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Inside the house trailer, Rollie helped himself to a cup of coffee and sat down at the old Formica-topped table. After stowing his gear in a back bedroom, Lath sauntered into the trailer’s compact kitchen and dining area. Emma stood at the range top, laying pieces of batter-dipped chicken in an iron skillet, the hot oil sizzling and popping in the stillness of the room.
“Is that fried chicken you’re fixing?” Lath stopped to grab a can of beer out of the refrigerator.
“Yes, and it’s fresh chicken, too,” Emma replied. “I killed and dressed it myself this morning.”
“There’s only one thing I know that would taste better than your fried chicken and that would be a big juicy steak.” He crossed to the table and pulled out a chair.
“A steak.” She paused in her task, considering the word, then shook her head and laid another piece of chicken in the skillet. “I can’t recall the last time I had fresh beef to put on the table. Not since we lost the farm, that’s for sure.”
“Guess we’ll have to do something to change that.” Lath leaned back in the chair, hooking an arm over a corner of it as he grinned at Rollie. “Seems to me, Calder owes us a beef or two for all the hardness he showed this family.”
“They owe us a lot more than that,” Emma snapped, making no secret of the ill will she bore them.
Rollie stared at the black surface of his coffee, aware he should have seen this coming. It wouldn’t be the first time his family had butchered a Calder steer. And from the sounds of it, it wouldn’t be the last.
The late spring sun sat well up in the western sky, lengthening the hours of daylight into early evening. With tackle box and fly rod in hand, Ty waited at the bottom of the steps to take advantage of the light and get in some fishing. Jessy was beside him, a little pale after her day’s bout with nausea, yet lit with an inner glow that gave a radiance to her face. The Homestead’s galleried front porch echoed with the thud of cowboy boots as Quint ran to join them, a child-sized fly rod clutched in his hand.
At the top of the steps, Chase smiled at his grandson’s haste, but a more sober look entered his eyes when his glance shifted to a trailing Cat. These last two days he hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that something was bothering her. She seemed unusually quiet, preoccupied with her own thoughts. Lately, her smiles had seemed a little too stiff to him, her laughter a little too forced, and her silences too frequent.
“Wait a minute. Don’t I get a hug?” Her call stopped Quint.
Chase watched as she crouched down and held her arms open. Quint ran into them, and she hugged him close. For an unguarded moment, her eyes were tightly closed and a look of near desperation pulled at her face, strengthening Chase’s closely held suspicions.
Quint pulled back, forcing her arms to loosen. “You can come fishing with us, too, Mom.”
“I know, but it’s been a while since I’ve seen Uncle Culley,” she said, her hands busily adjusting the lay of his denim jacket and straightening its collar, finding reasons to touch him. “I think I should go visit him. You have fun, now, and mind your Uncle Ty.”
“I will,” he promised and off he went, clattering down the steps.
Rising to her feet, Cat watched the trio set off toward the river. She stood there for a long minute, and Chase observed the troubled light that stole into her eyes.
“I guess I’d better be going, too.” When she turned, the light was gone. But Chase was certain it hadn’t been a trick of the sun.
“What’s wrong, Cat?”
“Wrong?” Alarm flickered briefly in her eyes before she managed to laugh off his question. “Nothing’s wrong. Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Something’s bothering you,” he insisted.
“I don’t know what it would be,” she countered with a very convincing shrug, “other than wondering if I have everything ready for Quint’s birthday party tomorrow. With so many children coming, there’s bound to be something I overlooked. I just hope it isn’t something important.” Without giving him a chance to question her further, Cat moved to the steps. “I should be back in time to t
uck Quint into bed.”
“Drive careful,” Chase admonished.
“Always,” Cat replied, instantly picturing in her mind the uniformed officer she had faced three days ago. Quint’s father now had a name—Logan Echohawk. Again she was gripped by a terrible sense of foreboding.
It was an hour’s drive from the Triple C headquarters to the Shamrock Ranch. Far from being relaxed by it, Cat was wound in an even tighter ball of nerves by the time she reached the ranch lane.
When she pulled into the ranch yard itself, Cat was stunned to see a Chevy truck parked near the house. Culley never had visitors. Briefly she wondered if he had bought a new pickup, then she saw the old one by the barn.
Puzzled, Cat headed for the house. A few feet from the screen door, she caught the muffled voices coming from within, one she recognized definitely as Culley’s. She climbed the steps to the covered front porch and went inside.
The instant the door swung shut behind her, all conversation in the house ceased. “Who’s that?” Culley barked from the kitchen, his voice sharp with suspicion.
“It’s me, Uncle Culley.” She crossed to the kitchen doorway, her glance going first to her uncle, seated at one end of the table facing the door, then to the man next to him.
Smoke-gray eyes locked with hers, holding her completely motionless. Gone was the uniform of Logan Echohawk. He was dressed once again in the clothes of the man she had called Dakota.
