KNIGHT IN A WHITE STETSON Read online

  She'd miss being at camp. She spent a lot of time there in the summer, even when she had a full-time fence rider. It was a second home. There was nothing like riding the hills all day and sleeping in the deep, warm canvas tents that Calla set up every June. It was the part of her job she loved best.

  No, Henry would likely pick up his supplies and grab a shower, go to town for a beer or two and a restaurant meal, and head back to camp. If nothing happened.

  But something always happened. A cow got caught in the cattle guard or mice got in and ate all the bread or a horse came up lame and needed a vet.

  Calla found herself perversely hoping for any of those things. She grudgingly levered herself off her bed, went into her bathroom and turned on the taps to her old tub.

  An hour later, dressed in her go-to-the-bank-have-dinner-with-Clark clothes, and somewhat refreshed despite the high-desert heat, she headed to her battered pickup and hoisted herself in. Her father was nowhere to be found, nor, strangely, was Lester or Aunt Helen. Lester should have returned from the camp by now.

  If nothing happened.

  No. Nothing had happened, and she was vexed by the stab of panic she'd felt. She was hardly in a position to worry about Henry, as anything more than an employee anyway. One kiss did not a husband make.

  It was more than a kiss.

  His words came back to her, and she was surprised to see the image come back to her, too. If she could just get rid of the mental picture of him kneeling at her feet, his mouth greedy and damp and, really, sinfully skilled…

  She felt her body heat rise and a sudden, tight moisture between her legs. Marvelous. Just what I need. Going to see the banker and all I can think about is … that. Fat lot of good that bath did me, she thought as she turned the key and gratefully heard the old truck roar to life.

  She'd have to take Dupree on her own today, she thought. No matter. Her father was just window dressing in these situations anyway. His masculine presence made Dupree feel a little better about dealing with a mere girl of twenty-four. The idiot.

  Thirty minutes later she pulled to the curb of Paradise Savings and Loan, ignoring the co-op next door and her overdue account there. After Dupree, she rationalized. After I figure out what's going on.

  "Well, Calla, honey. You here to see Dick?" Ruby Watchell's wide smile practically lit up the tiny space behind her teller's counter as Calla walked through the door of the bank. Before Calla could answer, Ruby shouted over her shoulder to the open glass door two steps behind her. "Dick, Calla Bishop's here. She's got a dress on and she looks awful pretty. You best get on out here."

  Dick Dupree, nondescript as only a banker could be, stomped up behind Ruby. His mustache twitched in irritation.

  "Mrs. Watchell, would you please use the intercom when I have visitors? I believe we've discussed this before."

  "Now, why in the world should I use that intercom when you're no more than ten feet away? You can hear me just fine."

  Dick Dupree sighed heavily and adjusted the lapels on the coat Calla had seen him hastily slip into. A coat. Calla groaned to herself. Bad sign. She followed him into his dank little office and watched him swipe a big plastic bottle of generic antacid into the top drawer of his desk. Another bad sign. She sank into a chair facing him.

  "Well, Dupree. Let's have it."

  "Have what?" He paused, then shook his head. "Calla, I swear sometimes you have the tact of a billy goat. You want coffee?" He moved his hand to the button of the intercom. Calla imagined the lecture they'd have to endure if he pressed it, and she shook her head quickly.

  "No thanks, Dick. I've got a dinner date in an hour. I don't have time for the niceties. What's up? I rarely get a summons from you unless my note payment's late. And I still have three days until that sad day."

  Dupree cleared his throat, adjusted his tie and pulled a yellow, tooth-marked pencil from a worn felt holder on his desk and tapped it on his knee. Calla watched with mounting alarm. Usually, she couldn't get Dick Dupree to shut up. He loved a good lecture.

  "Dick. Stop it. You're making me nervous." She leaned forward and crossed her arms on his dusty desk. "You can't foreclose. I'll sue."

  Dupree sat upright and stopped tapping his pencil.

  "Don't threaten me."

  "Don't you threaten me, Dick. You can't foreclose."

  "As a matter of fact, I can. I'm not saying I will, but I certainly can. I already have board approval."

  Calla couldn't breathe. "What?"

  "I already have board approval. You have been late one too many times, Calla. You've been walking the line. The jig is up. One more late payment and I'm going to shut you down."

  "The jig is up? I can't believe this."

  "Believe it. And even if you manage to get your notes in on time for the next six months, your balloon is due at the end of the year. You'll never make that."

  "I will make it. I'll sell some cows."

  "And then what? You're digging yourself a hole you can't get out of, Calla."

  "You're wrong."

  Dupree raised his hands in supplication, but his beady eyes stayed determined and hard. "Look, Calla, the business has had a huge downturn. It isn't just you. Every cattleman in southern Idaho is sinking. I've heard about foreclosures on operations three times your size. You've done a fine job, considering your age and the fact you're a woman. But it's time to throw in the towel. The party's over."

  "Stop talking like that." Calla rubbed her temples. "You're giving me a headache."

  Dupree let her stew for a minute.

  "There is an alternative to foreclosure."

  "You won't foreclose on me, Dick."

  "Just listen, Calla." He took a deep breath and licked his lips. "We've had an offer on your place."

  Calla sat back, stunned.

  "What?" An offer? Her mind raced. When? Who? She grabbed at a thought as it whizzed through. "Stan?"

  Stanley Cutler was her closest neighbor and the man who owned the rights to Sulphur Lake runoff after it passed through her fields. He'd kept a close eye on Calla, waiting for her to give up and sell. But he'd never been insistent, or duplicitous. He'd told her flat-out that when she was ready to sell, he was ready to buy.

  "Stan…?" Dupree knitted his brows. "You mean Cutler? God, no. That man's got financial troubles you wouldn't … ah, anyhow, no. Not Cutler."

  "Who, then?" Her head was spinning, not a good sign in a banker's office, where a clear head often meant the difference between a future and a past for a farmer.

  "Well," Dupree began slowly, leaning forward and locking eyes with her. She could see a sheen of sweat on his forehead. His office had an intercom, but not an air conditioner. The fan behind him ruffled the papers on his desk. "It's a developer, actually. From out of town."

  "A developer," Calla repeated. "What in the world would a developer want with the Hot Sulphur? It's not as if we've got easy access to the high life out there, you know."

  "Yes, well, the party in question is very shrewd. They see your … our property," he corrected pointedly, "as the perfect spot for a posh, private recreational club."

  "Club? You mean a dude ranch?" Calla sputtered with barely suppressed laughter. "They want to turn it into a dude ranch?"

  Dupree put up a warning hand.

  "Don't take this lightly, Calla. Dude ranches are extremely profitable. They plan to use the hot sprigs to develop some bass ponds for fishing and a spa, use the sinks for bird hunting, tear down the old buildings to make way for shops and restaurants. Very all-inclusive," Dupree said smugly.

  Calla groaned inwardly. He'd probably just learned the phrase and was trying it out on her. "Posh" was another new one. Calla knew for a fact the word posh had never before been uttered in Paradise. And maybe in all southern Idaho.

  "Who are they?"

  "I can't say."

  Calla blinked. "You can't say? These people are coming to my bank and talking to my banker about my place, and you can't say?" Her voice was growing loude
r. She caught a glimpse of movement outside the glass door as Ruby shifted position for a better view. Ruby's customer leaned eagerly over the teller counter, straining to see inside the office. Great, Calla thought when she saw who it was. Ida Bootsma. It'd be all over Paradise in an hour that Calla Bishop had had a fight with Dick Dupree down at the bank. Calla closed her eyes briefly and willed her hands to stop shaking.

  "Listen, Dick, you tell these guys they can take their offer and drop it off the Paradise Bridge. I'm not turning my great-grandfather's homestead into a dude ranch." She rose to leave.

  "Wait, Calla." Dupree jumped to his feet, his eyes narrowed in that ancient way of moneylenders readying for battle. "You better sit down, young lady, and listen to what's good for you. You all have been hanging by a string for years now. These guys are offering you a way out."

  "A way out?" She wanted to laugh. "Of what? My home? My legacy? My children's future?"

  "Don't be so dramatic," he chastised. "You could go back to college, finish your degree."

  "Get bent, Dupree." She stepped back to open the office door. Ida and Ruby peered intently at Ida's bank statement.

  "Charming." He moved to block her exit. "You always did have a smart mouth. Sit down." He practically pushed her into her chair.

  There were distinct disadvantages to doing business in a small town with old friends and relatives, Calla thought sulkily. If any big-city banker had put his hands on her, she'd have decked him. Then called a big-city lawyer.

  "They're offering a million-five."

  "It's worth more."

  "Not in this market."

  "What about my grazing rights?"

  "They don't want 'em. They're not interested in running a herd. They plan to keep a few cows on hand so the tourists can run them from field to field when they get the notion."

  Calla groaned and rested her forehead on Dupree's desk. "Poor cows."

  Dupree waited a long minute, waiting for her to squirm. She didn't, to his exasperation. "I think you should take the money and run, Calla. You could buy a big house here in town for your daddy and Helen. You'd be free to go where you pleased." He warmed to his subject. "Do what you please. Marry your college boy, move back East, whatever."

  "What about Lester?" Calla asked distractedly, buying time to collect her thoughts.

  "Lester? Hell, Calla, I don't know. I suppose he could get a job with the dude ranch people."

  "He's too ugly." Her head was spinning again. "They're going to want pretty cowboys. I know one they'd love."

  A million and a half dollars. That was what her legacy was worth to these people. A million and a half dollars. Not a bad price, if you didn't factor in a century's worth of work.

  "Listen, Dupree, I know you're a little slow, so take this down." She rose from her chair and planted her hands on the desk in front of her. "The next time your developers come into town sniffing around my ranch, tell them for me that they will get my ranch over my dead body."

  Dupree was satisfactorily nonplussed. Calla went to the office door. A thought struck her, and she turned slowly to the slack-jawed banker.

  "I wonder how they found me. I've never seen anybody looking at my place."

  She didn't really expect an answer. Thank God, Dupree thought as he watched her walk out the door. He looked down at his hands. He had cracked his little yellow pencil in two.

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  « ^ »

  Calla sat in the rounded, bloodred, faux leather banquette in the back of Roseanna's Oasis and nursed her second margarita. She'd never been much for hard liquor, but the tequila, helped along with a little lime juice and Triple Sec, was going down just exactly right.

  She'd been in the booth since five-thirty. It was now nearly seven. Clark would arrive any minute and she was well on her way to being drunk. Good. She hadn't been drunk since high school graduation. She had a few things to say to Clark tonight, and she wanted to be good and juiced up before she did.

  She took another swallow of her drink.

  Developers. Despite the tequila, she still couldn't get a handle on it. Developers wanted Hot Sulphur Lake Ranch. And they were willing to pay more than a million dollars for it. And Dupree wanted her to hand it over to them on a silver platter. Calla closed her hand around the frosty glass.

  Well, they could just forget it.

  She knew how foolish her decision was, on a financial level at least. One point five million dollars was a whole of a lot of money. It could buy freedom for, and from, Jackson and Helen and Lester. Especially Lester. She grinned briefly.

  But she'd pay too great a price for that freedom, she knew. She was part of the desert homestead; more than that, it was part of her. And she'd be in her grave before she let anyone take it from her. No matter what she had to do.

  "Hello, Calla. Have you been waiting long?"

  She looked up at Clark's aristocratic, office-gray face. Speaking of no matter what she had to do, here he was. "Oh, hello, Clark. Nope. Not long," she lied. "You want a drink?"

  "Sure." He waved the waitress over. "I'll have a Bombay Gin martini, two green olives, please. You gave me black olives last time. And if you still haven't got any Bombay Gin, I'll have Tanqueray."

  The waitress snapped her gum wearily. "Calla?" she said.

  "I'll have another margarita." Calla suppressed a tipsy giggle. "Any kind of tequila. No olives."

  The waitress winked at her and walked back to the bar, her circa 1970s cocktail dress flouncing on her wide rear end.

  "How many have you had already?" Clark eyed her suspiciously.

  "Eleven. I lied before. I've been here since noon."

  "Oh, my God."

  "I'm just kidding. Sometimes, Clark, I swear, you have no sense of humor."

  "That is not true," he said defensively. "You know perfectly well I was a member of the Dartmouth Comedy Players."

  "I know everything about your days at Dartmouth, Clark old sod. You are an endless font of information about your days at Dartmouth."

  "Calla, you are positively hostile today. I think you should stop guzzling that drink and have a cup of coffee before you say something you'll regret."

  "I'm about to say something I think you'll regret."

  "What?"

  Calla took a deep breath. The unfamiliar alcohol was coursing through her, making her brave. No matter what she had to do. No matter what she had to do. In the past few hours it had become a mantra. "I want to get married."

  Clark stared at her for a minute.

  "Fine."

  "I mean it."

  "Fine."

  "I'm serious." She pointed an unsteady finger at him.

  "I understand that you are. I said fine."

  "Fine, what?" Calla was suddenly sure they weren't talking about the same thing.

  "Fine, I'll marry you. I'll have my attorney draw up the papers this week. And I'll have to call Dad. He should be able to get an acceptable place on short notice."

  "Place for what?" Calla was dazed. They couldn't be talking about the same thing. This was too easy. She was ready to suffer for her heritage, darn it. Maybe the suffering would come after the wedding. Probably, it would.

  "A place for the ceremony. Roomy enough for my fraternity brothers, but not too ostentatious. In Westport, of course. Westport is where the Franklins got married. Remember that? Oh, no, you didn't go."

  "I wasn't invited to the Franklins' wedding."

  "That's right. Well, you would have hated it. Very elegant."

  Calla was quickly sobering under his officious manner. "Thanks."

  "And we'll have to get a stationer. Back East, of course. I'll have my secretary look into that."

  "A stationer? For what?"

  "For invitations," he said with exaggerated slowness. "And we'll need note cards and place cards. Try to keep up."

  Calla took a swallow of her melting margarita. "Sorry," she mumbled. No matter what she had to do. No matter what she had to do.

&
nbsp; Clark kept ticking off his fingers items from his invisible list. "A caterer. Let's see. Who catered the banquet we had for Sherm Spence when he got his seat on the town council? Oh—" Clark snapped his fingers. Calla jumped. "Renaissance. That's right. Oh, they were great. Very understated. And we'll need a wine captain."

  "I thought we'd get married at home." Calla said into her glass.

  "Home?" Clark looked at her blankly.

  "Home. The ranch."

  He burst out laughing. "Calla, please. Be serious. I couldn't possibly invite my friends to the ranch. At least not until it's fixed up. Half of them don't even know where Idaho is, for God's sake. Now—" he dismissed her "—what about music? I think a nice string quartet for the ceremony and then maybe a jazz ensemble for the reception. I realize we'll have to look around. I'm sure your father doesn't want to pay through the nose just for music."

  Calla blinked several times in pure astonishment. "You want … my father to pay for all this?"

  He tweaked her on the cheek. "Of course, Calla. It's traditional that the bride's father pay for the wedding." He looked at her. "Surely you don't expect my father to pay for it?"

  "I didn't … I don't expect to have a big wedding. I hate big weddings."

  "Figures." He gaze became distant. Calla had the distinct, inebriated impression he could see all the way to Connecticut from the booth at the Oasis. "But I'm afraid we'll have to do this right, Calla. It's expected. I've already made enough of a spectacle of myself flying out here every other day for the past thirteen months."

  "Three months," Calla corrected glumly. "You started coining out three months ago. You said we weren't serious enough for you to come out thirteen months ago."

  "And I was right. It would have been foolish. Now, normally, we'd need a year to plan the wedding, but I think we can forgo…"

  "A year?" Calla nearly choked on the last of her third margarita. Her balloon payment was due in a few months. Oh. Lord, what was she getting herself into? She looked up gratefully as Virginia, the waitress with the flounce, hurried over with another drink.