there?” her grandfather barked.
“It’s just me.” Dallas walked on in and halted at the sight of the shotgun gripped in his gnarled hands. “I thought you promised me you’d lock that in the gun cabinet, Empty.”
Born Mordecai Thomas Garner, the rancher had been known by his initials M.T. since his cradle days. No one recalled who had first mistakenly spelled his name as Empty, but it had stuck. Everyone in the area knew the big-chested, bandy-legged old man as Empty Garner.
Empty had the grace to shift uncomfortably under her disapproving look. “I had to clean it first,” he grumbled in his own defense and motioned to the gun-cleaning kit on the table next to his chair.
She skimmed the tabletop and noted the absence of any shells. “That’s loaded, isn’t it?”
“What good is it to have a gun around if it isn’t loaded?” he argued, then attempted to change the subject. “What in tarnation are you doing home so early anyway?”
“It’s Wednesday. Tubby seldom has many customers on a weeknight.” Dallas let her tote bag slide to the floor and crossed to his chair, extending her hand in a demanding fashion. “Give me the shotgun, and I’ll lock it up.”
His eyes narrowed in sharp temper. “Don’t you be giving me orders, little girl. I’m not the youngster around here.”
But it wasn’t in Dallas to back down when she knew she was right. She pointed a rigid finger at the tall gun cabinet on the wall next to the television. “Then you go lock it up before you accidentally shoot somebody.”
He glared at her. “How can I when you’re standing in my way?”
“I could throttle you sometimes,” she declared and stalked over to scoop up her tote bag.
Empty Garner levered himself out of the recliner and crossed to the gun cabinet, moving with the side-to-side rocking gait of a man who had spent most of his life in a saddle. “Someday you’re going to be sorry you insisted on this,” he said to her back as Dallas carried her bag of books to the table in the adjoining kitchen. “Especially if Rutledge sends one of his boys prowling around here.”
“You don’t have to worry about Rutledge.” Dallas plunked herself on one of the kitchen chairs, feeling as cranky and out of sorts as her grandfather. Deep down she knew it had nothing to do with the shotgun. “He’s after the Cee Bar now.”
“How do you know that?” Keys rattled on the metal ring as Empty flipped through them, searching for the one for the gun cabinet.
“John Earl was in the café tonight.”
Her news caught Empty off guard. His brow furrowed in thought as he stowed the shotgun in the cabinet and locked the door. He shoved the key ring in his pocket and ambled into the kitchen, still mulling over her statement.
“I know John Earl’s belt doesn’t go through all the loops, but I didn’t think he was dumb enough to volunteer something like that.”
“He didn’t exactly volunteer it,” Dallas admitted and pulled her English Lit book out of the tote bag.
“How did it come up then?”
Dallas sighed in exasperation, regretting that she had mentioned anything about it. But once said, she couldn’t take it back. And knowing her grandfather, he wouldn’t give her a moment’s peace until he knew the whole story. She should have remembered that any mention of Rutledge was like a red cape to a Spanish bull.
As concisely as possible, Dallas told him about the stranger looking for work and asking about the job opening at the Cee Bar, followed by John Earl’s questioning her conversation with the stranger and his cocky response about the unlikelihood of the stranger getting hired.
“He didn’t say it in so many words,” Dallas said in conclusion, “but it was obvious that Evans had been run off.”
Her grandfather nodded in agreement. “More’n likely he got the fear of Rutledge put into him. It’d be easy to buy him off after that. By God, I’d give anything to be around when Rutledge gets his comeuppance.” Acrimony riddled his voice. “He’s played it high and wide too long.”
“Nobody’s stopped him all these years,” Dallas reminded him, stifling her own bitter resentment of the man. “It isn’t logical to think any one will.”
“You’re probably right,” he grumbled and watched as she flipped through the pages of the textbook. “I suppose you’ll be up half the night studying.”
“I have to. Finals start next week.”
“Just remember you need your sleep, too. Studying won’t do you any good if your brain’s too tired to take it in.” With that bit of wisdom delivered, he started to turn away, then swung back, pinning his gaze on her. “Who’s tending the stock out at the Cee Bar?”
“Nobody, I guess,” Dallas replied absently, already turning her attention to the subject before her.
“It wouldn’t bother Rutledge if they went hungry,” Empty muttered, unaware that Dallas had already tuned him out. “He’d probably like it if they starved. Then he could report it to the authorities and cause more trouble for the owners.”
Dallas made an agreeing sound, without having heard a word he’d said.
“What time you got to be at the feed store in the morning?” he demanded suddenly. “Eight o’clock, isn’t it?”
“Eight?” She gave him a blank look, then his question belatedly registered, and Dallas nodded. “Yes, eight o’clock.”
“I’m gonna need to use the truck tomorrow, so I’ll take you to work in the morning.”
“Fine,” she said and went back to her studies.
All was dark, shadows lying thick around the buildings, when Quint pulled into the Cee Bar ranch yard. The single-story house stood off by itself, half hidden under the enveloping shade of a live oak. Quint parked the sedan in front of it, retrieved his duffel bag from the trunk, and crossed to the covered porch that ran along the front.
The door was unlocked, making the spare key in his pocket needless. Quint stepped inside and felt along the wall for the light switch. Finding it, he flipped it on. Light spilled from an overhead fixture, illuminating the center area of the living room while leaving its corners in shadow.
His gaze traveled to the old stone fireplace along the wall. Soot from countless fires stained the front of it, revealing its age. Quint wandered over to it, ignoring the creak and groan of the uneven floorboards when they took his weight.
Idly he ran a hand over the wooden mantelpiece and smiled, recalling the winter holidays he’d spent here when he was eleven, and the many stories his grandfather had told him about the ranch. Quint felt the swirl of history around him.
And it was Calder history. The origins of this ranch and its house dated back to the Civil War era when it had been the home of Seth Calder and his son, Benteen—the same Benteen Calder who had eventually driven a herd of longhorns north to Montana and established the Triple C Ranch.
Well over a hundred years had
