Page 29 of Calder Strong (The Calder Brand #5)

T HE POTATO CROP WAS DYING IN THE FIELD, A CASUALTY OF SUMMER drought, depleted soil, and more hungry striped beetles than Lucas’s small hands could pull off the plants, even with his mother doing most of the work.

Annabeth stood on the back porch, gazing out at the wilting vines, knowing that the potatoes below ground wouldn’t be worth harvesting. She’d been counting on the sale of that crop to help her family through the winter. Now their future depended on whatever Silas could provide.

The trouble was, Silas didn’t seem to care.

Since his recovery from the bullet wounds, he’d been gone most nights, chasing around with his friends, running moonshine, coming home in the small hours, and sleeping long past chore time.

Except for the eggs the hens laid, the children barely had enough to eat.

They were growing out of their clothes. And Silas was bringing home nothing.

If the family was to survive, something had to change.

For the past few days, she’d been working herself up to a confrontation. Now, at ten in the morning, she could hear him stirring in the bedroom. She had sent the children outside to play with the dog. It was time.

As he came down the hall, Annabeth steeled herself. Silas was bound to be defensive. He could easily become violent. But for the sake of her children, she had to stand up to him.

Hastily dressed, with his shirt buttoned wrong, he shuffled into the kitchen and stared at the table, which he’d expected to find set for his breakfast. “Where’s my bacon and eggs, woman? Why aren’t you doing your job?”

Annabeth squared her shoulders and set her jaw.

“Maybe you should try doing your job first. We’re out of bacon and down to the last of the flour for bread.

I had to scrape the barrel to make flapjacks for the children this morning.

The last supper we had was stew from the garden and a rabbit that I snared.

The bills for the lights and the new phone haven’t been paid because there’s no money to pay them.

We’re down to a few sticks of kindling for the stove, and with the potato crop dead in the field, we’ll have nothing to sell at harvest time. ”

His eyes narrowed. Annabeth could imagine barriers sliding into place. “Well, whose fault is that? Maybe you should learn to be a better manager. Besides, I was counting on you to take care of the potato crop. If you’d paid more attention—”

“This isn’t about the potato crop, Silas.” She spoke calmly, aware that an angry outburst could turn the discussion into a fight. “I know what you’re doing at night with your so-called friends. And I know I can’t talk you out of it. Even getting shot and almost dying didn’t stop you.”

Silas didn’t respond, but the anger smoldering in his eyes told her she was walking a fine line. Would he choose this time to bring up Joseph?

But she couldn’t let him derail her words and turn them against her. She had to remain in control.

“It would serve you right if you got caught,” she said.

“But you’re my husband, the head of the family.

If you were to go to jail, the children and I would have nothing.

So I have no choice except to ask you, Where’s the money you’re making?

Why don’t we have enough to pay our bills and support our children? ”

He scuffed his work boot against a broken floorboard.

“The money’s in a safe place,” he said. “I’m saving it for a better life.

Do you think I want to go on living like this?

In this old cracker box of a house, grubbing in the dirt for every nickel?

When I get enough, I’ll pull up stakes here and buy me—us—a decent place.

Until then, we’re not touching that money.

If we start spending it, we’ll never have enough. ”

Annabeth’s smoldering anger flared like tinder.

“Do you think I’m asking on a whim? My family was poor, but they were honest. They raised us to be the same.

If I had a choice, I wouldn’t touch a cent of that illegal money.

But I won’t stand for my children going hungry and dressing in rags.

So I’m asking—for them. Please, Silas. If you care about us at all—”

“And why should I care?” His voice was cold.

“Another man’s bastard, along with a useless girl who’ll probably run off as soon as she’s old enough.

And a tramp who’d already spread her legs when I married her and would do it again, with the same man if she had the chance.

At least you could’ve given me a son of my own.

As it is, what the hell use to me are you—any of you?

I could throw you out tomorrow, all three of you, and not give a damn. ”

The words slammed into Annabeth with the force of a gun blast. Silas had said some hurtful things to her, but never as cruel as this. It was as if she’d been cut down and left bleeding. It was bad enough that he didn’t care about her. But what he’d said about the children—that was unconscionable.

It was time to fight back.

Choking on rage, she drew herself up and riveted him with her gaze.

“Here are my terms, Silas,” she said. “It’s your duty to provide for your family.

If you won’t do that, you might as well be in jail.

I know what you’ve been doing and who your friends are.

Give me what I need for the children, and I won’t say a word to anyone.

Otherwise, I’ll go straight to the sheriff and tell him everything. ”

He looked stunned but swiftly countered. “That’s blackmail! Damn it, woman, I could kill you just for saying that.”

“You’d hang for it.”

“I could take your brats and send them where you’d never see them again.”

“Then I’d have nothing to lose, would I? You can’t imagine what I’d do to you then. How hard could it be to just give me what I’m asking? Then you’d be safe, I’d be satisfied, and the children would have what they needed. I need an answer, Silas.”

In part, she was bluffing. Silas could lock her up, rip out the phone, and she’d be trapped with no way out. She could only hope he’d see the sense in what she was asking.

“I’m waiting,” she said. “All you need to do is get me enough cash for a good shopping trip and take me and the children to town. And later on, when we need it again—”

“All right, I got the message.” He mouthed a curse. “How much are you talking about?”

Her pulse leapt. “Enough to stock the house with a month’s staple groceries and buy new shoes and some plain clothes for the children. I won’t be spending a cent on myself. How soon can you get me the money?”

“How soon do you want it?”

“Now would be a good time.”

“And you can expect to pay me back in bed tonight.”

“Of course. I’m your wife.” There was no love involved in Silas’s lovemaking, only control and humiliation, but it was a small price to pay for peace.

“Fine. I’m going. You stay right here in the kitchen till I get back.” He turned and strode across the kitchen. As he reached the door, he suddenly halted and wheeled to face her again. Without a word, he stalked back to her, raised his fist, and slammed it into the side of her face.

Sparks of light flashed through Annabeth’s vision.

She felt the crushing blow and the bruising of flesh against bone.

She forced back a cry as he left by the kitchen door.

She had won what she needed from him. But at what cost?

Suddenly, she was afraid, not only for herself but also for her children.

After finding a pencil and a pad of scratch paper in a drawer, she sat down at the kitchen table. With a shaking hand, she began to write.

Joseph had spent the past few days going over the records for the Dollarhide Ranch and Sawmill.

He’d been managing the day-to-day mill and cattle operations since Blake’s accident.

But now he felt the need to know everything—from the time his grandfather, Joe Dollarhide, had acquired the property, constructed the big log house with his own hands, and started the ranch and sawmill to the transitional years when Blake had expanded the ranch’s holdings and built the mill into a serious money-making operation.

Now, far sooner than he’d planned, it was Joseph’s turn. If he was to plan the ranch’s future, he needed to understand the past. Only now, as he closed the last ledger book, did he realize how much he owed that past.

When Blake had talked about the family legacy, Joseph had listened with half an ear, dismissing anything he didn’t agree with as the ramblings of a man out of touch with the times.

He’d spun selfish fantasies about how, when his turn came, he would do things his way—sell off the sawmill and turn the pastures into a horse operation in partnership with Logan Hunter.

Now his turn had come, and when he walked this house and this land, he could feel the people who’d given their sweat, blood, tears, and lives walking with him. He carried their burdens and their blessings.

Blake had urged him to marry. He was no longer in any rush.

But when he finally took a wife, he would need her to be a strong woman like his grandmother, Sarah, and his mother, Hannah.

A woman who would stand at his side, work with him, and love him as he loved her.

Would Francine be that woman? Joseph was still looking for answers.

As he walked through the parlor on his way outside, he paused before the portrait of his grandfather that hung next to the fireplace.

Joe Dollarhide had never been one to fuss.

He’d protested when his children had arranged to have his picture painted.

At his insistence, he had worn his cowboy clothes, a battered Stetson in one hand and a sweat-stained bandana around his neck.

He’d been fifty years old when the portrait was done.

For Joseph, seeing the image was like looking at an older version of himself—like him, but tougher, grittier, and wiser, as he hoped to be someday.