Santa In Montana (13 page)

Outside, Sloan settled Jake in his car seat, then slid behind the wheel. As she reached to pull the door shut, she glanced to make sure Chase was safely in. With the brightness of the overhead light fully illuminating his craggy features, she noticed for the first time how haggard and worn-out he looked. The discovery brought a sudden attack of conscience.

“I'm sorry, Chase. I should have checked to see if you wanted to leave earlier.” She had grown too used to Cat being the one who kept an eye on him.

“No problem. In fact it was a bit of welcome change not to have Cat worrying over me all evening.” When Sloan started to speak, Chase waved off her words. “I know. She means well.”

Sloan chose to lightly chide him. “A man who doesn't mind a woman fussing over him? Now that is a surprise.”

Chase grunted an amused response, then said in all seriousness, “She has too many good years left to waste them on me.”

“I'm sure Cat doesn't think they're wasted.”

Chase made no reply to that. In fact he said nothing more during the short drive from the barn to the Homestead. He was already at the front steps by the time Sloan had gotten Jake out of the car seat. She hurried to catch up with him, then held the door for him.

She hesitated in the foyer and cast an uncertain glance at him when he stopped to shrug out of his coat. “Is there anything I can get you before I take Jake upstairs?”

“No. In fact I'm heading straight to bed myself.” He lifted his coat onto a hook, then collected the cane he had propped against the wall. “See you in the morning, Jake.”

“See ya,” Jake mumbled.

Sloan deliberately took her time crossing to the oak staircase, her ears tuned to the sounds of Chase's cane as he made his way to his bedroom in the west wing. The rhythm remained steady, assuring her that he needed no assistance from her.

In the bedroom, Jake stirred sufficiently to give her some help changing out of his clothes and into his pajamas. He sat motionless on the edge of the bed while she pulled back the covers. Rather clumsily Jake rolled over and slid under the sheets.

“Isn't Dad coming?” he asked in a halfhearted attempt to stave off the inevitable. “Maybe I should wait.”

“I don't think he'll mind if I tuck you in instead of him,” Sloan assured him. “He'll be up to tell you good night though. Would you like me to read you a story while we wait for him?”

“Yeah.” He nodded, then abruptly threw the covers back. “I forgot to say my prayers.”

“While you do that, I'll get your book.”

Sloan walked over to the bookshelf and selected his favorite story, smiling to herself while she listened to the familiar—and somehow comfortable—words of his prayer. “Now I lay me down to sleep.” He finished by asking blessings for each member of the family, said his “Amen” and started to rise, then knelt hastily again. “I forgot. God, please don't let Josh break any of my toys when he comes. Amen.” After he crawled back under the covers, he gave her a worried, “It's alright to ask God for that, isn't it?”

“I'm sure He won't mind.” Sloan sat on the edge of the bed and opened the storybook.

As she expected, his eyes drifted shut before she was halfway through it. When she closed the book on the last page, Jake was sound asleep. She adjusted the covers around his slender body and lightly kissed the top of his head, whispering a “Good night, sweetie.” A term he would have been horrified by if he was awake to hear it.

Sloan made a noiseless retreat from the room, switched off the light, leaving only the soft glow of a night-light in the room, and pulled the door partway shut.

The stillness of the Homestead moved over her as she descended the staircase. The easy quiet was a welcome change after the hubbub of the barn. With Chase in the house, Sloan knew she was free to return to the barn, but she decided to wait for Trey.

She was halfway into the living room when her glance strayed to the doorway of the darkened den. She stopped, remembering the glimpse she'd had of the open checkbook and Chase's hand poised over it, and Wade seated by the desk. All those unanswered questions came rushing back. Sloan tried to convince herself none of it was any of her business. But curiosity got the better of her.

She crossed to the den, started to flip on the light, then darted a guilty look in the direction of Chase's bedroom. The hall was dark, no sliver of light showing beneath his door. Before she got cold feet, she hit the switch, flooding the room with light.

At the desk, she opened two drawers before she found the one that contained his checkbook. She laid it on the desk and flipped through the stubs to the last page.

Just as she suspected, the last check had been made payable to Wade Rogers. Her fingertip slid across the stub and came to a stop on the amount.

One hundred thousand dollars.

Numb with shock, Sloan could only stare at the number, unable to believe what she was seeing. Her thoughts raced, searching for some reason that might justify it. She never heard the front door open—or the approach of footsteps. She didn't know Trey was in the house until he spoke from the doorway.

“What are you doing in here, Sloan?”

She looked up in surprise, but the guilt she might have felt earlier at being caught snooping was completely overwhelmed by her discovery.

“You need to see this, Trey,” she insisted.

“See what?” His gaze narrowed, sharp with disapproval and challenge.

Belatedly she registered the displeasure in his expression, and the veiled accusation in his look. She didn't flinch from either. “Earlier today your grandfather wrote a check to Wade Rogers in the amount of one hundred thousand dollars.” She enunciated the number with slow emphasis.

As much as Trey tried to conceal it, Sloan could tell that he was taken aback by the size of the figure.

Almost hesitant, he walked over to the desk and looked at the stub for himself. He didn't immediately say anything. Sloan filled the silence instead.

“The other check he gave Wade, it seemed logical to think it was a donation. Even a political contribution. But a hundred thousand dollars, Trey. That's an alarming amount. Even you must realize that.”

“It does raise questions.” But Trey's admission was a grudging one. “It still doesn't change the fact that the check was drawn on Chase's personal account. He doesn't have to answer to me—or anyone else—about how he chooses to spend his money.”

Unable to argue with that, Sloan said, “I'm just thinking about the stories you hear of the elderly being targeted by scam artists.”

“You think Rogers is a scam artist?” Trey seemed more amused by the possibility than suspicious.

“We don't really know anything except what we've been told—either by Chase or Wade himself. I think we should check into his background. Make sure he is who he claims to be.”

Trey dismissed the suggestion with a negative shake of his head. “Old and occasionally forgetful, Gramps might be, but he's still sharp enough to see through any confidence trick.” He closed the checkbook with a decisive firmness. “Right now we're going to put this away and forget we ever saw that stub.”

Sloan looked at him aghast. “How can we?”

He returned the checkbook to its drawer, then lightly gripped her shoulders and squared her around to face him. “When I first saw you in here, I was more than a little angry that you'd been snooping. Then I realized you did it out of genuine concern. That makes me proud you care that much. It's one more thing I love about you.”

As pleased as Sloan was to know that he understood her motives, she knew when she was being manipulated. “You're trying to change the subject.”

“I almost succeeded.” A smile played at the corners of his mouth. “I know, come Monday morning, you're going to be tempted to call one of your lawyers and have them run a background check on Rogers. I want you to give me your word that you won't do that. At least, not yet.”

“But, Trey—” she began in protest.

“There could be a very legitimate reason for a check this size,” he reasoned. “For now, I just want to watch and wait. Agree?”

Sloan hesitated, then realized much of his reluctance stemmed from his refusal to believe that age had in any way diminished his grandfather's abilities. His whole life he had looked up to Chase. Trey couldn't bring himself to think that he might have become any less of a man—and definitely without more evidence.

“I agree,” Sloan promised. “I won't do or say anything unless something else happens.”

“It won't.” He slid an arm around her shoulders and gathered her to his side. “Let's go upstairs and check on that son of ours.”

After Marsha Kelly cleared away their dinner plates, Wade glanced across the table at Cat. “You were right. The steak was delicious.”

“So was mine, though there was more of it than I could eat.”

“Blame it on the nachos,” he told her, then glanced toward the small dance floor near the bar area where a couple was doing a spirited two step. They ended the song with a flourish.

“They were good,” Wade observed, and added ruefully, “I don't think I could do it that well.”

Cat laughed softly. “You don't have to be perfect. Just follow the music.”

He chuckled. “And you follow me?”

“Something like that.”

He got up and extended a hand to her. “Then may I have this dance?”

“Yes.” She rose from her chair, feeling as giddy as if she'd been drinking champagne and not a plain old Coke.

Wade warmly clasped the hand she placed in his, leading her to the dance floor without another word. There were three couples on it now, moving through the last steps of a cowboy waltz. The jukebox, a vintage machine with actual records, made faint mechanical noises as the song that was playing ended and another began.

“Uh-oh.” He laughed. “Is that swing or polka?”

“I'm not sure. We can improvise.” She didn't care what the music was. Being in his arms felt wonderful. “I think a polka is a half skip and then a slide,” she murmured. “But whatever you do, keep moving.”

He took a deep breath and clasped her waist, lifting her hand high with his as he whirled her across the floor. She was breathless with the rush of moving to the exhilarating melody, laughing as she looked up at him.

Wade grinned, concentrating on leading her and not crashing into anyone else. From what she could see, none of the other couples seemed exactly expert either but they were doing their best. A few yips and hollers punctuated the music as the tune ended.

One couple left the floor for their table and the lights dimmed a bit as the next record came on. Mercifully slow, the first notes of a romantic song drifted out.

“That's more like it,” Wade said softly. “Put your head on my shoulder.”

She did. And she closed her eyes. If it turned out that all she would have was one night with him, being held like this was something she would always remember.

Keeping her close, moving easily, he danced with her as if he had always known her. Cat relaxed in his embrace, pliant and yielding, pleasurably aware of Wade's supple strength. Despite his initial demurrals, his lead was so natural that following him was effortless.

Dreamily, she lifted her head to look up at him and her breath caught when she saw the tenderness in his eyes. Her lips parted in surprise and he took his chance. Wade's mouth claimed hers for only a few seconds, but she found the discreet pressure of his lips overwhelmingly sensual.

With a little gasp, she broke the kiss and glanced around. No one had noticed. The only other couple left on the floor were lost in their own romantic world too.

Cat put her head back on his shoulder to hide her excited confusion. Wade made no protest, only rested his chin on the top of her hair, moving her through the last steps and final notes of a song she had never heard before but was never going to forget.

It ended.

“Shall we sit down?” he said softly.

Reluctantly, Cat gave a slight nod, brushing her cheek against the fine material of his shirt, breathing in a faint but intoxicating fragrance that was a mix of warm man and good soap.

She moved apart from him with a sigh, holding onto his hand but not daring to look into his eyes until her heart stopped racing. The intimate dance had dissolved her last shreds of reserve. It would be easy to make a fool of herself over someone like Wade Rogers. And so enjoyable.

A neon-rimmed clock on the wall caught his eye. “Hell. It's almost ten-fifteen,” he muttered. He didn't sit down when they reached their table, but turned to her. “Cat, as much as I don't want the evening to end, I do have to catch a very early flight in the morning. I need to get you back to the ranch right about now.”

“Oh. Are you—staying at a hotel in Miles City tonight?” Disappointment washed over her. She tried not to show it.

“I checked in before I drove to the ranch,” Wade told her.

Cat picked up her purse. Marsha had already cleared away their glasses and plates. Wade opened his wallet and tossed down two bills that more than covered their tab. “Ready to go?” he asked.

“As soon as I get my coat.” She kept her tone light.

The drive back to the Triple C seemed painfully short to Cat. When they arrived at the ranch headquarters, they saw plenty of vehicles parked at the old barn, indicating the party was still in full swing. An old hay-wagon, mounded with loose straw, rolled past them, drawn by a shaggy-coated team of draft horses. Several couples were snuggled together in the straw pile, mindless of the night air's chill.

“A hayride,” Wade said with amusement. “Looks like fun. I wish we had more time.”

We
. The single word made Cat feel wistful and already alone. He drove closer to the house and parked, getting out and coming around to her side of the car to assist her.

Without saying a word, he walked her up the steps to the front door. The porch light was awfully bright after the comforting darkness of his rented car. When she looked up, his gaze locked with hers. She desperately wanted what she saw in their depths—a steady fire that hinted at strong emotion. He took her arm and drew her aside into the shadows, cupping one strong hand to her cheek and bending down to kiss her.

She wanted that even more. His lips were firm and the searching tenderness of his tongue stirred her. Wade sighed when he stopped, sliding his hand around her neck in a sensual caress. “That was our second kiss.”

“Do we have to count them?” she murmured.

“No.” He gazed down at her. “I was just thinking that a first kiss can be so awkward.” Ever so briefly, he touched his lips to hers before she could say anything. “But ours wasn't.”

She drew in a ragged breath, not able to reply.

“If you don't mind my saying so, I suspect it's been a while for you. Like dancing. Am I right?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

He drew her into an open embrace. “I have to tell you something. I'm honored that I got that chance. You really are a beautiful woman, Cat.”

“You certainly make me feel like one,” she admitted.

“I'm coming back,” he said softly. “I should make it before Christmas.”

“That's not far away.”

“No, it isn't,” Wade replied. “As long as I don't get tripped up by delays or unforeseen problems, it should be doable.”

Trembling under her warm coat, Cat tipped up her face to his, knowing what they both wanted. His last kiss was passionate.

Again, he was the one who broke it off, stroking her cheek in a final caress. “Wait for me,” he said.

Cat nodded and watched him go.

 

The Sunday morning sunlight blazed through the windows, but there wasn't much warmth in it. The others were in the dining room when Cat made a belated entrance, attempting to be invisible. But Trey looked up.

“Morning, Aunt Cat,” he said cheerfully and pushed a platter of eggs and sausage over to her when she sat down. “Everything's still hot, including the coffee.”

She smiled at him. “Thanks, but I'll just have some toast, I think.”

Trey passed that plate too. “Here you go.”

Cat selected a slice and buttered it, nibbling a corner as she looked around at the extended family. Her father was at the head of the table, studying the commodities reports in Friday's newspapers, his half-glasses way down on his nose. The local and national newspapers got to the ranch a day or so late as a rule, but that didn't bother him. He'd finished his breakfast and had one hand curved around a refill of coffee.

Trey leaned back in his chair, in no hurry to leave. He draped an arm over the back of his wife's chair and lightly rubbed the nape of Sloan's neck, easing a hand under the high, draped collar of her hand-knit sweater to do it.

Seeing the ease and familiarity of his idle caress, Cat felt a pang of loneliness. Wade was right. It had been too long.

Briskly, she poured herself a half-cup of coffee and ate the last few bites of her toast. Jessy entered at that moment with a fresh pot in hand. “Oh—hello, Cat. I thought that one was nearly empty. Here's more if you need it.” She set the second carafe down.

“Thanks. I do,” Cat said.

Jessy settled into a chair opposite her and tackled a slice of toast herself before she spoke again. “So,” she said, “did you and Wade enjoy yourselves last night?”

“Yes, we went to Blue Moon and had dinner at Kelly's. We did stay at the party long enough to see the Christmas program,” Cat replied. “I thought the kids did a wonderful job.”

Jake piped up, “Did you see me, Aunt Cat?”

“I certainly did. And I thought your performance was excellent.” She laughed.

“Thanks.” He beamed at the praise.

“Did Wade mention anything about when he might be able to come back?” Jessy asked, returning to the previous subject.

Cat knew that dodging questions would only lead to more questions. “He hopes to make it before Christmas,” she admitted.

Sloan's head snapped up. “So soon,” she blurted, then darted a quick glance at Trey.

He acted as if he hadn't heard either of their comments. “Did you still need me to give you a hand to bring those quilts down?”

“What quilts?” Jessy asked curiously.

Accepting Trey's deft change of subject, knowing that he didn't want any of her suspicions about Wade to become known, Sloan explained, “I found a motherlode of handmade quilts in an attic closet the other day. There was a dresser blocking it. When I moved it, there they were. Some signed and dated in embroidery thread. The oldest was from 1910 and the newest is from 1939.”

“I think I know the ones you mean,” Jessy said slowly. “They were all made here.”

Trey intervened. “Not a problem. They're in our bedroom right now and they could use a good airing.”

“We could string clotheslines in the laundry room for that,” Cat suggested. “And with those bright overheads, we could see if they need mending. They must after all that time in the attic.”

“I thought they'd make an ideal backdrop for a family picture. I'd like to photograph all of us in front of them, especially the kids.”

“That's a great idea, Sloan,” Cat said.

“I thought so,” Sloan replied. “Come on, Trey. Let's go get them.”

“I can help,” Jake declared and scrambled off his chair to hurry after them.

 

“Have you heard from Laredo lately?” Jessy directed her question at Chase and took a sip of coffee.

“Not for a couple days.” Chase tipped his head down to peer at Jessy over his half-rimmed glasses. “Why?”

“Just curious.” She shrugged, then admitted, “He hasn't called me, and every time I try his cell phone, it goes straight to voice mail.”

“Feeling a little neglected, are you?” Chase observed in half gest, then shook out the folds of his paper again. “I promise he hasn't forgotten you.”

“I never thought that for one minute, and you know it,” she retorted.

“He's probably ignoring your messages so he doesn't accidentally let it slip where he is or what he's doing,” Chase told her. “Christmas is just around the corner, you know.”

“Speaking of Christmas.” Jessy downed a final swallow of coffee and pushed her chair back from the table. “That reminds me I have a couple presents upstairs that need to be wrapped before it's time to get ready for church.”

Halfway up the stairs, she met Trey and Sloan on their way down, each carrying a large armload of old quilts. Jessy pressed close to the railing so they would have enough room to pass. The folded fabric brushed her arm as they moved by single file, the contact unleashing that musty, dusty smell of something that had been stored away for years.

“Whew!” She waved a hand in front of her nose, trying to dispel the strong odor. “Those need a good airing.”

“Tell me about it,” Trey muttered in absolute agreement. “We'd better put them in the living room,” he told Sloan. “We don't want to ruin somebody's breakfast.”

Trey dumped his armful on the sofa cushions and left the task of separating them to Sloan. Cat came to give her a hand. She held up the first one and studied its intricate stitching.

“I'm so glad you found these, Sloan,” she murmured. “It makes me wonder what else is stashed up there that we've forgotten all about.”

Sloan shook out another quilt, then nodded to the one Cat held. “Did you see? That one is signed and dated.”

“Millicent Clyde, December 1931,” Cat read. “Finished in winter obviously, when she was housebound.”

Sloan traced a finger over the embroidered name. “So long ago. Would your dad have known who she was?”

“Maybe,” Cat replied. “Judy Niles certainly would've known.”

Sloan nodded thoughtfully. “I think Millicent would be happy to know that her handiwork has lasted this long.”

“Back then, everything had to,” Cat said and quoted the old saying, “‘Use it up, wear it out. Make it last or do without.' Being a ranch hand's wife wasn't the easiest life back in the day.”

The thumping of a cane announced Chase's arrival. “What are you two doing?” Entering the room, Chase shot a glance at the stack of quilts and the unfolded patchwork. “Oh. Those quilts.” He came over for a closer look.

“See any of your shirts here, Chase?” Sloan said in a lightly teasing voice and held out a quilt for his inspection.

He looked at the date she showed him. “No. And my shirts aren't that old,” he said gruffly.