KNIGHT IN A WHITE STETSON Page 9

  Calla looked over at her father. He was smiling at her curiously.

  "What's going on, sugarplum?"

  "Dad," Calla said wearily as she pulled the truck keys from the hook in the wall, "you wouldn't believe me if I told you."

  * * *

  There was a strange vehicle in camp. A Bureau of Land Management toady, no doubt, Calla surmised. They always sent someone up to check on her summer riders. To make sure Calla remembered to tell her employees about the grazing schedule. As if she could forget.

  Henry wasn't in camp. His palomino was in the corral, munching contentedly on a flake of hay, but the bay, Lucky, was gone. Well, she didn't know what else she should have expected. When you don't get up until the day is half gone, you're bound to miss speaking to your employees before they leave for work. Except in Lester's case. She shook her head. She shouldn't make disparaging remarks about Lester anymore, she reminded herself. In three days' time, he was going to be her uncle. Uncle Lester. The idea made her laugh out loud.

  "That's a pretty sound for a man to hear all the way out here in the wilderness."

  She whirled at the sound of the strange voice. A man in a three-hundred-dollar dude outfit stood looking at her, a cup of coffee in his hands.

  "Oh, hello," she said, wary. "Who are you?" And what the hell are you doing in my cow camp?

  "Peter Fish. My friends call me Pete. You must be Calla Bishop. Pleased to meet you." He offered her his hand.

  "Where's Henry?"

  "Henry? Oh, he took off before the sun. Said last night he was going to … um … Little Sheep Flats? Is that right? Yes, Little Sheep Flats to check on a cow he saw yesterday. He said it … uh … what? Something important. She didn't have her calf with her and he needed to check it out."

  Calla took a step back. Henry must have a rifle in camp. It came with the outfit she sent up to Two Creek every summer. She hoped he didn't have it on his saddle.

  "What are you doing here?" Calla asked, buying herself a little time.

  "I stopped in to see … Henry … last night and we talked until late. He kindly offered me the extra cot. He didn't think I'd make it out in the dark."

  "You probably wouldn't have." She assessed his smooth hands and the expensive, well-pressed clothes. He obviously hadn't slept in them. Definitely not a cowboy. It got cold in the mountains at night, even in the summer. Cowboys without a good pair of long-handles would sleep in their clothes. "You're not from around here." It was a statement, not a question.

  The man laughed. "I thought I blended, but obviously I don't. Your Henry said the same thing."

  "He's not my Henry."

  The man waved his hand nonchalantly. "Whatever. Care for coffee? I made it myself, so beware."

  "No. Yes, okay. Coffee's good. I'll get a cup." She ducked behind her into the tent. The rifle. Where was it?

  "I think he took it with him," Peter Fish called casually.

  Calla grimaced. She grabbed a tin cup from the mess pack and stepped back into the sunshine.

  "Took what?"

  "The rifle. You'll have to get the one in the gun rack in your pickup if you want to shoot me."

  Calla kept her tone casual. "You read minds, Mr. Fish?"

  "Please. Don't call me Mr. Fish. It makes me sound like a cartoon character. Call me Pete." He took her cup, filled it from the pot that was simmering on the propane camp stove, and handed it back, handle first.

  "Okay, Pete, why don't you tell me who you really are, and I'll forget about the rifle."

  "I'm a friend of Henry's from California. I take it he never mentioned me?"

  "He doesn't talk a lot."

  "Strong and silent, huh?"

  "Yeah. You were saying?"

  "That's it. We're friends. We used to work together."

  "Are you a chemist?"

  "A security consultant." He took a noisy slurp of hot coffee. "I worked for the lab where Henry worked. He told you he was a chemist?"

  "Yeah."

  "Interesting."

  "He isn't one?"

  "No, he definitely is. I'm just surprised he told you."

  "It was sort of by accident. He was drunk and I believe his hormones were raging slightly." She was starting to relax. A security consultant and Henry's friend. This she could handle, even with a hangover.

  "I can believe that." Pete hooked her up and down. He shook his head a little. "I mean about the hormones. I've never actually seen him drunk."

  "Yes, well, you must not be a very good friend then. He seemed pretty good at it."

  Pete laughed. "I bet."

  "You know when he'll be back?"

  "He said for lunch."

  Calla glanced skyward. Pete watched her with undisguised interest.

  "Okay, I'll wait."

  They chatted companionably enough, busying themselves with preparing a noon meal. Calla found Henry's still-full cooler tucked carefully under a folded sleeping bag. The man kept an immaculate camp, Calla thought with satisfaction. One day here and already he had set it up so it looked—almost—like a home.

  Perched on a rock with her plate of weenies and beans, Calla heard Henry's horse long before she saw it.

  "Your friend is back," she said to Pete over a mouthful of beans.

  "Your friend," he corrected.

  Lucky trotted into camp, Henry on his back. Henry looked from Calla to Pete.

  "Hey," he said.

  "Hey," they answered in unison, and shot each other amused looks.

  Henry slowly dismounted, keeping a cautious eye on them, and loosened the cinch of his saddle.

  "What's going on?"

  "We're eating lunch," Pete said helpfully. "Would you care to join us?"

  "Yes, please—" Calla suppressed a smile "—join us."

  Henry led his horse to the corral and slapped him inside, taking off the bridle as the animal passed. He returned to Calla and Pete.

  "Considering you're eating my food, that's a gracious invitation." Henry took the extra plate Calla had dug out of his mess pack and filled it.

  "I'm almost afraid to ask what's going on here."

  "We told you, we're eating," Pete said, shoveling a huge forkful of tomatoes into his mouth.

  "Yes. Though, technically, it's my food," Calla said. "It's all very innocent."

  "Except for the sex," Pete said, pointing his fork at Calla.

  "Yes, except for the sex," she answered seriously. "I'd forgotten that part."

  Pete inclined his head. "Very flattering."

  "Stop. Calla, I'm serious. What are you doing here?"

  "That's the trouble with you, Henry. You're way too serious. Now, take your friend Pete, here…"

  "I've been taken already this morning, thank you. I'll need time to recover. I'm not as young as I used to be."

  Henry shot him a fierce glance while Calla guffawed. Pete lifted his brows in amusement. He returned with interest to his plate.

  Henry, exasperated, glared at the woman eating his food. God, she looked good. He'd missed her, which was ridiculous. He'd been gone a day. "Calla, what are you doing here?"

  "I came to tell you something."

  "What?"

  "Why do you look so tired? You've only been in camp one day. What's the matter?"

  "Nothing. What did you come up to tell me?"

  "And why didn't you tell me you had a roommate? I'm not paying him, you know." She gave Pete a once-over. "He doesn't look like he could even saddle a horse, much less ride one."

  "You wound me," Pete said mildly.

  "No offence, tinhorn."

  "None taken, cowgirl."

  "Shut up, both of you." Henry slammed his plate to the ground between his feet and stood up. "Calla, tell me what you came to tell me."

  "But you told me to shut up," she said meekly. Pete snorted with pleasure.

  Henry raked his hand through his hair.

  "Okay, okay. Seriously though, Henry, your friends are a lot more fun than you are. I was just saying that, was
n't I, Pete?"

  "Calla."

  "Oh, all right. Lester and Helen are getting married. Sunday afternoon. You're invited."

  "You're kidding."

  "My sentiments exactly. But, no, I'm not kidding. Apparently the events of night before last compelled Lester to make an honest woman of her."

  "What events?" Pete asked curiously.

  "Well, I employ this rummy old cowboy, and he apparently has fallen madly in love with…"

  "Calla. That's enough." Henry gave his friend a severe stare. "Pete knows everything he needs to know about this operation. I believe he was leaving anyway."

  "Henry, don't be so rude." She smiled at Pete. "My hired man here has no manners. I apologize."

  "Accepted, dear lady."

  "God help me," Henry said to the sky.

  "And—" Calla ignored Henry and continued "—since this camp and the surrounding property belongs to me and not to this summer rider here, please feel welcome to stay as long as you like." She got up from the chair, fully the mistress of the castle—such as it was—and set down her plate. "You'll have to do the dishes, summer rider. I'm going up to Little Sheep to check on a cow."

  "Dammit, Calla, you know I already did that."

  "Well, one can never be sure when one is dealing with summer riders who also happen to be doctors of stuff, can one? Peter Fish, it has been lovely meeting you."

  "And you," Pete said, rising to his feet. He bowed deeply, which cracked Calla up again.

  "Hell," Henry muttered. He glared again at Pete. The other man just grinned.

  "Henry, please." Calla's eyes sparkled. "Watch your language." She looked helplessly over her shoulder at Pete. "He has a tendency toward bad language."

  "I've noticed. Goodbye, Calla. See you around."

  Henry brushed past Pete to follow Calla to her pickup. "The hell you will," he hissed at him.

  Calla climbed in and started the truck. She leaned out the window.

  "I don't know what time Sunday."

  "Calla, you don't have to go to Little Sheep. I picked up the cow and calf this morning and took 'em over to Pole Creek."

  "I know. I was just teasing."

  He locked at her thoughtfully. "You didn't come all the way out here just to tell me about Lester and Helen, did you?"

  "They asked me to."

  "Oh."

  "Henry?"

  "What?"

  "Who is Pete?"

  "Someone with whom I once worked."

  "That's what he said."

  "You don't believe it?"

  She looked over at Pete, who was stacking plates and scraping out the bean pot onto the ground.

  "I'm not sure. He's not like you."

  "Is that good or bad?"

  "It's just the truth."

  "Well, I'm telling you the truth, too. Pete is someone from my old job."

  "But that's not all he is. A person can tell only part of the truth and call it the whole truth, can't he, Henry?"

  Henry narrowed his eyes at her. "Just drop it, Calla. It isn't important."

  "I guess not." She eased off the brake. "See you Sunday."

  "Calla."

  "What, Henry? I've got to get back."

  "What did you really come all this way to tell me? Lester was planning to come up tomorrow anyway to bring me the dogs."

  She had known that. So why did she come? "Clark and I are getting married."

  Boom. He was going to have to start wearing a chest protector around this lady. Married?

  He was surprised to hear his own voice. It was calm and smooth, while his breath caught and his stomach roiled. "Well—" he gave her arm a little squeeze "—congratulations. I'm sure you'll be very … solvent."

  "You jerk."

  "Yeah, well, I call 'em as I see 'em." He hit the side of the truck with the flat palm of his big hand. It sounded like a gunshot. "Drive safe."

  She gave him a shattering glare and floored the old pickup. He had to step back to keep from going under the spinning back tire.

  Henry turned to Pete, who was watching him with narrowed eyes.

  "You got a serious problem here, Mitch."

  "Shut up, Pete. Shut up and get out."

  "If anybody finds out how you feel about that little cowgirl, you're dead meat."

  Henry crossed the distance between them and grabbed his friend by the silver coyote bolo tie around his thick neck.

  "If anybody finds out about Calla, period, I'll hunt you down, Pete, I swear it." He twisted the coyote. Pete's eyes bugged slightly, but otherwise the man gave no indication of the discomfort Henry knew he must have felt. "I haven't forgotten everything you taught me."

  Pete shook his head. "We've got you by the short ones, pal. And you know it."

  Henry released his grip.

  "Hell."

  "You better come in where we can protect you."

  "I'm not going through that again, Pete." Henry closed his eyes tightly and tipped back his head. He wanted to howl with frustration. "I'll protect myself."

  "What about Calla?"

  "I'll protect her, too."

  "Not if she gets married."

  Henry's fists clenched involuntarily.

  Pete chuckled softly. "You're in bigger trouble than I thought. If they find out, they'll take her out. Either side, Mitch. You know that. It's too important."

  "I'll protect her. You just keep your mouth shut. Or I swear to God, Pete, I will kill you. You forget, I know just who is important to you, too, Pete."

  Pete raised a hand in surrender. "No more threats. I like that long-haired cowgirl. If I didn't think you'd rip my spine out, I'd probably try to seduce her myself."

  "Keep that in mind. The spine thing."

  "I will."

  Pete walked to his rented Jeep and climbed in. "Be careful, Mitch."

  "What are you going to put in your report?"

  "That I found you, nearly incoherent from stress, living like a hermit on a desert mountaintop in the middle of nowhere." Pete jerked the Jeep into Reverse. "It's the truth, after all."

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  « ^ »

  Henry sipped on a plastic cup filled with lemonade and watched the milling crowd at Helen and Lester's wedding reception. The morning had started out cloudy, but by the time the wedding began, the sun had burned off the cover and was shining bright and strong on the heads of the crowd gathered in Calla's front yard. Paradisians had turned out en masse, wearing their best summer dresses, starchiest cowboy shirts, cleanest Stetsons. Helen, in a light pink dress that matched the roses in her pudgy cheeks, looked adorable. And Lester, in a shiny new Western-cut suit, looked like he was going to vomit. Until he saw Helen. Then he looked perfectly happy. Nearly handsome.

  Calla had gone into the house to fetch more food. The buffet table—three long church tables jammed together and covered with white butcher paper—was already bowing under the weight of a hundred covered dishes and steaming casseroles and Jell-O salads in every hue of the rainbow. This town could really throw a potluck, Henry mused.

  He watched Calla bring a plate of sliced tomatoes, seeds spilling red and green, across the lawn to the table. She wore a silky green dress with skinny straps across her shoulders and a skirt that flounced around her legs at midthigh. He'd never seen anything quite so feminine and alluring in all his life, Henry decided.

  A man stopped her—Henry recognized him from the hardware store in Paradise—and whispered something into her ear. She laughed, her head thrown back to expose her soft throat.

  Children buzzed around her skirt, begging for the handouts she promptly gave. Women teased, men swooped her into their arms. He was foolish to think he had to protect this woman, he thought. She had a town full of people watching out for her.

  Why then, had they let Dartmouth near her? He searched the crowd. Dartmouth was huddled almost on top of a plain, short man with a mustache and a beer gut. They spoke for a minute, then Dartmouth disentangled himself abruptly
and walked toward Helen and Lester, who were holding court on two white plastic chairs in the center of the lawn, their hands linked together like teenagers.

  Dartmouth came from behind and kissed the air next to Helen's cheek and clamped a manly hand on Lester's shoulder. Helen's bright smile became forced, and Lester leaned as far away from the familiar gesture as he could without falling from his chair. Dartmouth appeared oblivious to their discomfort.

  Henry took another sip of lemonade. The air around him smelled slightly of Calla. Soap, sweat, sex.

  "Hey."

  She was standing next to him, watching idly as Dartmouth chatted with the happy couple. She had a glass of iced tea in her hand and she looked flushed from heat and excitement.

  "Hey." She looked so pretty, and without thinking, he slipped his arm around her waist and leaned to kiss her lightly on the cheek. It seemed a perfectly natural thing to do. This was a wedding, after all. Calla offered her cheek and then stepped from his arms.

  "You find those three pair on lower Pole Creek?" Her voice was businesslike, but Henry wondered at the additional color that had come to her face. "I got a call from the BLM about 'em yesterday."

  "I found them down by the old Kendell shack. Moved them to the upper field yesterday afternoon."

  "Great. Lester bring up the salt?" She kept her gaze firmly planted on her aunt and her new uncle. Clark was still hovering, the devoted nephew.

  "Yes, Friday."

  "Good."

  A small silence.

  "Are you still mad at me?" Henry asked into his lemonade cup.

  "Was I mad at you?"

  "I'm sorry about what I said. I hope you'll be very happy. I saw the announcement."

  "Turned out nice, didn't it?"

  "It was … fancy."

  "Yeah." She smiled sheepishly and chanced a glance up at him. "That was Clark's idea. He wanted to make sure everyone noticed it. You think the border was too much? I thought the border was too much."

  "I noticed it," he said noncommittally.

  "Oh. Well, good."

  They stood together in silence another minute. People patted Calla and greeted Henry curiously as they passed, but no one joined them.

  "You look nice in that dress."

  "Thanks. You clean up pretty good yourself."

  "Thank you. I like your hair like that."