Calder Storm (28 page)

“Keep it up, but get to work on the other,” Max ordered. “I don't want the Calder son looking like the injured party.”

“You make it sound easy, but it won't be,” Donovan warned him. “Trey Calder's a popular guy around here. People talk about him with the same respect they show his grandfather.”

“Remind them of his father's first marriage and the affair he had with Jessy during it. People will quickly shift to thinking ‘like father, like son.'” Supreme confidence was in his voice.

This piece of information was news to Donovan. “You've done some digging into the Calder family history, haven't you?”

“Damn right. Now get on it.” There was a click, and the line went dead.

 

Icicles hung from the old barn's overhang, glinting in the waning light like so many crystal pendants. Built well over a century ago out of hand-hewn timbers, the barn towered above the rest of the ranch buildings. On this night, scores of pickup trucks were parked around its stone base, and lights gleamed from every window.

The barn was the traditional site for the annual Christmas party thrown for the Triple C ranch hands and their families. The interior had been transformed for the occasion by lighted garlands draping its rafters. A giant Christmas tree anchored one end of its broad alley, and pine wreaths hung from every stall.

By late afternoon the children had already performed their Christmas program, and Santa Claus had already distributed pre
sents to the youngsters. The older children were the only ones who suspected it was really Trey Calder underneath all the padding and snowy white beard. But it was a secret they whispered only to each other.

With the Santa outfit safely stashed in the tack room, Trey slipped back into the throng. His searching eyes spotted Sloan standing next to one of the serving tables, its array of food already showing signs of being well grazed. He worked his way to the food area and came up behind her, curving an arm along the back of her waist and sliding a hand familiarly against her decidedly rounded stomach. Her glance skipped briefly to him, then reverted to the happy, chaotic scene before them.

Crushed bows, torn ribbons, and scraps of brightly colored wrapping paper were strewn all over the floor. The toddlers played among it all, indifferent to their presents, while the older ones scrambled to show off their gifts to others.

“Looks like Santa made some kids very happy, don't you think?” An easy smile curved his mouth, warmed by the looks of pleasure on so many young faces.

“He always does,” Sloan murmured with little feeling.

Almost on cue, Trey felt the sharp kick of the baby in her womb despite the heavy sweater she wore. “I think one little guy disagrees.” The sensation of it stirred through him, reawakening all those new, tender feelings that were part pride and part awe. He smiled down at Sloan. “Just think. In a couple years, our son will be out there ripping and roaring with the rest of them.”

“Let's let him be born first.”

Trey caught the faint but slightly irritable note in her voice and ran an inspecting glance over her. “Tired?” he guessed.

“A little.” Nothing in her expression indicated to him what Sloan was thinking or feeling. It wasn't the first time in the last few days that he'd felt shut out.

Patience had become his motto. It wasn't something that came easy to him, yet Trey had decided it was best to overlook her odd moods rather than try to find their source. Operating on that prin
ciple, he ignored her current one. “By the way,” he began, hoping to improve things with a compliment, “Cat told me that you helped pick out the presents for the children—and wrap them. I'm glad you're lending a hand with some of family duties.”

“I suppose you would like me to do more.”

From the cool way she gave him, Trey sensed he had said something wrong. “Only if you feel up to it, of course.”

“Of course,” Sloan echoed the phrase, but dryly.

Clamping down on his impatience, he asked, “Are you feeling all right, honey?”

“I'm fine. Just tired. It's been a long day.” Like all her other answers, the sentences were short and clipped, the kind that didn't encourage further conversation.

Still he tried. “There goes Johnny and Kelly.” Trey nodded in the direction of the couple, making their way to one of the side doors. “Want to bet that he waits till Christmas to pop the question.”

“Really?”

“Don't you want to know why?” he prompted.

“Why?” But her tone was indifferent to his answer.

“Knowing how tight Johnny is with a dollar, he'll figure that if he gives her a ring for Christmas, he won't have to buy her a present.” But his attempt at humor fell flat, failing to draw even a ghost of a smile from Sloan. He glanced at the smiling pair exiting the barn via its side door, all bundled up against the nip of a December evening. Trey had a feeling he knew their destination. On impulse, he glanced at Sloan. “Want to slip out of here?”

Her head snapped around to him, her face aglow for the first time. “Will it be all right?”

“Sure. I'll get your coat and hat.”

Within minutes, Sloan was swaddled in her heavy parka, a stocking cap on her head, and a scarf wound around her neck. Trey buttoned up his own jacket and tugged on his lined gloves.

“Better put your mittens on. It's cold outside,” he warned as he escorted her to the closest door. Obediently, she dug them out of her pocket and pulled them on.

Outside most of the snow that had fallen earlier in the month had melted, but enough remained to leave a thin crust of dirty white in protected areas. Trey kept a supporting hand on Sloan's arm as they made their way across the frozen and rutted ground between the parked vehicles.

Beyond the row of trucks stood a horse team hitched to an old wagon, mounded with fresh hay. One of the heavy-coated horses shifted in place, setting the bells on its harness to jingling. Old Jobe Garvey sat in the driver's seat, his back to the couples already nestled close together in the hay. Trey was quick to spot Kelly and Johnny getting ready to climb aboard.

“When was the last time you were on a hayride?” he asked Sloan.

“When I was twelve at summer camp. Why?” she asked, then spotted the wagon and guessed the reason. “Is this why we came out? I thought we were going to the house.”

“If you went on a hayride when you were twelve, it was probably with a bunch of giggling girls. This one is adults-only,” he told her. “The kids got their ride this afternoon. Come on, you'll enjoy it.”

When he started to guide her toward the wagon, Sloan drew back. “No, I'd—I'd just be uncomfortable.”

“No you won't. Not with all that hay to cushion you.”

“I'm not talking about the ride.” Her voice had a low and angry pitch to it. “It's the others. They don't want me on it.” She turned to face away from the wagon as if to keep from being overheard.

Dumbfounded by her statement, Trey frowned. “What are you talking about? That's ridiculous.” But, like her, he kept his voice down.

“Don't tell me you didn't notice the way everyone treated me today? Why do you think I was standing by myself while you were playing Santa?” Her voice trembled with the effort to keep all the roiling emotions inside. Truthfully, Trey hadn't thought a thing about it, but he didn't admit that. “No one was openly rude to me. It was much more subtle than that.”

“You're going to have to explain what you mean,” he said on a near sigh.

“It's simple—nobody would talk to me. Oh, they'd smile, say hello, wish me a Merry Christmas, but after that nothing. And when I'd walk up to any of them, they were quick to find somewhere else they needed to be, leaving me standing by myself.”

Almost from the moment Sloan had stepped on the ranch, she had been warmly received by the Triple C family. Recalling how quickly everyone had taken to her, Trey found her claim difficult to believe.

“You're imagining things, Sloan,” Trey muttered in annoyance.

“No, I'm not.” She bit out the words. “Even when I was with you, no one ever addressed a single remark to me. They spoke to you. For all the notice they took of me, I could have been a block of wood.” Resentment laced her expression as she looked back at the barn. “I felt like a pariah in there.”

Over the course of the afternoon Trey had talked to nearly everyone at the party. Trying to recall who had addressed whom—or hadn't—was impossible for him. But he hadn't paid any attention, either; there was too much going on.

“I'm sure nobody meant anything by it.”

“That's not the impression I got,” Sloan retorted. “I'm going to the house. You can do what you want.”

Without waiting for his reply, she set out for The Homestead. Trey stared holes in her back, almost angry enough to let her make the walk by herself. Before he could start after her, Johnny wandered over, his head turned to watch Sloan.

“I thought you two were gonna come on the hayride with us,” he said, nodding at Sloan's retreating back.

“Sloan didn't feel like it.”

“Is she feeling okay?” The question came from Kelly as she reached Johnny's side and linked arms with him.

“She gets tired easily these days.” Trey glanced Kelly's way and encountered a pair of eyes that seemed to say she knew something he didn't. “So how's nursing school going?”

“Good.” Hesitating, she darted a look at Johnny, then began, “Trey—”

Johnny immediately broke in, “Sure sorry you two aren't coming with us. It'd be fun.”

“Maybe next year.” Trey stole a glance at Kelly, his curiosity aroused by Johnny's deliberate interruption.

Not to be denied, Kelly said quickly, “Johnny thinks I should keep my mouth shut. But the whole ranch is buzzing about your wife.”

“What about Sloan?” All his defense mechanisms kicked in, smoothing all expression from his rugged features.

“Last Wednesday she brought a package to the commissary that she wanted mailed. It was addressed to Max Rutledge. I thought you should know that,” Kelly stated firmly while Johnny nudged at a frozen clod of dirt with the toe of his boot.

The information came as a surprise to Trey, but it helped a few odd pieces fall into place. “I imagine she was sending him a Christmas present.” He was careful to inject a casual tone.

“To Max Rutledge?” Kelly stared at him in disbelief. “After all the trouble he caused you? I've heard about the Christmas spirit, but that's carrying it a little too far, don't you think?”

“Max was her legal guardian after her parents were killed,” Trey explained matter-of-factly.

“And you knew this when you married her?” Kelly looked incredulous.

“We don't always get to choose the people in our lives,” Trey replied smoothly, dodging the question as best he could while he shifted in the direction of The Homestead. “I'd better go check on Sloan. Have fun on the ride.”

He walked off, giving neither a chance to ask more questions. But he had no doubt that the answers he had given would circulate to every adult on the ranch before the night was out. Yet their attitude toward Sloan was unlikely to undergo much change. Because of her connection to Rutledge, they'd draw back and wait to see if she was worthy of their trust and respect—especially the older ones with memories of Tara.

And there wasn't a single thing he could do to change that. Only Sloan could—in time.

The house had a silent and empty feel to it when he walked in, the kind that said no one was home. Stripping off his gloves, Trey caught a glimpse of Sloan halfway up the oak staircase, the rubber soles of her boots making no sound on its wooden treads. Her parka was hanging on the rack, the stocking cap and wool scarf partially stuffed in a side pocket. Trey hung his own jacket next to hers, tucked the gloves in a pocket, and balanced his hat on top of it all, then headed for the stairs.

There was nothing silent about his hard-soled boots as he climbed the steps to the second floor. The door to the master suite stood open. With all of his senses tuned toward the rooms, Trey heard the faint grunts of exertion that preceded the thunk of a boot hitting the floor.

Sloan was standing, fur-lined boots in hand, when Trey entered the sitting room. There was a becoming flush to her cheeks, either from the brisk walk on a chilly night, the physical effort required to remove her boots, or a combination of both.

“You didn't have to come.” Sloan gave him a look of cool indifference. “I can take care of myself. I have for years.”

Her words were like a straight-armed shove intended to push him away; they were difficult to ignore. But he managed it.

“I found out something that I thought you might want to know,” he began.

“And what would that be?” Showing little interest in his reply, Sloan carried her boots into the bedroom.

Trey had no choice but to follow. He stopped in the doorway and waited until she emerged from the walk-in closet, empty-handed. “It seems that this time maybe I was wrong.”