the whiskey bottle off the shelf, then sloshed more liquor into his nearly empty glass.
“You’re the one who’s going over there, not Rivers,” Max snapped.
“Me?” Shock held Boone motionless for an instant. Confusion reigned in his expression when he recovered. “Why would you want me to go? You’ve always insisted we have to keep our distance from all of this.”
“Since you’re obviously not smart enough to figure it out on your own, I’ll tell you. Now that Cee Bar is without a ranch manager, what’s the most logical thing for the Calders to do to fill that void—temporarily, if nothing else?”
Boone’s frown deepened. “Hire somebody. What else can they do?”
“Send one of their own down here, that’s what,” Max retorted with impatience. “They won’t want to take some stranger’s word for what’s going on down here. They’ll want to check it out for themselves.”
“That still doesn’t explain why you want me to go over there,” Boone protested, recrossing the room.
“Then you might try remembering how much time you spent at the Triple C this past summer trying to convince that Calder girl to marry you. Unsuccessfully, I might add,” Max tacked on spitefully.
“It isn’t my fault that she was stupid enough to marry that fortune-hunting Englishman instead of me.” Boone stood facing the fireplace, a rigid set to his shoulders.
Max ran an assessing eye over his son and muttered, half under his breath, “Unfortunately, her choice wasn’t all that stupid. But that’s whiskey in the river.” He sighed a dismissal of the subject. “You must have met quite a few of the ranch hands while you were at the Triple C, certainly ones in positions of responsibility. That’s why I want you to pay a ‘neighborly’ call on the new man. With any luck, you’ll recognize him.”
Understanding at last dawned in Boone’s expression. “That makes sense.”
“At least you can see that. Of course I had to spell it out for you first.”
Boone whirled around, a black rage glittering in his eyes. “Damn it, will you lay off me?”
Max almost wished Boone would summon up the guts to hit him, but he knew that would never happen. “Save that show of toughness for a time when you’ll need it. We’ve got our work cut out for us now. I’ve heard those Triple C riders are a close-knit bunch, supposedly loyal to the core. But first we have to find out who it is they sent. Then we’ll decide our next move.”
The cold front had retreated to the north again, leaving behind a startling blue sky, swept clean of all clouds. The high, rolling Texas hills lay beneath it, basking in the warmth of the midmorning sun. But the air remained invigoratingly brisk.
A lone tan-and-white pickup traveled along the paved state road, its doors emblazoned with the name SLASH R RANCH. Boone Rutledge occupied the driver’s seat, his hands gloved in the finest calfskin leather. He dipped his head to peer ahead and locate the entrance to the Cee Bar Ranch. Spotting it, he slowed the truck to make the turn.
The board sign above the gate sported a shiny new chain on one end, but the wood itself still carried the scars of old bullet holes. The pickup rolled beneath it and headed up the winding tract, bouncing over its many ruts and potholes. If this was Slash R land, Boone knew he would have long ago called in a grader to blade the drive and smooth out its roughness.
Chickens squawked and flapped their wings in panic as they scurried out of his path when he pulled into the ranch yard. But they were the only sign of life he saw. There were no vehicles around, no horses in the corral. Nothing.
Boone wasn’t fool enough to think that it meant that there was no one about.
He pulled up to the old ranch house, stepped onto the truck’s running board, and reached back inside to give the horn a couple of long blasts. He listened, his gaze scanning the pastures beyond the yard. A horse whinnied in the distance and a chicken clucked in annoyance, but there was no other response. Boone swung to the ground and gave the door a push. Its closing sounded loud in the stillness.
In no hurry, Boone idly gave his gloves a tightening tug and surveyed the ranch yard and its few structures. All of them had a dingy, timeworn look that not even a fresh coat of paint could cure. It definitely wasn’t a place a man could point to with pride.
For the life of him, Boone couldn’t guess why the Calders hung on to the ranch. Supposedly it had once been owned by a long-ago ancestor. Yet it had been years since any of the Calders had set foot on it.
Considering that a ranch this size could never show much of a profit, the Cee Bar couldn’t be anything more than a headache to the Calders. Boone smiled, thinking how much worse that headache was going to get. Sooner or later they’d wash their hands of it and sell; it always worked that way.
After another look around, he headed for the house. He paused at the door and rapped loudly on it. As he expected, there was no stirring of movement inside.
With curiosity getting the better of him, Boone cast a quick glance behind him and tried the knob. It turned easily under his hand. He pushed it open and stepped inside.
Still cautious, he called out, “Hello? Anybody home?”
There was nothing but the echo of his own voice.
Satisfied that he was alone, Boone wandered through the old ranch house, snooping to see what he might find. The place was remarkably tidy and clean. All the beds were made, and dishes sat in the drying rack next to the sink counter. Boone found virtually nothing of interest lying about.
Even a search of an old desk in the living room failed to unearth anything of importance. The kitchen table yielded the only noteworthy items: two local newspapers folded open to the want-ad section. Circles had been drawn around ads offering hay for sale.
Boone smiled when he saw them. He’d given his foreman orders yesterday to buy up all the hay in the surrounding counties. He knew there was no longer any to be had in the area. Calder would have to truck in his hay, and that wouldn’t be cheap.
He lingered in the house a while longer. When no one showed up, he let himself out, climbed back in his pickup, and drove away.
It was after three in the afternoon when Quint arrived back at the Cee Bar. He had managed to switch his rental car for a black pickup that came equipped with a gas tank lock and security system. Both of which he’d left instructions to be installed in the ranch pickup once its repairs were complete.
He collected the part for the broken windmill from the pickup’s rear bed and started for the house. Sundown came early at this time of year and there might not be enough daylight left to get the parts switched and the windmill up and running before dark. He decided to give Empty the task tomorrow while he did a little fence-riding and checked on the cattle and pasture conditions.
Quint pulled the screen door open, caught it with his shoulder, and reached for the thin black cord he had shut in the door when he left. But it was lying on the threshold.
There had been a visitor at the Cee Bar while he was gone.
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