Lone Calder Star (Calder Saga 9)

“Because men his age never think that someone as old as you are would still be capable of doing that kind of hard work.” It was a matter-of-fact statement, with no undertone of anything else. She opened the door. “I’ll be late coming home—as usual. I’ve got my key, so be sure to lock the door before you go to bed.”

He waved a hand in answer. After the door closed behind her, Empty gathered up their supper dishes and carried them to the sink.

The pickup’s headlight beams arced across the window behind it. He peered out to make certain she had pulled onto the road. The instant he caught the red flash of taillights, he crossed to the end of the counter and dug around until he located the telephone book among the clutter. He flipped through the pages and kept his finger on the number for the Cee Bar while he dialed it.

“Echohawk? It’s Empty Garner,” he said the minute the phone was answered. “I’ve been thinking about all the work needing to be done out there. It’s no secret you’re going to have a tough time finding a hired hand. Since I’m not doing anything but sitting around, I thought I’d offer to help till you do.”

He paused and heard the silence that followed. Sensing the hesitation on the other end of the line, Empty rushed in.

“I know I’m an old man,” he said. “But I’m not so weak I can’t mend a fence or doctor a sick cow. And it’s for sure there isn’t a whole lot about ranching that I don’t know. In fact, it’s the only thing I do know.”

“You’re qualified, all right.” There was a smile in Echohawk’s voice, but no sound of commitment.

“You can say that again.” Empty worked to sound bluff and hearty and keep the sense of desperation out of his voice.

Until now, he hadn’t realized how much he wanted the job. He wanted to feel like a man again, useful and productive, instead of a washed-up old codger who couldn’t fasten his own pants. As a result, Empty wasn’t above using a little emotional blackmail.

“With the holidays coming on, that extra money I’d get from working for you would give me a chance to buy my granddaughter something nice for Christmas. It’s a little hard to make my Social Security check stretch to include presents. So…you want me to start tomorrow?” Tension held him motionless, not breathing.

“No, I won’t be here most of tomorrow. A tow truck will be here first thing in the morning to haul the pickup in for repairs. I need to return the rental car and pick up the loaner. By the time all the paperwork is finished, it will probably be late in the afternoon before I get back to the ranch. Let’s make it the day after.”

“Sounds good,” Empty said, and hesitated. “I just got one problem. Would it be too much trouble if you picked me up? We’ve only got one vehicle, and my granddaughter needs it to get back and forth to her job. I can be ready by eight.”

After a long pause, the reply came. “I’ll pick you up at eight then.”

The setting sun made an inglorious departure from the sky, leaving behind only a pale golden arc on the horizon to mark its passage. The west-facing windows of the Slash R’s sprawling ranch house briefly reflected the amber glow of its dying light. Built low to the ground with wide overhangs to block the penetration of the summer sun’s hot rays, the house made a giant footprint on the hilltop, its square footage massive enough that no visitor could doubt the wealth of its occupant.

And Max Rutledge was a full-fledged Texas billionaire. The Slash R ranch was only a

minuscule part of his vast holdings, but it was his showplace and personal retreat.

Max Rutledge wasn’t a man that anyone would ever mistake for an ordinary Texas rancher. Crippled in a car accident that had taken the life of his young wife and forever robbed him of the use of his legs, he was confined to a wheelchair, albeit the most advanced wheelchair money could buy.

The sight of the wheelchair and the atrophied legs might evoke an initial reaction of pity, but one look at his thickly muscled torso, the harsh gauntness of his face, and the hooded glare of his dark eyes, and any sense of pity instantly vanished. No one walked away from a meeting with Max Rutledge still harboring any doubt that his reputation for being utterly ruthless was not well earned.

Manipulating the hand controls with practiced ease, Rutledge sent the wheelchair gliding across the living room’s stone floor, its motor emitting little more than a soft hum. The double doors to the den stood open, revealing the bright blaze of flames burning in the fireplace, the room’s focal point. With a flick of the controls, he swung the wheelchair toward the open doors.

It was a decidedly masculine room, paneled in lustrous wood with exposed beams providing a rustic touch. The decor had the requisite Texas touches. The overstuffed armchair by the fireplace was upholstered in leather and cowhide. A Russell bronze stood on the fireplace mantel while a Navajo blanket lay artfully draped over the leather sofa.

None of it caught Max Rutledge’s eye when he wheeled into the room. His hard gaze continued its scan until it landed on the tall man standing at the window, staring out at the twilight’s gray landscape, a drink in his hand. His hair was dark and thick, with an unruly tendency to curl. There was a muscled trimness to his physique that exuded strength and power. But it was the rough and raw virility that stamped his features that always claimed attention.

This prime specimen of manhood was his son, Boone Rutledge. But Max’s heart didn’t lift with pride at the sight of him. If anything, it turned stone-hard.

“I should have known I’d find you in here.” His voice had a contemptuous edge to it. “Instead of standing there doing nothing, make yourself useful and fix me a drink.”

Boone turned, a banked anger in his dark eyes. “Bourbon and branch?”

“That’ll do.” Max engaged the controls and glided over to the fireplace, positioning his chair to face the warming flames.

He stared silently into them and listened to the firm tread of his son’s footsteps as Boone crossed to the bar. The sound was followed by the thud of a glass on the leather-topped counter, the clink of ice cubes, and the splash of liquid over them. Then footsteps approached his chair. Max took the proffered drink without glancing up.

“Sykes called this morning,” Boone said. “He thought we’d want to know that a cowboy came into the feed store this morning and tried to charge some grain to the Cee Bar. When Sykes told him the account was closed, the guy paid cash for it.” He swirled the cubes in his drink. “So it looks like the Triple C has managed to hire somebody.”

“What are you doing about it?” The question was more in the way of a challenge than a demand for an answer.

“I thought I’d send Clyde Rivers over there tomorrow and see what he can find out about this new man.”

Max released a derisive snort and shook his head in disgust. Boone reacted with an angry glare.