A brow arched in a puzzled question. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t you remember that story Ruth Stanton used to tell about Lady Crawford, wife to the Earl of Dunshill, and the unique business relationship that existed between her and the first Chase Benteen Calder, your great-grandfather?”
He nodded. “I remember some of it.”
“I was always fascinated by the thought of a woman of that time period arranging government beef contracts. And lucrative ones at that, according to Ruth. Such things require skill and considerable influence.”
“I suppose.” But it wasn’t a subject that interested Ty.
Tara turned in the saddle, her expression brightening with the flash of another memory. “You know, I had almost forgotten about that old tintype I found when Cat and I were rummaging around in one of the old trunks in the attic. It was a photo of your great-great-grandmother. And I was struck by her resemblance to pictures I had seen of Lady Crawford. It made me wonder if they were the same woman.” The possibility appealed to her again. “You really should give some thought to checking it out.”
“Why?” It seemed a waste of time and energy to Ty.
Tara released another patented throaty laugh. “Darling, the press loves nothing better than delicious little skeletons in family closets. Everybody here knows that your great-great-grandmother ran off with another man when the first Chase Benteen Calder was a little boy. As scandals go, that is a tame one. But if she eventually married into the British aristocracy, that—my dear Ty—is the juicy tidbit people love to buzz about. Even if it isn’t true, you should hint at it. It will only add to the Calder legend and mystique. And that will bring people to your auction. The right people.”
“We’ll see,” was Ty’s only comment.
“You don’t like the idea. I can tell,” Tara murmured. “But I’m right.”
“You probably are.” He redirected his attention back to the gather, spotting Jessy as she returned from escorting the aged cow to the culled herd, held in a grass basin on the other side of the lower hill. A second later, his eye was caught by another rider on foot, leading a limping horse toward the picket line. Ty was quick to recognize the lanky rider as Dick Ballard. Jessy had spotted Ballard as well, and reined her horse toward him.
As Jessy pulled up beside him, Ballard pushed his hat to the back of his head and started jawing as usual. Jessy smiled at something Ballard said. Ty watched the easy interplay between the two, his own expression darkening.
“Who’s that with Jessy?” Tara asked.
“Dick Ballard. He’s worked on and off for the Triple C for years.”
Jessy took her foot out of the near stirrup, offering Ballard a lift to the picket line. He grabbed hold of the saddle horn and swung up behind her.
“Ballard,” Tara murmured thoughtfully. “I’ve heard that name before. Isn’t he the one who first suggested the idea for this auction?”
“Yes. When he isn’t working for us, he often rides cutting horses in competition for other owners or trainers. I understand that a time or two he helped out at some of these big auctions.”
“Has he seen the design for yours?”
“No.”
“Can he read blueprints?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“I was thinking that if he could, it might be wise to let him take a look at them. It’s possible he might see something the rest of us have missed.” Even as she spoke, Tara was distracted by the obvious camaraderie that existed between Jessy and this man Ballard. “Jessy seems very friendly with him.”
“Like I said,” Ty replied, “he’s worked for the Triple C on and off for years.”
“Yes, you have always had a tight-knit group,” Tara recalled. It was all part of the Old West code of loyalty to the brand, something she had always found quite stifling. Yet for all the smoothness of Ty’s response, Tara detected something tight-lipped about it. It made her wonder. “Don’t you like Ballard?”
Ty shrugged his indifference toward the man. “He tends to talk a lot. Sometimes it can get on the nerves.”
A talker. Tara filed away that tidbit of information, aware that it might prove useful in the future.
Ballard rode easy behind the saddle, swaying with the horse’s slow, walking rhythm, one hand resting on a dusty thigh, the other holding the reins to his lame horse. Of necessity, their pace was slow.
“It’s good to see you back on a horse, working with the rest of us,” he remarked to Jessy.
“It feels good. I’ve missed it,” she admitted freely. “But the twins need me at home right now.”
“I’ve never met a woman yet who didn’t need a break from her kids now and then.”