Calder Pride (Calder Saga 5)

“Do you have any coffee, Sheriff?” Logan paused, glancing at Rollie. “Would you like a cup?”

“Yeah.” He rubbed his forehead above the bandage as a nod from Blackmore sent the deputy out to fetch the coffee. “You wouldn’t have any aspirin, would ya?”

“Sorry.” Logan took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and shook one out, offering it to him.

“Thanks.” His hand trembled visibly when he carried it to his mouth. Logan lit it for him, then returned the lighter to his pocket along with the cigarettes. “I swear I don’t remember anything about the accident. Hell, I don’t even remember climbing into the truck to go home. All I did was go to Sally’s for a couple beers. I’d been working in the fields all damned week.” He puffed on the cigarette and nervously tapped the end of it in the charred ashtray, his eyes sliding to Logan. “They’re gonna throw the book at me, aren’t they?”

“It doesn’t look good.”

He stared at the ashtray, shoulders slumping. “Maybe I deserve it. I don’t know. But my ma, what’s gonna happen to her? My old man’s too crippled up to work the farm anymore. Without me, how’s she gonna live?”

“Maybe your brother can help?” Logan suggested.

“Lath?” Rollie scoffed at the idea. “He hates that place.”

“Maybe there’s some other way he can help out. Have you talked to him?”

“No. He called Ma from Texas a few weeks ago, but…” He shrugged off the rest.

“Does he know about the accident and you being in jail?”

“Ma might have called him, I don’t know.” He shrugged again, then tensed. “Wait a minute. You’re here about Lath, aren’t you?” he said accusingly.

“That’s right.”

“I should have known.” He crumpled the half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray. “You just don’t leave a guy alone, do you? How many times does Lath have to tell you that he didn’t know those guns were stolen when he bought them?”

“We just want to talk to him. We need a little more information about the man he bought them from.”

“Yeah, right. Too bad for you that Lath moves around a lot, isn’t it? Sure, he was in Texas a few weeks ago, but he could be in Timbuktu now.”

The deputy returned with two Styrofoam cups of acid black coffee. Aware that he had obtained about as much information as he was going to get from Rollie Anderson, Logan talked to him a few minutes longer, then rode with Blackmore out to the Anderson farm to talk to the parents.

A newly leafed cottonwood tree formed a canopy over the mourners gathered at the grave site. For generations, the small cemetery near the river had served as a final resting place for the ranch’s dead. Today the remains of Repp Taylor would join them, and the Triple C employees and their families had turned out en masse to pay their last respects to one of their own.

Cat stood bareheaded and tearless behind the Taylors, a single red rose gripped in her hand. Deaf to the words of prayer the minister intoned, Cat stared at the coffin. The spray of flowers was entwined with a ribbon stamped with golden letters that spelled out OUR SON.

There was none that said HUSBAND. The absence of it cut into her. She made no sound; a sharp hitch in her breathing marked the only change.

Control was something she had learned in the last two days, control aided by a numbness that kept all emotion frozen deep inside. Just get through this day had become her watchword. Cat was careful not to look beyond it, inwardly knowing the future looked too bleak, too lonely and empty.

Her father’s voice rumbled an “Amen” beside her. Realizing the prayer was over, Cat murmured a quick one herself. A pitch pipe sounded a note, and a quartet of male voices began singing “Shall We Gather at the River.” Others joined in the familiar hymn. Suddenly the service that had seemed unendurably long was over much too soon, and a quietly weeping Norma Taylor was led from her son’s casket.

It was Cat’s turn. Numbly she stepped forward and placed the bright red rose, still in tight bud, atop the floral spray. Her fingers lingered an instant on the velvet petals. Then the pressure of her father’s hands guided her away from the grave and toward the Taylors. In wordless sympathy she embraced the woman who would have been her mother-in-law.

“We all grieve with you,” her father said when Cat drew back.

The woman made a sound that was near to a sob, then lifted her head, her eyes not focusing on either of them. “I can’t help thinking about Emma Anderson,” she murmured. “How awful this must be for her—with Rollie at fault in the accident and the authorities looking for her oldest boy. I feel so sorry for her.”

Fury was a whip that lashed through Ca

t, spinning her around and driving her from the couple before she gave voice to it. She was still trembling with it when her father finally caught up with her.

“How can she feel sorry for them?” Her voice vibrated with the effort to keep its volume low and her anger controlled. “How can she care what happens to them? Repp is dead, and Rollie Anderson killed him. Has she forgotten that?”

“Of course she hasn’t.” Chase caught her arm, forcing Cat to stop. “But she also understands how difficult it would be as a parent to know your child is responsible for the death of another. Now it appears that the law is looking for Lath as well—”

“Lath?” She frowned.