Calder Pride (22 page)

“Certainly not for you,” she lashed out in sudden anger. “Never for you.”

Logan had known that, but hearing it snapped the last thin thread of control. Roughly he hauled her to him, his fingers twisting into her hair and forcing her head back. His mouth came down hard to crush her lips. This time he took what she wouldn’t willingly give him, and liked the fight she gave him, finding it offered its own kind of stimulation.

He kept up the pressure until her struggles lessened and her body softened against him. Lifting his
head, he looked with savage satisfaction at the aching need that darkened the green of her eyes. In the very next instant, Logan understood the emptiness of his victory. The moistness of tears shimmered at the edges of her eyes. He hadn’t driven out the memory of her lost love. It was a bitter discovery that stopped him cold.

“You can stop worrying, Cat.” Anger tightened his voice, giving it a raw and husky edge. “A lot of men might brag about bedding you, but I’m not one of them.”

She gave him a startled look that revealed her surprise and told him, more clearly than words, the low opinion she had of him. Swinging away, he went down the steps at a swift pace, more irritable than before.

From his favorite watchpost, hunkered down in a small pocket of ground some distance from The Homestead, Culley saw it all. Although he had been too far away to hear their talk, it had been impossible to mistake the charged tension between them when they faced each other, their bodies taut and motionless like a stag and a doe during mating season.

A car door slammed with a metallic thud, and an engine turned over with a rumbling growl of power. Headlights flashed on, cutting through the darkness. Briefly their twin beams swept over Cat as the patrol car made a reversing turn away from the house before it took off, its fast-spinning tires spraying gravel.

As always, Culley focused on Cat. She stood with one slender hand resting on a pillar and the other pressed to her stomach, her head turned in the direction of the departing vehicle. After it disappeared,
she appeared to take a moment to gather herself, then turned and went inside.

Culley rocked back on his haunches and considered all that he had seen, both tonight and over the last few days. The ululating call of a coyote drifted across the plains, a plaintive and primitive sound. Lifting his head, Culley listened to it, glanced again at the house, then stole off, making his way back to the place where he had left his horse tethered.

An hour after leaving the Triple C headquarters, Logan pulled into Blue Moon. Light pooled beneath the canopy at Fedderson’s, illuminating the gas pumps. More light poured through the store’s plate-glass windows. Logan noted that, but his brooding gaze centered on the lighted neon sign at Sally’s Place and the half dozen pickup and utility vehicles parked in front of it.

Faced with easily an hour’s worth of paperwork before he could call it a day, Logan swung the patrol car into an empty parking slot, radioed his twenty, and stepped out. As much as his empty stomach wanted food, he wanted the distraction of people around him to get his mind off Cat. She was becoming like a drug that he knew was no good for him, yet each encounter with her left him wanting more. It was an addiction he was determined to conquer.

The jukebox blared a honky-tonk song amid the crack of billiard balls and laughing, raucous voices. Logan paused inside the door and scanned the inhabitants of the café-bar, conscious of the second looks the uniform brought him and the instant muting of loud talk. Most times such things amused him, but today wasn’t one of those times.

As he finished his sweep of the bar area where the bulk of the customers were gathered, his glance was
stopped by a pair of brashly arrogant eyes staring back at him. Lath Anderson grinned with insolence and lifted his long-necked bottle of beer in a mocking salute. His younger brother, Rollie, gave him a sharp nudge, his own glance skipping off Logan. Still grinning, Lath swung away.

Logan felt again that fiddling along his nerves that warned of impending trouble. He started toward the men’s room to wash up, then, pushed by a testiness, Logan altered his course to pass by the two brothers.

Observing his approach in the back bar’s mirror, Lath swiveled around on his stool when he drew close. “Workin’ kinda late, aren’t you, Echohawk? Or are you pullin’ the evening shift this week?”

Logan halted. “Does it matter?”

“Guess not.” Lath shrugged one shoulder, still wearing his cocky grin.

“Have you found yourself a job yet?”

“Tell you the truth, that’s been a bit of a problem for me. No one seems to be doin’ any hirin’ right now.”

“I heard Dy-Corp had some openings,” Logan remarked, then turned his glance on the younger one. “Isn’t that true, Rollie?”

“I couldn’t say.” His attention remained on the bottle in front of him.

“You’re still working there, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.” Rollie picked up the bottle by its neck and took a quick swig from it.

“He’s always been the hardworking one of this family. Ain’t ya, little brother?” Lath tossed the question to him, without taking his hard and glinting eyes off Logan. “Me, I’m just the no-account one.”

“With no desire to change,” Logan observed, and threw another glance at Rollie, now eyeing them
both uneasily. “You’re running in some poor company, Rollie.”

“He’s my brother.”

“I guess a man can’t choose his family,” he said.

He sent a glance at Lath, then continued to the men’s room, washed away the worst of the day’s grime and returned, this time skirting the bar area and heading for a table on the café side of the room. Taking off his hat, he dropped it on an empty chair and sat down next to it, reaching for the plastic-covered menu, propped between the sugar jar and napkin holder.

Sally Brogan came to the table, carrying a pot of coffee and a glass of water. She set the glass before him, righted the cup on the table and filled it with steaming coffee. “You look like you could use this,” she said, her quick eyes picking up the hints of fatigue etched into his face.

“About a gallon of it,” Logan admitted, reaching for the cup, drawn by the steam’s rich coffee aroma.

“I heard there was some trouble out at the Triple C today. Nothing serious, I hope,” Sally remarked, fishing for specifics.

Logan shook his head. “Just some cattle killed.”

“How?”

“They were shot.”

She clucked her tongue in a small sound of dismay and sighed. “I don’t understand people nowadays, shooting at something just because they feel like it—with no respect at all for someone’s property.”

Such people had always been around, but Logan didn’t bother to point that out to her. “How about a steak, medium, and a baked potato with all the trimmings.”

“Anything else?”

“Don’t think so.” A burst of laughter from the
bar area drew his attention. Idly he ran his glance over the crowd, noting that the Anderson brothers had moved to the pool table. “Busy night.”

“It’s Friday,” Sally replied as if that explained everything, then looked in the direction of the noise and blaring music, her expression colored by something thoughtful and a little sad. “We used to fill up mostly with cowboys from the surrounding ranches. They were a wild and rowdy group out for fun and a good time. They never had much money to spend. Cowboying still doesn’t pay that much. It’s one of those jobs you do because it’s in your blood. The crowd we get now mostly came here chasing the high dollar Dy-Corp pays at the strip mine. In some ways, they’re just as loud and crazy as the cowboys were, but it’s an angry loud, I’ve noticed.”

“A little homegrown philosophy, Sally?” Logan chided lightly.

She smiled at herself. “Age does that to you, I guess. Or maybe I notice it more because I’m not as happy in my work as I used to be.”

“There’s been talk you might be selling out.”

“I’ve been here thirty years. Maybe it’s time to call it quits.”

“Thirty years. I guess you know about everyone around here.”

“Sooner or later, they all come in here.”

On impulse, he asked, “You don’t, by any chance, know who might have a winch mounted in their truck?”

“You mean besides Emmett?”

“Emmett Fedderson.” He wanted to make sure they were talking about the same person.

“Yes. Off the top of my head, he’s the only one that comes to mind. But you might ask him. I may have the monopoly on food, but he has it on gas.”

“I’ll do that. Thanks.”

“No problem.” She started toward the kitchen. “I’ll have DeeDee get your food right out.”

Logan nodded and took a sip of his coffee, then settled back in the chair and waited for the caffeine to kick in and revive him. As relaxed as he looked, he never lost that sense of alertness. He had lived the life of a lawman too long for it to ever leave him completely. His eyes kept moving, noting the comings and goings around him.

Across the way, Lath chalked the end of his cue stick, leaned over the table, and took aim on the white cue ball. He drew the stick back and shot it forward, sending the ball crashing into the triangular grouping of colored balls. Amidst the clatter and rumble of balls spinning across the felt-covered slate, Lath straightened and walked around to a side pocket, picked up the chalk again, and rubbed it on the tip while he studied the table. Rollie stepped to the side, out of his way, both hands clamped around his own pool cue.

“Do you think he suspects us?” he asked in a voice audible only to his brother.

“If he does, it’s only ’cause you’re acting so damned guilty.”

Lath knocked the twelve ball in a corner pocket. Straightening, he threw a glance at Rollie, a smile forming. “Relax, will ya? He hasn’t got a single clue that’ll lead him back to us. He can suspect till he’s blue in the face, but without proof, he can’t touch us.”

“I know that,” Rollie mumbled, uneasy and vaguely sullen, his glance sliding across the room.

“Then whatcha worried about, huh?” Lath changed his stance, maneuvering for a shot at another ball. “Have some faith, little brother. Didn’t I say they wouldn’t find those cattle till today? Didn’t I?”

“Yeah, it’s all coming down just like you said it
would, but just what the hell did we accomplish?” Rollie challenged him. “Sure, we butchered a beef and killed some cows, but so what? Calder’s got insurance to cover a loss like that. Ma’s right. We didn’t hurt Calder at all.”

The blue-chalked tip of the cue stick hovered a fraction of an inch from the white ball while Lath let the words sink in. Grimness plucked at a corner of his mouth. “Not this time, we didn’t. But we will, I promise you that. I just got to figure out the right way to do it.”

“Do what?” Rollie asked, catching something in Lath’s voice that had his eyes narrowing.

“When I got it figured, I’ll tell you.” He tapped the stick against the cue ball. It rolled forward, struck the edge of the striped fourteen ball and sent it spinning toward the far side pocket, where it grazed the bumper and caromed away from the hole. Lath swore good-naturedly at the miss, and stepped back from the table. “Your turn, little brother.”

As Rollie moved up to survey the table, the door opened and Emmett Fedderson plodded into the café-bar, dressed in his habitual rust orange jumpsuit, a billed cap covering his nearly bald head. He paused to catch his breath and mop the sweat from his face with a soiled handkerchief.

“There’s another one that needs to be hurt,” Lath remarked and lifted his beer bottle, taking another swig from it. “Only he’ll be easy to do.”

Gathering himself, Emmett turned toward the crowd at the bar and yelled above the music and noise, “I’m fixing to close up. Any of you need gas to get home on, you better get it now.”

“I’ll take you up on that, Emmett.” Lath flashed a sudden grin, a peculiar gleam in his eyes. He shoved his cue stick at Rollie. “Hang onto this, little brother. And don’t be cheatin’ while I’m gone.”

Rollie took the stick and watched as Lath sauntered over to Fedderson and held the door open for him, then followed him outside.

Rollie had a moment’s pity for the old man, but it was quickly gone. He propped Lath’s stick against the table and took aim on a solid-colored ball poised on the edge of a corner pocket.

Outside the restaurant, Lath waved a hand toward an old pickup sporting a new primer coat the color of rust. “Hop in, Emmett. I’ll give you a lift to the station and save those legs of yours a few steps.”

Emmett didn’t trust him, and it showed in the look he gave him. But the day had been a long one, and his tired body was feeling it. He nodded and said gruffly, “Obliged for it.”

It took him a minute to haul his bulk into the cab, then collapsed hard on the seat, wheezing a little from the effort. Even that little bit of exertion had sweat beading on his face. He dragged the soiled kerchief from his pocket and wiped it over his mouth.

A low chuckle came from the driver’s side. Emmett saw Lath watching him. The light from the restaurant windows shone through the windshield, partially illuminating his face, giving Emmett a glimpse of lips curled back in a laughing grin and of eyes that had an animal sheen to them. For a dry-mouthed instant, he had the eerie feeling that he was riding with Lucifer himself.

“You’re getting old, Emmett,” Lath turned the ignition key. The engine coughed a couple times, then caught with a reluctant rumble.

“Tell me somebody who ain’t,” he garumphed, facing the front again, uneasy and determined to conceal it. “You sure ain’t getting any younger yourself.”

“Now that’s a dyed-in-the-wool fact for sure, Emmett.” He reversed the pickup away from the
restaurant and aimed it toward the lighted canopy over the gas pumps. “The difference is—I got a long life ahead of me.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that, if I were you.”

“Emmett,” Lath said and clicked his tongue in mock reproach. “You ain’t so old that you forgot, only the good die young?”

He laughed again, and something in his laughter made Emmett’s skin crawl. It started him thinking about old Mrs. Anderson’s overdue account and Lath’s constant prodding for it to be reopened. He stole a sideways glance at Lath, certain it was a subject he’d bring up again. It was just a matter of how soon. Irritated by the prospect, he shot a look at the gas gauge, illuminated by the dash lights. Its arrow hovered near the full mark.