great. Not quite what we were looking for, but they’ll do until we can come up with the investors, then we’ll hire a good firm from New York to do the final polish on them. Someone with a big name. Dad thinks he might get Beacham and Beacham. I went to school with a Beacham. A son, not a partner. Hell of a tennis player.” Clark suddenly turned to where Henry had loaned his large frame against the sink. Calla nearly fell off the arm of the chair. “You play?”
“What?” Henry’s question was a little chip of ice. It chilled the warm room.
“Tennis, old man. I thought we might have a game sometime. We’d have to go in to Boise, but I’ve got an old Dartmouth brother who belongs to a club there, and I’m sure he’d get us a court. He’s in politics. If you can imagine, a brother pressing the flesh way out here in the sticks.” Clark’s tone was challenging, but he was smiling. Calla willed Henry to be polite.
She shouldn’t have wasted her time.
“I don’t play.”
“Did you play any sports in college?” Clark gave a small, insincere gasp. “Oh, sorry. You must not have gone to college. I mean, you wouldn’t be working for Calla right now if you had a degree, would you? Well, lucky you, I say. An education can really be a burden sometimes. It puts so much pressure on a man to succeed. You’re lucky, really.”
Clark took a smug sip from his wineglass, and squeezed Calla closer. Calla couldn’t decide who she was going to kill first tonight. The Neanderthal or the snob. She deliberated on it for a second.
“Hockey,” Henry said quietly after an interminable pause. He took a long pull from his glass, set it gently on the counter, and crossed his arms across a chest that Calla realized with a jolt was broader than she remembered. Hadn’t she just had her fingertips on that chest two hours ago? When had it got all puffed up like that?
“I beg your pardon?” Clark said, still smiling. “You played hockey? When? In high school? Or did you go to high school?”
“In college.”
Calla shifted to look at Henry. He seemed to be staring at Clark’s teeth.
“You went to college?” Clark asked coolly. His smile was gone. “You don’t seem the type.”
“What’s the type?” The temperature in Henry’s voice went down a degree. If they didn’t knock this off, Calla thought grimly, she’d have to turn on the furnace in the kitchen. She chanced a look at Jackson and Helen. They were positively serene.
“Well, not you.” Clark laughed, real amusement in his voice. “I haven’t met many ranch hands—” he practically snickered the words “—with a college education. Where’d you go? Ag Tech? Bumpkin Junior College? You get you an A.A. in changing sprinklers, paaardner?”
Calla stared down at Clark in shock. He must be drunk. She couldn’t believe her ears. She’d never seen him lose that polite Ivy League veneer. Ever.
Henry pushed himself off the counter. He crossed the distance between himself and Clark in a couple long steps and leaned over the thinner man with unbelievable physical menace. Calla held her breath. It was something like watching a rangy old herd bull approaching an upstart in a pasture, Calla decided. Uncomfortable, fascinating.
Henry put one hand on Calla’s free arm and held it there, squeezing. She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt she was being punished for something. Henry’s other hand hung in the air at his side. His fist was bunched, Calla noticed with sick alarm. Circling was one thing; this was quickly getting out of hand.
“No, not Bumpkin Junior College, you skinny, insufferable, elitist son of a bitch. Harvard. Class of ‘88, Bachelor’s degree in Chemistry,” Henry said quietly into Clark’s face. He was so close, Calla could smell the whiskey on his breath. It was a heady scent. “Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Class of ‘90, Masters in Chemical Engineering. Purdue University, Class of ‘92, Doctorate in Chemical
“What?” Henry’s question was a little chip of ice. It chilled the warm room.
“Tennis, old man. I thought we might have a game sometime. We’d have to go in to Boise, but I’ve got an old Dartmouth brother who belongs to a club there, and I’m sure he’d get us a court. He’s in politics. If you can imagine, a brother pressing the flesh way out here in the sticks.” Clark’s tone was challenging, but he was smiling. Calla willed Henry to be polite.
She shouldn’t have wasted her time.
“I don’t play.”
“Did you play any sports in college?” Clark gave a small, insincere gasp. “Oh, sorry. You must not have gone to college. I mean, you wouldn’t be working for Calla right now if you had a degree, would you? Well, lucky you, I say. An education can really be a burden sometimes. It puts so much pressure on a man to succeed. You’re lucky, really.”
Clark took a smug sip from his wineglass, and squeezed Calla closer. Calla couldn’t decide who she was going to kill first tonight. The Neanderthal or the snob. She deliberated on it for a second.
“Hockey,” Henry said quietly after an interminable pause. He took a long pull from his glass, set it gently on the counter, and crossed his arms across a chest that Calla realized with a jolt was broader than she remembered. Hadn’t she just had her fingertips on that chest two hours ago? When had it got all puffed up like that?
“I beg your pardon?” Clark said, still smiling. “You played hockey? When? In high school? Or did you go to high school?”
“In college.”
Calla shifted to look at Henry. He seemed to be staring at Clark’s teeth.
“You went to college?” Clark asked coolly. His smile was gone. “You don’t seem the type.”
“What’s the type?” The temperature in Henry’s voice went down a degree. If they didn’t knock this off, Calla thought grimly, she’d have to turn on the furnace in the kitchen. She chanced a look at Jackson and Helen. They were positively serene.
“Well, not you.” Clark laughed, real amusement in his voice. “I haven’t met many ranch hands—” he practically snickered the words “—with a college education. Where’d you go? Ag Tech? Bumpkin Junior College? You get you an A.A. in changing sprinklers, paaardner?”
Calla stared down at Clark in shock. He must be drunk. She couldn’t believe her ears. She’d never seen him lose that polite Ivy League veneer. Ever.
Henry pushed himself off the counter. He crossed the distance between himself and Clark in a couple long steps and leaned over the thinner man with unbelievable physical menace. Calla held her breath. It was something like watching a rangy old herd bull approaching an upstart in a pasture, Calla decided. Uncomfortable, fascinating.
Henry put one hand on Calla’s free arm and held it there, squeezing. She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt she was being punished for something. Henry’s other hand hung in the air at his side. His fist was bunched, Calla noticed with sick alarm. Circling was one thing; this was quickly getting out of hand.
“No, not Bumpkin Junior College, you skinny, insufferable, elitist son of a bitch. Harvard. Class of ‘88, Bachelor’s degree in Chemistry,” Henry said quietly into Clark’s face. He was so close, Calla could smell the whiskey on his breath. It was a heady scent. “Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Class of ‘90, Masters in Chemical Engineering. Purdue University, Class of ‘92, Doctorate in Chemical
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