Lone Calder Star (Calder Saga 9)

“Thanks,” he said with an upward glance when Dallas set it before him.

She had trouble meeting his eyes. John Earl was the cause for it—and the things he’d told her about the Cee Bar. She reminded herself that it was the stranger’s bad luck and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it.

Instead she glanced at his nearly empty cup. “I’ll bring you some more coffee.”

When she returned with the pot, the elderly couple were waiting at the cash register to pay. She left Quint’s table to take their money, eliminating that chance to strike up another conversation with her.

Quint idly watched as she chatted with the pair. He had the distinct impression that the couple didn’t have her whole attention; her thoughts were somewhere else. He decided that was hardly a surprise considering the sizable gap in their ages. By the time she climbed back on her stool, the cowboy had rejoined his friends at the table. Once again the girl immersed herself in the book’s printed words.

The trio of cowboys engaged in desultory conversation, the low, lazy drawl of their voices providing a backdrop to Quint’s meal. Occasionally the easy quiet of the café was broken by the clink and clatter of glasses and pans coming from the kitchen.

As Quint chewed the last bite of his hamburger, the cowboys pushed their chairs back from the table in ragged order. One dug some coins out of the side pocket of his jeans and tossed them on the table for a tip. Together they ambled toward the cash register counter near the door, their glances sliding curiously to Quint.

One of them abruptly came to a decision and swung toward his table. Quint was quick to recognize him as the same cowboy who had been talking to the waitress earlier.

“Dallas told me you were looking for work,” the man said without preamble. “She said you’d heard the Cee Bar was wanting a hired hand.”

Quint leaned back in his chair, giving the appearance of one fully at ease. But there was an instant sharpening of all his senses. “That’s right.”

“Now, it’s no skin off my nose what you do, but if you’re open to some friendly advice, you’ll forget about that job.”

Quint cocked his head at a curious angle. “Why’s that?”

The cowboy paused over his answer. “Let’s just say you wouldn’t like working there, and leave it at that.” He concluded the statement with a curt bob of his head and moved off to rejoin his buddies.

There was no change in Quint’s expression as he digested this tidbit of information, aware that his conversation with the waitress had netted results after all. He thoughtfully sipped his coffee, aware there were two possibilities—that the former ranch manager Evans had been something of a tyrant or someone was deliberately creating problems—just as his grandfather had suspected.

Even in these modern times, there were few ranches of any size that could survive without some hired help. And it was an absolute necessity for one with absentee ownership.

Quint waited until the cowboys had gone and the young waitress had cleaned their table, then made his own way to the cash register. His gaze traveled over her face when she joined him, noting its clean, smooth lines.

“Was everything all right?” Her glance briefly made contact with his, but not long enough to renew his fascination with the tan shade of her eyes.

“Fine,” Quint replied, conscious of a male interest stirring despite her youth and his better judgment. “The hamburger was a good choice.”

“Better than the meat loaf.” A smile edged the corners of her mouth.

“I’ll take your word for that.” He laid a twenty-dollar bill on the counter. “Your cowboy friend advised against taking that job at the Cee Bar. He said I wouldn’t like working there. Do you know why?”

Quint sensed her sudden withdrawal; it was almost a physical thing.

Yet the shrugging lift of her shoulders seemed to be a natural gesture of ignorance. “John Earl usually knows what he’s talking about. It would be smart to listen to him.” She placed his change on the counter and turned away, adding a perfunctory “Y’all have a good night.”

Quint studied the straight, almost stiff, line of her back and considered pursuing the subject. He knew, better than most, that the young were rarely skilled at withholding information for long. The cook emerged from the kitchen, using the hem of his stained apron to mop up the sweat rolling down his multiple chins.

The corpulent man threw an indifferent look at Quint and waved a fat hand at the waitress. “Might as well lock up after he leaves and call it a night.” He grabbed a glass of ice from the rack and pushed it under the Coke dispenser.

The announcement effectively made it difficult, if not impossible, for Quint to linger and question the young waitress further. He decided it might be for the best. If Rutledge was behind this, then it was better not to involve the girl—even indirectly.

There were fewer vehicles parked along the street and no traffic moving when Quint left the café. But he scanned the street in both directions, mainly out of habit, as he made his way to the rental car.

Dallas watched him through the café’s plate-glass window while she gathered up the dirty dishes from his table. She was surprised and a little puzzled when she saw him slide behind the wheel of a late-model sedan. Every self-respecting cowboy she knew drove a pickup—except for the occasional married ones.

Dallas tried to remember whether he’d been wearing a wedding band, but she had no recollection of one. Not that it mattered. It wasn’t likely she would see him again anyway.

With her side work finished, Dallas filled out her time card, stuffed her textbooks and papers into a canvas tote bag, called a good night to Tubby Harris, and left by the back door. She wrenched open the driver’s side door of an old white pickup, shoved her tote bag onto the passenger seat, and climbed in after it.

It was a five-minute drive from the café to the old Farrell place on the outskirts of town. Dallas parked the pickup nex