KNIGHT IN A WHITE STETSON Page 5

  There was another small crash as Henry slammed his boots on the linoleum and heaved himself out of his chair. He walked steadily to the whiskey bottle on the counter, helped himself to another glass and then leaned against the sink, scowling. Helen choked a little on her coffee. Jackson leaned forward and patted her companionably on the back.

  "Careful there, sister," he said with a smile.

  Clark didn't seem to notice the exchange, but Calla's back became straighter, stiffer, as she perched on the chair.

  "We had an architect make up some preliminary plans. They look great. Not quite what we were looking for, but they'll do until we can come up with the investors, then we'll hire a good firm from New York to do the final polish on them. Someone with a big name. Dad thinks he might get Beacham and Beacham. I went to school with a Beacham. A son, not a partner. Hell of a tennis player." Clark suddenly turned to where Henry had loaned his large frame against the sink. Calla nearly fell off the arm of the chair. "You play?"

  "What?" Henry's question was a little chip of ice. It chilled the warm room.

  "Tennis, old man. I thought we might have a game sometime. We'd have to go in to Boise, but I've got an old Dartmouth brother who belongs to a club there, and I'm sure he'd get us a court. He's in politics. If you can imagine, a brother pressing the flesh way out here in the sticks." Clark's tone was challenging, but he was smiling. Calla willed Henry to be polite.

  She shouldn't have wasted her time.

  "I don't play."

  "Did you play any sports in college?" Clark gave a small, insincere gasp. "Oh, sorry. You must not have gone to college. I mean, you wouldn't be working for Calla right now if you had a degree, would you? Well, lucky you, I say. An education can really be a burden sometimes. It puts so much pressure on a man to succeed. You're lucky, really."

  Clark took a smug sip from his wineglass, and squeezed Calla closer. Calla couldn't decide who she was going to kill first tonight. The Neanderthal or the snob. She deliberated on it for a second.

  "Hockey," Henry said quietly after an interminable pause. He took a long pull from his glass, set it gently on the counter, and crossed his arms across a chest that Calla realized with a jolt was broader than she remembered. Hadn't she just had her fingertips on that chest two hours ago? When had it got all puffed up like that?

  "I beg your pardon?" Clark said, still smiling. "You played hockey? When? In high school? Or did you go to high school?"

  "In college."

  Calla shifted to look at Henry. He seemed to be staring at Clark's teeth.

  "You went to college?" Clark asked coolly. His smile was gone. "You don't seem the type."

  "What's the type?" The temperature in Henry's voice went down a degree. If they didn't knock this off, Calla thought grimly, she'd have to turn on the furnace in the kitchen. She chanced a look at Jackson and Helen. They were positively serene.

  "Well, not you." Clark laughed, real amusement in his voice. "I haven't met many ranch hands—" he practically snickered the words "—with a college education. Where'd you go? Ag Tech? Bumpkin Junior College? You get you an A.A. in changing sprinklers, paaardner?"

  Calla stared down at Clark in shock. He must be drunk. She couldn't believe her ears. She'd never seen him lose that polite Ivy League veneer. Ever.

  Henry pushed himself off the counter. He crossed the distance between himself and Clark in a couple long steps and leaned over the thinner man with unbelievable physical menace. Calla held her breath. It was something like watching a rangy old herd bull approaching an upstart in a pasture, Calla decided. Uncomfortable, fascinating.

  Henry put one hand on Calla's free arm and held it there, squeezing. She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt she was being punished for something. Henry's other hand hung in the air at his side. His fist was bunched, Calla noticed with sick alarm. Circling was one thing; this was quickly getting out of hand.

  "No, not Bumpkin Junior College, you skinny, insufferable, elitist son of a bitch. Harvard. Class of '88, Bachelor's degree in Chemistry," Henry said quietly into Clark's face. He was so close, Calla could smell the whiskey on his breath. It was a heady scent. "Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Class of '90, Masters in Chemical Engineering. Purdue University, Class of '92, Doctorate in Chemical Engineering."

  Henry released Calla's arm and raised himself to a standing position with deliberate slowness.

  "And I played hockey." He turned and walked calmly to the door. "Not tennis. There's blood in hockey. That's what I liked about it. Remember that, Dartmouth, the next time you try to jerk me around." He nodded at the older couple. "Thanks for dinner, Helen, Jackson." Henry didn't look at Calla. He walked out the door and closed it gently behind him. Calla could hear the crunch of gravel under his feet as Henry strode deliberately out toward the bunkhouse.

  For several seconds, no one in the shadowy kitchen spoke. Even Jackson and Helen had been alarmed when Henry had accepted Clark's baiting. At least they'd had enough sense for that, Calla thought breathlessly. Maybe next time they wouldn't be so free with the Wild Turkey.

  "That guy's a menace," Clark said after a moment, wiping a sheen of sweat from his upper lip with the back of his hand. He picked up his wineglass with a forced flourish. "And, good God, what a story. Can you believe he thought we'd buy that? Where did you find this guy, Calla? I thought he was pretty uncivilized when I first met him, but this is ridiculous. If he can make up a wild tale like that, I wonder what else he's capable of? I hope you checked his references. More than that, I hope you lock the house at night." He was babbling.

  "What makes you think he made it up?" Jackson asked quietly.

  "Please," Clark snorted. "I've been around the academic world all my life. I would certainly know a doctor if I saw one. In chemical engineering, no less. What a laugh." As if to prove his point, Clark chuckled mirthlessly into his glass. His hands were shaking, Calla noticed. "If he has a degree, it's in ditch-digging. I'd bet my Beta Theta Pi colors on it."

  Jackson rose from the kitchen table.

  "Well," he announced mildly, "I think I'll hit the sack."

  Helen could hardly get up from her chair fast enough. "Me, too," she chirped. "Night."

  "My," Clark said after Jackson and Helen disappeared down the long hallway, "that was fun."

  He tipped his chair back and boldly planted his feet on the kitchen table and crossed his arms across his chest. Calla looked at his long, aristocratic feet sheathed in expensive penny loafers and fought a sudden urge to deck him. Then she had to fight an equally sudden urge to laugh. She put her head heavily into her hands. What was happening to her?

  "I'm a little upset, Clark," she said through her fingers.

  "I don't blame you. That man would upset anyone. What a jerk." He patted her comfortingly.

  "You weren't exactly innocent, Clark. You baited him. He really didn't have any choice but to make that stuff up."

  What was she doing? Defending Henry? He was rude and he was a liar. If she could blot out the image of him kneeling at her feet in the stack yard today, his mouth hot and hungry on her breast, she'd have a better chance of remembering that.

  "Now, Calla. He made that stuff up because of you, not me. He must know how impressed you are with the whole idea of college. It's because you never finished, sugarplum, and you don't know what a real grind it can be. He's playing on your obvious fascination. A doctorate in Chemical Engineering, indeed." Clark grunted uncharacteristically.

  Calla slowly raised her head from her hands.

  "Sugarplum?" she said. "Sugarplum?"

  Clark looked at her, shocked by the tone in her voice. "I thought you liked those kind of endearments, Calla. Your father calls you darling and honey all the time."

  "My father—" Calla stressed each word "—calls me those things because he loves me. Not because he wants to start something with my hired man."

  Clark played idly with his empty wineglass. Grease from the steak he'd eaten earlier was imprinted in fingerprints arou
nd the bowl.

  "Now, how would my calling you little endearments start something with your hired man, Calla?"

  Calla dragged her lower lip between her teeth to keep from shouting at him. Calla was a shouter; everyone who'd ever known her knew it. On cattle drives, her temper was legendary. Let a calf go back, and you'll face the sad consequences of Calla's temper, her brother had always warned the cowboys.

  But she'd been careful never to raise her voice to Clark before. His New England sensibilities couldn't take it.

  "I don't know, exactly, Clark," she said, as softly as she could manage. "I just know that we've been going together for about a year now, and you have never once called me by anything but my name." She was losing control. She could feel it, but she didn't care. "But tonight, with Henry here acting, admittedly, like a big fool, you called me everything but…" Calla searched for a vile enough word "…lovergirl! And you patted me on the ass, Clark!"

  "Calla, I've talked to you about your swearing."

  "Oh, shut up."

  "Calla!"

  "I mean it, Clark. Take your feet off my table and hit the road." She stomped into the hallway, flicking the switch on the wall as she passed. The kitchen, and Clark, were plunged into the sudden blackness of a moonless Idaho night.

  * * *

  Henry had the bunkhouse to himself. Lester was obviously in town on a drunk. He was grateful. If the old man had laughed at him tonight, in that raspy, wheezy way he had that made him sound like a cartoon dog, Henry would have had to kill him.

  Dammit! Henry paced across the small room. Dammit!

  He couldn't have handled that situation any worse if he'd tried. Calla, this very minute, was probably swearing him up and down. If she wasn't busy kissing Dartmouth. Dammit!

  Who the hell was this woman? He'd known her all of two weeks, had maybe five conversations with her, kissed her one time, one time! Was it logical to be this riled up at the thought of her kissing the man she was fully intending to marry? No. It was not logical.

  He flung himself onto his bunk like a teenage boy in a fit of temper.

  It was more than a kiss. He hadn't had time to really go over it in his mind. He'd been gripped by such a strange, debilitating rage when he'd seen Calla hop that fence and walk over to meet Dartmouth that it was all he could do to keep himself from challenging the shinny bastard to a duel at sunrise. With swords, something he could use to draw a good amount of blood.

  He couldn't think at all, much less clearly, a terrifyingly unfamiliar state for him to be in. He'd simply walked back to the bunkhouse, showered in the narrow bathroom stall, and plotted how to disrupt what he imagined was going to be a quiet family dinner.

  He'd certainly done that, he thought with a small groan. He'd made a complete fool of himself. He tried to focus on that. Humiliation was certainly a new experience for him, but it was at least manageable. He didn't want to have to think about the more emotional complications tonight's outburst might entail.

  He crossed his arms behind his head, concentrating for a moment on what had happened before the disastrous dinner. It was easy, too easy. Calla's mouth, Calla's breasts, the smooth, strong feel of her under his fingers. He felt himself relax a little. The four or five glasses of whiskey probably helped, he thought.

  Calla had tasted better than he could have imagined; warm and sweaty and sweet. Her mouth had opened to him. He'd known it would. And her body. Had he ever pressed himself against anyone so curvy, so sexy, so firm and fluid?

  The whiskey was getting to him. He felt drowsy, the battle-ready hostility he'd felt all evening damping down under the warm weight of the liquor. He didn't want to fall asleep until he heard Dartmouth's car leave, but he closed his eyes anyway. Dartmouth. What an ass.

  He smiled again in the darkness. When had he picked up the fine art of cursing? He'd never mastered it before. Now he was swearing like a marine. Like Calla, in fact. His smile widened.

  He had scared the hell out of Dartmouth tonight, he thought with a measure of satisfaction. He'd recognized the sudden sweat on the other man's upper lip for what it was. He'd seen enough of it. Flop sweat.

  He hoped Calla had seen that sweaty lip.

  She was going to be furious with him. He felt a fuzzy dread of morning. He dropped an arm over his eyes and let his head spin. And hell, he was bound to have a brutal hangover.

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  « ^ »

  Henry jolted awake.

  He'd been dreaming. Calla had been walking toward him, wearing a long white T-shirt and nothing else. The shirt skimmed her smooth, strong thighs and he could see her rouge-tipped breasts swinging beneath the fabric. When he'd reached for her, she broke his grasp and walked past him. She walked up to the barn, pulled the big door open and stepped in. He tried to follow her but she closed the door on him. He peered, as desperately as a child, through the crack in the door.

  He felt a soft touch on his shoulder. Heidi smiled up at him, her red-tipped fingers pressing into his shoulder.

  Henry sat upright on his bunk. His tongue was oddly thick and he couldn't seem to shake the heavy feeling in his head. But despite the strange sensations, he knew the dream alone hadn't shocked him awake. It was something else.

  Someone was running.

  He could hear the footsteps on the gravel. They were coming for the bunkhouse. Barely dormant instincts came to life in a rush.

  He leapt to his feet and realized he hadn't bothered to undress for bed. He was at the door in an instant, snatching his boots from the floor next to the door. He yanked the door open and ran hard right into Calla. He caught her as she stumbled into his chest.

  "Henry!"

  "What's wrong?" His body was tensed from head to toe. Pete had called that something, during his training. What? Oh, yes, his fighting stance.

  "You've got to come with me. I think I just killed Lester." She straightened suddenly, jerked free of his grasp and took his hand in hers. "Hurry, Henry. He's bleeding."

  "Where?"

  "From his head."

  "Calla, where is Lester?"

  "Oh, I thought you meant … he's in the house." Calla felt reaction set in, and started to shake. "In the kitchen."

  Henry didn't wait to pull on his boots. He tucked them under his arm and loped across the compound to the house in his socks. Calla was at his heels, her bare feet traveling the gravel behind him. He'd watched her walk the compound a dozen times without shoes. The bottoms of her slender feet had to be as tough as the leather on the chaps she wore into the hills every morning.

  He didn't allow himself the luxury of imagining Calla in nothing but those leather chaps, as he had a dozen times already that day.

  He could hear loud groaning before he reached the door. Lester wasn't dead, at least.

  Henry yanked open the kitchen door. Helen was on the floor, ministering to a bleeding Lester. Jackson was standing in the door of the laundry room, a first aid kit in his hands. Lester was sprawled ignominiously on the linoleum. Henry could smell alcohol, but couldn't tell if it was him or Lester. He smelled something else, something definitely coming from Lester. Aftershave. Henry smiled in spite of himself.

  "Lester, this is the second time today I've had to warn you about scaring Calla," Henry said as he strode forward and kneeled next to Lester.

  "Scaring Calla?" Lester squeaked. "She almost killed me."

  Henry examined Lester's head. "Almost isn't quite," Henry muttered, borrowing one of Lester's favorite expressions. There was the beginning of a goose egg and a small crack in the skin above his right eye. Not much more than a scratch. But the old man was bleeding profusely, Henry acknowledged. Years of drinking will thin the blood, Henry thought. He'd try to remember that the next time he felt the urge to drink a half bottle of Wild Turkey in front of Calla's family.

  He pressed his palm to Lester's wound. "Give me that first aid kit, will you, Jack?" Henry said. Jackson stepped forward and handed the blue metal box to Henry. Calla had
yet to move from the doorway, though Henry was gratified to see the color returning to her cheeks.

  "Hold this," Henry commanded Lester as he placed a bandage on his head. "Tight. We want to stop the bleeding."

  "Oh, poor Lester," Helen fretted, looking worried and oddly guilty. "Poor dear. Can I get you something?"

  "No, that's all right, ma'am," Lester said bravely. "If we can just get this bleeding under control, I'm sure I'll be okay." He groaned again loudly for effect. Helen nearly swooned, her hand fluttering across her ample chest. It was all Henry could do not to laugh. He met Jackson's eye. The older man was obviously suppressing the same urge.

  Henry pried Lester's hand away from his forehead and applied a dab of antiseptic ointment to the oozing wound. Lester winced and moaned dramatically again.

  "Is he going to be all right?" Calla asked quietly from the doorway.

  "He's fine, Calla. Just a little bump. What'd you hit him with?"

  Calla looked solemnly into Henry's soft brown eyes.

  "A bat."

  Henry gave a short crack of laughter. Calla turned on her heel and vaulted down the stone steps.

  "You're okay, Lester, but you'll have a headache for a while, and your eye will swell shut." He helped Lester up off the floor. "You'll look like a hockey player. Drives the women wild."

  "You pissant," Lester jerked away from the grasp Henry had on his arm. He weaved a little and Helen reached out to steady him. "That hellcat nearly killed me. Didn't even bother to turn on the light before she hit me."

  "What were you doing in here in the middle of the night, Lester?" Jackson inquired softly.

  "Well," Lester had regained his composure enough to recover his drawl, Henry noticed. "I missed dinner. I was just looking to see if Miz Helen had saved me a little old lump of that apricot pie I saw she was making this afternoon."

  "Why didn't you turn on the light, old man?" Henry asked.

  "Why don't you go jump off a cliff, young fella?" Lester retorted. He put his hand to his head. "Ooh, I feel a little dizzy. Maybe I got me a concussion."