Something More (16 page)

Angie had learned just enough about Luke to want to know more. “Why?”

“Why what?” Ima Jane turned, her expression blank of understanding.

“Why wouldn't it be like him to stay alone at the ranch?”

“Because—” She paused to make a quick, assessing study of Angie. “I imagine you noticed the ruins of the ranch house while you were there.”

“Yes. Luke told me it had been destroyed in a fire a few years back.”

Ima Jane's expression took on a wise and knowing look. “I don't imagine that he also told you his wife and two-year-old son were killed in that fire.”

“No.” Angie was stunned by the news. “No, he didn't.”

“It was such an awful tragedy,” Ima Jane recalled, with a sigh. “A fire is devastating enough, but losing your wife and child, too.... Luke has never fully recovered from that.”

“I don't know if anyone ever recovers from a loss like that. You just learn to go on with your life.”

“So far, Luke has only managed to go on living,” Ima Jane said, with regret. Then she went on to explain, “The spring following the fire, a bunch of us went out there—in all, there were probably thirty of us, friends and neighbors—to help haul away all the rubble and clean up the site. We planned on pitching in to build a new ranch house, like the old-fashioned barn raisings. But Luke chased us off. He wanted it all left just the way it was—a kind of memorial, I guess. As if he needed a reminder.”

“I'm sorry.” For what, Angie couldn't have said exactly. A whole host of emotions welled up inside her, sympathy and regret among them.

“We all are.” Ima Jane's mouth curved in a sad smile of understanding. “Most of all, I think we're sorry about what it's done to him. In some ways, he isn't the same man at all.”

“That's to be expected, though,” Angie stated. “We're all changed by the things we go through in life.”

“That's true, I know, but—” A troubled frown altered her expression as Ima Jane searched for the words to explain her concern. “I suppose it's his drinking that bothers me most. Maybe it isn't a problem now, but in time, it will be.”

On that, Angie had to agree.

Grease popped and spattered around the fat patty of ground chuck in the iron skillet. Luke lifted a corner of it with a metal spatula to see if it was ready to turn. Almost, he concluded and left it to brown a little more, then used a fork to test the potatoes boiling in another pan on the stove. The centers were still on the hard side of firm. He put the lid back on the pan and laid the fork on the spoon rest along with the spatula, then reached for the drink glass sitting on the counter.

Barely a quarter inch of amber-colored whiskey remained in the bottom of it. All the rest was ice. When he tipped the glass to his mouth, he got a noseful of cubes along with the swallow of liquor.

The fifth of Wild Turkey by the sink held less than a shot. Unconcerned, Luke emptied it into the glass, tossed the bottle into the trash, and opened the cupboard door above it. Another fifth of whiskey sat on the shelf, its seal unbroken.

As his hand touched the bottle, the lid to the potatoes rattled a noisy accompaniment to the sound of rapidly boiling water. It bubbled over the sides of the pan and fell onto the red-hot burner, erupting in a hiss of steam. Cursing under his breath, Luke swung to rescue the potatoes and accidentally bumped the whiskey bottle. It somersaulted off the shelf, struck the edge of the countertop, and cracked open like an egg, spraying liquor and chips of thick glass everywhere.

For a split second, Luke froze, torn between the shattered bottle with its pooling whiskey on the floor and the pan boiling over on the stove. But the wildly rattling lid and the smell of scorched potato water demanded immediate attention.

Swearing in earnest now, Luke jerked the pan from the burner and turned off the heat to it, then went to work picking up the chunks and bits of glass from the broken whiskey bottle. Once they were all gathered, he dumped them in the trash and stalked to the utility room for a mop and a bucket.

When he reentered the kitchen, he was greeted by the stench of two new aromas mingling with the reek of whiskey: scorched green beans and charred beef. One look confirmed what his nose had told him; his supper, dull as it had been, was ruined.

In disgust, he switched off the burners, left the pans to set, and turned to the puddle of liquor on the floor, his temper simmering with the knowledge he couldn't even console himself with a drink. He made a couple of swipes with the mop to absorb the bulk of the liquid, then jammed the mop in the bucket.

“The hell with it.” He snatched up his hat and truck keys before heading for the door and Ima Jane's.

 

 

Angie waited by the cash register while Ima Jane rang up her bill. At the pool table, Tobe and Fargo were playing off the night's second rubber match. Dulcie sat alone at the table, quietly drawing on a blank sheet of paper Ima Jane had provided along with a cup of crayons. Something told Angie this wasn't the first time Dulcie had entertained herself in such a manner while waiting for Tobe.

Studying Dulcie's head, bent in concentration over her drawing, Angie was struck by the fact she had met all these people for the first time just a little over twenty-four hours ago. Yet, despite the short time she'd spent with them, she had the feeling she'd known them most of her life. The thought brought a small, bemused smile to her lips.

“Are you sure you won't reconsider and sleep upstairs tonight?” Ima Jane counted out her change.

“Thanks, but I'll be fine in the camper.” Angie slipped the change in her wallet and returned it to her purse.

“If you're sure.” But her expectant glance invited Angie to change her mind.

“I'm sure.”

“Okay, but if you should hear any strange noises in the night, you just holler.”

“I will,” Angie promised, then wished her a good night and waved to Dulcie.

Watching her leave, Ima Jane half hoped someone would come prowling around the camper and instantly felt guilty for wishing such a thing. It was just that there had been so much talk, so much excitement swirling about, generated first by the discovery of the skeleton, then by Angie's arrival and the existence of the letter with its possible clues to the missing gold.

Ima Jane wished that Angie had never shown them the letter. Speculating about its contents had been infinitely more stimulating than reading them. The aura of mystery was gone, and life threatened to return to its mundane patterns. It would seem terribly dull and uninteresting after this.

“She isn't callin' it a night already, is she?” Griff's question pulled her around.

“No, she said she was going to do some reading and relax a little before turning in.” Her voice sounded as flat as she felt. Ima Jane couldn't even summon up enough curiosity to wonder why Griff had asked.

He grunted a response of sorts, then swept a narrowed glance over the nearly empty tables. “Doesn't look like we'll have any more customers tonight. I'm gonna start cleanin' up the kitchen.”

“Might as well,” she agreed, but Griff hadn't bothered to wait for her approval. He was already heading toward the kitchen.

“Dulcie,” Fargo called and propped his pool stick against the wall. “You watch this brother of yours and make sure he doesn't cheat while I'm in the john.”

“Ha!” Tobe countered. “If there's any cheatin' goin' on around here, you're the one doin' it.”

Fargo snorted at that and started down the back hall. “You were the one movin' the cue ball, not me,” he taunted over his shoulder.

“That was an accident,” Tobe protested to Fargo's back, then swung to Ima Jane, desperate to convince someone of that. “I swear it was.”

“Of course.” Her murmured response showed the measure of her distraction.

 

 

The first evening stars glittered against the sky's purpling backdrop. Angie paused on the Rimrock's steps to drink in the magic of the Wyoming night, breathing in air that was fresh and pure. A quietness enveloped the landscape, magnifying the stillness and the simple sounds of nature.

Cocking her head, she listened to the sigh of a lazy breeze in the nearby trees, the fluttering of wings, and a scurrying in the tall grasses near the roadside. She made a slow descent of the steps, dawdling on each tread, deliberately delaying her walk to the camper.

This was the kind of night meant for sitting on a porch swing idly contemplating the horned moon up above. A night for humming half-forgotten melodies of old songs and watching the dance of fireflies. Back in Iowa, it would be the kind of night for sitting and listening to the corn grow. She was curious to discover what it would be like in Wyoming.

The haunting call of an owl echoed from the trees, plaintive in its cry of “Whooo. Whooo. Whooo.”

“Only me,” Angie replied and smiled at the foolishness of talking to a bird.

The quarter moon's pale light silvered the graveled lot where the encroaching shadows failed to claim it. On the far end of the lot, the camper's white sides gleamed softly. Angie strolled toward it, regretting that it didn't come equipped with a porch and a swing. She wasn't eager to shut herself inside it, knowing how hot and stuffy it would be after being closed up all day. At the same time, she wanted to kick back and replay the day's events in her mind.

So much had happened; yet so little had happened, too. So much more was still before her.

The camper, at least, would afford her privacy, Angie reminded herself. And if she cranked out all the windows, hooked the door open, and closed only the screen portion of it, it wouldn't take long for the camper to cool down.

As concerned as Ima Jane was for her safety she would have a fit if she knew Angie wasn't locking herself in the camper. Imagining the woman's reaction if she found out, Angie couldn't help but smile.

Still smiling at the mental picture, Angie wandered past the other pickup trucks parked in the lot, invading the blackness of their elongated shadows. From far down the highway came the low drone of an approaching vehicle. Glancing around, she spotted the twin beams of its headlights in the distance, glowing like small beady eyes.

With the muffling crunch of her shoes on the gravel, she almost didn't hear the whisper of sound behind her, a sound like the rushing of air. As she started to look back, pain exploded in her head as something hard struck the side of it with a glancing blow.

She reeled backward, then staggered forward, fighting an inner blackness that threatened to swallow her. Struggling to stay on her feet, Angie stumbled against the tailgate of a parked truck and grabbed hold of it. Something jerked at her arm, pulling her off balance.

T
he drive from the ranch had done little to improve the foulness of Luke's mood. Brakes and tires both squealed when he whipped the steering wheel around, making the turn into the parking lot at a speed faster than wisdom dictated.

The swooping arc of the truck's headlights raked the building and the vehicles parked outside it, then washed over a figure struggling to rise from the ground, fully illuminating the vivid red lights in her dark hair. Intent on Angie, Luke almost missed the second figure the truck beams captured. A glimpse was all he got of the man momentarily frozen by the glare. Then he was gone, merging with the darkness of the building's shadows.

In that same flash of an instant, Luke slammed on the brakes, and the pickup fishtailed to a skidding stop. Leaving the truck running with the headlights pointed at Angie, he piled out of the cab and ran to her side. By the time he reached her, she was on her knees, sitting back on her heels. She looked dazed and a little groggy, her face unnaturally white in the beams' bright glare.

He crouched beside her, laying a hand on her shoulder while his gaze examined her. “What happened? Did you fall?” His own expression was a mixture of concern and lingering irritation.

“Yes—No—I'm not sure.” She reached up and gingerly touched an area behind her ear, then winced immediately. “I think . . . someone hit me. I kind of remember hearing footsteps afterward.”

“Let me look.” He shifted slightly to avoid blocking the light from the pickup and carefully parted her hair. “You've got the beginnings of a bump, but the skin isn't broken. Did you lose consciousness? Even for a few seconds?”

“No,” she said after some thought, then managed a weak grin. “Although for a split second, I swear I saw stars.”

A part of him admired her ability to find humor in this incident, but another part of him wanted to shake her for not treating it more seriously. For the time being, Luke chose to ignore her comment.

“Can you stand?” he asked.

“Sure,” she replied with easy confidence.

Just the same, Luke maintained a steadying hold on her as she rose to her feet, exhibiting a little awkwardness. Once she was upright, Angie gently cupped a hand over the bump on her head.

“Are you feeling woozy? Sick to your stomach?” He watched her closely.

“No, but my head's throbbing like it's been whacked good.”

“Come on. Let's get you inside.” He circled a bracing arm around her and turned her toward the entrance to the Rimrock.

“No.” She stiffened in resistance. “Ima Jane will fuss all over me. Let's go to the camper instead. I'll get my—” She reached for her purse, but it wasn't there. “My purse.” The pounding of her head was momentarily pushed from her mind as she began scanning the graveled area near her feet. “I must have dropped it.”

But it was nowhere in sight, which didn't surprise Luke in the least. “It's not here. The guy who hit you over the head probably took it.”

“But my keys are in it. And my wallet with my money and all my credit cards. And—Oh my gosh.” Stricken by the realization of another now-missing item, she pressed a hand to her mouth.

“The letter, I suppose,” Luke concluded in disgust. “You didn't take my advice and put it somewhere else.”

“It isn't that. The letter's here in my pocket.” She absently touched the side pocket of her slacks. “It's all of the pictures in my wallet. Most of them are old family snapshots that can't be replaced.”

For an instant, Luke recalled all the family pictures that had been destroyed in the fire that had claimed the lives of his wife and son. Just as abruptly, he banished it from his mind.

“Come on.” He took her by the elbow and turned her again toward the door. “We're calling the sheriff.”

Angie hung back. “But—”

“Your purse was stolen. You were robbed, Angie.” Impatience made him curt with her. “This has to be reported.”

The half-formed protest died on her lips. Without another word, she let him guide her to the door.

When he reached ahead to open it for her, she murmured in amazement, “Can you believe it? I traveled all the way to Wyoming just to get mugged.”

She laughed, only the sound wasn't really a laugh. There was more confusion than amusement in it.

“Yeah, the irony of it is hilarious,” Luke muttered grimly and steered her through the doorway.

Ima Jane was behind the bar, putting away glasses, when Angie walked in. “Angie. Did you change your mind about—” The instant she saw Luke behind Angie, she shouted over her shoulder to the kitchen, “You'd better turn the grill back on, Griff! Luke just walked in.” All smiles, she directed her next words to him. “I had just about decided you weren't coming in tonight.” Ima Jane reached for the bottle of Wild Turkey. “You'll want the usual, I imagine.”

“Forget the drink for now,” he said, and Ima Jane froze in surprise. “You need to call the sheriff. Angie's been robbed.”

“Robbed?!” The shock of his announcement didn't last. A pulse beat later, Ima Jane was hurrying out from behind the counter, throwing a brief glance at Griff when he pushed through the swinging door from the kitchen. “Did you hear that, Griff? Angie's been robbed. Quick, call the sheriff.”

Fargo came strolling out of the back hall, idly drying his right hand on his shirtfront, just in time to hear Ima Jane's order. “What happened?” he demanded, suddenly alert.

Big eyed with surprise, Tobe jumped in. “Did someone break into your camper again?”

“No,” Luke answered for her and led Angie to a table near the door. “They hit her over the head and stole her purse.” He pulled out a chair and all but pushed her onto it. “Sit down.”

“How bad are you hurt?” Ima Jane was immediately all over her. “Should we send for an ambulance?”

“No, I'm fine,” Angie insisted and again gingerly touched the extremely tender knot on her head. “I just have a bump up here. That's all.”

By now, the others had gathered around her chair, but Luke remained in charge. “We'd better get an ice pack on that to keep the swelling down. Dulcie, get some ice from behind the bar and a clean towel to wrap it in.”

When Dulcie sprinted for the bar, Griff joined them. “There's a car on the way. It should be here in thirty or forty minutes.”

“Who hit you?” Fargo questioned.

Tobe immediately added, “Did you see him?”

“No, I didn't see anything,” Angie admitted, resisting the impulse to shake her head, “except a bunch of stars.”

“Have you got a penlight around here, Ima Jane? We'd better check her eyes and make sure she isn't concussed.” Luke dragged another chair away from the table and sat down facing her.

“I'll get it.” She hurried off, passing Dulcie as she ran back to the table, dropping ice cubes out of the towel she carried. She managed to arrive with most of them and rather proudly presented the bundle to Luke.

“Maybe we should go outside and look around, see if anybody's still out there,” Tobe suggested while Luke expertly tied the bar towel together.

“No point,” Griff grunted.

Fargo agreed with his summation. “Whoever ran off with her purse is long gone by now. Besides, the sheriff wouldn't like us messin' up any tracks the guy might have left.”

“How's he gonna leave any tracks?” Tobe wanted to know. “That parking lot's all gravel.”

“So maybe he didn't leave any tracks,” Fargo agreed irritably. “But he could've dropped something. It's better if they find it instead of one of us.”

No one bothered to ask Luke if he had seen anyone, and he didn't volunteer the fact, preferring to keep that information to himself for the time being.

“Here.” He handed Angie the makeshift ice bag. “Hold that on the bump.”

“This really isn't necessary.” But she applied it against the area behind her ear and sucked in a hissing breath at the fresh pounding it ignited.

Ima Jane returned with the penlight and a cup of coffee. “Here you go.” She passed the light to Luke and set the cup on the table, then heaped sugar into it. “I brought you some coffee, too, Angie. With plenty of sugar in it. There's nothing better to ward off shock.”

“Thanks.” But the way her head was hurting, Angie wished all of them would just go away and leave her alone.

“Look at me.” Luke hooked a finger under her chin and lifted it, turning her head to face him.

“What are you? A paramedic?” Angie asked, half in jest.

“He's a fireman,” Dulcie inserted.

“A volunteer.” Luke qualified her answer, flicking the bright penlight off and on to check the dilation of her pupils. “Advanced first-aid courses are part of the training since fire units are often the first to arrive.”

“I didn't know,” she murmured, suitably chastised.

“Now you do.” Finished, he turned off the light.

“What's the verdict, doc?” she asked, forcing a smile.

He smiled back, and the lazy gentleness of it warmed her. “I don't think you're suffering from anything worse than a hard knock on the head, but it wouldn't hurt to have a doctor check you.”

Angie made a slight face at that advice. “No thanks. He'd probably tell me to take two aspirins and go to bed. I can do that on my own.”

Luke didn't argue, but he didn't agree either. “We'll see how you're feeling later on.”

“What do you wanta bet that guy was after the letter?” Tobe issued the challenge to no one in particular. “When he didn't find it in her camper this afternoon, he probably figured she was carryin' it in her purse.”

“If he did, he figured wrong,” Angie informed him tiredly and received a sharp, admonishing kick from Luke. Her glance flew indignantly to his face and observed the small, barely perceptible shake of his head that urged silence.

“You mean, you still have it!” Tobe's eyes were wide with surprise.

“I still have it,” she admitted, then added in a rush, “if the guy had just asked to see it instead of hitting me over the head, I would gladly have shown it to him.”

“I left my truck running, Tobe,” Luke said. “Go park it for me.”

“Sure.” But he went reluctantly, worried that he might miss something important.

A curious frown carved deep lines in Fargo's forehead. “You know I could have sworn I saw you put that letter back in your purse.”

“Obviously she didn't if she still has it,” Luke stated. “Let's all give it a rest for now. The police will have enough questions for all of us to answer once they get here.”

Less than thirty-five minutes after Griff had placed the call, a patrol car from the sheriff's office pulled into the lot. Five minutes later an officer of the state police arrived, and Angie found herself repeating the same story over again, sketchy as it was. Once she had answered all the questions to their satisfaction, she and Luke accompanied the two men outside.

After she had shown the location of the attack and again described it, the officers turned to Luke. “Where was Miss Sommers when you first saw her?”

“On the ground, here by the truck, just starting to get up.”

“Did you see anything else?” The question came at last.

Luke chose his words carefully. “I'm not sure, but I may have seen someone in the shadows over in that general area.” Ignoring Angie's surprised look, he pointed to the spot. “He was caught in my headlight beams for no more than a split second; then he was gone.”

“What did this person look like? Can you give us a description?”

“Not really. Like I said, the glimpse I had was brief.”

“Male? Female?”

“I had the impression it was a man.”

“Was he tall? Short?” The questions came at him rapid fire.

“I couldn't say.”

“How was he dressed?”

“I don't know. I only had a glimpse of his face. The rest was all shadow.”

“Probably had on dark clothes,” the deputy murmured to the state patrolman.

The officer nodded, more in an acknowledgment of the comment than an agreement with it. “Which way did he go?”

“It's just a guess, but since he didn't cut across the parking lot, he probably ducked into the alley behind the Rimrock.”

“Would you show us approximately where the man was when you saw him?”

“I can try, but I doubt I'll be able to narrow the area down very much. It all happened too quickly. He was there, and then he wasn't. For all I know, I might have only imagined that I saw someone.”

“It's possible, but not likely.”

Luke walked them to the shadowed side of the lot and indicated a ten-foot-long strip that might have been where the man was standing.

When they had finished, the state patrolman advised, “You two might as well go back inside. We'll look around out here, check the alley, see what we find. Then we'll be in to take your written statements.”

“How's your head?” Luke asked as they walked back to the entrance.

“Until you asked, I had almost forgotten it was still hurting,” Angie admitted, aware that her thoughts had already turned to the new problems she faced now that she was hundreds of miles from home with no money, no credit cards, and no driver's license. Distracted by the myriad of details she would have to handle, it was becoming difficult to focus on the actual mugging itself. “You never said anything about seeing someone.”