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Prologue
The headquarters for the Fort Worth–based conglomerate known as Maresco, sleekly modern in its glass and granite architecture, stood a modest four stories tall. But, as owner and chairman Max Rutledge, was fond of saying, Dallas could have the soaring skyscrapers; Fort Worth had the money. And the digits of his total net worth numbered in the billions.
On the building’s top floor, his suite of executive offices occupied one entire side of the structure. Few pieces of furniture could be found in his personal office. The minimalist approach was in keeping with the suite’s contemporary decor, but its purpose was to limit the number of obstacles that the wheelchair-bound occupant had to face.
Power, wealth, prestige—Rutledge had it all.
No one was more aware of that than his valet and personal nurse, Harold Bennett, as he entered his employer’s office without being summoned. He paused just inside the door, waiting to be noticed. But Rutledge had his back to the door, his wheelchair facing the glass-walled exterior, as he sat hunched forward in it.
Bennett cleared his throat rather loudly. When that failed to draw a response, he spoke. “Excuse me, sir.”
A faint whirr came from the motorized chair as it pivoted to face him. “What is it?” Rutledge glowered at him.
“You didn’t respond when your secretary buzzed you on the intercom. Your ten-thirty appointment is waiting.”
“Reschedule it. I’m busy.”
Without a word, Bennett crossed to the desk and relayed the instruction, then paused to cast a worried glance at his employer. More silver grizzled the old man’s hair and the gauntness in that age-lined face had become more pronounced these last few months. But it was these dark and brooding moods that troubled Bennett the most.
Briefly he wondered what had triggered the black mood this time. Then he noticed the newspaper lying open on the desk. Near the bottom of the right-hand page was a short article. Bennett read the first few lines of it.
The findings of an inquest into the stabbing death of Boone Rutledge, son of prominent Texan Max Rutledge, were released today. It was ruled to be a case of self-defense on the part of Quint Echohawk, grandson of Chase Calder, owner of the famed Triple C Ranch in Montana…
There was more, but Bennett had seen enough. He glanced at the page number. “They buried it on page seven,” he murmured with some surprise.
“And it cost me a helluva lot to get that done,” Rutledge snapped, then gestured to the newspaper. “Throw it away. Then track Donovan down and get me a number where I can reach him.”
“Donovan.” Bennett knew what that meant. “You’re going after the Calders. Why?” he blurted without thinking. “You saw what the inquest ruled. Boone was the one who went after Echohawk with the knife. The Calders aren’t responsible for his death.”
“Not responsible!” Rutledge boomed in outrage. “My son is dead! He was a fool and a hothead, but he was my son! And, by God, they’re going to pay for it!”
PART ONE
It hit like a bolt
from out of the blue.
It was the hottest storm
this Calder ever knew.
Chapter One
The afternoon sun was on its downward drift toward the western horizon, throwing its bright light across a vast Montana sky ribboned with wispy mare’s-tail clouds. Springtime cloaked the wide plains with its fresh green hues and scented the air with the raw vigor of new life, all sharp and clean.
