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“Something like that,” Tara agreed with a clear lack of interest. “So which is it? Cattle?”
“Yup,” he lied. “I met Chase several years ago at a function of the cattlemen’s association.” He downed a quick swallow of beer and pushed off the stool. “I’d best be going or I’ll be late for my appointment. It’s been nice talking to you. Pass on my sympathies to the family. Maybe I’ll see you again at the funeral.”
He left the hotel bar before she could ask his name, a plan of action beginning to take shape in his mind.
The windmill’s long blades went round and round, pushed by a strong south breeze. Each rotation was punctuated by a grinding squeak, a sure sign it needed oiling.
Too restless to remain in the house and too weak to venture very far, Chase sat in an old high-backed wooden rocker on the front porch. The steady breeze kept the afternoon heat from becoming too unbearable and brought the familiar smells of the lan
d to him. His gaze wandered over the Texas landscape with its high, rolling hills covered with sun-seared grass. Trees were few, confined mainly to watercourses.
Idly he studied the cattle grazing in the fenced pastures. For the most part they were crossbreeds, a mix of Brangus and Black Baldies. None were branded, only ear-tagged. The observation prompted him to glance again at the old branding iron hanging on a porch post as decoration of sorts.
On impulse, he pushed out of the rocker and wandered over to the post, lifted the branding iron off its nail, and turned it upside down. C- was the brand. He had the odd feeling it should mean something to him, although he didn’t know why a Texas brand should be familiar to him, not when he was supposed to be from Montana.
He decided it was the letter C. Maybe he really was Chase Calder, even though the name sounded as alien to him as Duke. He sighed, frustrated by the damnedable blankness of his mind.
Off to his left, Hattie elbowed the screen door open and walked onto the porch carrying two tall tumblers. “I thought you might like a glass of lemonade.”
“Sounds good.” He hooked the branding iron back on its nail. “Where did you find the old iron?”
“In an old shed—and I mean old—that used to sit where the barn is.” Hattie paused beside the post and gazed at the branding iron in a remembering way. “When we were hauling stuff out of it prior to bulldozing it down, I grabbed up a stack of old feed sacks that I thought I might use for something, and the branding iron was sandwiched among them.” Turning, she flashed him a wry smile. “I ended up throwing the feed sacks away and keeping it.”
“It’s been well used.”
“Yes. If only it could talk, I’ll bet it would have a lot of stories it could tell about the old days.”
He knew he must have stories of his own to tell, but he couldn’t remember them. He downed a long swallow of the tartly sweet lemonade, his glance running to the dirt lane, seemingly on its own accord.
Lowering the tumbler, he pondered aloud, “I wonder when Laredo will be back.”
“You know what they say about a watched pot.” Hattie eyed him with a knowing look.
“Point taken.” He eased himself back into the rocking chair, conscious of the faint trembling in his leg muscles.
“Still weak, aren’t you,” Hattie observed.
“A little.” It went against the grain to admit it, but there was no hiding it from this woman.
“It will take your body some time to build back up its blood supply. You probably should have had a transfusion. As soon as you finish your lemonade, I’ll change the bandage and see how it’s healing.”
“Maybe this time you can bandage it in something smaller than this turban.” He raised a hand to the gauze strips that circled much of his head.
“I probably could if I shaved your head, but I don’t think you would look good bald,” Hattie replied, a mischievous glint in her dark eyes.
His mouth crooked in an answering smile. “I’ll keep my hair, thank you.”
“I thought you would.”
At the top of the porch steps, the yellow dog lifted its head to stare down the lane, ears pricking at some distant sound. A growl started deep in its throat then escalated to an eager whine as his wagging tail thumped the wooden floorboards.
“Laredo must be coming,” Hattie guessed, her own gaze shifting to the ranch lane.
When the pickup pulled into view, the dog bounded off the porch and raced to meet it, barking a welcome. He ran alongside of it until it stopped close to the house, then danced impatiently by the driver’s door waiting for Laredo to step out. Laredo obligingly rumpled the dog’s ears and walked up the cracked concrete sidewalk to the front porch.
“What did you find out?” Chase asked as Laredo mounted the steps.
“I know your funeral is scheduled for Tuesday.” Joining them on the porch, Laredo hooked a hip on the rail, his body angled toward Chase, and tipped his hat to the back of his head.
