Green Calder Grass (Calder Saga 6)

“Because it’s big. Over the years, Old Man Calder hasn’t invited more than a dozen people to come here. And none of them were people who mattered. But the few who have been here—when they drop the name ‘Calder’ in a conversation, they have everybody’s attention.”

Jessy didn’t say anything. She was too busy trying to absorb all this new information. She had always known the Calder name carried considerable weight in this part of Montana. But in the rest of the country, too?

“Is this true, Ballard?” she asked, dead serious.

“It’s true. But don’t take my word for it. Ask Ty. Have him tell you what it’s like when he attends regional meetings of the livestock associations. He’s bound to have noticed the stares and whispers when he enters a room, the deference that’s shown him. If he showed up in Texas, it would be the same.”

“I see.” At least, she was beginning to see.

“Your registered cattle are among the best in the land, Jessy. As for your strain of cutting horses, I’ve never forked my leg over better in all my years of competition. And I’ve ridden champions. Ranching is a precarious business nowadays. To be successful, a rancher’s gotta make money any way he can. For years, Chase has done things the old way. I’m not saying that’s totally wrong,” Ballard added quickly. “But if there’s gonna be a Triple C in the years to come, you and Ty might want to take a harder look at the things that are done now, in the New West.”

“Like this production sale you suggested,” she murmured.

“That, and all the marketing and publicity that go with it.”

Jessy didn’t have the first clue how to do any of that. Give her a sick cow and she could doctor it; a broken fence and she could mend it; a rank horse and she could ride; a pair of babies and she could raise and care for them. But production sales, marketing, publicity, those were completely out of her realm of knowledge. Did Ty know?

“You need to take the Triple C name and make it one people shout, not whisper about,” Ballard concluded.

“That’s easier said than done,” Jessy replied, speaking more to herself than to the sandy-haired cowboy.

“Maybe. But there’ll be money in it. Big money.”

Turning, she looked him squarely in the eyes. “Why are you telling us all this?”

His mouth widened in a long grin as he sat slouched in the saddle, both hands resting on the saddle horn. “You mean—what’s in it for me?” Ballard looked off into the distance, his gaze making a sweep of the surrounding plains. “I was seventeen the first time I came here to day work. And I’ve been here on and off ever since. More on than off. This place gets into a man’s system. The bigness of it, and the rawness. I don’t care where you go, there’s no other place like it. But”—he brought his glance back to Jessy—“to answer your question, I guess I’m telling you this because for years I’ve seen the potential here and watched it go untapped. Do you know how frustrating that can be? It can eat a man up. The other day, when Ty asked me about that bull, it was like uncorkin’ a champagne bottle. It all just came bubblin’ out. I suppose I’m repeatin’ it all to you for the simple reason that, when a man knows he has a good idea, he wants everybody else to get on their horses and ride with him. So far, all I’ve seen out of you and Ty is skepticism. What I want is for him to say—you’re right, Ballard; we’re goin’ for it. I’d get a lot of satisfaction out of that, Jessy.”

She believed him. She didn’t know a single cowboy who didn’t welcome a pat on the back for a job well done. Dick Ballard was no exception.

“We do appreciate the information.” She kept her response simple, without commitment.

He nodded. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

“Hey, Ballard!” somebody yelled from the chute area. “Come give us a hand.”

He lifted the reins to his horse, started to swing his mount to the side, then checked it. “By the way, you might have Ty check out a rumor I heard.”

“What’s that?”

“I was talkin’ with Guy Phelps on the phone the other night. He wants me to ride his cutting horse in a big competition comin’ up in August. According to him, Parker sold a half interest in that bull for close to a quarter million.”

Without waiting for Jessy to reply, he kneed his horse forward, pushing it into a slow trot. She stared at his back, her thoughts reeling at the number.

For the rest of the day she couldn’t get the conversation off her mind. It was late in the afternoon by the time work was wrapped up for the day and Jessy returned to the Triple C headquarters.

From force of habit, she stayed at the barns long enough to unload her horse from the trailer, see that it was rubbed down and fed, and her saddle and gear stowed in the stack room. Only when that was finished did she set out for the house.

But there was no hurry in her stride. Everywhere she looked, Jessy noticed things she had taken for granted her entire life—the neatness of the sprawling ranchyard, all the buildings in good repair, the huge, century-old barn with its massive timbers and rustic look and the summer-gold sea of grass that rolled away from it, its expanse broken only by the towering, green cottonwoods that lined the banks of the river to the south.

Ballard’s remarks had given Jessy a fresh perspective on everything, but especially on The Homestead. It was with these new eyes that she gazed at the imposing two-story structure, built atop a flat knoll of land that elevated it above the rest of the headquarters. A wide porch ran the length of its south-facing front, with towering white pillars rising at intervals from its edge. The grand scale of it should have looked out of place, but anything smaller wouldn’t have suited the site. Jessy understood for the first time that The Homestead was a statement of ownership, a claim of dominion over this vast sweep of land.

When she paused at the bottom of the porch steps, one of the babies moved inside her. She laid a reassuring hand on her stomach, suddenly awed by the thought that The Homestead was only a small part of all that would one day belong to their children.

As usual, the conversation at the evening dinner table centered around the day’s activity, the tasks accomplished, and those yet to be finished. But Ty was quick to notice Jessy’s lack of participation in the discussion that was normally three-sided. He glanced across the table at her down-turned head, her tawny hair still showing some of the damp gleam from her earlier shower.

“You’re unusually quiet tonight, Jessy,” Ty remarked, then frowned in concern when he observed the way she was pushing the food around on her plate, a direct contrast to her customarily ravenous appetite. “Are you feeling okay?”

“I feel fine.” Jessy gave him one of her calm-eyed looks that told him absolutely nothing. She speared a piece of beef with her fork, then said in a voice that was a tad too offhand, “By the way, I was talking with Dick Ballard today. He heard a rumor about that registered bull we sold Parker, one that he thinks you should check out. Supposedly Parker sold a half interest in the bull for close to a quarter-million dollars.”