Green Calder Grass (Calder Saga 6)

“Believe me, Jess, you aren’t going to find what you need in Miles City,” Cat advised as the waitress arrived, balancing a tray loaded with water glasses. “Initially I considered going to Denver since it’s closer, but I’m much more familiar with the shops in Dallas and Fort Worth.”

“As much as I hate to admit it”—Ty paused to hold Trey’s hand when he made a grab for one of the glasses—“my sister is right. You won’t find high fashion in Miles City. For that, you’ll have to shop somewhere else.”

“I suppose,” Jessy conceded, but inside she was screaming at the very idea. All this talk about projecting the proper image and creating the right impression went against the grain and smacked of phoniness. As far as Jessy was concerned, she was who and what she was and everyone else was welcome to take it or leave it.

Besides, “high fashion” was a term she equated with Tara, not herself. Never herself.

“Then you will come with me?” Cat pressed for a more definite answer.

“Of course she’ll go,” Chase answered for her, then added, “A couple days away from the ranch and the twins will do you good.”

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It wasn’t in Jessy’s nature to be anything less than candid. “I can’t imagine anything more painful than going from store to store trying on clothes. And I’m telling you right now, I am not wearing a dress or putting on makeup for this affair. It’s an auction, for heaven’s sake.”

Smiling, Ty eyed his wife with a mixture of amusement and appreciation then glanced at Cat. “You have your work cut out for you on this trip, sis.”

“I’m not one bit worried.” She spoke with confidence. “They are making some fabulous Western clothes these days. We’ll find the perfect outfit. Wait and see.”

Slapping her order pad on the tray and clicking her ballpoint pen, the waitress broke into their conversation, “Anybody ready to order?”

She went around the long table, writing down each one’s food and drink order until she came to Chase. “You aren’t going to like those ribs, Mr. Calder.” The pen remained poised above the pad. “They are dry and tough. Why don’t you have a steak instead?”

“Make it well done.”

“I’ll see that the cook burns it,” she promised with an emphatic nod. Once all their orders were taken, she closed the book and slipped it inside her roomy apron pocket. “I’ll be right back with your drinks. The food’s another story. It’s crazy in that kitchen,” she warned, already moving away from the table.

Quint patted Logan’s arm in an attention-getting gesture. “Dad, is it all right if I go watch them play pool?”

Logan glanced at his wristwatch. “It shouldn’t be too rowdy over there yet. You can go, but only for a little while.”

“Thanks.” Quint flashed him a rare smile and scooted off his chair, intent on reaching the bar’s billiard area as fast as possible.

The minute he darted away from the table, Trey screamed in protest and worked furiously to get out of the highchair and follow his older cousin. After initial attempts to distract him with soda crackers and his toy truck failed, Jessy gave up and lifted him out of his high chair. But his angry yowls made it clear that he wasn’t interested in sitting on her lap; he wanted to go after Quint.

Rising from his chair, Ty reached for the squirming toddler. “I’ll take him,” he said to Jessy and swung the little boy onto his hip. “Come on, little guy. Let’s go find Quint.”

As abruptly as the fit-throwing started, it stopped. Trey pointed a finger in the direction Quint had gone and jabbered in excitement, none of it intelligible except for the word “Kint,” which was the closest the toddler could come to saying Quint’s name.

Ty worked his way through the crowded restaurant area toward the bar where the occasional crack of a billiard ball could be heard above the din of loud-talking voices and even louder music from the jukebox. All the way, Trey twisted and turned, straining to catch the first glimpse of his cousin.

But the first person to catch Ty’s eye when he entered the bar area was Buck Haskell. He was perched atop a stool in front of the long bar, a mug of beer in front of him and an empty long neck beside it. He was sporting a new black Stetson and a pair of fancy-stitched cowboy boots to go along with crisp new jeans and a pearl-snapped Western shirt. His skin had lost its prison pallor and taken on the hue of a tan, which made his curly hair seem all the whiter. In short, he looked like what he was, in a sense, an old cowhand dressed for a Saturday night on the town.

His eyes had a knowing glint when he met Ty’s look and raised his beer mug, acknowledging Ty’s presence. It wasn’t in Ty to simply ignore the man. A Calder faced his enemies; he didn’t walk away from them.

“ ’Lo, Buck.” He injected a coolness in his voice. “Looks like you’re doing well.”

“As a matter of fact, I am,” Buck declared, his mouth curving in a canny smile. “That your boy?”

“It is.”

“He looks like a Calder,” Buck observed. “Heard you named him after your pa.”

“That’s right.”

“I guess that means there will be a Chase Benteen Calder running the Triple C for a good many years to come.”

The last thing Ty wanted to talk about with Buck Haskell was his young son. “I see you bought some new duds.”