Lone Calder Star by Janet Dailey Page B

the hesitation on the other end of the line, Empty rushed in.
    "I know I'm an old man," he said. "But I'm not so weak I can't mend a fence or doctor a sick cow. And it's for sure there isn't a whole lot about ranching that I don't know. In fact, it's the only thing I do know."
    "You're qualified, all right." There was a smile in Echohawk's voice, but no sound of commitment.
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    "You can say that again." Empty worked to sound bluff and hearty and keep the sense of desperation out of his voice.
    Until now, he hadn't realized how much he wanted the job. He wanted to feel like a man again, useful and productive, instead of a washed up old codger who couldn't fasten his own pants. As a result, Empty wasn't above using a little emotional blackmail.
    " With the holidays coning on, that extra money I'd get from for you would give me a chance to buy my granddaugher something nice for Christmas. It's a little hard to make my social security check stretch to include presents. So ... you want me to start tomorrow?" Tension held him motionless, not breathing.
    "No, I won't be here most of tomorrow. A tow truck will be here first thing in the morning to haul the pickup in for repairs. I need to return the rental car and pick up the loaner. By the time all the paperwork is finished, it will probably be late in the afternoon before l get back to the ranch. Let's make it the day after."
    "Sounds good," Empty said, and hesitated. "I just got one problem. Would it be too much trouble if you picked me up? We've only got one vehicle, and my granddaughter needs it to get hack and forth to her job. I can be ready by eight."
    After a long pause, the reply came. "I'll pick you up at eight then."

    The setting sun made an inglorious departure from the sky, leaving behind only a pale golden arc on the horizon to mark its passage. The west-facing windows of the Slash R's sprawling ranch house briefly reflected the amber glow of its dying light. Built low to the ground with wide overhangs to block the penetration of the summer sun's hot rays, the house made a giant footprint on the hilltop, its square footage massive enough that no visitor could doubt the wealth of its occupant.
    And Max Rutledge was a full-fledged Texas billionaire. The Slash R ranch was only a minuscule part of his vast holdings, but it was his showplace and personal retreat.
    Max Rutledge wasn't a man that anyone would ever mistake for an ordinary Texas rancher.
    Crippled in a car accident that had taken the life of his young wife and forever robbed him of the use of his legs, he was confined to the wheelchair, albeit , the most advanced wheelchair money could buy.
    The sight of the wheelchair and the atrophied legs might evoke an initial reaction of pity, but one look at his thickly muscled torso, the harsh gauntness of his face, and the hooded glare of his dark eyes, and any sense of pity instantly vanished. No one walked away from a meeting with Max Rutledge still harboring any doubt that his reputation for being utterly ruthless was not well earned.
    Manipulating the hand controls with practiced ease, Rutledge sent the wheelchair gliding across the living room's stone float, its motor emitting little more than a soft hum. The double doors to the den stood open, revealing the bright blaze of flames burning in the fireplace, the room's focal point. With a flick of the controls, he swung the wheelchair toward the open doors.
    It was a decidedly masculine room, paneled in lustrous wood with exposed beams providing a rustic touch. The decor had the requisite Texas touches. The overstuffed armchair by the fireplace was upholstered in leather and cowhide. A Russell bronze stood on the fireplace mantel while a Navajo blanket lay artfully draped over the leather sofa.
    None of it caught Max Rutledge's eye when he wheeled into the room. His hard gaze continued its scan until it landed on the tall man standing at the window, staring out at the twilight's gray landscape, a drink in his