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She started to snuggle her head back into the pillow, but first she looked at the digital clock’s lighted numbers. “It’s already midnight. How come you’re so late?”
“The snow started blowing, and that made it hard to see the road.” It pleased him that she was concerned, considering how cool she had acted toward him when he left. Maybe everything was going to be all right between them after all, in spite of this business with Rutledge. Rolling toward her, he reached under the covers for her. But the second his hand touched her rib cage, she flinched.
“Your hands are like ice,” she protested.
Trey searched but found nothing in her tone that suggested she was interested in warming him up. He withdrew his hand and leaned over instead to brush a kiss on her cheek.
“Go back to sleep,” he said.
She made an agreeing sound in her throat, the sleepy kind that said she was close to doing that very thing. Yet something drifted to her, something that shouldn’t have been there. She tried to identify it, but it eluded her. Sloan let it go and drifted back to sleep.
It wasn’t until after breakfast the next morning when she was straightening up their bedroom that any memory of it came back to her. It happened while she checking the pockets of Trey’s jeans before tossing them in the clothes hamper and found the handkerchief with its lipstick smear. The scarlet color was definitely one she had never worn. That’s when she recalled the cloying fragrance of some cheap perfume that had lingered in the air when Trey returned last night.
She stared at the handkerchief and thought of The Oasis, the so-called waitresses, and the bitter words she and Trey had exchanged before he left.
Trembling with anger, Sloan shoved the handkerchief into his pocket and put his jeans back where he’d left them.
Chapter Eighteen
A long about midmorning, the snow stopped falling and the wind died to a murmur. Less then an hour later, the last of the clouds moved on, and the sun came out, creating a sharp contrast between the vivid blue of the sky and the pure white of the snow-covered ground.
The wide blades of the road graders ripped paths through the snow, digging deep enough to cast off dirt with the snow. The rattle of their tire chains and rumble of their engines competed with the roar of the tractors to shatter the winter stillness.
Activity was everywhere as water tanks were checked to make sure they were clear of ice and hay was hauled to livestock where it was needed. Shovelers were out in force, flinging snow in all directions, while children played in it, roly-poly figures squealing with glee whether hurling snowballs at each other or making angels in any blank white patch they found.
This was one Sunday on the Triple C when nobody rested except Sloan. She had little else to do except think about that lipstick-stained hankie in Trey’s jeans pocket.
A light lunch was served at noontime instead of the usual Sunday feast. Jessy had made a run to South Camp with Laredo after learning the snowfall had been much heavier there, marooning cattle in isolated areas, and Trey was off helping the ranch electrician with some downed power lines. Which left only Sloan, Cat, and Chase to eat by themselves.
“So much for decorating the Christmas tree this afternoon. It seems we’ll have to put it off until one evening this week,” Cat said with regret, then explained to Sloan. “Decorating the tree is something we’ve always done as a family.”
“That’s a nice tradition,” Sloan murmured, unable to summon much interest in it, not when her thoughts were otherwise occupied.
“When the children were small, they absolutely loved it. Unfortunately, most of the ornaments ended up on the lower branches. Remember how quick they were to notice when we tried to move a few of them higher, Dad?”
“They didn’t like it all,” he recalled. “But you were just as bad when you were little.”
“Of course I was. After all, I was Daddy’s little girl. All I had to do was pout and climb on your lap, and you’d see that I got anything I wanted.”
Sloan paid little attention to their conversation as she dipped her spoon into the hearty homemade stew and went through the motions of eating it. But her silence didn’t go unobserved by Chase.
“You’re very quiet, Sloan,” he remarked.
“Too busy eating, I guess. The stew’s delicious,” she added in support of her half-truth.
“You didn’t have a lot to say at breakfast this morning, either, I noticed.” His gaze traveled over her in an assessing fashion. “After last night, I imagine you feel uncomfortable with us. It’s only natural that you would. But understand this—we respect your opinion about Max Rutledge. At the same time, we totally disagree with it,” he stated simply. “Now you know where we stand. By the same token, we know where you stand. Marriage into this family doesn’t mean that you’re obliged to share all of our opinions. The Lord knows, my late wife and I disagreed on several points. It made for some heated arguments at times. Seeing how angry you got last night reminded me of that. My Maggie was full of spunk when she thought she was right.”
“And was she ever right?” Sloan asked with a touch of challenge.
“Sometimes,” Chase admitted, then smiled, showing her some of that old Calder charm, “And sometimes I was.” When Sloan laughed softly in spite of herself, Chase nodded in approval. “That’s more like it.”
Sloan might have felt easier about their differences if she hadn’t noticed that Cat failed to echo his comments. Instead, the older woman maintained a tight-lipped silence and kept her gaze averted.
“I’m glad you feel that way, Chase,” Sloan said, still finding it difficult to refer to him as “Grandfather.” “Because I certainly never meant to cause hard feelings.”
“This is one time when I think all of us hope that you are right about Max Rutledge.”
Sloan started to assert that she was, then chose a more conciliatory reply rather than stir up those waters again. “Thank you.”
