Lone Calder Star (Calder Saga 9)

“There isn’t much doubt about that.” Quint knew Max was referring to more than just ranching methods.

“You know”—Max clasped his hands together in a thoughtful pose, his elbows resting on the arms of his wheelchair—“it’s been a good many years since a Calder set foot on the Cee Bar. It’s almost like the ranch has been the Triple C’s forgotten stepchild.”

Quint was forced to agree with that assessment. “I suspect it has.”

“It’s never been a secret that I would like to make the Cee Bar a part of the Slash R,” Max declared, his hands separating to grip the ends of the armrests, rather like a king on his throne. “I offered to buy it from your grandfather, but he wasn’t inclined to sell. Businesswise it makes no sense to hang on to it. The Cee Bar’s too small to show much of a profit, especially when you have to pay someone to run it.”

Quint was slow with his answer. “I have a feeling that he bought the Cee Bar for the same reason that makes him determined to keep it. And that reason had nothing to do with its viability as a working ranch.”

“Whatever his reason, let him know my offer stands if he should change his mind.”

“I’ll tell him.”

“Good. And I hope we have you as a neighbor for a while.” Another possibility seemed to occur to him. “Or will you be staying only long enough to find a replacement for Evans?”

“It’s hard to say how long I’ll be here,” Quint admitted. “It depends on many other things.”

“If you’re still here when the holidays roll around, I hope you’ll join us for Christmas dinner. My ward called a few minutes ago to say that she was planning to come. She is the daughter of a late business partner of mine, Hamilton Davis.”

“I’ll keep the invitation in mind,” Quint promised and took a small sip of his drink.

“I hope you do,” Max said. “In the meantime, if there is anything you need, just give us a call. We’ll be happy to help if we can.”

“I’m glad you said that.” Quint seized the opening. “There is something I need.”

“I hope it isn’t a hired man,” Max cautioned. “We’re too shorthanded to spare any of ours.”

“My biggest need right now is hay. I have a load coming in next week, but I could use some square bales to tide me over until it arrives. I thought I might talk you into selling me some.”

“Only a few bales? We can spare that,” Max replied without hesitation.

“Consider them sold,” Quint stated. “If it isn’t too much trouble, I’ll throw them in the back of my pickup when I leave.”

“No trouble at all,” Max assured him. “Boone, ride down to the barn with Quint and give him a hand loading the hay.”

Boone responded to the order with a resentful glare, but offered no objection. “I’ll take you down whenever you’re ready to leave,” he said to Quint.

“Let’s make it now.” Quint set his half-finished drink aside. “I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

“You come anytime,” Max insisted.

But the minute Quint left the room, his smile turned into a thin angry line, lips tightly compressed. Hunching his shoulders in thought, Max went back over their conversation in his mind, studying each word Quint had said and considering the ones he hadn’t. None of it was to his liking.

In fact there was nothing about his meeting with Quint Echohawk that Max did like.

He was still in the same spot, deep in thought, when Boone returned to the den twenty minutes later. Max reared his big head and flipped the control stick to pivot his chair around.

“Echohawk left, did he?”

“He was halfway down the lane when I came in.” Boone flicked a cold look in his direction and walked straight to the bar. He took a fresh glass from the shelf and proceeded to pour himself another drink. “I thought the plan was to make sure he didn’t get his hands on any hay.” He threw an accusing look at Max.

Max returned the look with one of contempt. “You would have been stupid enough to openly declare war over a half dozen bales, wouldn’t you? It’s a measly amount. Why do you think he asked for it? He knew if we refused, we’d be tipping our hand. Aren’t you smart enough to figure anything out?” He whipped his wheelchair around and sent it speeding toward the desk, then stopped and swung it back. “It’s that semi load of hay he’s got coming in next week that you have to make sure he never gets to use.”

“And just how the hell am I supposed to do that?” Boone shot back as he roughly shoved the bottle of bourbon back in its rack. “Hijack the truck?”

“Leave it to you to come up with a harebrained idea like that.” Max shook his head in disgust.

“I suppose you have a better one.” The attempt at a jeer fell short of its mark, mostly because Boone knew he wasn’t as clever as his father. And it was this feeling of inferiority that he hated more than almost anything—except the way his father constantly reminded him of it.