This Calder Sky (Calder Saga 3)

“When, Pa?” She looked at him with mocking skepticism. “When the sky turns green?”

“Don’t sass me, girl!” He pointed a threatening finger at her, but she showed her indifference by turning away.

PART II

A sky of Justice

A sky so strong

This sky that pays for

A Calder’s wrong.

Chapter VI

The senator and his party left at mid-morning the next day. Chase and his father accompanied them to the ranch’s grass strip to see them off. As the plane climbed out, it wagged its wings in a final farewell salute, the sunlight winking off the shiny surface of the metal.

Scratching a match over a denim-covered thigh, Chase cupped the resulting flame to the cigar the senator had given him before boarding the plane. He puffed on it, then held it between his teeth while the aromatic smoke curled into his nose. As he turned to walk back to the car with his father, he curved a forefinger around the cigar to hold it away from his mouth.

“If nothing else, the senator knows a good cigar.” He slanted a wry glance at his father.

“Your mother never could stand the smell of those things.” The softness of fond memory was in Webb Calder’s expression. Then dry amusement filtered through it. “I’ve never understood what there is about a cigar that turns so many women off.”

“I don’t understand it, either,” Chase agreed and opened the passenger’s door of the car to tuck his long frame inside. “Drop me off at the Number Two barn so I can collect my saddle. I’ll catch a ride with the cookie when he takes the noon meal out to the drive.”

“There’s no need for that.” Webb shifted the car into gear and turned it down the smooth lane. “They’ll be through there in another day. There are some things here I want you to do.”

“I’ll have to ride out there, anyway, to get my gear.” His bedroll and everything else were still at the camp.

“No problem,” his father replied smoothly. “I’ll send word out for Nate to bring it when he comes in.”

Chase lost his taste for the cigar and irritably stubbed it out in the car’s ashtray. His hard jawline was thrust forward as he gazed out the window, a grimness pulling down the corners of his mouth.

“You don’t look too happy. Is something bothering you, son?”

“No.” The denial came sharp and quick. Chase tempered it, turning an emotionless face to his father. “What could be wrong?”

“I thought you might tell me.”

The astuteness of his father’s eyes made Chase turn to the front again. “There’s nothing to tell,” he shrugged.

“Not even about the O’Rourke girl—Maggie?” The quietly worded challenge wasn’t permitted a response as Webb continued. “When a man needs the satisfaction of bedding a woman, it’s understood that he stays away from young girls and those from decent families. There are plenty of whores and experienced women around to satisfy a man’s appetite for sex.” He paused to run a glance over Chase. “Take some fatherly advice and think on it, son.” But something told Webb that his advice had come too late. Immediately, he began considering the options if there were a backlash. Meanwhile, he lined out the tasks he wanted Chase to accomplish that day.

That night, Chase found his bedroll and saddlebags in his room. Among the clothes was the shirt he’d lost. He stared at it, knowing the questions it must have raised, and knowing that none of them would ever be asked. He lay in bed that night and stared at the ceiling for long hours, knowing his father was right. Maggie was a child, not even sixteen yet. He had no business messing around with her.

Leaning on the counter in the commissary section of the warehouse, Webb went down the list of supplies included on the purchase order. “You’re ordering a lot of sugar, Bill. Are you sure someone isn’t operating a still on the side?” Even as he questioned the amount in a joking manner, he signed the authorization at the bottom, and smiled at the man in the wheelchair behind the counter.

Bill Vernon was fourth-generation at the Triple C Ranch. Except for five years which he’d spent training and working as a computer programmer, he’d spent all his life here. He’d returned seven years ago, disenchanted with city life despite the higher pay, to cowboy again. Three short months later, a fall from a horse had left him paralyzed.

The Triple C took care of its own. When Bill had recovered, Webb had put him in charge of the commissary, expanding the responsibilities to include the warehouse stock and making Bill into a bookkeeper of sorts. He and his wife, and their two children, lived in one of the houses furnished by the ranch.

There was a sense of family among the descendants of those who had stayed with the first Calder. They were all tied to the land and tied to one another, not like the drifters who worked a month or year and moved on. They were a hardcore band of followers whose first loyalty was to the brand.

“It looks like a lot of sugar, I admit,” Bill Vernon replied with a quick smile. “But with summer coming on, the women will be canning, so we’ll need more than usual on hand—or so Marlyss tells me.” His smile broadened into a grin. Marlyss was his wife, a saucy, freckle-faced girl from the Montana wheat country up north. They’d met and married at computer school. She helped him out in the commissary, working behind the counter and stocking shelves, while he did the paperwork.

“I’m sure Marlyss knows what she’s talking about.” She was quite the homemaker, from what Webb had heard and seen. “Where is she, by the way?” He glanced around the small shop area.

“Over at the house, checking on Timmy. His tonsils are inflamed again.”