Chase looked at the man who had been sheriff since before he was born. No one knew Potter’s exact age, but all agreed he had to be nudging ninety if he wasn’t there already. Age had shrunk his narrow shoulders and turned his wide hips into bony projections. He looked like a doddering old man, except for his eyes; they were as keen and quick as ever, like his mind. “How you been doing, Sheriff?”

Even though Potter had stepped down several years ago, the title had stuck. He had been called Sheriff Potter for so long, Chase could no longer remember the man’s given name.

“How I been doin’? As little as possible—like always.” Potter grinned, showing a full set of yellowed teeth, all his own.

Lazy was a word that had been used more than once to describe Potter while he was in office. He had never denied it, simply replying that a lot could be learned by simply watching and listening. Chase doubted there were any dark secrets that Potter didn’t know, including Chase’s own.

On a more somber note, Potter added, “I don’t reckon I’ll make it to the funeral. I’d appreciate it if you’d carry my condolences to the Taylors, Chase, and to that pretty little green-eyed daughter of yours, too. I know she had her cap set to marry that Taylor boy,” he said, proving again that very little escaped his notice, despite his age.

“Yes, I’ll tell them.” But the mention of Repp’s death brought him back to the reason they had come to town. He glanced at Ty. “Let’s go look at the pickup.”

As they headed around back, accompanied by Emmett Fedderson, a navy blue sedan turned off the highway and stopped next to the self-serve gas pumps. Not recognizing the vehicle, Potter checked the license plates and saw the tags of a rental car.

The driver stepped out, a tall man in a dress black Stetson, partially zipped windbreaker, Levi’s, and black eelskin boots. His outfit said cowboy—maybe even rancher—but there was something in the stranger’s manner that made Potter hesitate to label him as such. His curiosity aroused for no clear reason, he studied the man a little closer, watching as he flipped open the cover to the car’s gasoline tank, loosened its cap, then reached for the hose and inserted the nozzle in the tank.

The stranger was as lean as a winter wolf, and he had a way about him that made Potter suspect he could be just as dangerous as one, under the right circumstances. His eyes were busy, looking, seeing, noting everything around him. Not in a furtive way, but alert and cautious as though from long habit.

There was a time when nearly every western man had that way about them, especially the old-timers. Now it was a look Potter generally saw in only two kinds of men. It made him curious which one this stranger was. Not that it was any of his business anymore. Still, he wished he could get a look at the man’s face.

The thought led to action. “Nice afternoon,” Potter remarked, seeking to strike up a conversation.

The stranger obliged him by strolling over to the slab-seated bench. His hair was dark, neatly clipped. The high cheekbones and slashing jawline made Potter think the stranger might have some Indian blood. But it was his eyes that caught and held Potter’s attention. They were an unusual smoke gray, with thick, sooty lashes. He knew at once he had never seen this man’s face before.

“You couldn’t have ordered a better day than this.” An easy smile touched the stranger’s mouth, deepening the grooves that flanked it.

The smile did something to the man’s rugged good looks, changed them in a way women would like. Potter judged the stranger as somewhere around thirty, which by his measure was young.

“Yeah, it’s the kind a day that makes you forget what a long, tough winter it was,” Potter said.

“I noticed the range looks in good condition.”

The observation was one a cowman would make. Maybe he had that in his background, but Potter still didn’t peg him as a rancher.

“It looks almost gentle, don’t it?” Potter remarked, watching as the man’s gaze traveled over the grass prairie to the west where it rolled into forever. He barely glanced at the immense blue sky that awed most men seeing it for the first time. “But it’s a hard land, full of extremes. It can be brutally cold in the winter, and blazing hot in the summer. Why, I’ve seen it so bone-dry that a body could stand ankle-deep in dust. Then you got the storms that rain lightning and turn the ground into a quagmire that’ll suck your boots off. Yep, this land breeds toughness into a man, or it breaks him.”