Reunion At Cardwell Ranch

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.

“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.”