Calder Storm (Calder Saga 10)

The honk of a horn dragged his attention to an approaching pickup. When it rolled to a stop near him, Tank’s head emerged from the driver’s-side window. “Thought you’d want to know we got trouble at the foaling barn. Looks like we might lose both that dun mare and her colt.”

Without waiting for a response, he drove off. Trey stood there a moment, knowing he should go lend a hand if he could. The decision was taken from him when the cell phone vibrated in his pocket.

Half irritated, he answered it, certain it was one of the other hands at the foaling barn, calling to tell him of the problem there. “Yeah, what is it?”

“Trey. It’s Sloan.”

With an effort, Trey hardened himself against the pull of her voice. “What do you want, Sloan?” The dry demand was anything but friendly.

“You were right about Max. He’s been behind everything that happened. Even now he’s arranging for you to be arrested on charges of drug possession.”

“Is that a fact?” he countered with disinterest. Even though she had gotten his attention, Trey was wary of believing anything she said.

“It’s true. I swear it, Trey.”

“I appreciate the warning—if that’s what it is.”

“I don’t know why I bothered to tell you that.” There was a note of defeat in her voice. “It isn’t why I called. Look, this morning I managed to slip away from the guards that Max had watching me. I made it to Tara’s with Jake.”

The instant she mentioned Tara, Trey turned and headed back to the ranch office.

“We were on our way to the Triple C when something malfunctioned on the plane,” Sloan continued, “and we had to land here at the old coal pit outside of Blue Moon. It’s going to take another two hours before it’s fixed. Please. Can you come get us?”

As she finished, Trey pushed open the door to Jessy’s private office and walked in, signaling to both her and Laredo. Caution made him ask, “Is this some kind of trap, Sloan?”

“No, it’s a call for help. But don’t take my word for it. Ask Tara.”

The pause following Sloan’s faintly annoyed statement was a small one. “Really, Trey, you need to stop being so hardheaded and listen to Sloan. Every word she said is the truth,” Tara informed him most insistently.

“Where are you, Tara?” His use of her name was deliberate, intended to alert his mother and Laredo.

“In the lobby of the old Dy-Corp office at the coal pit. It’s dusty and awful—and certainly no place for your son to be.”

“Then you do have Jake with you?” Trey wanted that confirmed as well.

“Yes, we do. Don’t we, sweetie,” Tara cooed, obviously to the baby.

“Tell Sloan I’m on my way.”

“What’s up?” Laredo asked the instant Trey closed the cell phone.

“Sloan’s in Blue Moon. She has Jake with her—and Tara.” He shot a questioning glance at his mother. “Are the keys in the Suburban?”

“Under the seat,” she confirmed.

“I’ll ride along,” Laredo said, “just in case you need somebody to watch your back.”

The whine of a semi coming from the south invaded the natural stillness, but Donovan wasn’t concerned about the approaching vehicle. All his attention was on the man walking along the highway. He remained motionless, his back pressed tightly against the rear wall of the coal mine’s former operations office. His own vehicle was parked on the shoulder of the highway, its hood raised to indicate mechanical trouble. Any passing motorist seeing it wouldn’t think twice about why it was there or where the driver was.

Donovan counted himself lucky that no one else heard the plane land. Such an occurrence was just enough of an oddity to draw the curious. With the abandoned airstrip a mile from town, the few residents of Blue Moon had evidently mistaken the sound of its engines for highway traffic. It suited Donovan that he was alone there, and he suspected that was exactly the way Rutledge wanted it.

Satisfied that man from the flight crew was far enough away that a backward glance from any of them was unlikely to detect any movement, Donovan slipped around the corner of the building and worked his way to the front. Briefly, he considered approaching the old hangar area where the plane was parked, but there was too much open ground to cross. Until Rutledge arrived, Donovan didn’t intend to show himself unless it became necessary.

He made a quick scan of the sky, but there was no sign of another plane yet. Halting at the building corner, he peered around it. The door to the plane’s cabin was latched open, its steps lowered, but he failed to spot any movement, either inside the plane or out.

Catching the sound of a vehicle on the highway, he crouched low, making himself less visible from the highway, and automatically slipped a hand over the gun in his pocket. But the pickup zipped on past the padlocked entrance without slowing.

Donovan relaxed, then tensed again when he thought he heard someone talking. It was nothing distinct, yet its pitch suggested the voice of a woman. He stole another look at the plane, thinking one of them might have stepped outside, but there was no o