Free This Calder Sky by Janet Dailey Page A

length to provide an overview of the other buildings gathered at its feet. Stone chimneys punctuated its slanted roof, few of them used since central heating had been installed some years ago.
    Riding into the ranch colony, Chase slowed his foaming horse to a canter and guided it straight to the barns. Before the bay came to a complete stop, he was peeling out of the saddle and looping the reins over the horse’s head to lead it inside. Abe Garvey, a Triple C native relegated to the ranks of stablehand by advancing age, emerged from the interior shadows. Chase identified him with a brief glance as he led the horse into a stall and hooked a stirrup on the saddle horn to loosen the cinch.
    â€œHas the senator’s plane landed?” With both girths freed, he lifted the saddle from the horse’s back and draped it over the stall railing for the time being.
    â€œA half-hour ago, give or take.” The old cowboy moved on about his business while Chase wiped the sweat from the horse with the wet saddle blanket.
    The roping horse was too valuable an animal to be put up hot, no matter how long Chase’s father had been waiting for him. No one volunteered to walk the horse down for him, and Chase didn’t ask. A man was responsible for the care of his own mount. Until his father handed over some authority to him, Chase was no different from any other cowboy on the place. That’sthe way they treated him, especially the veterans, because they knew in their own way they were training their future leader. Chase had to measure up to their standards as well as his father’s if he wanted to command their respect, as well as their lives.
    When the horse was cooled down, Chase turned him into the stall and carried his saddle to the tack room. Abe was sitting on a bench, repairing a broken bridle strap, his arthritically crippled legs tucked under it.
    â€œSee that my horse gets an extra measure of grain tonight, Abe,” Chase requested, and the old man merely nodded, not one to speak unless it was required.
    Leaving the barn, Chase set out on the long walk across the ranch yard to The Homestead. He’d walked out some of his own stiffness cooling the horse, but he was still bone-tired from the long, jarring ride—his muscles sore and demanding a rest. There was always activity around the headquarters—ranch hands coming and going. Chase nodded to the ones he passed and waved to those in a distance, a gesture that amounted to little more than an upraised arm.
    His unwavering course brought him to The Homestead, where he pushed himself up the steps, his spurs clinking in unison with the heavy tread of his boots on the wood-plank floor of the porch. When he crossed the threshold of the front door, he heard the booming voice of the senator coming from the den, to his left. Chase paused in the entry hall, which was an extension of the sprawling living room, sectioned off by the arrangement of the furniture. His glance strayed to the polished oak banister of the staircase emptying into the living room, but he resisted its invitation.
    Brushing the worst of the dust from his clothes, he walked to the open doors of the den and removed his hat as he entered the room. Besides the florid-facedand seemingly jovial senator and his father, there were three other men in the room. Two of them Chase recognized from previous visits as aides of the senator, and the third was an influential government official from the state house, George Bidwell.
    His arrival naturally made him the focal point of attention, his tardiness earning him a sharp-eyed look of reproval from his father. A sense of protocol directed Chase to the guest of honor.
    â€œWelcome to the Triple C, Senator.” He greeted the politician and submitted to the man’s pumping handshake. “Glad to have you back. I’m sorry I wasn’t on hand to meet your plane when it landed.”
    â€œYour father told us you were detained. Out