Stands a Calder Man (Calder Saga 2)

Bull eyed the younger Calder as he crossed to the door. “What’s eating at Webb? He’s like a range bull on the prod.”

Benteen glanced after his son and lifted a shoulder in a vague shrug. “Maybe he and Ruth had a falling out.” But he didn’t believe that for a minute.

“Ruth certainly doesn’t take after her mother.” As if sensing Benteen’s reluctance to discuss his son’s behavior, Bull turned the conversation down a different path.

“That’s true,” Benteen admitted. “She’s definitely her father’s daughter, quiet and gentle just like Ely.”

“Is Webb engaged to her?”

“Half the time, I’m not even sure he’s courting her. If he’s got marriage on his mind, he’s taking his own sweet time about showing it,” Benteen concluded with a disgruntled sigh, irritated by his son’s avoidance of all responsibility even in the shape of an amenable wife.

Outside the roadhouse-saloon, Webb paused to survey the street. The buggy was parked in front of the general store next door. Beyond it was a wagon and the team of Belgian mares. Wide planks covered with muddy footprints were lying on the bare ground, providing solid footing to connect the board sidewalks of the two establishments. Webb waited on the saloon side while a family of drylanders with four children crossed on the planks. The youngest, a boy of four, tipped his head way back to stare wide-eyed at Webb.

“Where’s the Indians, Mommy?” he questioned as he was forcibly urged past his first close-up look at a real cowboy.

A wry curve made a fleeting play across his mouth as Webb stepped onto the mud-slick boards and started across. The street seemed more crowded than ever, with more wagons arriving than leaving. It wasn’t often that a family in this raw and lonely country—farmer or rancher—made a trip to town. When they did, it usually turned into an all-day affair.

The general store had been expanded to accommodate more business, but it had more than it could hold. There was an overflow onto the board sidewalk outside. Webb didn’t see one pair of heeled boots or a Stetson hat among the trousered and bib-overalled men in front of the store. Once this town had known only cowboys—just a few short months ago. This had been his town. It was strange to feel out of place.

As he made his way to the door, the farmers moved aside to give him a clear path. Webb was conscious of their measuring stares. He nodded to one of them, but the man was slow to nod back.

The door was blocked open. Webb entered and stepped to one side, the hum of voices sounding louder in the confined space. He searched the crowd of customers and spotted the man named Franz Kreuger who was homesteading the section of land adjoining part of the Triple C’s eastern boundary.

During his second scan of the enlarged store, he caught a glimpse of blond hair in the dry-goods side. Webb shouldered his way to that department, where his mother and Ruth were busy fingering bolts of material. He glanced at the gingham-gowned women also gathered there, but didn’t see any with dark copper hair.

When he touched his mother’s shoulder, she turned with a slight start. Her expression cleared into a smile when she saw who it was. “I hope your father isn’t ready to leave,” she declared, guessing Webb might have come to hurry them along. “Ruth and I haven’t had a chance to do our shopping. We stopped by the church first before coming here. We only arrived a few minutes ago.”

“No, he didn’t send me. I thought you might need somebody to carry your packages,” Webb explained, glad they didn’t since the crowded store was giving him a bad case of cabin fever.

“Not yet, but don’t go too far,” his mother admonished. “A woman can always use a pair of strong arms, can’t she, Ruth?”

Ruth feigned an agreeing smile, but didn’t look at Webb. A harried-looking Ollie Ellis, the proprietor of the general store, came bustling forward.

“I didn’t mean to keep you waiting, Mrs. Calder,” he apologized for his lack of prompt attention. “What can I help you with today?”

“I was here first.” A bird-faced woman pushed Ruth aside to demand the owner’s attention. “They just came in.”

“Go ahead and help this lady, Mr. Ellis.” His mother showed cool indifference to the woman’s rudeness, courteously giving way to the woman’s obviously rightful claim. “Ruth and I haven’t decided which material we want.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Calder,” the merchant murmured, plainly relieved that she had acquiesced so graciously.

Someone accidentally jostled Webb from behind and offered a hasty apology. The air in the crowded store was stifling. “I’ll wait for you outside,” he told his mother.

Her nod acknowledged his decision before he moved away, taking the most direct route to the front door. Webb didn’t pause once he was outside the building. The sidewalk was too congested with gossiping farmers, so he recrossed the planked ground to the porch sidewalk of the saloon and roadhouse. Except for passersby, Webb had the porch all to himself. This lot of homesteaders were evidently a bunch of teetotalers, since none had been in the bar, either.

Leaning a shoulder against an upright post supporting the porch roof, Webb lit up a factory-made cigarette and let his gaze roam around the busy street. His eye caught a few details he’d missed earlier. At the new lumberyard where carpenters were hammering on siding for the unfinished building, a black-lettered sign was propped against the front wall. It read Pettit Lumber Company. The swinging shingle

above the land company’s office identified the business as the W P Land Locaters, confirming that Doyle Pettit had become Wessel’s partner. The former rancher’s name showed up again in small lettering under the sign for the Blue Moon Hardware & Supply store across the street.

It didn’t take much guesswork to suspect that Doyle was also the one behind the proposed granary. It was a clever circle the former rancher had drawn, helping the homesteader to find land, selling him the tools to work it, and the lumber for his house. In time, Doyle would probably buy the man’s crop. The farmer might never get rich, but Doyle sure as hell would. It was probably good business practice, but Webb didn’t like the smell of it.

A set of light footsteps mounted the saloon porch to his left. With a partial turn of his head, he recognized the slim girl in the wide straw hat. With a snap of his thumb and finger, he flipped the cigarette butt into the muddy street and straightened from the wooden post.

As he moved to intercept her, he saw the flash of recognition in the blue of her eyes. He felt a run of pleasure at the smile that came so naturally to her mouth. In her arms was a bulky woven basket, the kind the Indians on the reservation had been taught to make.

“Hello.” She greeted him first, her voice coming to him with the soothing freshness of a breeze on a hot day.

“Hello.” His fingers gripped the rolled point of his hat brim and were slow to let it go. Webb was fascinated by the frankness of her look. She seemed so at ease. Most of the young ladies he’d met, excluding saloon women, weren’t very sure of themselves when men were around. Realizing he was staring too rudely, he lowered his hand. “May I carry that for you?” He motioned to the basket.