Snowflakes danced in front of the bright lights that focused their beams on the building sign for The Oasis. In this part of Montana, pickups, equipped with four-wheel drive, were as common as flies in summer. And on a Saturday night, snow was no deterrent for the bar’s customers. If anything, it provided them with an excuse to stay longer and party harder.
Amidst the blare of music from the jukebox, the melodic ding of the slot machines, and the crowd’s nonstop chatter, punctuated by hearty guffaws and giggling laughter, the bang of the cash-register drawers closing on sale after sale could nevertheless be heard, bringing a smile to Donovan’s face. A handy profit was something he hadn’t expected when he first opened the doors to The Oasis. But here it was, and, by agreement, it all went into his pocket.
Of course, Donovan didn’t kid himself. It wasn’t the booze or the two-inch-thick T-bones that pulled in this size of a crowd; it was the girls and the gambling.
Turning from the cash register, Donovan made an automatic survey of the bar, on the lookout for trouble. It was a rare Saturday night that didn’t have at least one fight. The red light glowing above the door to his private office caught his eye.
“It’s all yours, Sammy,” he told the bartender and stepped out from behind the long counter.
Shouldering his way through the throng of half-drunk cowboys, he reached the door marked PRIVATE, slipped the key into the lock, and gave it a turn. The telephone w
ith the private line was ringing when he walked in. The red light was something Donovan had rigged up to it so he wouldn’t miss a call from Rutledge.
He took the extra seconds to close and lock the door behind him, then picked up the phone. “Donovan here.”
“It took you long enough,” Max growled.
“Saturday nights are busy.”
“Good. I hope it’s very busy. I want you to start putting a bug in as many ears as you can that Trey Calder and his young wife are having marital problems.”
“They are?” Donovan frowned in surprise. Everything he had heard about them indicated just the opposite.
“Not yet. But this is the time to start some. I have a few ideas on how to go about it.”
“Fire away.”
The old-fashioned bed tray held a full glass of milk, a covered plate of food, and silverware wrapped in a linen napkin. It was the drink Trey watched as he slowly climbed the stairs, pausing whenever the milk sloshed dangerously close to the rim of the glass.
At the top of the steps, he turned and headed for the master bedroom. Finding the door closed, he braced one end of the tray against his stomach, freeing a hand to turn the knob. He gave the door a shove, caught hold of the tray with both hands again and walked in.
Sloan was by the fireplace, jabbing at the glowing coals with a poker. She turned when he entered, and Trey ran a quick but discreet glance over her in an attempt to assess her current mood. To his relief, her eyes no longer had that wounded and angry snap to them. She looked almost calm.
“I brought you some dinner,” he announced. “I thought you might be getting hungry.”
“Starving.” She returned the poker to its stand and looked at him with a hint of chagrin. “I thought I was going to have to swallow my pride and slip downstairs to raid the refrigerator.”
Hearing that, Trey was sorry he’d brought the tray. As far as he was concerned, the sooner Sloan was obliged to mingle with the family again, the better off they would all be. But it didn’t seem wise to say that.
Instead he asked, “Should I set this on the coffee table or the ottoman?”
“The coffee table.”
He waited until she sat down on the sofa, then placed the tray in front of her. “Feeling better, are you?” he observed.
“A little.” The easy way Sloan answered offered its own reassurance. “A part of me still resents how suspicious your family behaved tonight—and for no good reason.”
Trey could have argued that point, but the fire was out and he didn’t want to fan it back to life. “Considering all the trouble in the past, it’s only natural for them to be leery, especially when the memory is so fresh.”
“Uncle Max had no part of that,” she stated firmly as she removed the plate cover. “He told me so himself.”
“What do you mean?” Trey frowned in sudden wariness.
“I talked to him,” Sloan replied in unconcern.
“When? Tonight?” He stared at her in disbelief.
“Yes.” The minute she looked up, all the ease left her expression, and she tilted her head in defiance. “Why? Is something wrong with that? Don’t tell me I’m not supposed to talk to him anymore?”