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“You’re back,” she began.
“Where’s Ty?”
“I think I heard him go upstairs to clean up before dinner.”
By the time Sally finished, Jessy had crossed the room and entered the hall, heading for the staircase. Long and lithe, she went up the steps two at a time, pushed by an inner demand for a confrontation that had been too long in coming.
In her side vision, Jessy noted the door to Cat’s old room was open a crack, but she paid no attention to it. She was too intent on her goal.
As she pushed through the doorway into the master bedroom, Ty came out of the bath area, a towel hooked around his middle and another one slung around his muscled shoulders. His dark hair gleamed wet from the shower, and beads of moisture glistened on his tanned skin.
“Where have you been?” he asked idly. “Joe Gibbs said you peeled out of here like a cat with its tail on fire.”
Jessy paused long enough to close the door then came straight to the point. “Answer me one thing, Ty Calder. What is she doing here again?”
He stopped short, a frown gathering on his forehead. “Who? Tara?”
“Of course, Tara,” she exploded. “Who else would I be talking about?”
“How the hell should I know?” Ty declared in exasperation. “I don’t even know why we’re talking about her.”
“Did you know she was coming?” Hands on her hips, Jessy faced him squarely, alert to any subtle shift in his expression.
“No.”
“Then, I repeat—what is she doing here again?” His eyes narrowed, and the set of his jaw hardened, showing a wearing of patience. “According to Tara,” he stated slowly and concisely, “she brought a list of publicists and caterers that she wants to go over with me.”
“And this required a personal visit?” Jessy challenged. “She couldn’t have sent you the list, then discussed it with you over the phone?”
“I wouldn’t know. That’s something you’ll have to take up with Tara.”
As much as she wanted to find fault with his answer, it was just the sort of flimsy excuse Tara would use. Which only annoyed Jessy all the more.
She half turned, her hands sliding off her hips in a frustrated need for movement. “Caterers,” she muttered in disgust. “As if we need a list from her.”
“And just how many professional caterers can you name?” Ty flared, his own temper now aroused. “Or did you even realize that we would need one for a function like this? Maybe you thought this was like some local auction where you contacted the women’s auxiliary from a local church and had them run the concession stand.”
“I knew a professional would be required.” But it hadn’t really sunk home until that moment. “But it’s a little early to be worrying about which one when we don’t even have a place built to hold the auction.”
“With a function of this scope and size, you can’t plan too far ahead.” He glared at her for a half-second then shook his head with a kind of disgust. “You don’t have the first clue about this type of event. You should be thanking Tara for her assistance instead of resenting it.”
“Maybe I would if I knew just why she was so eager to offer it.”
His head came up, his gaze fixing itself on her once again. “Good god, Jessy, you aren’t jealous, are you? In case you’ve forgotten, I’m not married to her anymore.”
“I know it, and you know it, but it seems to have totally slipped her mind.”
“The divorce was final nearly eight years ago. Isn’t it time we all put the past behind us?” he argued. “Or would you rather that we were bitter enemies?”
“I would feel safer if you were.” Jessy turned thoughtful. “I don’t know what her game is, but she won’t win.”
Out in the hallway, Tara straightened away from the hall door to the master bedroom, her lips curving in a knowing smile. “Oh, won’t I?” she murmured in response to Jessy’s last remark. “But it won’t be the way you think.”
Still, there were troubled waters that needed to be smoothed. It was something that needed to be handled sooner rather than later.
Her opportunity came yet that evening. As always, they gathered after dinner in the den, long the heart of the Triple C. The room was dominated by a cavernous stone fireplace, crowned with the wide-sweeping horns of a longhorn steer mounted above the mantelpiece.
Chase Calder occupied his customary place, the chair behind the big desk. On the wall, just beyond his shoulder, hung a framed map, yellowed with age, its lines hand-drawn, delineating the wide-reaching boundaries of the Triple C.
