Lone Calder Star (Calder Saga 9)

Her head lifted. “You always told me it was never too late to correct a mistake.”

Her words took some of the fire from him, but didn’t change the glare in his eyes. “You’re through with them. That’s something, I guess.”

He subsided into silence and Dallas reached for one of the grocery sacks. Empty threw her a sideways glance, measuring and thoughtful.

“What did Quint say when you told him?”

“Nothing.” Dallas wrapped both arms around the bag, holding it tightly in front of her as if it might provide protection or comfort. “He just got in his truck and drove off.”

Empty dragged in a deep breath and let it gust out. “Guess there wasn’t much you could expect him to say after telling him a thing like that. You’re probably lucky he didn’t tell you to get the hell out of his sight.” He grabbed up a sack. “Guess we might as well get these groceries in the house and start packing. It’s not likely he’s going to want us here anymore. It might be better for us to be gone when he gets back.”

“No.” Dallas was surprised by the forcefulness of her answer. Yet she felt the rightness of her stand. “Somebody has to be here when the hay’s delivered. And if anyone leaves, it will only be me. I’m not going to let him blame you for what I did.”

“You aren’t going to go anywhere without me,” he stated firmly.

Dallas shook her head. “Quint needs you. And if he wants me gone, he’ll have to tell me.”

Empty offered no argument, but there was a sadness in his eyes. “You love him, don’t you?” he guessed.

“Yes.” She choked up.

“I just wished you had trusted him a little, Dallas.”

His words were a poignant echo of similar advice Quint had given not so many nights ago. And trust was the issue—a broken trust that might never be made whole again.

The upthrust of glass and granite soared four stories into the air. Its sleek, polished sides mirrored the blue of the Texas sky and reflected the image of the black pickup that pulled into an empty slot in the parking lot. Quint piled out of the cab, slamming the door behind him, and headed for the building’s entrance, a long-striding walk propelling him toward the door.

There was one thought and one thought only in his mind right now. No matter what rawly emotional road his mind had traveled during the drive to Fort Worth, it had always come full circle back to one thing—the Rutledges. Their b

lack hearts had been behind it all.

When he reached the executive suite on the fourth floor, Quint shoved aside the glass doors, mindless of their wild swing. A trim brunette glanced up from her desk and smiled warmly.

“Good afternoon.” Her gaze traveled over his face with open interest.

His glance had already darted past her to the closed door just to the left of her desk. “Is Rutledge in?” Quint gestured to the door without ever slackening his pace toward it.

“Mr. Rutledge is in conference right now. If you would care to—” She broke off in alarm when he walked past her desk. Rising from her chair, she protested, “You can’t go in there.”

Quint spared her a dry, cold look. “Watch me.”

A testing turn of the handle revealed the door wasn’t locked. He pushed the door open and followed it into the office.

His sweeping gaze ignored the room’s sleek, contemporary decor and abstract art, and centered instead on the three men in the room. Max Rutledge sat in his wheelchair behind the steel and wood corner desk. Boone stood facing him. A third man dressed in a western-cut suit and bolo tie hovered next to Max, his manner that of a closely trusted underling.

Boone whirled around, surprise dissolving into a black fury at the sight of Quint. “What the hell are you doing barging in here?”

Unaffected by the angry challenge, Quint continued forward, gripped by the cool dispassion of battle. “I might have known you would race straight here to warn Max that you’d lost your informant.”

The frantic look Boone darted at his father and the surprise that flickered so briefly in Max’s expression told Quint that Boone hadn’t gotten around to relating that piece of news. Something snapped in Boone. Teeth bared, he lunged for Quint.

Sidestepping to avoid the onrush, Quint grabbed Boone’s arm, twisted it behind him, and gave him a shove into a nearby chair, all without breaking a sweat. Boone crashed into it and lay there for a dazed second, not at all sure what happened to him or how.

In his side vision, Quint saw the third man pick up the telephone. He pointed a finger at him while keeping a wary watch on Quint.

“I wouldn’t make that call to security until you’re sure your boss wants them,” he warned, and fired a glance at the man in the wheelchair. “Do you, Max?”

After a small pause, Max waved a hand. “Put the phone down, Edwards.”