She touched the cotton fabric of the plain house dress she wore, a floral-patterned thing faded from too many washings. She had been right to wear it. She no longer had any doubt about that, although she knew Neil thought they should have worn their Sunday clothes. In Emma’s mind, her good navy dress and pillbox hat had been the right thing to wear to meet with Rollie’s court-appointed attorney, but not Chase Calder. It wasn’t something she could explain, but she was certain of it just the same.
When the pickup clattered to a stop a few yards from the house, Emma raised a quick hand to her hair, checking for any wayward wisps. Her waist-length hair remained her one vanity. Every night she brushed it the standard one hundred strokes, and every morning she plaited it into braids and wound them in a coronet atop her head. Years ago it had lost its glossy chestnut color and turned a polished pewter gray, but that hadn’t lessened the care she took of it or the pride she took in it.
She gave the stubborn pickup door a hard push with her shoulder, then climbed out and walked around to the driver’s side to help her husband. His arthritis always stiffened him when he sat too long, and with his twisted hands, opening the truck door was difficult for him. Long used to his grunts and grimaces of pain, she paid no attention to them as she assisted him from the cab and kept a bracing arm around him once he stood upright on the ground. She stayed at his side when he hobbled away from the truck toward the porch steps and the waiting Chase Calder and his daughter. She saw, with satisfaction, the way both Calder and his daughter watched her husband, noting the effort it took him to walk and the discomfort it cost him.
“Morning, Calder.” Pain had him biting off the words and breathing in jerky gasps. Neil halted and dug his kerchief from his pocket to wipe at his watering eyes.
“Good morning, Neil, Emma.” Chase nodded the greeting to each of them in turn, an unspoken question in his eyes that asked what they wanted.
“If you have a few minutes, Mr. Calder, Neil and I would like to talk to you,” Emma spoke quietly, resisting the urge to ask to see him in private without his daughter. She had seen the grief that haunted those eyes, and remembered that she had been engaged to the Taylor boy. From all Emma had heard, the girl took after her mother. And the O’Rourkes had never been the forgiving kind.
Chase measured them both with a thoughtful glance, then nodded. “Of course. Come inside.” He motioned toward the house, then turned to his daughter. “Ask Audrey to bring us some coffee in the den, will you, Cat?”
She hesitated only a moment, then swung around and climbed the steps, entering the house ahead of them. Emma breathed easier, reli
eved that he had excluded his daughter.
The interior of the house was as big and grand as the exterior, the large entryway opening into an even larger living room. Emma looked around with interest while Calder shut the front door. She was surprised by nothing she saw. The Homestead was a popular topic of conversation among the locals. Every visitor to the house came away with descriptions of it that were passed around from one wagging tongue to another.
When Calder led them to a set of double doors on their left, Emma knew what she would see before she entered the room. Sure enough, there above the mantelpiece of the massive stone fireplace were the wide, sweeping horns of the legendary longhorn steer that had led the first Calder herds to this land more than a century ago. A framed map hung on the wall directly behind the desk. Roughly drawn and yellowed with age, it outlined the boundaries of the Triple C Ranch, an area of land larger than the state of Rhode Island.
The man who ruled it walked behind the large desk and sat down, waving them toward a pair of leather and brass-studded chairs that faced the desk. “Have a seat.”
Neil lowered himself into the first chair while Emma claimed its twin. Neil mopped at his eyes again, then stuffed the kerchief back in his pocket. “I appreciate you taking the time to speak with us,” he said with a nervous bob of his head.
“What is it you wanted to talk to me about?” He directed the question to Neil.
“It’s about our boy Rollie,” Neil began, then paused and threw an uneasy glance her way. “The missus and me met with his lawyer yesterday, a fellow by the name of Barstow. He’s young, but he seemed to know what he was talking about. Anyways, the way he explained it is this—there’s a hearing coming up. As things stand now, Rollie is facing a manslaughter charge, which means he’ll have to serve some time in prison. Barstow wants to plea-bargain the case and get the charges reduced. He says that the judge might suspend the sentence and release Rollie on probation. But to do that, he says we’ll need somebody to speak up for him. Not just anybody, but somebody whose name carries some weight.”
Chase leaned back in his chair and regarded him steadily. “And you want me to speak up for him.”
“Your word means something around here. Folks listen when you talk.” He stated it flatly, making no appeal with his voice.
“Rollie is a good boy, Mr. Calder.” Emma leaned forward. “A hard worker, too. He’s sorry about causing that accident, sorrier than I could ever say. He never meant for it to happen. It’s just that with the milking and the plowing and the planting, he’d worked from dawn to dusk all week. He went into town Saturday night like all boys do. He shouldn’t have drank so much, but—boys do that, too. Such foolishness is a part of growing up, I guess.”
“Forgive me, Mrs. Anderson, but this isn’t the first time your son has been arrested for driving under the influence,” Chase pointed out.
“I know.” She released a convincing sigh of regret. “Liquor is a terrible thing that’s messed up many a man. I could name a dozen people right here in this county who have a problem with it. And that night, there must have been at least a half dozen others at Sally’s who drank too much. Any one of them could have caused that crash. But it was Rollie. He was the one at fault.” Shrewdly, Emma didn’t deny his guilt as she lifted her hands in silent appeal for understanding. “But it was an accident, Mr. Calder. My boy never meant for it to happen.”
“But a man died just the same.” His expression was unchanged and unreadable.
“I know.” Emma let her hands fall to her lap, her slim shoulders slumping. “‘An eye for an eye,’ it says in Exodus. But I ask you, what good is it gonna do to send Rollie to prison? It isn’t going to bring that Taylor boy back.”
An eyebrow came up, a coolness entering his gaze. “Surely you aren’t suggesting your son should go unpunished?”
“No, I’m just saying there’s got to be some way to do that besides sending him to prison,” Emma replied.
For the first time, his steady gaze shifted from her. He seemed to be looking inward, considering her words. At the same time, she caught the sound of footsteps approaching the den.
Guessing it was that Audrey person bringing the coffee he had requested, Emma rushed to press her advantage. “Rollie’s just a plain, hardworking farm boy, a little foolish and wild sometimes, but he’s no criminal. And he’s needed at home. Neil and me, we’re too old to do all the farm work. Crippled with arthritis like he is, Neil can’t be bouncing around on a tractor ten and twelve hours a day. Why, he can’t even put the milkers on the cows.”
“That’s enough, Emma.” Neil glowered, the redness of embarrassment creeping up his neck as Cat walked in carrying a coffee tray.
Glancing at neither of the Andersons, she set the tray on a side table near the computer workstation. Cat had overheard much of the old woman’s previous speech, both the pleading defense of their son and the wheedling declaration of hardship. Privately she was outraged at the very idea of Repp’s drunken killer going unpunished.
“You know it’s true, Neil.” The old woman’s voice was soft in its disagreement, a subtle air of meekness about her manner.
Cat placed the two coffee cups with their respective saucers on the desk directly in front of their chairs. When she turned to retrace her steps to the coffee tray, she encountered the old woman’s hostile glance. The visual contact lasted little longer than a wink. The effect of it stayed, giving Cat the distinct impression the woman wanted her gone from the room. It turned her stubborn and fueled the anger she already felt. Deliberately she dallied at the coffee tray, making long work out of the task of pouring her father’s coffee.