Stands a Calder Man (Calder Saga 2)

“And that was also the same cowboy that tried to threaten Franz Kreuger and his family,” Stefan declared.

“The same one?” Her expression clouded with a bewildered frown. “Are you sure?”

“Franz pointed him out to me. Yes, I am sure,” he stated, and went a step further. “He is also the son of that rancher Calder.”

“How do you know that?” Her frown deepened. “Did Mr. Kreuger tell you?”

“No. The shopkeeper did. He vas most upset that the incident had occurred in front of his store. I heard him apologizing to a lady he addressed as Mrs. Calder. He vanted her to know he vasn’t responsible for vhat had happened vith her son.”

“I see.” The evidence seemed irrefutable, yet Lillian didn’t understand why she was so reluctant to accept that he was the son of the powerful rancher.

“Now you see vhy I didn’t vant him near you.” He was certain she would understand that he had been right to behave as he did.

Lillian didn’t answer immediately as she tried to sort through all the conflicting thoughts running through her head. “I’m sure you believe you were justified.” She gave him that. “But he had said and done nothing mean to me. He was being friendly and courteous.”

“Vhat did he say to you?” Stefan asked patiently. Women tended to be gullible. Perhaps Lillian was acquiring that female trait.

“Definitely nothing threatening,” she insisted. “He remembered speaking to me at the train station and asked if we had found a place nearby.”

“And you told him?” he prompted.

“Yes.” She didn’t regard it as a secret. Then she recalled something else and a flash of uncertainty crossed her expression. “He did ask whether our land was near Mr. Kreuger’s,” she added hesitantly.

“It is obvious that it vas information from you he vas seeking.” Now he was fully convinced he had been right in thinking the cowboy was up to no good.

The idea troubled her. Even though she had only met him twice, she had liked that dark-haired cowboy named Webb. Webb Calder. She knew the rest of his name now.

“It is late.” He laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. “The sun is sleeping. That is vhat ve should be doing, too.”

An unsatisfied sigh came from Lillian as she stood up to fetch their nightclothes from the satchels. There were questions in her mind without answers, and Webb Calder was the only person who could supply them.

Stefan closed the door, securing the latchstring on the inside, and rolled the isinglass down to cover the window opening. Lillian handed him his nightshirt and began unbuttoning her dress as he turned out the lantern. In the near darkness, she took off her clothes and slipped on the long nightgown.

By the time she had combed out her hair and plaited it into a single braid, Stefan was already in bed beneath the quilted cover. She laid beside him in the narrow bed, the bony length of his body next to hers, offering companionable warmth.

“Will you finish digging the well tomorrow?” Lillian tried to force her mind away from the cowboy and onto more essential subjects.

“No. Tomorrow I vill go to Franz Kreuger’s farm and help him plow his field so he can plant his vheat,” Stefan informed her. “I vill be home before dark.”

“What about the well? And the table you were going to build?” She turned her head, trying to see his whiskered profile in the darkness.

“Franz vill come to help dig the veil. Then I vill build your table and chairs,” he stated. “Ve must all of us help each other. It is good to have neighbors.”

“Yes.” She rolled onto her side, facing away from Stefan as she unwillingly thought of another neighbor of theirs. “Good night, Stefan.”

“Good night.” His voice already had a drowsy sound to it.

Lillian didn’t find it that easy to fall asleep.

Before first light broke, Webb had roped his horse out of the corral and was throwing on the saddle. There was a light over in the cookshack, which meant breakfast would soon be on the griddle, but Webb didn’t intend to wait around for it.

The anger hadn’t left him in the nearly two days since his run-in with the aging homesteader. The memory of it continued to gall him like an irritated saddle sore. And the last day and a half spent at the headquarters with his father and Bull Giles had only added salt to the wound. He was riding out before his father could order him to spend another day confined in futile discussions.

With the cinch tightened, he dropped the stirrup and swung into the saddle. The frisky gelding made a few crow-hops, then settled into a brisk walk that carried Webb away from the ranch buildings. Away was the only direction he had in mind; the farther the better. Out of earshot of the ranch, he let the horse set its own pace.

Midmorning found him miles from the headquarters of the Triple C with the fenceline of the east boundary in front of him. The gelding sidled along the barrier, waiting for a command from its rider as to the next direction. Webb applied pressure on the bit to check it to a halt and uncoiled the rope tied below the saddle-horn. He dropped the loop over the fence post and turned the horse away from it, taking a wrap around the horn with the free end of the rope.

A touch of the spurs had the horse straining against the partially anchored weight. The wooden post groaned; then the earthen bed gave way at its base. Dismounting, Webb freed the loop from the post and walked his horse across the downed fenceline, then righted the post again, stamping at the loose earth around its base until it was solidly in place.