Calder Born, Calder Bred (Calder Saga 4)

“I’ll be back Sunday afternoon to pick you up, Ty,” Chase called after his son and saw the bob of the cowboy hat in acknowledgment. He watched the pair walk silently toward the bunkhouse but directed his words to Stumpy. “A lot of people think ranchers leave cows to their own devices to drop their calves out on the range at the mercy of the elements, predators, and birthing complications.”

It was an indirect way of saying that was what Ty had thought until Chase had explained differently. That’s the way it had been done a hundred years ago, but certainly not now.

“That cow and her calf are too valuable to leave it all up to nature. Eight times out of ten, a cow won’t have any trouble, but those two times, it pays to have a two-legged critter around to help out,” Stumpy declared, then snorted out a laugh, his breath coming out in a billowing vapor cloud. “Hell, most city folks think all a rancher or a cowboy does is turn a cow loose with a bull, let her calve, and round ’em up in the spring to brand ’em and again in the fall to take them to market. They don’t think about the castrating, dehorning, vaccinating, doctoring, and feeding—not to mention all the grief they give ya in between.”

“Yeah, we got an easy life, Stumpy, and don’t know it.” His mouth was pulled into a wry line as he continued to watch the pair of youngsters approaching the bunkhouse. “That’s quite a girl you’ve got there. She has her mother’s looks, doesn’t she?”

It wasn’t really a question, since Chase had known Judy Niles almost as long as Stumpy had. She was a genial, sandy-haired woman, a couple inches taller than her husband, and attractive in an average sort of way.

“You should see her in those calving sheds, pulling calves in subzero temperatures.” Stumpy puffed up a bit with pride. “The two boys, Ben and Mike, spend more time horsing around than helping. ’Course, they’re young yet. But Jessy, she pitches right in there without being asked. As long as she wants to do it, I’m not going to stop her. It’s a pity she isn’t a boy. She’s got the makings of a top hand.”

“She’ll outgrow this tomboy stage when she discovers boys.” Chase winked in amusement.

“Probably,” Stumpy agreed and showed a reluctance for that coming day. “I know her mother would like it if she helped more around the house. Speaking of mothers—” He paused, lifting his head to cast an interested look at Chase. “How’s Maggie?”

“The doctor says she’s doing fine. Nothing to worry about.” A glowing warmth seemed to radiate from the brown depths of his eyes, an inner pride bursting forth.

“It’s getting close to her time, isn’t it?” Stumpy asked, frowning slightly as he tried to recall.

“The first of May, so she’s got a little over two months before the baby is due.” But he wasn’t as calm or casual about the coming event as he tried to appear. “The senator is flying in with some people he wants me to meet, so I’d better be getting back to The Homestead.”

As Ty followed the girl across the threshold into the bunkhouse, he heard the truck starting up and looked over his shoulder to see the pickup reverse to turn onto the single road leading away from the camp. He knew he was completely on his own again. A wary tension strung his senses to a high pitch of alertness as he swung the door shut and turned to face the room.

He was standing in a small common room. A table and a collection of chairs stood in one corner, and a sofa and a couple of armchairs, all showing the scars of cowboys’ indifference, occupied the other corner. A converted barrel heater split the room in the middle, its sides glowing almost a cherry-red as it waged a continual combat to keep the cold outside temperatures from invading the bunkhouse. Propped against the back wall, there was a broken chair to to used for kindling in the wood stove. A variety of cartoons, western pictures, and pinup girls were tacked to the walls in a crazy quilt of decoration.

“The bathroom’s through that door.” Jessy pointed to the right and walked to the barrel heater to warm her hands. “The beds are in there.” She indicated the opposite direction with a nod of her hatted head. “You can take your pick of the empty ones.”

Ty hefted his duffel bag a little higher to change his grip on it and headed for the open doorway on his left. The sleeping area of the bunkhouse was thinly partitioned into small rooms, furnished with plain wire-and-steel frame beds with a cowboy’s bedroll serving as mattress and blanket. The first few beds, the ones closest to the common room and able to benefit from the wood stove’s heat, were all occupied, either by possessions or by quilted shapes actually sleeping in the beds. Ty stopped at the first empty bunk he found and tossed his duffel bag and thick bedroll onto the wire frame. Coat hooks were screwed into the wall to hold his hat and coat and the odd piece of clothing or two.

“Did ya find one?” The girl’s querying voice searched him out.

“Yeah.” He half turned away from the doorway and began shrugging out of his heavy jacket. His thermal underwear and wool shirt were more than adequate in the relative warmth of the bunkhouse.

Her footsteps stopped at the doorway. “If you don’t feel like layin’ down right away, there’s coffee in the pot on the hot plate.”

“No, thanks.” Ty left his hat on but hung up his coat and turned to untie his bedroll and spread it open on the bed.

He caught her out of the corner of his eye, leaning against the doorway, her coat unbuttoned and the scarf loose around her neck. He wished she’d quit watching him with those measuring eyes. It made him uncomfortable. He noticed the cup of steaming coffee in her now-ungloved hand. She lifted it to her wide mouth, blowing to cool it even as she sipped at the hot, thickly black coffee. He still couldn’t stomach the strong coffee everyone on the ranch drank with such regularity unless he drowned it in milk.

“You shouldn’t be drinking that stuff.” He jerked the string tying his bedroll and unrolled the mattresslike quilt pad with its sheets, quilt, and canvas tarp bound inside. “It’ll stunt your growth.”

“I been drinking coffee since I was six.” Scoffing amusement riddled her voice. “I’d hate to think how tall I’d be now if I hadn’t.” She paused, then added for good measure, “And it hasn’t made my hair curly or grown hair on my chest.”

After he had the pad and blankets straightened out, Ty set the duffel bag with his clothes and shaving kit at the head of the bed for a pillow. When the girl showed no signs of leaving, he stretched himself out the full length of the bed and set his hat forward on the front of his face.

“I’m going to get some rest,” Ty said, in case she hadn’t got the message. The hat partially muffled his voice.

“See you tonight,” Jessy Niles replied, not finding his behavior in the least rude, and straightened from the doorway to saunter down the hall to the common room.

As the sound of her footsteps retreated, Ty pushed his hat back. Raising his arms, he cupped the back of his head in his hands and stared at the ceiling. There was a rawness in him that was close to pain. He had no one to turn to, no one to whom he could talk out his frustrations. He was too old to go crying to his mother, and since it was his father’s respect he so desperately wanted to earn, he couldn’t very well go running to him with his troubles. He wanted to work them out on his own, but so far no one was giving him a chance. There were so many things to learn that just when he felt he was grasping the rudiments of one thing, something new was thrown at him, and always the hazing and the handing out of misinformation until he felt like some gullible dimwit.

* * *

The return trip to The Homestead, the name given to the house occupied by the head of the Triple C, took the best part of two hours. The sleek twin-engine plane parked by the private airstrip near the buildings of the ranch’s headquarters advised Chase that Senator Bulfert had arrived in his absence.

Leaving the truck parked in front of the imposing two-story house, Chase mounted the steps to the wide porch running the length of the south front and crossed to the solid wood double doors. The house had been built decades ago with a craftsman’s care and possessed that rare quality of character. Two hundred years from now it would still be standing and, if Chase had his way, a Calder would still be living in it.

When he entered the large open foyer, Chase heard voices coming from the study on his left. Doug Trumbo, one of the ranch hands, was carrying an armload of luggage up the staircase leading from the living room to the second floor and its guest bedrooms.