Chapter Three
The bawl of cow and calf traveled across the
rolling grass plains mixed in with shouts from ranchhands and the
clang and rattle of iron chutes and headgate. High in the vast blue
sky, the sun looked on, indifferent to the noisy activity
below.
It was preg-check time on the Triple C,
a time when every cow was palpated to verify whether she was
pregnant or not. It was one of many thankless tasks on the ranch
that was completely bereft of glamour. At the same time it was
necessary to the operation’s ultimate financial success. No rancher
could afford to winter over a cow that remained barren more than
two years, or a bull that couldn’t service all his cows. Nor could
a rancher afford to wait until the following spring to learn the
outcome.
Astride a dun-colored buckskin, Jessy
slapped a coiled rope against her leg and herded the last cow out
of the holding pen into a long narrow chute that led to the head
gate. A cowboy on the ground swung the pen gate shut, trapping the
cow in the chute. Outside the pen, a calf bawled a lusty protest
over the temporary separation from its mother. The cow answered
with an angry bellow of her own.
Ignoring both, Jessy reined her horse
away from the scene, her work done for the time being. In past
years, she would have been taking her turn on the ground, down
there in the thick of the action. But there was too much risk of
getting kicked by a range-wild cow. The decision wasn’t prompted by
any fear of personal injury to herself, but rather by a concern for
the safety of her unborn twins.
As she walked her horse to the main
gate, Jessy was joined by the second rider who had worked the
penned cattle with her. “That’s the last of this bunch,” Dick
Ballard announced, more as a conversation opener than a passing-on
of information.
The sandy-haired cowboy liked to talk
to anyone about anything. Tall and strong he might be, but not
silent. There was nothing braggy in his voice. It had a lazy,
conversational pitch to it, and a distinctly cowboy cadence that
was warm and friendly.
It was rather like his face, which was
otherwise ordinary in its features. Over the years, his
sand-colored hair had thinned until he was almost bald on top, but
few people noticed that, and not because he wore a hat most of the
time. It was because of his eyes, Ballard’s most compelling
feature. They were kind eyes, the dark blue color of new denim,
always with a sparkle of dry humor lurking somewhere in their
depths.
Jessy caught a glimpse of it when she
started to reply to his idle remark, but Ballard held up a hand,
checking her words.
“Don’t say it. I already know. We’ve
got three more bunches to go.”
The line of her mouth softened into a
near smile. “This is a cow-calf operation,” she reminded
him.
“That’s why I like my
job.”
As the pair approached the pen’s gate,
it was apparent to both that Jessy was in a better position to
maneuver her horse around to open it. And it never occurred to
Ballard to do the gentlemanly thing and alter the circumstances.
Long before Jessy had married Ty Calder, she had worked as a
cowhand. No deference had ever been shown to her, and none was
expected. Drawing a man’s wage meant doing a man’s work, regardless
of the gender.
Jessy unlatched the gate, swung it open
and walked her horse through, then gave the gate a push for Ballard
to catch. He caught it, gave it another push, and trotted his horse
through.
“I worked one long winter at a
feedlot,” Ballard remarked. “The wages were high, plus a full range
of benefits. But when spring thaw hit, the mud was so deep in that
lot it was halfway up to a horse’s belly. It was nothin’ to wear
out three horses doing one morning’s work. It’s the kind of job
that’s probably good for a guy with a wife and family, but I
couldn’t call it cowboyin’.”
“Isn’t it about time you got married,
Ballard?” Jessy let the dun-colored gelding come to a stop by the
pen’s fence rails.
“Me? Get married?” He drew his head
back in feigned surprise and flashed her a wry grin. “That’s not
likely to happen.”
“Why not? I heard you’ve been seeing
Debby Simpson.” Jessy had spent too many years of her life razzing
cowboys about their love lives, or lack thereof, to quit now just
because she was the boss’s wife.
“I’ve two-stepped around the dance
floor with her a couple of Saturday nights,” Ballard acknowledged.
“But marriage just isn’t likely to be in the cards for
me.”
“Don’t tell me you’re going to turn
into a confirmed bachelor like old Nate Moore was,” Jessy retorted
in an absently teasing fashion as her glance strayed to the
activity at the headgate.
Old Doc Rivers, the paunch-heavy
veterinarian, had completed his examination of the cow. Stepping
back, he motioned to one of the hands to release the animal from
the stanchion-like gate then turned to wash the fecal matter from
the OB glove that sleeved his hand and arm.
“I don’t know about the confirmed
part.” Ballard, too, glanced at the vet. “But it’s true, I am a
bachelor. Don’t misunderstand, though. I don’t have anything
against marriage myself.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“My horse does,” he replied with a
straight face, and only the smallest hint of a laughing gleam in
his eyes.
Jessy just gave him a look and shook
her head. Although Ballard wasn’t among the descendants of families
long associated with the Triple C, she had known him for years,
certainly enough time to be comfortable with him, and with his
attempts at humor.
Years ago, they had gone out together a
few times. But Jessy had never regarded it as dating, although
others had. In her mind, Ballard had simply stopped by her cabin a
few times to shoot the breeze and have some coffee. On a couple of
other occasions, he had given her a ride into Sally’s on a Saturday
night. There definitely had never been anything remotely romantic
about their relationship.
As the last cow was prodded into the
headgate, Ballard observed, “Looks like I’ll have time for a
smoke.” He reached inside the breast pocket of his yoked-front
shirt, pulled out a thin packet, and extracted an even thinner
square of paper from it. After returning the folder to its pocket,
he reached in the other and came out with a flat tin of loose
tobacco.
Jessy’s eyes rounded in amazement as he
proceeded to tap a line of tobacco into the crease of the paper
square. “When did you start rolling your own
cigarettes?”
“About a month ago.” None too deftly,
Ballard slipped the tobacco can back in his pocket and began
rolling the paper around the tobacco, losing a good bit of
it.
“I knew you were tight with a dollar,”
Jessy declared. “But I never realized you were so cheap that you
wouldn’t buy ready-mades.”
“It’s isn’t the money.” He licked the
edge of the paper in an attempt to seal the roll, then began
digging in his pocket for a lighter. “I’m trying to
quit.”
“So you’re rolling your own?” Jessy
wasn’t impressed with his logic.
“Well, you’ve gotta admit—a fella has
to want a cigarette really bad before he’ll go through all this
rigmarole.” With a snap of his thumb, the lighter flared to life.
Ballard held the flame to the tip of the cigarette. The paper end
blazed briefly.
Jessy grinned. “One of these times
you’re going to burn your nose.”
“There’s that problem, too,” he agreed
and puffed experimentally then pulled in a deep drag. “Ty looked me
up the other day. Did he tell you?”
“He mentioned it.”
“Did he pass on what I told
him?”
“About what?”
“About all the money the Triple C is
leaving on the table when you sell registered stock.” Range-wise to
the fire hazards of such dry conditions, he kept a hand cupped
around the cigarette and deposited its ash in his shirt
pocket.
Ty hadn’t said anything at all about
that. But knowing how little stock Ty put in anything Ballard said,
Jessy wasn’t surprised by the omission. Just the same, she kept her
gaze fixed on the headgate and remained silent, fully aware that
Ballard would fill the void.
He did. “Whenever the Triple C has
registered cattle to sell, they get sold through livestock auctions
that are restricted to registered animals. Granted they bring high
dollar, for the most part. But they could bring more. You see,” he
went on, warming to his subject, “if there’s one thing I’ve learned
knocking around the country during the winter months, it’s that
people like to brag about the things they own, especially that
breed of gentlemen ranchers with more money than brains—at least
when it comes to ranching. And as much as one of these guys likes
to brag about what a fine bull or pen of cows he just bought, he
likes to brag even more about who he bought them from. It’s like
these collectors who go in debt over their heads just so they can
buy a car once owned by Elvis.”
“Our cattle are always sold as Triple
C–bred stock at the auctions,” Jessy reminded him.
“The buyers are told that,” Ballard
agreed. “But being told something doesn’t make nearly the
impression as buying that stock at a production sale held right
here on the Triple C.”
Stunned by his suggestion, Jessy turned
in her saddle to stare at him. “You’re not serious?”
“I’m dead serious.” He repeatedly
licked his fingers to pinch out the fire in his cigarette before
tucking the crumbling butt into his jean pocket. “You’d have to do
a lot of advertising and make a big event out of it, but if you
did, these bigwigs would fly in from all parts of the country with
their checkbooks open.”
“You’re crazy, Ballard.” Now she
understood why Ty hadn’t mentioned his wild scheme to
her.
“Crazy smart,” he replied with unshaken
confidence.
She made a snorting sound of
disagreement and turned her head away, facing the front
again.
For a long run of seconds, the silence
was thick. “I’m right about this, Jessy,” he stated
quietly.
“I’m sure you think you
are.”
“You’ve got the same problem Ty has—and
nearly every single man, woman, and child on the Triple
C.”
“I suppose I might as well ask what
that problem is, because I know you’re going to tell me anyway,”
she stated, letting her impatience with him show.
“First, answer me one question,”
Ballard challenged.
“What’s that?”
“How many times have you been off the
Triple C? And I don’t mean going into Blue Moon.”
“I’ve been to Miles City a couple of
times,” Jessy replied, feeling oddly defensive.
“If you add them all up, I’ll bet you
can count all the trips on one hand.”
Unable to deny it, she went on the
offensive. “What’s your point.”
“Simple. In ranching circles, every
time the conversation gets around to big ranches in the country,
Triple C’s name always comes up. But nobody knows much about it. So
any talk is always full of rumors and speculations.”
“So?” Jessy prompted, not following
him.
“It’s created an aura of mystery about
the ranch, made the Triple C into kind of a legend. And no one is
sure what is myth and what is reality.”
“Why would they even
care?”
“Because it’s big. Over the years, Old
Man Calder hasn’t invited more than a dozen people to come here.
And none of them were people who mattered. But the few who have
been here—when they drop the name ‘Calder’ in a conversation, they
have everybody’s attention.”
Jessy didn’t say anything. She was too
busy trying to absorb all this new information. She had always
known the Calder name carried considerable weight in this part of
Montana. But in the rest of the country, too?
“Is this true, Ballard?” she asked,
dead serious.
“It’s true. But don’t take my word for
it. Ask Ty. Have him tell you what it’s like when he attends
regional meetings of the livestock associations. He’s bound to have
noticed the stares and whispers when he enters a room, the
deference that’s shown him. If he showed up in Texas, it would be
the same.”
“I see.” At least, she was beginning to
see.
“Your registered cattle are among the
best in the land, Jessy. As for your strain of cutting horses, I’ve
never forked my leg over better in all my years of competition. And
I’ve ridden champions. Ranching is a precarious business nowadays.
To be successful, a rancher’s gotta make money any way he can. For
years, Chase has done things the old way. I’m not saying that’s
totally wrong,” Ballard added quickly. “But if there’s gonna be a
Triple C in the years to come, you and Ty might want to take a
harder look at the things that are done now, in the New
West.”
“Like this production sale you
suggested,” she murmured.
“That, and all the marketing and
publicity that go with it.”
Jessy didn’t have the first clue how to
do any of that. Give her a sick cow and she could doctor it; a
broken fence and she could mend it; a rank horse and she could
ride; a pair of babies and she could raise and care for them. But
production sales, marketing, publicity, those were completely out
of her realm of knowledge. Did Ty know?
“You need to take the Triple C name and
make it one people shout, not whisper about,” Ballard
concluded.
“That’s easier said than done,” Jessy
replied, speaking more to herself than to the sandy-haired
cowboy.
“Maybe. But there’ll be money in it.
Big money.”
Turning, she looked him squarely in the
eyes. “Why are you telling us all this?”
His mouth widened in a long grin as he
sat slouched in the saddle, both hands resting on the saddle horn.
“You mean—what’s in it for me?” Ballard looked off into the
distance, his gaze making a sweep of the surrounding plains. “I was
seventeen the first time I came here to day work. And I’ve been
here on and off ever since. More on than off. This place gets into
a man’s system. The bigness of it, and the rawness. I don’t care
where you go, there’s no other place like it. But”—he brought his
glance back to Jessy—“to answer your question, I guess I’m telling
you this because for years I’ve seen the potential here and watched
it go untapped. Do you know how frustrating that can be? It can eat
a man up. The other day, when Ty asked me about that bull, it was
like uncorkin’ a champagne bottle. It all just came bubblin’ out. I
suppose I’m repeatin’ it all to you for the simple reason that,
when a man knows he has a good idea, he wants everybody else to get
on their horses and ride with him. So far, all I’ve seen out of you
and Ty is skepticism. What I want is for him to say—you’re right,
Ballard; we’re goin’ for it. I’d get a lot of satisfaction out of
that, Jessy.”
She believed him. She didn’t know a
single cowboy who didn’t welcome a pat on the back for a job well
done. Dick Ballard was no exception.
“We do appreciate the information.” She
kept her response simple, without commitment.
He nodded. “That’s what I wanted to
hear.”
“Hey, Ballard!” somebody yelled from
the chute area. “Come give us a hand.”
He lifted the reins to his horse,
started to swing his mount to the side, then checked it. “By the
way, you might have Ty check out a rumor I heard.”
“What’s that?”
“I was talkin’ with Guy Phelps on the
phone the other night. He wants me to ride his cutting horse in a
big competition comin’ up in August. According to him, Parker sold
a half interest in that bull for close to a quarter
million.”
Without waiting for Jessy to reply, he
kneed his horse forward, pushing it into a slow trot. She stared at
his back, her thoughts reeling at the number.
For the rest of the day she couldn’t
get the conversation off her mind. It was late in the afternoon by
the time work was wrapped up for the day and Jessy returned to the
Triple C headquarters.
From force of habit, she stayed at the
barns long enough to unload her horse from the trailer, see that it
was rubbed down and fed, and her saddle and gear stowed in the
stack room. Only when that was finished did she set out for the
house.
But there was no hurry in her stride.
Everywhere she looked, Jessy noticed things she had taken for
granted her entire life—the neatness of the sprawling ranchyard,
all the buildings in good repair, the huge, century-old barn with
its massive timbers and rustic look and the summer-gold sea of
grass that rolled away from it, its expanse broken only by the
towering, green cottonwoods that lined the banks of the river to
the south.
Ballard’s remarks had given Jessy a
fresh perspective on everything, but especially on The Homestead.
It was with these new eyes that she gazed at the imposing two-story
structure, built atop a flat knoll of land that elevated it above
the rest of the headquarters. A wide porch ran the length of its
south-facing front, with towering white pillars rising at intervals
from its edge. The grand scale of it should have looked out of
place, but anything smaller wouldn’t have suited the site. Jessy
understood for the first time that The Homestead was a statement of
ownership, a claim of dominion over this vast sweep of
land.
When she paused at the bottom of the
porch steps, one of the babies moved inside her. She laid a
reassuring hand on her stomach, suddenly awed by the thought that
The Homestead was only a small part of all that would one day
belong to their children.
As usual, the conversation at the
evening dinner table centered around the day’s activity, the tasks
accomplished, and those yet to be finished. But Ty was quick to
notice Jessy’s lack of participation in the discussion that was
normally three-sided. He glanced across the table at her
down-turned head, her tawny hair still showing some of the damp
gleam from her earlier shower.
“You’re unusually quiet tonight,
Jessy,” Ty remarked, then frowned in concern when he observed the
way she was pushing the food around on her plate, a direct contrast
to her customarily ravenous appetite. “Are you feeling
okay?”
“I feel fine.” Jessy gave him one of
her calm-eyed looks that told him absolutely nothing. She speared a
piece of beef with her fork, then said in a voice that was a tad
too offhand, “By the way, I was talking with Dick Ballard today. He
heard a rumor about that registered bull we sold Parker, one that
he thinks you should check out. Supposedly Parker sold a half
interest in the bull for close to a quarter-million
dollars.”
Chase reared back his head and scoffed
his disbelief, “What fool would pay that kind of money for a half
interest in a bull?”
Ty didn’t turn a hair. “Apparently
there are a number of fools out there. That isn’t a rumor. It’s the
truth.” He intercepted Jessy’s questioning glance and explained, “I
was making some calls today and heard that same rumor from more
than one source. I did some checking and managed to verify
it.”
“Ballard is right then.” Jessy held his
glance, leaving Ty in little doubt that Ballard had spoken at
length to her about his idea.
“It’s possible.” Ty
nodded.
With eyes narrowed in suspicion, Chase
looked at first one, then the other. “Right about what?” he
challenged. “Why do I have this feeling that something has been
discussed that I don’t know about?”
“I planned on talking to you about it
after dinner tonight,” Ty admitted. “When I spoke to Ballard the
other day, he made some suggestions about ways to increase the
ranch’s gross revenue. And its profits.” Ty briefly explained
Ballard’s proposal to hold auctions of their registered livestock
at the ranch, and watched his father’s expression darken with
distaste.
“I’ve been to a couple of those fancy
shindigs they call sales. And you’re saying you want to hold one
here, on the Triple C?”
“Initially that was my
reaction.”
“And now?” The very quietness of
Chase’s voice gave it the weight of challenge.
“I don’t like the idea any better than
you do. But I think it’s one we should investigate further, put
some facts and figures together, and see if there would be a
substantial return,” Ty reasoned. “When we sold that bull to
Parker, I was more than satisfied with the price he paid. But a
quarter of a million dollars for an animal that was inferior to the
ones we kept”—he shook his head—“that isn’t something I can easily
dismiss.”
“That happens every time a man sells
anything,” Chase insisted, but none too convincingly for either of
them. “He always wonders if he could have gotten more
money.”
“I know. But we’re already operating on
an extremely narrow profit margin, and that’s in good years. You
string together a few bad years in a row, and we’re in
trouble.”
Chase grunted a nonanswer, sliced off
another bite of roast beef, then asked, “Exactly what is your
proposal?”
“To do some more checking, find out
what it would entail in both manpower and facilities, put some
numbers to it, and see if it’s something we should seriously
consider.”
“What do you think about all this,
Jessy?” Chase pinned her with a look.
She met the hard bore of his gaze
without flinching. “I think it’s a wise move.”
He considered her answer quietly for
moment then nodded with reluctance. “Probably. But I still don’t
like the idea of a bunch of strangers descending on us, even for a
day.” He sighed and shot a glance at Ty. “If your mother was alive,
she’d know how to keep them all organized and happy.”
So would Tara, Jessy
realized.