Page 26 of Calder Strong (The Calder Brand #5)

A S J OSEPH DROVE OUT OF B LUE M OON, THE MEMORY OF F RAN CINE ’ S kiss lingered like a pleasant buzz in his brain. But with the lights of Main Street fading behind him, his hot blood began to cool, allowing him to think.

He’d kissed his share of girls and women—enough to learn a thing or two. Experience had taught him that some kisses were polite, some playful. Some were lustful and some, the most precious kind, came from genuine love. Then there was another kind of kiss—cold, calculating, and manipulative.

Which kind of kiss had he experienced tonight?

Francine’s kiss had been expertly delivered. His response had been pure male nature. He’d enjoyed the pulse-pounding rush. But the pleasure had been purely physical—as much for her as for him, Joseph suspected.

Blake was pushing him to marry and continue the dynasty.

But an urgent choice could lead to lifelong misery.

He thought of Annabeth and the marriage she tolerated for the sake of her children.

He ached for her, knowing he was partly to blame for her choice.

But there was nothing he could do to change her situation.

He could only try to make a better decision for himself.

Francine was beautiful, cultured, and gracious.

Falling in love with her could still happen.

But he wouldn’t be rushed by his father or by anyone else.

If Francine was agreeable, he would continue to enjoy her company.

But he would put off anything like a proposal until he was sure of his feelings and hers.

Joseph was still lost in thought when he heard an ominous thump and felt the car sag toward the right rear wheel.

He groaned out loud as he pulled onto the roadside and turned off the engine.

There was no such thing as a good time to get a flat tire.

But at least he had a spare bolted onto the back of the car and a jack in the trunk.

He found the flashlight in the glove box and turned it on. The switch clicked, but there was no light from the bulb. Joseph shook the flashlight, whacked it on his knee, and tried the switch again. Nothing.

How long had it been since he’d changed the batteries? The last time he’d used the flashlight was the night he’d found Silas in the bullet-riddled truck. The light had worked then. But it wasn’t working now.

Grumbling, he climbed out of the car and walked around to the other side. Clouds had drifted across the crescent moon. In the near pitch darkness, his eyes could make out the tire. It was so badly blown that the rim rested on the ground.

He could try changing the tire in the dark. But he’d be working blind. And if he happened to drop something, like a nut or a bolt, it could be lost for good.

By his reckoning, he was about three miles from the house, an easy distance on foot.

The wise course of action would be to walk home and have Patches, or one of the mill workers, drive him back to the car in the morning.

Otherwise, he could be here all night. And that wouldn’t be a good idea.

He needed to be home to look after his father.

After taking the keys and locking the doors—not that anyone would steal the disabled auto—he set off walking along the familiar road. Even with the steep climb up the switchbacks at the end, Joseph figured he’d be home in less than an hour.

The night was cool, the breeze a fragrant whisper in the pines. An owl swooped past his head and landed a stone’s toss away. There was a flurry of sound as it closed on its prey in the dark.

From the switchback road that zigzagged up the bluff, he looked down on the security lights at the sawmill.

In the dark distance beyond, a pinpoint of light moved along the back road.

Moonshiners again. Was Silas Mosby already back in action?

Maybe he should have taken the man to the doctor and gotten him reported.

With Silas in jail, at least he could have given Annabeth some money. But that hadn’t been his call to make.

By the time the road leveled off at the top of the bluff, Joseph was breathing hard. The house was a welcome sight. The porch light was on. Otherwise, the place was quiet, the windows dark. He’d almost forgotten how late it was. By now, everyone was probably in bed.

He mounted the porch and opened the front door. As soon as he stepped across the threshold, he sensed that something was wrong. Was it the smell of stale air or just the feeling that the room was out of order? Reaching for the switch, he turned on the light.

His eyes made a sweep of the room. The first thing he noticed was the open liquor cabinet with the key hanging out of the lock. The checkerboard lay on the floor with the game pieces scattered around it.

An empty Jack Daniel’s bottle stood on the coffee table, the glass beside it tipped onto its side, spilling a thin stream on the tabletop. Sprawled face up on the sofa, eyes closed, mouth open in a snore, was Forrest.

Joseph crossed the room in three long strides. Seizing the boy by the shoulders, he shook him hard. Forrest’s eyes opened. “Hullo,” he muttered, his breath reeking of alcohol.

“You’re drunk!” Joseph slapped his face, more to wake him than to punish him, although he deserved that and more. “What have you done? Where’s my father?”

“He’s fine,” Forrest mumbled. “Me and Patches helped him to bed, and he went to sleep. I did what you said. I didn’t give him nothin’ to drink.”

Joseph could imagine the rest of the story. After the cook had gone and Blake was asleep, Forrest had climbed onto a chair, taken the key, and opened the liquor cabinet. The young fool had sampled freely until he passed out.

“Sit up!” Joseph jerked him upright. “You’re in a heap of trouble. But right now, I’m going to make you some coffee. You’ll drink it and go to bed. We’ll deal with what you’ve done in the morning, when you’re sober.”

“What … what are you going to do to me?” The boy’s voice shook. He shrank against the back of the couch.

“I don’t know yet. But taking that key and the liquor was stealing.

That was one of the rules we made, and you just broke it.

If I can’t trust you when I’m gone, you don’t belong here.

” Joseph rose, looming above the quaking boy.

“Stay right here while I make the coffee. Drink it, and you can go to your room. But you can count on a reckoning tomorrow.”

In the kitchen, Joseph put ground coffee and water in the percolator and set it on the electric burner. While he waited for it to boil, he checked the parlor. Forrest was still on the couch, curled on his side with his knees drawn up toward his chest.

Damn kid. Joseph had grown fond of him. He’d imagined giving the boy a future as a cowboy on the ranch.

But he’d laid down the law—no stealing. If Forrest thought he could weasel his way out of trouble, that lesson would shape his character for life.

There was only one way to resolve this—the tough way.

Tomorrow he would drive Forrest back to Miles City and turn the boy over to the sheriff.

The coffee was done. Joseph poured it into a mug, added a little milk to cool it, and carried it back to the parlor. “Here.” He thrust the mug toward Forrest. “Take it to your room. I don’t want to talk to you or even look at you until tomorrow morning.”

Forrest stood, took the mug, and shuffled off through the kitchen to the storeroom, where he had his bed. Joseph took a few minutes to straighten the room, clean up the spilled whiskey, and throw away the empty bottle. Then, as he did every night before going to bed, he went to check on his father.

Blake slept in a room down the hall, in the bed he’d shared with his wife.

Since his accident, the room had been rigged with grips and pulleys.

With the aid of his powerful chest and arms, he was able to transfer from the bed to his chair and back, dress himself, and even make it to the bathroom.

He was proud of his independence and grumbled when he had to be helped.

But lately, Joseph had noticed his father’s defiant spirit flagging.

He’d been through hell and had yet to talk about his loss.

Maybe his unspoken grief was wearing on him.

But in case the problem was something physical, Kristin had arranged to come and check her brother first thing tomorrow.

Tonight, Joseph found his father in bed, his eyes closed, his breathing deep and regular.

All was well. But the night was chilly. Joseph straightened the rumpled quilt, tucked it around his father, and left the room.

He could use some sleep himself, but he didn’t expect to get much.

Between his date with Francine, his concern for Annabeth and her children, the car, and the coming confrontation with Forrest, he would probably be tossing for hours.

After a restless night, Joseph welcomed the glow of first light through his bedroom window. He rolled out of bed, pulled on his clothes, and braced himself for a hectic day.

Before he could drive Forrest to Miles City, he would need to get to his car and change the tire. But he also wanted to be here when Kristin came to examine his father. If Patches could take him down to the car now, he could have the tire changed and be back before she arrived.

Having one of his mill workers change the tire would save time. But his employees weren’t servants. They had their own jobs to do. He might be the boss, but he could change his own tire.

As he descended the stairs, the coffee aroma wafting from the kitchen told him the old cook was already at work. Joseph walked into the kitchen and poured himself a mug of steaming coffee from the percolator. “Good morning, Patches,” he said.

The old man looked up from the strips he was slicing off a bacon slab. “The boy’s gone,” he said.

“Gone?” Joseph choked slightly on his coffee. “What do you mean, he’s gone?”