Stands a Calder Man (Calder Saga 2)

“Yes, I suppose he did.” The clipped agreement accepted Barnie’s reasoning.

“Then how do you explain how those farmers got ahold of him?” Barnie challenged quietly.

Benteen whipped around. “How the hell should I know!” he flared. “Maybe he took refuge at their place to wait out the storm.” But he knew the explanation had holes in it, because it didn’t provide a reason for Webb’s not being at the line camp. “As far as you and everyone else is concerned, the shooting was an accident. That’s all you need to know.”

Without making a reply to that, Barnie rolled slowly to his feet and walked to the fireplace to toss the burned match into the flames. “Is it all right if Nate comes to see him?” he asked instead.

“He’s up to having visitors.” Benteen nodded.

“He’ll be by, then,” Barnie said. “I’m glad to hear Webb’s doin’ better. You know we all feel like we’ve had a hand in raising him.”

“Yeah.” Benteen wondered if that was the problem. Maybe Webb had too many fathers. Or maybe it was his own mother’s blood that ran in his son, making him irresponsible and unprincipled. Maybe Webb was a throwback to her. It had taken him a long time to accept his mother for what she was, but he couldn’t tolerate those traits in his son. Some hard and painful decision had to be made.

He didn’t hear Barnie leave the room.

Bare-chested, Webb stood in front of the wood-framed mirror. His middle was bound in a w

ide bandage that completely encircled him, while a pair of Levi denim pants hugged the length of his legs and hips. His face was half-covered with shaving lather, two swaths cut through it by the razor in his hand.

His hand trembled when he raised it to make a third wipe at his beard, his arm feeling incredibly heavy. Webb cursed this frightening weakness that still gripped him after more than a week and attempted to force his hand to carry out its task. He felt the sting of pain as the sharp blade nicked his skin. Cursing again, be reached for the towel to blot the blood from the cut There was a quick knock at the door.

“Come in.” He irritably gave permission for the person to enter.

The door opened and Ruth came in with his breakfast tray. “Good morning.” She looked at him as she set the tray on the stand next to his bed. “What do you think you’re doing?” she asked as he turned back to the mirror and rinsed off the blade in the basin of water.

“Shaving,” he answered shortly, eyeing her reflection in the mirror next to his own.

She took away the towel he had pressed against the cut. “It looks to me like you weren’t satisfied with the amount of blood you lost and decided to get rid of some more. Sit down.” She gently pushed him toward a straight chair. “I’ll finish that for you.”

With mixed relief, Webb sank into the chair. His legs were rubbery and weren’t up to standing for long periods. He’d been nearly to his limit, so part of him didn’t mind letting Ruth take over the chore. He tipped his head onto the back edge of the chair and closed his eyes as the razor began making clean, firm strokes across his beard. He opened them to look at Ruth bending over him.

“You’re pretty good at this,” he remarked.

“I should be with as much practice as I’ve had on you.” It was a simple statement, not meant to be bold or provocative. “Hold still and don’t talk, or I’m liable to cut you. I’m not that good.”

Webb fell silent, reminded by her remark of all the hours she’d spent with him since he’d been hurt. She’d fed him, washed him, shaved him, and read to him, not talking unless he did and going quietly about her work when he didn’t.

When she finished, she handed him the towel to wipe off the last bits of lather. “Come eat your breakfast before it gets cold.”

Webb wiped at his face as he stared after her, feeling vaguely puzzled. Getting up and crossing the room to the bed required an effort. He was breaking out in a sweat by the time he reached it, his strength sapped by that minor exertion. Ruth plumped the pillows to give him firmer support, then set the tray on his lap.

“Do you know you have never once asked me about the shooting, Ruth?” Webb realized. Everyone else had wanted a firsthand account, except her.

“Your father said it was an accident.” She avoided his gaze. “I don’t care how it happened or why. I just want you to get better.”

“A woman who doesn’t ask questions. You must be a new breed,” he suggested dryly and watched her lips part as if she were going to say something, then come together again. “What were you going to say?”

“Nothing.” She shook her head, denying there was any question she wanted to ask him. “Eat your breakfast. I’ll come back for the tray in a little bit.”

“Ruth.” Webb called her back when she started to leave. “Thanks for not asking questions.”

Her smile was small. As she left, Ruth wondered if it had ever occurred to Webb that she didn’t want to know the answers.

It was well into the third week before Webb ventured downstairs. At first it was just for meals, and gradually it worked into longer periods. He didn’t see much of his father. When he did, they had little to say to each other. They hadn’t been on the best of terms for quite a while, and the relationship had become more strained since the shooting.

During his long recuperation, he’d had many hours to think about Lilli. It was better if he didn’t see her again—better for both of them. Since she had made no attempt to contact him, he had to assume her decision to stay with her husband hadn’t changed despite the shooting. Webb didn’t want to share her. He didn’t want an affair, never knowing when he could see her or how. It was better to leave the door closed.

The evening meal had been finished some time ago, but the three of them, Webb and his parents, were lingering at the table over coffee. Webb drained what was in his cup and set it back in its saucer. His father eyed him from his chair at the head of the table.