the coffeepot did. “Every cowhand I ever knew couldn’t start his day without coffee. Nobody’s made any in this pot for days.”
“Do you think we should check out the bedrooms?” the rookie suggested.
Joe Ed shrugged. “Why not?”
A search of the three bedrooms yielded one unmade bed and three empty closets. “This Sam Evans guy that’s supposed to be living here has obviously pulled out.”
“But how come there’s a pickup parked outside?” The rookie, Ray Hobbs, still wasn’t satisfied that the situation was as simple as that.
“Yeah. I guess we’d better check it out,” Joe Ed agreed with reluctance, regarding it as a waste of time.
The wind howled a greeting as they exited the old ranch house. Heads down, the two officers walked into the teeth of it, taking a straight line to the pickup parked in front of the barn. Like the house, the truck was unlocked. A search of the glove compartment produced a certificate of insurance and registration slip.
“The owner of record is the Calder Cattle Company,” Joe Ed announced. “If I’m not mistaken, that’s the name of the Montana outfit that owns this place.”
PART ONE
A lonely star,
A Texas sky,
A Calder learns
That trouble is nigh.
Chapter One
Mother Nature was in an impish mood. While Texas shivered under cloudy skies and a cold north wind, the plains of eastern Montana enjoyed temperatures in the mid-sixties, thanks to a chinook wind that blew its warmth over the high prairie.
In this big and empty land that had once been the domain of the mighty Sioux, today over a million acres of it fell within the boundaries of the Calder Cattle Company, better known throughout the west as the Triple C. Quint Echohawk’s roots were sunk deep in its soil. His mother was the daughter of the family patriarch, Chase Benteen Calder, and his late father had been a quarter Sioux.
Quint had inherited his father’s smoke-gray eyes, his high, prominent cheekbones and glistening black hair. But there was much of the Calder side in him as well, visible in the granite jaw, the deep set of his eyes, and the muscled width of his shoulders and chest.
As a boy growing up on the Triple C, he’d been dubbed “little man” by the ranch hands. “Little” no longer described his six-two frame, but at twenty-seven, he had made the full transition into manhood.
With the afternoon sun warm on his back, Quint climbed the steps of the Homestead that had long been the residence of the Calder clan. The towering two-story structure was grand in scale, making it visible for miles like a massive white ship anchored in an ocean of grass.
Thanksgiving had barely passed, but already the big house was decked in holiday dress—a Christmas wreath on the door and a garland twined around its tall pillars. In the bright light of day, its multitude of twinkling lights was invisible, but they were there just the same.
Quint paused at the top of the steps and swung back to survey the ranch yard with its sprawl of buildings. To an outsider, the Triple C headquarters would have resembled a small country town. In many respects it was.
In addition to the usual assortment of barns and sheds associated with the ranching business, there was a commissary stocked with a variety of essential supplies that ran the gamut from foodstuffs and work clothes to hardware and vehicle parts. A few years back an addition had been added to provide space for video rentals and the ranch post office. Other buildings housed a first-aid dispensary, a welding shop, and an elementary school. Besides the old cook shack that served as a restaurant of sorts, there were nearly a dozen houses that provided homes for married ranch hands and their families.
Considering the nearest large town was some two hundred miles distant and the ranch itself covered as much ground as some eastern states, the Triple C had become self-sufficient out of necessity. And the Calder family controlled every inch of it.
That knowledge was at the back of Quint’s mind as he idly ran his glance over the large cluster of buildings. If his mother had her way, he would play a major part in the ranching operation, though both knew the reins of the Triple C would eventually pass to her brother’s son, Trey. Quint had no problem with that, convinced that it was a role Trey had been born to fill. Still Quint regarded his own future as far from settled. As always, that was something Quint kept to himself.
Hearing the click of the door latch behind him, Quint turned as his mother stepped into view. Cathleen Calder Echohawk—known by all as simply Cat—was a slim, petite woman with green eyes and black hair that showed few strands of gray. Her smile was quick and wide, indicative of a personality that was both vibrant and volatile.
“I thought that was you standing out here,” she declared. “You’d better come in. Jessy’s looking for you. I got the impression there’s a problem of some sort.” She continued talking as he crossed to the door. “I hope it’s nothing serious, not when we’re supposed to leave for England in the morning for Laura’s wedding. It would be horrible if the mother of the bride can’t be there.”
“At least Jessy was present at the first ceremony,” Quint reminded her, a glint of teasing humor in his gray eyes.
“Now you sound like your grandfather,” Cat chided with affection, stepping aside as he came through the door into the entryway. “He still doesn’t see why Laura is having two weddings—one here and one in Britain. But the trip to England would have been much too hard on him at his age, and it simply wasn’t practical for Sebastian’s family and friends to fly over here.”
“I know.” Quint nodded. “Where’s Jessy? In the den?”
“Yes,” she confirmed, then placed a detaining hand on his arm. “I’m glad you decided not to make the trip. The idea of leaving your grandfather here by himself bothers me.”
“Don’t worry. There’ll be plenty of people keeping an eye on him besides me.”
“Of course there will.” She cast a glance in the direction of the den. “You’d better go see what Jessy wants.”
The Homestead’s large den was still considered the heart of the Triple C despite the construction of a separate ranch office several years back. It was on one of its walls that the old hand-drawn map of the ranch was hung, outlining its far-flung boundaries and identifying its various landmarks and watercourses on paper that had yellowed over time.
It was in the den as well where the impressive set of horns from a longhorn steer was mounted above the mantel of the massive stone fireplace. The same steer that had led the first cattle drive from Texas to the newly established Triple C Ranch in Montana. It was a room of history and heritage that never failed to make its imprint on Quint. This afternoon was no exception.
The fresh scent of pine emanated from the greenery that adorned the mantel. A cheery fire blazed in the old stone fireplace, casting its glow into the room and adding a welcome warmth for his grandfather’s old bones.
As usual, his grandfather, Chase Benteen Calder, sat behind the oversized desk, his once vigorous body now gray-haired and stoop-shouldered, with age lines creasing his rawboned face.
