Lone Calder Star. Janet Dailey

across the café and waited until he had pushed open the door to the men’s room, then got up and ambled over to the end of the counter where the waitress sat. He gave his hat a push to the back of his head, revealing a shock of wheat-colored hair, and propped an arm on the counter.

      “Just about every time I see you, you got your nose stuck in a book. Your eyes are gonna wear out, Dallas.” He waited, but she gave no sign of having heard him. “Heard you and your granddaddy rented the old, run-down house trailer from Andy Farrell. I figured you’d head to the city.”

      “You figured wrong, as usual, John Earl,” Dallas replied with no visible break in her concentration.

      “What did that stranger bend your ear about?”

      “Nothing.” She scribbled something on a page of the spiral notebook lying next to the book.

      “Sure looked like he was asking you a lot of questions. He was coming on to you, wasn’t he?” The accusation had a possessive ring to it, enough that Dallas threw him a quelling look.

      “No, he wasn’t. He was asking about work around here.”

      “What kind of work?”

      “Cowboying.”

      John Earl Tandy released a short derisive breath. “It’s the wrong time of year for any of the outfits around here to be taking on extra hands.”

      Rankled by his smug, know-it-all certainty, Dallas couldn’t resist taking a jab at it. “Is that right?” Her chin came up in challenge. “I wonder where he got the idea the Cee Bar was hiring.”

      Her response only brought a big grin to the cowboy’s face. “He can forget about working there.”

      “Why?” There was a hard heat in her voice. “Does Rutledge have his eyes on that ranch, too?”

      He ducked his head, briefly breaking eye contact with her. “I figured you’d still be sore. But you gotta know there was nothin’ I could do about it.”

      “Just about everybody in town has told us that.” Dallas stared at the book’s printed page, but her thoughts were on the gray-eyed stranger and the trouble he’d be letting himself in for if he took that job at the Cee Bar. She reminded herself that was his problem, and not hers.

      “You’ve had a rough time of it lately, that’s for sure. But things’ll get better,” John Earl declared with his typical cocksure confidence. “Why don’t you let me take you out Saturday night?”

      “Is that your idea of things getting better?” Dallas scoffed.

      Stung by her caustic retort, John Earl stood up straight, rigid with anger. “I figured you might not think so much of yourself after your granddaddy lost his ranch, but you still act like you’re too good for anybody around here.”

      The accusation was so ridiculous Dallas wanted to hit him, but she attacked with sarcasm instead. “Of course I do. That’s why I’m living in an old, run-down house trailer.”

      John Earl faltered, certain he’d been insulted, but not sure how. “You can’t blame me for that. Your granddaddy was a fool to think he could stop Rutledge from getting what he wants. Nobody can go against him and win.”

      Dallas caught a movement in her side vision and turned as the stranger emerged from the rear hallway and headed back to his table. “You’d better tell the new guy,” she suggested.

      “No need to,” John Earl replied. “He’ll find out for himself soon enough.”

      Dallas was quick to detect a tone that hinted at inside information. “What do you mean?” she demanded and fought to contain the sudden sense of rage that swept through her.

      “Nothin’ really.” But John Earl’s smug smile was back. “Just that he won’t find anybody there to hire him.”

      “You mean”—it took her a second to remember the name of the man in charge of the Cee Bar—“Evans left? I hadn’t heard that.”

      “You didn’t expect him to put a notice in the paper, did you?” John Earl grinned.

      “But why did he leave? No, let me guess. It had to do with his health, didn’t it?” Anger seethed just below the surface of her words.

      “His health,” John Earl repeated in amusement. “Guess you could say that.”

      Dallas had no doubts that the threats had been subtle, yet very clear. It was almost enough to make her sick. Worse, though, was that feeling of being utterly powerless to do anything about it.

      A hamburger platter mounded with fries was shoved onto the serving side of the kitchen’s pass-through window and a corpulent hand punched the counter bell, the sharp ding of it signaling to Dallas that her food order was up.

      The timing couldn’t have been better as far as Dallas was concerned. It gave her a ready excuse to break off the conversation with John Earl. She slipped off the stool and went behind the counter, circling around the cowboy. She collected the hamburger platter from the window shelf, scooped up some ketchup and mustard, and carried all of it to the stranger’s table.

      “Thanks,” he said with an upward glance when Dallas set it before him.

      She had trouble meeting his eyes. John Earl was the cause for it—and the things he’d told her about the Cee Bar. She reminded herself that it was the stranger’s bad luck and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it.

      Instead she glanced at his nearly empty cup. “I’ll bring you some more coffee.”

      When she returned with the pot, the elderly couple were waiting at the cash register to pay. She left Quint’s table to take their money, eliminating that chance to strike up another conversation with her.

      Quint idly watched as she chatted with the pair. He had the distinct impression that the couple didn’t have her whole attention; her thoughts were somewhere else. He decided that was hardly a surprise considering the sizable gap in their ages. By the time she climbed back on her stool, the cowboy had rejoined his friends at the table. Once again the girl immersed herself in the book’s printed words.

      The trio of cowboys engaged in desultory conversation, the low, lazy drawl of their voices providing a backdrop to Quint’s meal. Occasionally the easy quiet of the café was broken by the clink and clatter of glasses and pans coming from the kitchen.

      As Quint chewed the last bite of his hamburger, the cowboys pushed their chairs back from the table in ragged order. One dug some coins out of the side pocket of his jeans and tossed them on the table for a tip. Together they ambled toward the cash register counter near the door, their glances sliding curiously to Quint.

      One of them abruptly came to a decision and swung toward his table. Quint was quick to recognize him as the same cowboy who had been talking to the waitress earlier.

      “Dallas told me you were looking for work,” the man said without preamble. “She said you’d heard the Cee Bar was wanting a hired hand.”

      Quint leaned back in his chair, giving the appearance of one fully at ease. But there was an instant sharpening of all his senses. “That’s right.”

      “Now, it’s no skin off my nose what you do, but if you’re open to some friendly advice, you’ll forget about that job.”

      Quint cocked his head at a curious angle. “Why’s that?”

      The cowboy paused over his answer. “Let’s just say you wouldn’t like working there, and leave it at that.” He concluded the statement with a curt bob of his head and moved off to rejoin his buddies.

      There was no change in Quint’s expression as he digested this tidbit of information, aware that his conversation with the waitress had netted results after all. He thoughtfully sipped his coffee, aware there were two possibilities—that the former ranch manager Evans had been something of a tyrant or someone was deliberately creating problems—just