KNIGHT IN A WHITE STETSON Read online

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  Contents:

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20

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  Chapter 1

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  Calla switched on the radio. George Strait's husky voice filled the superheated in the cab of the pickup and settled Calla's nerves. Lucky it was George Strait, she told herself. As mad as she was, if a lesser country music mortal had come on the radio, she might have pulled her rifle from the gun rack behind her and shot it out.

  She slid off the seat, jumped from the cab and walked to the front of the old Chevy truck.

  "Lester Smiley," Calla muttered, kicking the flat front tire with her booted foot, "if I ever get out of this mess, I'm coming for you."

  She thought about searching again for the jack and the lug wrench, normally stowed behind the bench seat in the cab, but she'd already spent twenty minutes tearing the truck apart trying to find them.

  After the first few minutes she'd realized they weren't there; that that half-drunk Lester had taken them out for some ungodly reason and had forgotten—or been too lazy, more likely—to put them back. But she'd kept looking, through the toolbox, under the pile of horse blankets and tack in the bed, even in the small spaces between the engine and the truck body. It gave her something to do. That and swearing. But she was tired of looking now. She was even tired of swearing.

  She sat down on the plump spare tire she'd unhooked from the undercarriage of the truck and put her chin in her hands. She was twenty miles from home, on an old, mostly abandoned road the chalk trucks used when they were pulling chalk from these hills a decade ago. Nobody but she and Lester ever traveled this road anymore, not before hunting season anyway, so the chance of getting rescued out of the heat by a passing vehicle was too slim to consider.

  And when she'd left the ranch that morning before dawn, she'd scrawled a note and left it on the kitchen counter, telling her father and her aunt Helen that she might spend the night at Two Creek Camp and return home the next day.

  "Damn," she muttered again, just to make herself feel better. She pulled her cowboy hat from her head and fanned away a deerfly that buzzed in the heat waves gathering in front of her eyes. "Damn, damn, damn."

  The decision not to stay at Two Creek had been a bad one, Calla admitted. But she'd wanted to get back to the ranch and clean up before dark. Clark, the man she'd met at college who was currently, and inexplicably courting her, was due in from Connecticut tonight, and though he hadn't promised to come out to the ranch until morning, she thought he might change his mind. So instead of stopping at Two Creek she had run over some dang thing on this godforsaken road in the middle of nowhere in a truck that stupid Lester had taken the stupid jack and lug wrench out of.

  She was working herself toward another useless fit, she knew. Plus, she was thinking in sentences that ended with prepositions, something she had to watch, considering Clark's opinion on that sort of thing.

  Calla blew out a long breath, got to her feet and reached into the truck to switch off the radio. Then she rolled the spare around to the bed and heaved it in.

  A glance at the blue Idaho sky told her it was around three o'clock. Well, heck, nothing to do but wait until that sun got a little lower, she decided. She took a saddle pad from the pickup bed and tossed it under the truck, then scooted on her elbows in after it, settling herself in the meager shade, her hat at her side and her boots sticking out from under the truck.

  She'd start out in an hour, she thought, when it wasn't so hot. The idea of walking the twenty miles home in the dark didn't scare her, though she was plenty mad about it. She'd spent her life in these rocky hills, on horseback mostly, or driving salt blocks around, but she'd walked her share, too. The silhouettes of Monument Rock and Dead Horse Canyon and the Bennett Mountain were as familiar to her as the shadows the moon made on the walls of the room she'd slept in since she was born.

  She'd make five miles before dark, and when the moon came up, she'd make the next fifteen.

  Calla decided to spend the hour planning her revenge on her hired man.

  * * *

  Someone was kicking her boot. Hard. She tried to sit up, forgetting where she was, and banged her head on the undercarriage of the truck.

  "Ow," she yelped. "Stop kicking me, you idiot."

  She dug her heels in the dirt and shot out from under the truck, dragging her hat with one hand and holding her forehead with the other. The sun, lower now but still blazing, blinded her for a minute, and she sat still on the ground, cross-legged, until her eyes became accustomed to the light.

  "Well," she said, reaching out to the figure in front of her, "now that you've crippled me, give me a hand up, will you?"

  The boot kicker grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet. With one eye still closed against the light, she looked into his face. It was grinning at her. Typical.

  "Hey."

  "Hey," the man said, still grinning. "Sorry about that. When you didn't wake up when I yelled at you, I thought maybe you were dead under there."

  "Asleep, I guess, not dead." She tugged on her hat. "But I am stranded. You got a jack?"

  "Yeah. Hold on."

  The man went to his truck, a bigger, newer version of the Chevy Calla was driving, and pulled a jack from a box in the back.

  "I need a lug wrench, too, if you've got one," Calla said. She was already unloading the tire from the back.

  "Hey, wait a sec with that," the man said, glancing over at Calla in time to see her dump the spare tire from the bed of her truck and roll it over to the flat. "Let me help you."

  "Already done," Calla said, wiping her hands on her jeans. She grabbed the jack and the lug wrench from the man's hands. If she got the tire changed in time, she could still make it home in time to see Clark.

  If Clark came.

  "Wait a sec," the man said again, trying to take the jack handle from her.

  "I've done this before," Calla said. She spared him a glance. No use hurting his feelings, seeing as he did stop to see if she was dead or not. "Thanks, anyway."

  The man sat back on his heels, a bit at a loss. He was sure he shouldn't be letting this lady change her own tire, but he was equally sure she wouldn't let him do it for her. He watched her for a minute, and tried pretty hard not to stare at her rear end.

  "Uh, what's your name?" he said to distract himself.

  "Calla Bishop, nice to meet you." Calla wiped her right hand on her jeans once more and gave the man a firm handshake. He grinned at her again. Calla stared at his white teeth. "Thanks for stopping. I thought I'd have to walk home tonight."

  "I'm Henry. Home?" The boot kicker looked surprised. "You live around here?"

  "Our place is just at the base of these hills, between here and Paradise. At Hot Sulphur Lake." Calla was grunting from the effort of loosening the rusted lug nuts on the ancient wheel. She probably should have been embarrassed, it occurred to her, but the boot kicker simply continued to smile at her. "You know it?"

  "Nope. I'm not from around here."

  "Uuuhh," she grunted again, loosening the last nut and spinning it free with her fingers. "Really? Where you from?"

  "Here and there."

  Calla, impatient to be done with tire changing and chitchat, brushed back a strand of her hair that had worked its way loose from her ponytail. "Here, take these." She dumped the lug nuts into his palm. "You on the run from the cops, or just being mysterious?"

  "Not mysterious," the man said, smiling. "Just careful. I'm from California, and people around here are as likely to shoot a Californian as look at one, I've found."

  "Hell, yes." Calla laughed. She yanked the flat free of the wheel and shoved it out of her way. The boot
kicker rolled the spare over. "If I'd known you were a Californian, I'd never have let you rescue me."

  "You don't look much like a woman who needs rescuing," he commented, watching Calla heft the spare onto the wheel. Calla held out her hand for the lug nuts. He opened his hand and she scooped them up. She spun the lug nuts back on and jerked them tight with the wrench. The boot kicker watched her in silence.

  "Well—" Calla straightened up after a minute and let down the jack "—thanks for your help, Henry." She picked up the jack and the lug wrench and handed them back to the man, who had easily lifted the flat into the back of Calla's truck. The nice face has a body to match, Calla thought.

  "What help I was," he remarked.

  "Okay, well—" Calla stuck out her hand "—if you're ever in the neighborhood. I won't even tell anyone you're a Californian."

  The man smiled again and shook her hand. Good teeth, Calla thought, straight and white, like piano keys. She was used to looking at teeth, being a horsewoman. And his were very nice. She wanted to tell him it was a pleasure to meet a man who didn't have a slug of tobacco worked into his lip.

  Oh, for heaven's sake, stop that, she told herself sternly. They're probably capped.

  She hopped into her truck and gunned the engine. "Hey," she called out the open window to Henry, who was still watching her, his head tipped slightly to one side. "You're not lost or anything, are you?"

  "Just sightseeing," he assured her. He lifted one hand. "See you around."

  "Yep. See you around."

  * * *

  Henry watched her spin the tires of her truck in the dirt and race away, leaving him in a cloud of dust and gravel.

  No surprise she drives like that, he thought, smiling to himself. Watching her change that tire had made him feel a little lightheaded. He couldn't tell if it was the little grunting sounds she made or the line of her long legs and rounded hips as she squatted in those Wranglers. Though he had tried not to stare.

  He walked slowly to his own truck and tossed the jack and wrench into the toolbox in the back. He opened the door and climbed in, but he didn't turn the key. He sat and watched the disappearing white pickup for several minutes.

  Calla Bishop. She was a jolt to his system. When she'd brushed her hair back into that ponytail, he felt as if he'd been struck across his chest with a plank. It was all he could do not to reach down and wind that chestnut-colored silk around his fingers.

  Henry started his pickup. The radio was still on, and he reached over and switched it off. He could just see Calla's truck. Or rather, he could see the cloud of dust she left behind it.

  She must know these roads pretty well, he thought, to be driving them so fast. He'd been picking his way across the back roads in this part of the state for a week now, and every time he got above thirty-five miles an hour he came up hard on a blind curve or a dry creek bed or a cow calmly walking in the middle of the road.

  Calla Bishop. He couldn't believe how she lifted that flat off the wheel rim. And those lug nuts were rusted on; he'd seen it from where he stood.

  He turned the radio back on, and rolled up the passenger side window by pressing the button at his fingertips.

  Wonder what a hot sulphur lake is?

  He drove his new pickup along the old chalk road and occupied himself with looking for a place to camp for the night. He didn't have the time, and shouldn't have had the inclination, to be thinking about every Wrangler-clad, tire-changing, gorgeous woman he came across in this wilderness.

  Still, he thought to himself, he would have liked to pull loose that ponytail.

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  Chapter 2

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  Calla pulled into the ranch just before dark. She scouted the compound for Lester, but when she didn't see him right off, she decided to let that squabble wait until dinner.

  "Thought you were going to camp at Two Creek tonight, honey," Calla's aunt Helen said as Calla walked through the kitchen door.

  Calla leaned against the door and toed off her boots. "Nope. Decided to come on home. Didn't want to eat my own cooking." She padded in her stocking feet to where her aunt was standing over the stove. "What is that? It smells great. I'm starving."

  "You're always starving," Helen said, spooning up a bite of the spaghetti sauce and lifting it to Calla's mouth. Calla sucked it off the spoon.

  "Ah, hot," she said. "Good, though. I really am hungry tonight. Did Clark call?"

  "Was he supposed to?" Helen reached into the cupboard above her for more parsley. "And why are you so hungry tonight?"

  "That damn Lester," Calla began, then amended, "sorry, that darn Lester. Where is he anyway? I didn't see him in the yard."

  "He and your dad went into town for a new tine for the hay rake."

  "Another one? That's about the tenth one that idiot's broken off the rake this month. I oughta start making him pay for 'em."

  "Now, Calla."

  "Well, I'm mad at him," Calla said. "He took the jack out of the pickup and didn't put it back in. I had a flat up on Bennett, way in hell out by the chalk mine. I nearly had to walk home."

  "Why didn't you?"

  "Oh, some guy came by and lent me his jack. I didn't have a lug wrench, either. That stupid Lester."

  "Who?"

  "Lester. Haven't you been listening to me?"

  "I meant, who was driving on that old road this time of year?"

  "Oh. Henry … something. I don't think he told me his last name."

  "From around here?"

  "No. California."

  "On that road? Was he young or old?"

  "Young. Pretty, too. Nice teeth," Calla said, and started up the plain plank stairs to her room on the second floor. She pulled off her jeans and T-shirt, padded in her underwear to her little bathroom, sat on the edge of the tub and reached for the faucet.

  Henry.

  An old-fashioned name. She couldn't think of a single man under the age of fifty named Henry. She turned the faucet to hot and pushed the plug into the drain.

  And where did he get that cocky grin? It wasn't something she normally noticed. She didn't normally notice much about men at all. She'd lived her whole life with men. They weren't particularly interesting, on the whole.

  But this Henry. He had a very nice smile.

  She bathed and washed her hair and, when she was finished stood in front of her tiny closet for five minutes trying to decide what she was going to wear. Clark—if he did come over tonight—didn't like cowboy clothes.

  She pulled a plain white blouse from the closet and rummaged through her dresser until she found a pair of khaki shorts amid the blue jeans. College clothes. She'd bought them several summers ago, before she'd left for school. Too bad she never got to wear them anymore. They weren't suited to the ranch.

  But they were suited to Clark. That was what mattered now. She dressed quickly and went down to dinner.

  "Lester, you snake," Calla said when she saw the old man, his filthy straw cowboy hat in his hands, sitting at the kitchen table. Lester was a little in love with her aunt Helen, she knew, and never missed an opportunity to sit in the kitchen and chat. It was one of his many bad habits. "I almost had to walk twenty miles today 'cause of you."

  "Almost isn't quite," Lester drawled.

  "What the hell—heck—is that supposed to mean? Oh, forget it." Calla sat down at the wide, worn Formica table and pointed an accusing index finger at Lester. "You know, you left the jack and the lug wrench out of the pickup last time you used 'em, and I had a flat up on the Bennett today."

  "Hello, darlin'," Jackson Bishop came into the kitchen from the adjoining laundry room where he'd been washing up. He kissed the top of his daughter's head. "Yelling at poor Lester again, I see."

  "Same old, same old, eh, Jack," Lester said, smiling.

  "Shut up, Lester. Dad, I—" Calla began, but her father interrupted.

  "Poor old Lester," Jackson teased. "Always taking your abuse. It's a wonder he gets a thing done around here with y
ou yelling at him every five minutes."

  "I wonder about that, too, Jack, to be right honest with you," Lester agreed solemnly.

  "He doesn't get anything done, that's my entire point," Calla said. "All I'm saying, Lester," she said carefully, stretching out the words, "is put stuff back where it belongs or I'll take you out to the old chalk road and make you walk home some hot afternoon."

  Lester sniffed at her, wounded, then rose from his chair and put on his hat with painstaking slowness.

  "Well," he drawled, "guess you folks are gonna have supper. I'll just be headin' on, then."

  "Oh, for heaven's sake." Calla rolled her eyes.

  "Lester, won't you stay and have a bite with us tonight?" Helen offered.

  "He eats with us every night," Calla muttered. "Why do we have to go through this?"

  "Well," Lester said again, "if you're sure you have enough."

  "Someone in this kitchen has been cooking for you every night for the past twenty-five years, you old coot," Calla hissed at him. "You'd think we'd know by now to cook enough for you."

  Living with these three old people was driving her out of her mind. Every night the same conversations. She could guess exactly what the next word spoken would be.

  "Well," Lester began. "How was them salt blocks up there today?"

  "Fine," Calla said.

  "You toss out a few of them selenium blocks, did ya?"

  "I know my job, Lester."

  They sat in silence for several minutes. Calla bolted down the rest of her meal and got up to leave the table.

  "Darlin', I want a word with you later," Jackson said. "Dupree stopped me at the co-op today."

  "Fine, Dad. I'll be in the barn."

  Calla yanked her boots over her bare feet and tromped out the kitchen door.

  The red barn, ancient, cavernous and smelling of the faint scent of animals gone to their reward a hundred years before, was only two hundred yards from the ranch house. For Calla it might as well have been another planet. While the house belonged to the old people, the barn belonged to Calla. She was home there as she never was anywhere else. Her mother had told her once that though she'd grown up in that upstairs bedroom—and might die there—her real home was the drafty, high-raftered barn her great-grandfather had built more than one hundred years earlier.