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“I’ll contact him first thing in the morning,” she promised.
Chapter Twenty-One
Morning sunlight flashed across the private jet’s cockpit as the craft taxied to a stop near the FBO terminal. A member of the ground crew trotted up and set the wheel chocks in place.
Inside the aviation terminal, Quint Echohawk stood near the glass door that led to the concrete apron. High, hard cheekbones and the deep black of his hair spoke of his Sioux ancestry. The gray of his eyes was his father’s gift to him, but the granite jaw and strong, straight nose came from the Calder side of his bloodline.
His sharp eyes watched as the plane’s door swung open and the steps were lowered. First to descend them was the copilot, toting a dark leather carryall. Then Trey came down, a brisk impatience in his movement. With little more than a nod to the copilot, he took the bag from him and struck out for the terminal.
Quint tossed a quick glance at the silver-haired man dressed in a business suit and tie and seated at one of the tables, a closed briefcase at his side and an open laptop before him. “He’s coming.” Then he gave the door a push, swinging it open to admit his younger cousin.
One look at the cold set of Trey’s features advised Quint that no innocence of youth remained, and the hard vitality that blazed in Trey’s eyes now had a cynical twist to it.
“Is everything set?” Trey’s quick question checked any words of regret Quint might have expressed.
“It is,” Quint confirmed and turned sideways to include the silver-haired man, who stepped forward, the laptop once again stowed in his briefcase. “This is Wyatt Breedon. You spoke to him on the phone last night.”
“Mr. Breedon.” Trey briefly gripped the man’s hand, the abruptness of his handshake revealing more of the restless impatience that churned behind his cool exterior.
“Make it Wyatt,” the attorney replied. “That ‘mister’ business just makes everything sound a little too formal, and that’s not the tone we want to convey when we meet with Mrs. Grunwald. Were you able to get your hands on all those documents before you left this morning?”
“They’re right here.” Trey patted the bag he carried.
“Good. I’ve got a car waiting for us.”
Trey started toward the exit, then paused to glance at Quint. “Are you coming with us?”
“No. I need to get back to the Cee Bar before Rutledge’s people start wondering where I went,” Quint replied, then added, “I already told Wyatt, Rutledge has guards stationed all around the ranch, and more patrolling it. You can’t get within an inch of his fences without somebody seeing you.”
“It doesn’t surprise me.” There was no change in Trey’s iron composure.
“It’s always better to go in the front door, anyway.” Quint smiled e
ncouragement. “If you need me, you only have to call.”
“Thanks.” But Trey knew this was one thing Quint could have no part in.
High atop the glass and granite building of his corporate headquarters, Max Rutledge sat in the darkened boardroom and watched the computer-generated presentation of the proposed expansion of the company’s oil business. He paid little attention to the droning voice that explained the numerous facts and figures that flashed on the screen. He was too busy calculating the net revenue increase that would result.
A door opened behind him, spilling light into the room and breaking his concentration. He flashed an irritated look at the brunette who attempted to tiptoe to his wheelchair.
“I thought I left instructions that I wasn’t to he disturbed, Miss Bridges,” he muttered.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Rutledge.” She bent close to his chair, enveloping him in her expensive perfume. “But Deputy Sheriff Krause is on the phone. I told him you were in a meeting, but he insisted it was important that he speak with you at once.”
Rutledge went still for an instant while he considered the possible reasons for the deputy sherriff’s call. “Have there been any calls from the ranch?”
“No sir.”
Her response did little to allay the new concern that needled him. “I’ll take the call,” he told her, then signaled to his personal secretary and chief assistant. “Continue the presentation. I shouldn’t be long. Make notes on anything that you feel should be brought to my attention.”
With the instructions issued, Max sent his wheelchair gliding toward the connecting door to his executive office. A remote button opened the door before he reached it, allowing him to wheel through without any pause in speed. He rolled straight to his corner desk and picked up the phone.
“This is Rutledge. What is it?”
“Yeah, it’s Deputy Krause.” In the background was the whining roar of a passing semi. “I know I’m not supposed to call you at the office, but I figured you needed to know this.”
“Know what?” Rutledge snapped, annoyed by useless explanations.
