A Texas moon,
A Calder trusts,
But is it too soon?
Chapter Seven
Morning light streamed through the windows as Boone entered the Slash R’s formal dining room. He winced at the bright light that flooded from the huge chandelier above the table. The harsh glare of it sharpened the pounding in his head, the lingering result of one too many whiskeys last night.
To avoid the light’s direct assault, Boone tipped his chin down and crossed to his usual chair, situated midway on one long side of the table, grateful for the plush area rug that muffled the heavy tread of boots. As usual, the hangover made his hearing much too acute, magnifying the smallest sound.
As he took his seat, he slid a glance at his father, already ensconced at the head of the table, then reached for his napkin, shook out its folds, and dragged it across his lap. A connecting door to the kitchen swung open and a servant glided into the dining room, carrying a steaming bowl of oatmeal on a serving tray. Boone’s stomach rolled a little at the sight of it.
“None for me, Vargas,” Boone stated, intercepting the servant’s quick look at him.
“I suspect Boone needs one of the cook’s tomato juice concoctions before he tackles any food,”
Max informed the servant. The servant nodded, placed the bowl in front of Max, and left the dining room. The stirring scrape of a spoon across the bottom traveled up Boone’s back like the screech of chalk on a blackboard, setting his teeth on edge.
“I understand it was after three o’clock when you finally staggered home.” The comment had an offhand quality to it, but Boone heard the underlying tone of disgust.
“That’s probably about right,” he agreed and took considerable pleasure in adding, “I know it was right around two o’clock when I got back to the ranch.”
“Two?” The single word carried a demand for an explanation for the hour’s difference in time.
“Two,” Boone confirmed as the servant swept back into the room and placed a tall glass of the cook’s personal hangover antidote, the ingredients of which he refused to divulge, before Boone. Boone downed a healthy dose of it and felt the spicy bite of it on his tongue and throat, its fiery flavor burning away much of the dullness in his head.
“If you were back by two, why did it take you an hour to get to the house?” Max eyed him with sharp suspicion.
“When I pulled into the ranch yard, I happened to see Tandy struggling to get one of his buddies out of his pickup. I figured the guy had probably passed out, so I stopped to give John Earl a hand.” He paused deliberately, savoring that rare feeling of knowing something his father didn’t.
“That couldn’t have taken you an hour,” Max stated with certainty. “What did you do—tip a few glasses with the boys?”
“You always told me that whiskey is a sure way to loosen a man’s tongue.” Boone was well aware that whiskey hadn’t been necessary. Tandy, Saunders, and the other two had been only too eager to tell their story. “And it was an interesting tale they had to tell about how they got the cuts and bruises, black eyes, and cracked ribs they sported.”
Max laid his spoon aside, his gaze growing hard with impatience and intolerance. “The only thing that could be of any possible interest would be who they had the fight with.”
“Exactly.” Smugness marked the curve of Boone’s mouth. “It seems they cornered Echohawk in the parking lot at Tillie’s and roughed him up a bit.”
Elbows resting on the arms of his wheelchair, Max clasped his hands together and coolly regarded him. “Did you put that idea in their heads?”
The icy contempt in his father’s voice suddenly made Boone uneasy and defensive. He lifted one shoulder in a nervous shrug.
“They came up with it themselves. The opportunity was there and they took it. What’s wrong with that?” He frowned, confused and not liking the feeling. “They didn’t do anything different from what you’ve wanted done in the past.”
“But in the past,” Max began, speaking slowly, drawing out each word and coating it with sarcasm, “the target was always some hired man. It was never a Calder!” He issued the last with explosive heat.
The hangover left Boone with a short temper of his own. “I don’t see what difference that makes,” he fired back. “Echohawk’s never laid eyes on any of them before. He can’t connect them to us.”
“Do you really think he’s as stupid as you are?” Max jeered, then waved aside the question in disgust. “Don’t bother to answer that.”
“What the hell difference does it make what he might suspect?” Boone demanded, his voice raising. “He can’t prove a damned thing. He never even called the police. Tandy hung around Tillie’s to make sure of that.”
“The police are the least of the problem,” Max said, dismissing that as a concern. “I can pull enough strings to handle a scuffle outside a bar.”
“Then what the hell’s your problem?”
Max ignored the question. “You said the boys roughed him up. How bad was he hurt? Or did you even bother to ask?”