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“Do you have time to join us for a drink?” Max asked.
Quint’s hesitation was only slight, but deliberately calculated. “Sure,” he agreed. “Whiskey Seven.”
“Pour Quint a whiskey Seven, Boone,” Max ordered. “And I’ll have my usual bourbon and branch.” He swung his wheelchair toward a conversational grouping of chairs and swept out his hand in an inviting gesture. “Have a seat.”
“Thanks.” Quint crossed to a cowhide-upholstered chair and laid his hat on its wide armrest as he folded his tall frame onto the seat.
“How’s Chase these days?” Max positioned his wheelchair in the open space within the grouping.
“Doing remarkably well, considering his age.”
“Your grandfather is a remarkable man in many ways.”
“I agree,” Quint said and smiled. “Although naturally I am prejudiced.”
“As you should be.” A smile grooved deep lines in Max’s gaunt cheeks. Then a small line furrowed his brow in a faint show of puzzlement. “You said earlier something about taking over the Cee Bar. What happened to the ranch manager you had running it? What was his name?” He turned a frowning look to Boone for the answer when he arrived with their drinks.
“Evans, I think it was.”
“He’s gone now.” Quint took his drink from Boone’s outstretched hand.
“Help is always a problem, isn’t it?” Max remarked in a commiserating fashion. “The good ones are too often lured away by better offers. And the bad ones—well, you don’t want to keep them anyway.”
“Very true.” Quint raised his glass in a toast. “To finding good help and keeping them.”
Boone and Max acknowledged the toast with a slight lift of glasses. The gesture was followed by the muted clink of ice against the glass sides as each took a sip. Boone drifted off to the side and hooked a long leg over the high armrest of a leather sofa, but Quint was conscious of the heavy bore of his gaze. If, as he believed, the Rutledges were orchestrating the current spate of trouble at the Cee Bar, the son was likely the muscle behind it, and the father, the brains. And it was on the latter Quint centered his attention.
“It just occurred to me,” Max began, “did your mother come with you?”
“No,” Quint replied with a slight, negative movement of his head.
“I thought she might have welcomed a change of scenery, not to mention the warmth of a southern winter. And with Tara in Fort Worth, it seemed likely. I know they are former sisters-in-law, but it’s always been my understanding that the bond between them has remained a close one.”
“I know Tara is of that opinion.” Quint’s impression was that his mother had retained a healthy suspicion of Tara. Although in recent years Tara had been more of a pain in the neck to the Calders than the troublemaker she once had been. “Actually my mother has moved back to the Homestead to look after Chase. Right now, though…” He paused, idly swirling the liquor in his glass. “Most of the family is in England to attend Laura’s wedding.”
The remark was designed to get a rise out of Boone. Quint observed Boone’s reaction to the comment in his side vision—the faint jerk of his head and the white-knuckle tensing of the hand holding the drink glass.
“Yes,” Max interposed smoothly. “I recall reading something in the society page about Tara flying over to attend the nuptials.”
“I thought she’d already married him.” Boone’s jaws barely moved as he pushed the words out.
“There was a ceremony in Montana,” Quint confirmed. “But it was a small one. And you know Laura—she likes things on a grand scale.”
“That’s Laura, all right.” There was something wistful about the smile that briefly touched Max Rutledge’s mouth. But when he looked at his son, there was something hard and unforgiving in his eyes. “It was a sad day for this family when Boone let her slip through his fingers.”
Boone straightened from his perch on the armrest with the swiftness of a scalded man. “The mistake was hers, not mine.” He growled the words, his voice low and hot.
“Unfortunately”—Max’s lip curled ever so slightly in derision—“the mistake was mine for ever believing she would marry the likes of you. Now go freshen your drink and shut up.” Making it clea
r that he regarded that particular discussion to be closed, Max smoothly swung his attention back to Quint. “I’m surprised you didn’t go to England with the rest of your family.”
“We couldn’t all go.” Quint smiled, conscious of the cold fury that emanated from Boone in waves, holding him motionless.
“I suppose not,” Max agreed, completely ignoring the looming figure of his son. There was no doubt in Quint’s mind whose will was stronger. He wasn’t surprised when Boone abruptly turned and carried his drink to the bar. “So when did you arrive in Texas?”
“The first part of the week,” Quint replied, certain that Max already knew that. “It took me a couple of days to familiarize myself with the place and get a handle on things or I would have stopped by sooner.”
“I understand,” Max assured him. “I imagine you had your hands full when you arrived. After you’re here awhile, I think you’ll find that things in Texas are different from the way you’re used to them back in Montana.”
