Reunion at Cardwell Ranch (4 page)

She wished she could wait for him to return to Texas. Unfortunately, she couldn’t. Time was running out. She had to get the painting back—even knowing there was a chance of crossing paths with Laramie Cardwell again. She would just have to make sure that didn’t happen.

Chapter Five

Laramie left the restaurant, his mind on the painting and the woman, of course. The winter day sparkled under a blinding sun that ricocheted off the new-fallen snow. At loose ends waiting to hear if McKenzie got him the house, he went for a drive up the canyon.

Next to the highway, the Gallatin River snaked through the canyon under a thick layer of aquamarine ice. He tried to enjoy the beauty of this alien winter place. The snowcapped pines bent under the weight of their frozen burden, reminding him that it was less than a week until Christmas. His cousin Dana loved the holidays and went all-out surrounded by her family. He smiled at the thought.

Glancing in his review mirror, he realized he’d seen the large dark brown older-model sedan behind him before—right after he’d left Taylor West’s house. It was behind him again.

He tried to laugh off the thought of someone following him. First cat burglars now this? Well, there was one way to find out, he thought as he neared the Corral Bar. He slowed and pulled in. The car went on past.

The windows on the vehicle had been tinted, so he hadn’t gotten a good look at the driver. If he had to guess, he’d say male. As it disappeared up the road, he told himself the driver hadn’t been following him anyway.

He thought about going inside the bar and having a burger and a beer. This was his father and uncle’s favorite bar. Their band often played here.

But he was too antsy. He wanted to get back and find out if McKenzie had gotten him the house...and the painting. He pulled back on the road headed toward Big Sky again, his thoughts going to his cat burglar. The forgery at the house had to have been painted by someone with a whole lot of talent as Taylor West had said.

So if it was a forgery, who had painted it? Not some dead man named H. F. Powell unless he’d painted it before his demise. But the big question was why would his thief take it instead of the authenticated original?

She wouldn’t. So if he was right and she’d been coming out of the house when he’d arrived, then she’d been in the process of stealing the original when he’d stopped her.

Which meant McKenzie was about to make a deal for a forgery.

Shaking his head at his own foolishness, he glanced in his rearview mirror. The brown car was back.

He felt a start at the sight of it behind him again. As he glanced in his rearview mirror again he saw that the vehicle was coming up fast. The canyon road had been plowed, but the dark pavement was still icy. Add to that the twists and turns the highway took as it wound through the Gallatin Canyon and the driver of the car was going way too fast.

Laramie had only a moment for his brain to take it all in before he realized that the driver had no intention of slowing down. A curve was coming up, one with a steep rock face on one side of the road and a precarious drop to the frozen river on the other.

He felt the vehicle’s bumper connect with the back of his rental. Just a tap. But on the icy road that was all it took. The rental SUV began to fishtail on the ice as the dark car bumped into him again. He could feel the tires lose traction and the next thing he knew he was sliding toward the river. He felt the tires go off the pavement. A wall of snow rushed over the hood.

Expecting the SUV would be pitched into the river and break through the ice, Laramie braced him. Moments later, heart in his throat, he was shocked when the deep snow off the side of the highway stopped his descent just yards from the frozen river. He sat, so shaken he didn’t notice the dark car backing up on the highway above him until he heard the roar of the engine.

Looking up, all he saw was the dark tinted windows on the passenger side as the car sped away.

* * *

T
HE
PULLED
PORK
sandwich was to die for, just as Tara had said. Sid couldn’t believe she hadn’t been to Texas Boys Barbecue before this. The beans and coleslaw were quite good, too. She had downed the cola on the drive back to the cabin but had saved the rest until she’d reached home. Once there, she’d pulled a cold bottle of beer from the grocery bag and sat down at her kitchen table to devour the barbecue. She couldn’t help licking her fingers.

Her father would have loved the food, she thought, and then pushed the thought away. While he was always with her, driving her more than ambition, remembering him often brought aching pain. One day that pain would go away, once she accomplished the job she’d set for herself, she told herself as she cleaned up the mess and changed her clothes.

Back at her easel, she considered the painting she was working on. It was one of her father. He was standing by a horse next to the corral. His battered straw cowboy hat was pushed back, sunlight on his weathered face. Behind him were the rocky cliffs and scrub pine of her youth. She was painting it from memory since all the photos had been lost.

She thought of the stash of original artwork she had hidden all these years. It had been years since anyone had seen those paintings—herself included.

Until recently.

* * *

L
ARAMIE
CALLED
911
the moment he was out of the SUV and standing at the edge of the highway. He couldn’t believe how lucky he’d been. Just a few more yards and the rental would have been in the river.

Marshal Hud Savage came on the line. “What’s this about you being forced off the road?”

He told him and Hud promised to have a wrecker sent down to get his rental out of the snowbank.

Laramie had given him what little description he could of the vehicle that had forced him off the road. As with the alleged cat burglar, he had little information other than the car was large and brown with tinted windows.

“It happened too fast,” he said. “But there was no doubt of the driver’s intent.” He could almost see Hud nodding.

“Had you passed the driver? Or had any interaction before this?”

“No. I saw the car earlier up by Taylor Fork, then again later when I went for a drive up the canyon.” He could tell that Hud had little hope of finding the vehicle. “Can you do me a favor? Find out what Taylor West drives.”

“Taylor West, the local artist?” Hud asked with obvious surprise.

Hud told him that West owned a large SUV and an older-model pickup. Neither matched the description Laramie had given him.

“What makes you think Taylor West had anything to do with running you off the road?” Hud had wanted to know.

“Nothing really,” Laramie said. “That’s just the first place I noticed the car following me, after I visited the artist. I’m probably wrong about there being a connection.” And yet he had a feeling that if Taylor hadn’t been behind it, then someone he knew definitely was. But he had no idea why. “Maybe I ticked off the driver somehow.”

“Maybe,” Hud said. “You sure you weren’t going too slow?”

“Maybe.”

* * *

T
AYLOR
W
EST
PACED
the floor after the Texan left. He’d been so shaken that he would have poured himself a drink if there’d been any booze in the house. But his wife had dumped every drop she could find down the drain before she’d left. He’d dug out enough from his hiding places that he’d been fine. Until now.

“When are you coming back?” he’d demanded as he’d watched her throw her clothes into two suitcases and head for the door.

“When you get some help with your drinking.”

He didn’t need any help. He drank fine without it.

The old joke fell flat. He knew it was more than his drinking. She’d been trying to let him down easy, he thought as he looked around the house. He hadn’t realized what a mess it was until he’d seen it through his visitor’s eyes. What had Laramie Cardwell been thinking, showing up unannounced at his door like that?

“It’s that damned painting,” he said as he opened one kitchen cupboard after another, not even sure what he was looking for—then he remembered where he’d hidden a bottle of bourbon months ago and felt better.

In the laundry room, he moved the washer out a little. Reaching behind it, he groped around, feeling nothing but air and cobwebs. Panic filled him. The drive to the nearest liquor store was a good ten miles. He couldn’t go to the nearest bar since he’d been kicked out of it.

His hand brushed over the cold throat of the bourbon bottle. His relief rushed out in a laugh that sounded too loud in the small room. Clutching the bottle, he withdrew it, wiped off the dust with one of his dirty shirts lying on the laundry room floor and headed for the kitchen.

Unable to find a clean glass, he took his first drink straight from the bottle. The liquor bathed his tongue in bliss, warmed his throat and quenched his thirst. He took another drink as the first one reached his belly and sent a golden glow through him.

That’s when he knew he was in trouble. There was only one man who could have painted the forgery. He’d be kidding himself if he thought it was anyone but H. F. Powell. He thought of Powell’s last words to him. “I could paint one of your pieces and you wouldn’t know the difference, that’s how good I am.”

Taylor shook his head. He hadn’t let himself think of H.F. in years. Some things were best forgotten. Everyone knew that the painter had become a recluse in the last years of his life. No one had seen him for almost two years before the tragedy. There hadn’t been a funeral—at H.F.’s request. No memorial service. No family.

H.F. must be rolling in his grave since his paintings were now worth a small fortune. Taylor admitted grudgingly, the man had been one hell of a painter. But look where it had gotten him. The arrogant old fool had died alone and miserable.

Just like you’re going to die.
Taylor snorted at the thought and the one that came after it.
What goes around, comes around.
He shuddered and took another drink, regretting the calls he’d made the moment Laramie Cardwell left. But he’d been so upset and he wasn’t in this alone.

Rock Jackson had sounded as if he’d been asleep before the call.

“I’m telling you this painting was so good... I’m not even sure it isn’t the original,” he’d told Rock. “Tell me there isn’t any chance—”

“Take it easy. You’re jumping to conclusions. Who brought you the painting?”

Taylor told him.

“The guy’s gone, right?”

“He just left.”

“Then there is nothing to worry about,” Rock had said. “Look, I have to go. Have a drink. Everything is fine.”

Artist Hank Ramsey had told him pretty much the same thing, only Taylor had heard more worry in Hank’s voice.

“If you had seen this painting...” Taylor had said feeling sick to his stomach.

Hank had asked the name of the man who’d stopped by and what painting it had been. Hank had tried to calm him back down. “Taylor, we’re all painting cowboys, horses and Indians. We’ve all had someone copy our paintings. Since you’re at the top of the heap, your paintings are going to be forged the most. Let me see what I can find out. In the meantime, don’t do anything crazy.”

He’d hung up, thinking about the other members of OWAC, picturing each of their faces and telling himself that none of them were good enough to paint such a perfect forgery.

He’d tried to call Rock back, but the number had gone to voice mail. “This is Taylor West. Call me. We really need to talk. If that painting is what I think it is... Call me.” He’d disconnected, wondering where Rock was. Or if he just wasn’t taking his calls after the first one. Which would make Rock look pretty suspicious, wouldn’t it?

Now he took a long drink, admitting that he never should have trusted Rock. Rock wasn’t that much different from H. F. Powell when it came to women. Now Rock was in trouble because of another woman. In the middle of an ugly divorce, he was probably desperate for money. But how far would he go?

Taylor knew his suspicion of Rock could also be because Rock had always been jealous of him—especially when Taylor had married Jade.

Jade. Where was his beautiful young wife? She’d probably gone to her mother’s back in Indiana. He shoved the thought of her away as he took another drink. He had a lot more to worry about than Jade.

* * *

“T
HE
HOUSE
IS
YOURS
,”
McKenzie announced when Laramie stopped by her office after getting his rental SUV pulled out of the snowbank. He was still shaken, but even more determined to get to the bottom of whatever was going on.

“And the painting?” he asked expectantly. He told himself he couldn’t be sure which was original and without it, he might never know.

She chuckled. “Yours, as well. He wanted extra for it, but I convinced him that you wanted pretty much everything in the house except, of course, any items that he couldn’t possibly part with. If you don’t want the furniture, I know a consignment place—”

“No, furnished is perfect. So what is he leaving?”

“Everything, including the kitchen sink, except for the other paintings and sculptures. He has an art dealer coming to take the lot of them this afternoon.”

Laramie couldn’t hide his relief. He wasn’t sure why the painting was so important. But what had happened after he’d left Taylor West’s house had him convinced the painting was at the heart of it. He thought about the house—where he’d seen his alleged cat burglar. “How soon can I take occupancy?”

“Right away, I suppose, if you’re in that much of a hurry.”

He’d been staying with Hayes and McKenzie and didn’t want to hurt her feelings. “No hurry, just anxious to get settled.”

“I can understand that. Since the house will come completely furnished, there won’t be much that you will need. He’s leaving bedding, all of which he said is brand-new. Apparently they haven’t gotten to use this house much. I take it that his soon-to-be-ex wife didn’t like it up here. Too isolated. Since you’re paying cash, I can arrange a rental agreement until the sale is final. You should be able to move in this evening. The owner is in a hurry to get out of town.”

“Great.”

“But this...urgency to get settled, it wouldn’t have anything to do with your...cat burglar, would it?”