Page 2 of Calder Strong (The Calder Brand #5)
Chase’s handshake was firm. After the passing of his father, Webb, he’d taken control of the biggest ranch in the state of Montana.
His ascendancy showed in his bearing, his confidence, and the air of entitlement that came with the Calder name.
Like his father and grandfather before him, Chase was Calder strong and Calder rich. He wore his power like a crown.
They exchanged a few polite words. Joseph thanked him for coming and watched him walk away.
Their meeting had been cordial enough. But despite Chase’s handshake and consoling words, Joseph could be sure of one thing.
The rivalry between the Calders and the Dollarhides hadn’t changed and probably never would.
For years to come, perhaps for the rest of their lives, the two boyhood friends were destined to be rivals.
Midsummer, five weeks later
Joseph stood on the porch of the sprawling log home that had sheltered his family for three generations.
Gauzy clouds drifted over the full moon, casting shadows that flowed like water across the yard.
Insects chirped and droned in the darkness.
Bats darted and dived, catching their prey in midair.
From somewhere down the wooded slope, the call of a coyote quivered on the night breeze.
The house was silent, as if the accident had sucked the life of what had once been a home.
Hannah and Elsa had been the happy members of the family, chatting, laughing, and singing as they went about their day.
Now, memories lurked like ghosts in empty rooms and shadowed corners. Even the air felt dead.
Joseph’s hands rested on the porch rail, his calloused fingertips finding the old chisel marks left from the shaping of the wood.
Joseph’s grandfather had built the house on the crest of a high bluff with a panoramic view of the family empire—the barns, sheds, corrals, and the bunk house, the pastures teeming with white-and-red Hereford cattle, and at the foot of the bluff, the sawmill.
The Dollarhide sawmill had spread into the pastureland like an ever-growing fungus.
A convoluted maze of logs, stacked boards, sheds, machinery, and mountains of sawdust, the mill was ugly even by moonlight.
But the demand for lumber had contributed greatly to the Dollarhide fortune as well as provided jobs for more than twenty men.
Joseph had grown up hating the scream of saw blades, the gritty air, and the vile yellow sawdust that coated everything, even the sweating men and the huge, gentle draft horses that pulled the logs.
As a youngster, he’d vowed that when he grew up to be the boss, he would close the mill, maybe sell it to someone who would cart everything away, and let the land go back to nature.
As a man, he knew that wasn’t going to happen, especially now that he had no choice.
It would be up to him to carry on his father’s legacy.
The mill was a vital part of that legacy.
Blake Dollarhide had devoted his life to providing for his family, both the present and future generations.
Under his stewardship, the Dollarhide holdings had more than tripled in value.
But at what cost? Joseph had never known his father to take a vacation or to spend money on any unnecessary pleasure, not even a nice car.
He had the money. He could have bought a DeSoto, a Packard, or any other auto that caught his fancy.
But he’d insisted that the family’s eight-year-old Model T was good enough for a sensible man like him.
He had been driving that car when it left the road and crashed.
As if thinking of Blake could summon him, Joseph heard the rumble of wheels crossing the darkened parlor.
His father had been home for almost three weeks.
A young orderly had been hired to help him around and see to his needs.
But despite being in considerable pain, Blake refused to rest. He was pushing his limits, denying his grief, and fighting to prove that he was the man he’d always been.
Using his powerful arms and gritting his teeth against the pain, he’d managed to drag himself from the bed to his wheelchair.
Now, on his own, he could go anywhere on the main floor of the house, at any hour.
Joseph turned toward the sound, then checked himself. He had learned the hard way not to offer help. Instead, he waited for his father to come to him.
The wheelchair rolled out onto the porch and stopped beside him at the rail. Blake had made it on his own, driving the large wheels forward with his hands. “Shouldn’t you be resting, Dad?” Blake asked. “It’s after midnight.”
“Can’t sleep. Too much going on in my head. How about you?”
“The same, I guess.” Joseph knew that his father was grieving. But Blake had scarcely mentioned the loss of his wife and daughter, choosing to keep his emotions locked inside. It was his way of being a man, and he expected the same of his son.
“I’ve been worried about the mill,” Blake said. “The men are good workers, but if you don’t check the quality of every board that goes on those wagons, things can get slipshod, and the next thing you know, you’re losing customers. Are you spending enough time there?”
“I was there most of the morning yesterday.” Joseph spoke the truth. “Everything was fine.”
“What about that big order for the new warehouse in Miles City? Will the first batch of lumber be ready on time?”
“Yes, everything’s on schedule,” Joseph said. “I checked on the cattle, too. Coyotes got one of the calves in the upper pasture. I had to fire the cowboy who went to sleep on the job and let it happen. You could use a dog or two up there. I know a man in town who’s got some pups for sale.”
“I don’t want no damn dogs. Just more mouths to feed. And you can’t trust ’em. First thing you know, they’ll go rogue and start killing stock on their own.” The gritty undertone in Blake’s voice told Joseph his father was speaking through excruciating pain. But Blake would never own up to that.
This would be no time for Joseph to mention his work with Logan’s horses.
While his father was in the hospital, he’d stolen enough time to finish breaking the bay colt.
But there were more colts waiting and no time to spare.
Logan would have to do the work himself.
For now, maybe even forever, Joseph’s dream would have to wait.
Gazing out past the porch, into the moonlit darkness, Joseph could see across the distant pastures to where a crude dirt road cut across the open country.
The road, which from here looked as thin as a pencil line, connected the Dollarhide and Hunter ranches.
From there it meandered through a scatter of dirt farms before joining with the road to town.
Something was moving along that road—a distant speck of light that became a pair of headlamps before taking a cutoff and disappearing in the dark.
“Looks like moonshiners,” Joseph said. Smuggling illegally brewed liquor was nothing new in these parts.
It had been going on since the passage of the Volstead Act in 1919.
When one moonshiner died or got arrested, others would show up to take his place.
For the most part, law-abiding folks had learned to look the other way.
“Do you think Mason’s up to his old tricks?” Blake rarely mentioned his half-brother and their painful past. “You’d think five years in prison would cure a man. But I know for a fact he went back to smuggling after he got out.”
“What Mason does is no concern of ours.” Joseph and his teenage friends had been caught up in Mason’s first bootlegging operation.
When their involvement had almost gotten the boys killed, Joseph had cut all ties to his natural father.
Mason was married now and had supposedly gone straight. But Joseph would never trust him again.
The two men had fallen silent. Joseph could almost feel the pain in each labored breath his father took. Blake had broken ribs in addition to his spinal injuries. The healing would take time.
Joseph was about to suggest that they go back inside and go to bed when Blake cleared his throat and spoke.
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to say. After the accident, I thought it might be too soon. But I’ve waited long enough.”
“I’m listening.” Joseph braced himself for bad news. What else could it be?
“I’ve spent my life building a legacy for this family,” Blake said. “Not just for now, but for future generations of Dollarhides. Now I’ve begun to wonder where those generations are going to come from or whether they’ll even exist.
“Your mother, rest her sweet soul, was still young. I’d always hoped we might have more children. But now …”
The words choked off his throat. Joseph waited for him to recover and go on, even though he could already sense where this conversation was leading.
“Now Elsa’s gone, and Annie won’t be raising her children on this ranch.
Frank’s a mining engineer. He can’t make a living here.
As for me, there’s no chance of my marrying again.
What woman would have me? And why even think about it, when I can’t …
” He let the words trail off, though his meaning was clear enough.
“Aunt Kristin has two boys,” Joseph volunteered.
“They have their own place, damn it. Besides, they don’t have the Dollarhide name.” He twisted his head to fix Joseph with a stern gaze. “The future of the Dollarhide family is going to depend on you, Joseph.”
“Uh, Dad you know—”
“Of course, I know.” Blake cut him off almost angrily. “Your children won’t be my direct descendants. But they’ll be a direct line from Joe Dollarhide. They’ll have the name, and the boys will carry it on.”
Joseph had sensed that this was coming. Still, he felt as if he’d been struck by a cannonball.
At twenty-four, he’d been enjoying a carefree bachelorhood, doing what he pleased, romancing any girl or woman who caught his fancy, bedding the ones who were willing and knew the score.
Someday, he’d take a wife, but only when he found the right one.
Meanwhile, there was no reason to rush. Now all that was about to change.
“It’s time you lived up to your responsibility, Joseph,” Blake said. “There are plenty of single girls in Blue Moon. Pick a nice, fertile one, get married, and start filling this empty house with little Dollarhides! That’s an order!”