Calder Storm (22 page)

“That's quite an honor,” Trey agreed. “Too bad they can't postpone it until next year.”

“What do you mean?” Bewilderment was in the look she gave him.

He regarded the answer as obvious. “You can't go, Sloan. You did tell them that, didn't you?”

“What do you mean I can't go?” She bristled a little. “Why not?”

“Because you're pregnant.”

“That hardly makes me an invalid,” Sloan retorted. “We're talking about November, Trey. I'll barely be five months along then.”

“But you aren't talking about doing some photographic essay on a tropical island. Your destination is the snow, cold, and ice of Yellowstone in winter. I know you, Sloan. You aren't going to be content to snap a few pictures of Old Faithful blowing off steam. No, you'll be trekking into the backcountry, trying to capture an angle nobody's ever seen before. I swear to God, every time you even think about getting your hands on a camera, your common sense goes out the window!” He turned from her in disgust.

Sloan immediately snared his arm and angrily planted herself in front of him. “That isn't true!”

“Isn't it?” he challenged with heat. “Not two minutes ago, you claimed that all you cared about was having a healthy baby. Now you're talking about traipsing up and over snowpacked mountains.”

“You're being ridiculous. I would be careful.”

“Sure you would”—a muscle leaped convulsively along his jaw—“right up to the moment when you just need to move a little bit to the left to get the shot you want. What happens if the snow gives way under you, and you go tumbling? How safe is our son then?” Trey demanded, then abruptly sighed. “I don't know why we're even arguing about this. They aren't going to hire you when they find out you're pregnant. They won't want to expose themselves to that kind of liability.”

“I suppose you're going to tell them.” She glared in accusation.

Trey cocked his head to one side, his gaze cool and hard. “Weren't you?”

Her chin dipped slightly down, her gaze faltering under his steady regard. Then once again her chin was up and out, her eyes returning his look, stare for stare. “Of course I was. And you're right. They probably will want someone else.”

He saw the bitterness of regret in the tight way her lips were pressed together. “You still want to do it, don't you? Even though you know there's a risk something could happen to our baby.”

“Life is a risk.” But her hands spread protectively over her stomach. “But I don't think I could ever forgive myself if something did happen. It isn't easy to pass up an opportunity like this, though. It's exactly the kind of thing I love doing. I wish you could understand that.”

But he couldn't. He doubted that he ever would. Still, he gathered her loosely in his arms and pressed a kiss on her forehead. “I'm sorry,” Trey apologized for his lack of understanding.

“Thanks.” She managed a small but grateful smile. “There'll be other chances, though, after the baby's born.”

Trey realized that Sloan thought he was sorry that it had been necessary to turn down this opportunity. Wisely, he didn't bother to correct her.

“I'd better get back out there,” he told her. “We'll be loading in the dark as it is. You'll be careful driving home, won't you?”

“Just call that truck a turtle,” Sloan promised.

After a parting kiss that lengthened into something more than a farewell peck, they went their separate ways, Sloan to the pickup that would take her back to The Homestead and Trey to the picket line, where a fresh horse waited for him. For both of them, the memory of their brief but heated disagreement was relegated to a back corner of their minds.

 

The rain continued on and off for another week, prolonging the fall roundup by an equal amount of time. By the time the sun
came out, every river and creek on the Triple C was running full, and fresh hints of green could be seen in the autumn grasses.

The rain had rejuvenated more than just the land and its watercourses. With the long dry spell behind them, men walked with more spring to their step. The smell of winter was in the air, but no one minded now that the land was healthy and strong again.

For once, the road ahead looked smooth. An easy contentment was in the air. With the roundup over, autumn's last chore was underway—the trailing of the horse remuda to its winter range.

Minutes after the flanking riders succeeded in getting the herd lined out and moving in the right direction, a helicopter swooped toward the airport's landing pad, and all hell broke loose. Every man on the drive cursed the culprit by name as they raced after the spooked horses.

Not long after the helicopter landed, the front door opened and Tara swept into The Homestead, a sable coat flaring about her legs. Anticipating her arrival, Cat was already on hand to greet her.

“This is a surprise, Tara. You rarely come to Montana at this time of year. What's the occasion?” Cat wondered.

“Obviously it's a special one,” Tara stated as she tugged off her gloves, one finger at a time, and regarded Cat with a glance dark with rebuke.

“Why? What have I done?” Cat said in all innocence.

“It's what you didn't do, and you know it.” Gloves in hand and head held high in offended dignity, Tara sailed past her into the living room. “I probably shouldn't even be speaking to you.”

With a roll of her eyes and a despairing shake of her head, Cat followed after her. “Please spare me the theatrics, Tara. I swear you get more dramatic with each passing year,” she said with impatience. “Just tell me what it is that I am supposed to have done.”

“It's what you didn't do,” Tara corrected as she slipped off the sable, depositing it on the sofa with a graceful toss. “Honestly, Cat, you are the nearest thing I have to a little sister. But do I hear from you that Trey's bride is carrying Ty's first grandchild? No.
Who knows when I would have been told if I hadn't stopped to see Laura on my way back from Europe?”

“Wonderful news, isn't it?” Cat deliberately refrained from offering any excuses for not contacting Tara.

“The best. And it's going to be a boy, too. Just imagine a little Ty Junior running around here.”

“This old house is liable to become a lively place in the next few years,” Cat agreed.

“Where is the little mother?” Tara's gaze made a curious circle of the living room and its exits.

“Upstairs, I think.”

Tara pressed a hand near her throat and made an attractive moue of sympathy. “Morning sickness, of course. The poor thing.”

“Actually, Sloan's one of the lucky ones. She hasn't had a single bout of nausea. About the only thing that makes her queasy is the smell of coffee.”

“Speaking of coffee, I'd love a cup.” Pausing, Tara looked toward the staircase. “But first I should go up and congratulate our mother-to-be. You go ahead and make some fresh coffee. I won't be long.”

“My pleasure.”

The underlying tone of sarcasm in Cat's voice was lost on Tara as she crossed to the oak stairway and began her ascent, one hand maintaining a graceful glide over the smooth banister.

When she arrived at the master suite, she rapped lightly on the door and turned its brass knob in advance of the voice within bidding her to enter. By then, Tara was halfway into the sitting room. Her eyes were quick to locate Sloan, seated on the edge of the sofa cushion, a multitude of photographs spread across the coffee table in front of her.

Rising, Sloan greeted her with a polite smile. “Hello, Tara. I thought I heard a helicopter a few minutes ago. Obviously it was you.”

“I flew in as soon as I heard the blessed news.” She walked straight to Sloan and kissed the air near both cheeks, then drew
back to run a critically assessing eye over Sloan's figure, finding only a small, betraying pooch of her stomach. “Look at how slim and trim you still are,” she marveled. “Why you barely show at all.”

“Not yet, anyway,” Sloan admitted.

“Losing your figure is just one of the curses that goes along with having a baby, I'm told.” Tara's attention shifted pointedly to the array of photographs on the coffee table, a mix of broad vistas and artful nature vignettes. “What's this?”

“Excuse the mess. I'm in the middle of updating my portfolio.”

A small laugh slipped from Tara, bell-like in its softness. “Here I thought you'd be engrossed in planning the nursery. So which of the spare rooms will you be using? You need to do a western decor. I saw the most darling mobile for the crib with cowboys on purple and green horses. It was absolutely precious and just perfect for a little boy. You can use that idea and do the entire room with variations on it.”

“We aren't going to have a separate nursery, at least not until he's older,” Sloan informed the older woman. “We're going to have the crib in our bedroom.”

“Really.” Disdain was in Tara's voice and expression.

“Yes.” Sloan found that she took supreme pleasure in doing the opposite of what Tara thought she should. “There's plenty of room for a crib and a changing table once we take out those two chairs. That way I won't have to worry whether I'll hear him when he cries in the night.”

“A baby monitor can accomplish that. Your bedroom should be restricted to you and your husband. It isn't a place for a child.”

“Some might feel that way, but we don't.”

One shoulder moved in an elegant but dismissive shrug. “It's your bed and your marriage. I should think it will make it a bit awkward for your nanny. You are going to have a nanny, aren't you?”

“Absolutely not,” Sloan replied without hesitation, determined that no one else was going to raise her child.

“Then you decided to give up your career, after all. That's a
wise choice,” Tara declared with approval. “I was confident that once you had time to think about it, you'd see for yourself. It would just be a source of conflict for you. And, I assure you, you will be much too busy with all your other responsibilities to devote yourself to it as you would want, both as a mother and the mistress of this house.”

“Sorry, but I intend to continue my work after the baby's born. After all, I wouldn't presume to usurp Cat's position.”

“And you shouldn't, either,” Tara agreed, to Sloan's surprise. “Cat is such an incredibly unselfish woman—and so devoted to her father. I mean, the way she has stayed here to care for him even though she would love more than anything to move to Texas to be near her only son. Yet, you never hear a word of complaint from her. It's sad, really, but Chase needs her now, and, heaven knows, none of us can be sure how much longer he'll be with us.” Releasing a dramatic sigh, Tara gave a little shake of her head. “That's much too morbid a subject when we should be talking about little Tyrone.”

“Tyrone?” Sloan looked at her blankly.

“You are going to name the baby after his grandfather, aren't you?”

Sloan tried to dodge the question. “We haven't decided on a name yet.”

“But Tyrone is such an obvious choice. I'm surprised Trey hasn't insisted on it. What better way for him to honor his father's memory than to name his son after him.”

“I certainly wouldn't object,” Sloan stated, determined to make that clear. “But Trey feels that our son should have his own name.”

“We'll have to change his mind, won't we?” Tara declared. “Perhaps I'll talk to Cat about it over coffee. I would ask you to join us but—”

“No thanks, I'll pass.” For the first time, Sloan was glad she couldn't stand the smell of coffee. It provided the perfect excuse to decline spending any more time in this woman's company.

Some two hours later, Sloan heard the helicopter take off. It was a beautiful sound, considering it meant Tara wouldn't be joining them for lunch.

Sloan made a point to mention Tara's visit to Trey when he returned to The Homestead for the noon meal, as well as Tara's desire that their son be named after his father. Trey's reaction was instant and emphatic.

“If that woman thinks she can use emotional blackmail to force me to name our son after my father, she is very mistaken.”

Cat spoke up, “You could use it for a middle name.”

“Is that your idea, Aunt Cat? Or Tara's?” Trey challenged.

“It's nothing more than a suggestion.”

“As suggestions go, there's nothing wrong with it—except we all know that if our baby has Tyrone anywhere in his name, Tara will be here constantly, fussing and cooing over him. I don't think any of us want that.” He sat down at the table and dragged a napkin across his lap. “The next time Tara says anything about it, tell her that Laura is planning to name her first son after our father.”

Chase frowned. “She is?”

“She is now.” Trey grinned, then added, “I'll give Laura a call later and remind her that she owes me some favors.”