“So what will you do? Send the cattle to market? Or run them through one of the local auction barns?”
“Probably not.” Holding the wet sheet by its opposite corners, Quint kept it off the ground while Dallas pinned it to the line. “It would be too easy for Rutledge to get wind of it. The same would be true with hiring a local hauler.”
“What, then? Will you hire someone from out of state like you did with the hay?”
“You’re just full of questions this morning.”
Her heart leaped into her throat as she threw him a startled look. His expression was one of amusement with no trace of suspicion, but it did little to ease the guilt she felt. Dallas looked away.
“I can’t help it,” she said with a stiff little shrug. “By nature I’m a detail person. Any time I hear a decision, my mind automatically jumps to the steps that have to be taken to carry it out.”
“Spoken like a true bean counter.” Quint grinned and passed her the ends of the sheet he held. “In this case, before any steps can be taken, other questions have to be answered first. And a hard look needs to be taken at the grazing land that’s left. From that we can make a determination of the number it can support. That number will tell us—”
“How many have to be sold,” Dallas inserted, quick to follow his line of thinking. “Which tells us how many have to be shipped to market, and the number of trucks to haul them.”
“Now you’ve got the idea.” Quint smiled in approval.
But Dallas found little pleasure to be taken from that. For the first time she wished she wasn’t intelligent enough to ask the right questions.
Boone Rutledge stared out the window of the granite-and-glass-skinned building, headquarters for the conglomerate known as Maresco, but his gaze failed to take in the view of Fort Worth that the executive office suite provided. His expression had a look of brooding impatience to it. It was echoed by the agitated and intermittent jangling of the keys in his right hand.
In a surge of restlessness Boone swung away from the window and threw an irritated glance at the connecting door to the meeting room. The impulse was there to walk over and fling it open. He dragged his gaze from it before he could succumb to the urge. Instead he crossed to the sleekly contemporary desk. Reaching across it, he punched the phone’s intercom button.
“Yes, Mr. Rutledge?” Despite its slight drawl, the female voice that answered projected a note of businesslike efficiency.
Boone had no trouble picturing the brunette on the other end. The onetime Miss Texas runner-up was little more than a glorified waitress/receptionist, hired to provide his father’s cronies something to ogle when they stopped by. Some months ago Boone had discovered that her sole ambition was to land herself a wealthy husband; young or old, she didn’t particularly care which. Failing to snare him, she had moved on to richer pastures.
“You did inform my father I needed to see him right away, didn’t you, Miss Bridges?” he demanded curtly.
Her voice turned cool. “I passed your message to Mr. Edwards,” she replied, referring to Max’s chief secretary and personal assistant. “He assured me that Mr. Rutledge would be informed that you were waiting in his office. But I did warn you that Mr. Rutledge doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s in a board meeting.”
“Disturb him anyway. I’ve cooled my heels long enough.” Boone broke off the connection and stalked back to the window, muttering, “Bitch.”
Behind him there was the snick of a latch releasing. Boone swung from the window as Max maneuvered his wheelchair through the doorway.
He fastened a stony look on Boone. “This better be important.”
“Yeah, like I’d drive all the way here just to find out how your day has been,” Boone jeered, then pulled in his anger. “No, Echohawk’s thrown us a curve.”
“You heard from the Garner woman,” Max surmised instantly.
Boone nodded. “An hour or more ago. She said Echohawk isn’t planning to buy more hay. He plans to sell off some of the cattle instead.”
“When? Where?”
“She doesn’t know. According to her, those decisions haven’t been made yet,” Boone replied. “Supposedly he isn’t even sure how he’s going to get rid of them.”
“Good. That gives us time,” Max murmured, his attention turning inward.
Boone had already considered that. “I can’t see how it would give us much more than three days. Four at the outside. And he could be ready to ship that soon. It depends on who he hires to haul them and whether they have trucks available right away. It’s unlikely he’ll run them through any of the local sale rings.” He paused and grinned. “She claims he’s leery of using them for fear we’ll catch wind of his plans. Imagine that.”
“I told you having a set of eyes and ears on that ranch would come in handy.” Max idly tossed out the reminder that the suggestion had come from him.
“But Dallas can find out more than any of our men ever could.” Boone was quick to claim credit for choosing her. “There’s nothing like a redhead to get a man to say more than he should.”
“I’m sure you know that from your own experience.” Max’s sidelong glance was riddled with disgust.
Boone bristled in ready denial. “Damn it, I never—”