Reunion At Cardwell Ranch
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West snapped on a lamp and put the painting under it. “Where did you get this?”
“I picked it up recently.”
“Nelson is right. If he has the original, then this one isn’t mine,” West said.
“Are you sure?” Clearly he wasn’t. “I should tell you that before I came here, I took the painting to a local expert,” Laramie said. “He confirmed it was yours and offered me thirty thousand for it.”
The artist’s eyes widened in surprise. “The original is worth over fifty.”
Just as Laramie had suspected. “But the question is, which is the original?”
West swore. “If this is a forgery, it’s a really good one.” The man was frowning at the artwork, clearly angry and also seeming confused.
“I’ve looked at both. They appear identical. So if you didn’t paint the copy, then who did?”
The artist shook his head. “How would I know?” He was upset now.
“It would take some talent, wouldn’t it?”
West sighed impatiently. “Sure, but—”
“Otherwise, you’re saying any art student could copy your paintings?”
“I see what you’re getting at,” the older man said angrily. “Yes, it takes talent. A lot of talent. They would have had to have studied their craft and have some natural ability, as well. Also they would have had to study my work. Not just anyone could make a reproduction this good.”
“So has this person been hiding under a rock, or is it someone you know?”
West seemed shocked by the question. “It couldn’t possibly be anyone I know.”
“Why not? I would think the cowboy art market is very small. It must also be competitive. There can’t be that many of you painting at this level, right?”
The artist nodded. “There are only twenty of us in the OWAC.” Seeing Laramie’s quizzical expression, he elaborated. “The Old West Artists Coalition.”
Laramie considered that. “Only twenty? That sounds like a pretty elite—and competitive—group.”
“We’re all friends. We encourage and support each other. The only competition is with ourselves to get better.”
“But some of you must make more money than others,” he prodded. “Who is the best paid of this group of cowboy artists?”
West met his gaze with an arrogant one. “I am, but there are several others who do quite well.”
“And you’re telling me there is no jealousy?” Laramie scoffed at that. He knew too well, being one of five brothers, that competition was in male DNA. “So who are the others who are doing ‘quite well’?”
“Cody Kent and Hank Ramsey, in that order. Rock Jackson quite a ways behind those two.”
Laramie couldn’t help but laugh. Just the fact that West knew that proved he at least had a competitive spirit. “So what exactly does this group do?”
“I told you. We support each other. We came together because of a desire to keep this art form alive in memory of the greats like the late Frederic Remington and Charles M. Russell. But also to ensure the work is an authentic representation of Western life. Without standards of quality and a respect for each other and the work...” He sounded as if he was quoting the group’s bylaws.
“And you belong to this group?”
“I’m one of its founders along with Rock, Hank and Cody Kent,” he said proudly.
Laramie had heard something in the man’s tone. “What does it take to be a member?”
“You have to apply. The members decide if your work and your character meet our standards.”
“Your standards?”
“Originally, you had to have cowboy experience as well as talent. That’s changed some. Why are you asking me all this?” West demanded.
Laramie wasn’t sure. “So it’s an exclusive...club.”
“None of my fellow artists would have any reason to rip me off by duplicating my work, if that’s what you’re getting at,” West said. “Not to mention, most of them don’t have the talent to copy my work.”
Laramie tried not to smile. No competition here.
“Look,” West said as if he knew he’d said too much. “There aren’t that many of us. We’re a dying breed of artists who care about our work. The satisfaction comes from painting and selling our own work—not copying someone else’s and passing it off for money.”
“Even if they needed money badly?” Laramie asked.
He saw something change in West’s expression as if the question had made him think of someone. Laramie knew money could be the most obvious reason for making forgeries of Taylor West’s work. Or maybe to rub West’s arrogant face in it.
West picked up the painting, frowning harder as he studied it again. “This is definitely the original,” he said, but he seemed to lack conviction.
“If no one in your group is talented enough to make you question if this painting is yours or not...”
“I’m telling you,” West snapped, “there’s no one alive who could have copied my work well enough to fool an expert, let alone me.”
Laramie thought that was a ridiculous statement given that someone obviously had, and he said as much.
West suddenly looked even more upset. “There is one man,” the artist said after a moment. He’d paled. “H. F. Powell.”
“Where would I find him?”
West didn’t seem to hear him for a moment. He shook his head as if clearing away cobwebs from his brain. “Find him?” His laugh was more of a grunt. “Six feet under, last I checked.”
* * *
TEXAS? SO THAT was Laramie Cardwell’s accent, Sid thought. The barbecue restaurant had opened in Big Sky Meadows just last year. She’d heard it was owned by five brothers from Houston. Since she didn’t get out much—at least during the day—that had been all Sid knew about the place.
Good sense told her to go into the store, buy some food and take it back to the cabin. The sooner she got home, the sooner she could get ready for tonight. Last night’s close call was a good reminder that she needed to finish this and move on.
But barbecue sounded good. More than anything, she was curious. She quickly shopped for what groceries she needed, telling herself she would get a barbecue sandwich to go. She knew she was taking a risk, but then again, she’d been taking risks for some time now. Putting the groceries into the back of her SUV, she walked quickly up the hill to Texas Boys Barbecue on the recently plowed sidewalk. The sun glistening off the snow was almost blinding. It was one of those clear, cold winter days in Big Sky when she could see her breath as she walked. She looked up at Lone Mountain, momentarily stunned by how beautiful it was this morning.
Sometimes she got so busy she forgot to notice what an amazing place this was. Once she was done with all of this, maybe she would take a few weeks off and snowboard up on the mountain. She deserved it after this.
A bell jangled over the door as she entered the restaurant. It was early so the place was busy but not packed, and there were enough people that she didn’t think she would stand out. Not that she believed Laramie Cardwell could recognize her.
The aroma of smoked meat filled the air, making her stomach growl again. Slipping into a booth, she pulled out a menu from behind an array of barbecue sauces with names like Hot in Houston and Sweet and Spicy San Antonio.
She’d just opened it when she heard a male voice with a distinct Southern accent coming from the kitchen. Looking up she saw a head of dark hair. The man was talking to another man with the same accent. As the first man turned, she realized he wasn’t the one from last night, but the resemblance gave her a start even before she laid eyes on the second man.
It was him!
Suddenly, as if sensing her staring at him, he glanced in her direction. Sid quickly ducked behind her menu as a young waitress approached her booth.
“What can I get you?” asked a teenaged girl with a ponytail and an order pad.
“I’ll try the pulled pork sandwich with beans and coleslaw,” Sid said from behind her menu. “Can I get that to go?”
“Great choice. What would you like to drink?” the girl asked.
Sid peeked out from behind the menu. Through the window into the kitchen she could no longer see the two men—nor could she hear them. Maybe they’d left.
“And a beer.”
The girl nodded, then shyly asked if she could see her ID. “I’m sorry, but I have to ask.”
Sid might have found that amusing since she was thirty. But she was aware that she didn’t look a day over twenty. Behind the waitress, she heard the men’s voices coming from the kitchen again. They sounded as though they were arguing.
She heard one say he didn’t like what the other one was doing. “Austin, if I need your help I’ll ask for it. I can handle this.” Laramie Cardwell’s voice. Handle what?
Sid looked up at the waitress. Today of all days, she didn’t want to show her ID. She knew it was silly since Laramie Cardwell hadn’t seen her face last night. But he might have a few moments ago. She remembered him above her in the moonlight and the way he’d looked into her eyes...and felt a shiver.
“You know, just make it a cola. I have work to do this afternoon.”
The poor girl nodded without looking at her and wrote on her order pad.
“The owners of this place, are they really from Texas?” Sid asked.
The girl brightened. “They sure are. Five brothers. They just opened this place, but I heard there’s another one going to open at Red Lodge.”
“Really? Five brothers, huh?”
“Yep, all raised in Texas. They were born here, but left when they were kids. Four of them have moved back.”
“The fifth one?” Sid asked, remembering how strong the man’s Texas accent had been.
“Laramie still lives in Houston. That’s where the main office is located. He’s the one in charge of all the restaurants. They’re cousins to Dana Cardwell of Cardwell Ranch, if you’re familiar with the area.”
Anyone who lived in the Canyon as the Gallatin Canyon was known had heard of the Cardwells of Cardwell Ranch.
“Their story is on the back of the menu, if you’re interested. I’ll get your order right out,” the girl said. “You want that cola while you wait?”
Sid would much rather have had a beer and felt foolish for not showing the girl her ID. What were the chances that the waitress would remember her name or have any reason to mention it to her bosses?
Glancing toward the kitchen, she didn’t see the men. Or hear them, but that didn’t mean they weren’t still back there. And if the man from last night had seen her a few minutes ago...
“Sure, I’ll take the cola now, but make it to go,” she said as she picked up the menu and turned it over.
The Cardwell brothers’ story was on the back along with their photos. What surprised her was that Texas Boys Barbecue was a franchise the brothers had started. She’d just assumed they only owned this one restaurant.
Less surprising was that all five brothers were drop-dead gorgeous. In the photo on the back of the menu, the photographer had lined them up along a jack-legged fence, a ranch house in the background. Each brother wore jeans, boots, Western shirts and Stetsons. Each was equally handsome.
Her gaze went to Laramie. He was definitely the one who’d tackled her last night. She felt a shiver as she looked at his photo. His blue eyes stared back at her almost challenging. She told herself she had nothing to fear. He didn’t know who she was or the marshal would have been to her door already. Even if he had bought that house, he’d be like most of the residents—staying only a few weeks of the year.
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.
* * *
THE 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.
* * *
LARAMIE 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.”
* * *
TAYLOR WEST 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.
* * *
“THE 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.