The Lockwood Legacy - Books 1-6: Plus Bonus Short Stories

by Juliette Harper

  Everyone at the Rocking L had agreed to keep quiet for now, even though Josh would be accompanying Jake to “work” each day under the guise of being an “official” photographer. Never mind the 9 mm automatic that would be tucked in the waist of his jeans under his coat.

  Jake’s metal detector was outfitted with some kind of GPS gizmo and he had a plan to map backwards from the site where he found the lip ornament. The whole idea of that thing, pretty though it was, cracked her up. She couldn’t count the number of times when she was working at Neiman’s in Houston that some socialite had complained about her son or daughter getting a lip ring.

  Of course, a little stainless steel ball couldn’t compare to the elaborate golden serpent Jake found. When she’d asked if she could hold it, she was shocked by how heavy it felt in her hand. She couldn’t imagine what it must have been like to wear such a thing, or how big the piercing would have been. Mandy happily slept through every history class she’d ever taken, but it was hard not to be interested in a culture associated with that much gold.

  She was adjusting well to life on the ranch, in large part due to how happy she was with Joe, but there was still a part of her that longed for a day at the Galleria. After all, there was a Tiffany’s there, and with the inheritance, she could afford those lovely little blue boxes and Prada bags and Kate would love a Mont Blanc pen . . .

  Mandy stopped herself. She was living her life now with people who put value on real things, not pretty toys. The man in her life wanted desperately to save the economy of his home town. She and her sisters were trying to understand why their father committed suicide. They were building a family for the first time in their lives. Her best friend was recovering from chemotherapy. “Grow up, Mandy Lockwood,” she muttered to herself as she parked the Range Rover and went into the library.

  Jolene was thumbing through a book catalog when Mandy pushed through the front door, balancing a sack of doughnuts in one hand and a tray with two cups of coffee in the other.

  “The Doughnut Fairy!” Jolene exclaimed happily, going to help Mandy.

  “Doreen’s Doughnut Delight is not Starbuck’s,” Mandy deadpanned, “but the coffee is better since she’s taking my advice on grinding her own beans.”

  “You,” Jolene said emphatically, “are a coffee snob.”

  “Connoisseur,” Mandy countered. “The chocolate one with the sprinkles is for you.”

  “Damn straight it is,” Jolene laughed, stirring sugar into her coffee. “So, what’s up?”

  Mandy sat down on one of the tall stools behind the checkout desk and extracted an apple fritter from the sack. “I wanted to ask you if you know anything about that big ole house up behind the cemetery.”

  Jolene wiped chocolate off her mouth and frowned. “You mean that ramshackle joint where the crazy lady lives?”

  “Jolene!” Mandy protested. “That’s not very nice, and you have no way of knowing if she’s crazy or not.”

  “Why in the world do you want to know about her?”

  Mandy related the circumstances of her visit to the graveyard, ending with a description of her rapid exit in the gathering dusk. Jolene laughed, “You never could sit through a scary movie when we were kids. I can’t believe you were hanging around a graveyard at half dark.” Then, in a softer tone she said, “Was it hard on you, honey? Going to your Mama’s grave?”

  “No,” Mandy said sadly. “I just wish I remembered more about her. She used to brush out my hair when it was so long, and tie it up with satin ribbons. And she read me stories at night about fairy princesses. She kept me out of the way of Daddy’s bad temper. I remember once she said to Daddy, ‘Langston Lockwood, this one gets to be a girl whether you like it or not.’ I never really understood what that meant until I was older and saw how hard he was on Katie and Jenny.”

  “Jenny had the good sense to get away,” Jolene said.

  “Yes, but that hurt her, too. Having to leave the ranch. She can say she didn’t miss Texas all these years as much as she wants to, but since she’s been back and all settled in, she’s not so prickly and mad all the time. She’s feeding the birds and putting out corn for the deer. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out she likes it here.”

  “Don’t you think Josh Baxter has something to do with that?”

  Mandy giggled, “Oh, Lord. If she’s going to cuss anybody out now, it’s Josh. He sure does know how to get her goat, but half the time I can tell it’s all she can do not to bust out laughing. He’s really good for her.”

  “Okay. Back on topic,” Jolene said, blowing on her coffee to cool the steaming liquid. “The old house. It originally belonged to the Maynard Jenkins’ family. They raised 14 kids out there, but over the years they all scattered and the place was deserted. Mrs. Jones bought the place years ago. She’s a complete recluse. The only reason I know her is that she’s an avid reader. She used to send me notes by Hortencia to order this or that book for her.”

  “Hortencia?”

  “Hortencia Sepeda, she’s the housekeeper. She started working for Mrs. Jones when she graduated high school and has been with her forever.”

  Mandy chewed thoughtfully. “So, Mrs. Jones doesn’t ask for books anymore?”

  “Oh, Lord no,” Jolene said. “I couldn’t believe it, but Mrs. Jones was one of the first people in this town to get residential Internet. I guess it gives her a way to get out of the house without actually walking out the front door. Anyway, Hortencia says she reads ebooks now. It’s funny though, Mrs. Jones still sends me a Christmas card every year by Hortencia. I think I have last year’s in my desk.”

  Jolene rummaged around in her top drawer until she found a card encased in a thick, creamy envelope, which she handed to Mandy. In elegant script under the printed sentiment, the inscription read, “Mrs. Wilson, I hope the holidays are a joyous time for you and your family. Thank you for the many years you helped me acquire reading material. Kindest regards and Merry Christmas, Elizabeth Jones.”

  Mandy turned the card over in her hand. “This is seriously expensive stationary.”

  “I know. Every one she sends is like that. I asked Hortencia about it once and she said, ‘Mrs. Elizabeth, she is a very great lady.’”

  “But why does she stay all cooped up in that house?” Mandy asked. “Why live as a recluse?”

  “She’s physically reclusive,” Jolene said, “but Rhonda over at the post office tells me she gets a lot of letters in the mail and sends a lot, too. Well, used to. I’m guessing she emails more now. And she did read everything in this library about Emily Dickinson.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Dear Lord, don’t you remember anything from senior English?”

  “That Mrs. Hawthorne was meaner than a snake and didn’t like me.”

  “Now why would you say that?” Jolene asked with mock innocence.

  “Oh, I don’t know, maybe because she called me an empty-minded little flibbertigibbet?” Mandy scowled. “I had to go look it up. She’s the only woman on the face of the earth who would know a Middle English word for a talkative young woman.”

  “Mandy, darling,” Jolene said reasonably, “I don’t think you actually shut up once between sixth grade and graduation.”

  Mandy stuck her tongue out at Jolene, who burst into laughter. “Emily Dickinson was a famous recluse,” she said, “but she had friends she wrote to all the time. Wouldn’t come out of her room, mind you, but she wrote tons of letters. That’s really how her poems got recognized. She wasn’t interested in publishing her stuff, just shared it with friends and family.”

  “Well, I’d say something about how odd Yankees are,” Mandy said, “but since Joe thinks I ought to get in touch with Mama’s people in Boston, I guess I better try to find my New England side.”

  “Who are your Mama’s people?” Jolene asked.

  “Her maiden name was Northrup,” Mandy said. “After Joe and I talked about it, I got online and looked them up.” She pulled
out her iPad, located a web page, and handed the tablet to Jolene.

  “Northrup, Northrup, and Northrup, Attorneys at Law,” she read, looking up with arched eyebrows. “Catchy name. And they say we’re inbred?”

  “Go to the ‘about’ page and scroll down,” Mandy said. “There’s a picture of my grandfather, Joseph Allen Northrup.”

  Jolene did as she was directed and let out a low whistle, “You reckon he stuffed his own shirts or sent them out for somebody else to do it?”

  Mandy giggled, “I know. They don’t look very friendly, do they?”

  “Are you really gonna get in touch with these folks?” Jolene asked. “Kinda seems like to me there must have been bad blood between them and your Mama or they’d have been a part of your life already.”

  “I don’t know,” Mandy said. “I was going to talk to Katie and Jenny about it and then everything.” she caught herself and quickly changed directions, “ got so busy with the planning commission, I haven’t had time.”

  Jolene eyed her suspiciously, but let it drop. “Any other little inquiries you want to raise today, Nancy Drew?” she asked. “Reclusive widow women, long lost Yankee kinfolks. You’re on a real roll.”

  “No,” Mandy said. “I need to roll on through my errands and get back to the ranch.”

  “Oh, that reminds me,” Jolene said. “Hang on. Katie asked me to get a book for her on interlibrary loan from San Antonio. She must be getting stuck on Professor Dimples.”

  “Why would you say that?” Mandy asked.

  Jolene handed a thick volume to her and said, “Have you been dying to read Mesoamerican Archaeology: Theory and Practice?”

  Mandy peered at the cover, “‘In this volume archaeologists have, at last, a textbook on Mesoamerica that combines recent data with current social thought. The chapters are beautifully written and provocative, giving deeper insight into Mesoamerican cultural diversity without simplifying 5000 years into a single story.’ Uh. Sounds fascinating?” she offered weakly.

  “All I can say is, those must be some killer dimples.”

  38

  A week after Jake discovered the Aztec lip ornament, Kate sat alone in her father’s study. It was well past midnight. That morning Jake left for a quick research trip to Mexico City armed with a stack of detailed photographs. The artifact itself, along with her father’s journal and private papers, was locked in the wall safe she installed shortly after John Fisk was killed.

  No new finds had surfaced at the creek bed and they hadn’t been able to determine conclusively that they were being watched. Still, Kate had taken to carrying a pistol under her coat. Now the gun was lying on the end table beside her chair and it would spend the night under her pillow when she finally went to bed.

  They’d had no choice but to tell Josh and Joe everything that was going on. Jake needed Josh’s photographic skills, and Joe was practically living with Mandy. Well, scratch that. Now that he knew she could be in danger, he had moved to the ranch, as had Josh, but he had to brave the lion’s den to do it.

  Kate couldn’t help snickering at the scene Jenny staged when Josh showed up, duffle bag in hand. He’d made Kate go with him for backup, and judging from Jenny’s opening line, it was a wise move. “Goddamn it, Josh Baxter, I do not need a babysitter.”

  “Now, sugar,” he started in.

  “Don’t you ‘now, sugar’ me,” she snapped. “I’m perfectly capable of shooting anyone that comes through that door, including you.”

  Josh looked imploringly at Kate who said, “Stop it, Jenny.”

  Thunderstruck, Jenny wheeled on her. “Are you telling me you want a man treating you like some fragile, helpless little woman?”

  “That’s not what he’s doing,” Kate said. “If anybody knows how sharp your claws can be, it’s Josh. He loves you anyway. Simmer down and let the man have your back. He’s gonna do it anyway. I don’t want to have to look out here and see him sleeping on the porch in the cold.”

  Jenny glared at her, but Kate didn’t back down. The tense silence stretched long enough for Josh to shift nervously from one boot to the other before Jenny sighed heavily. “You really think he needs to be here?” she asked Kate.

  “I do,” her sister replied.

  “Alright,” Jenny said, “calf rope. He can stay. But, Josh Baxter, do not be coming in my house with muddy boots on,” she added hotly.

  “No, ma’am,” Josh gulped weakly. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  A cedar log popped in the grate, sending an explosion of sparks up into the chimney. A spark. That’s what they needed. Some glimmer of illumination that would help them understand what the hell was going on. How was it possible they’d all grown up in this house and never seen or heard something that would unravel the puzzle of Baxter’s Draw?

  Behind her, piles of ledgers covered the old roll top desk. She’d been over the figures dozens of times. They told the story of a typical Central Texas ranch struggling to stay afloat, but Langston Lockwood died a multimillionaire. Yes, his accountants and investment brokers could provide her with all the copies of statements she wanted, but where did he get the money to make the initial investments? It had to come from Baxter’s Draw and the inescapable conclusion was that some type of treasure was involved.

  Kate stretched her long legs toward the fire, thinking she ought to just go to bed. She was still wearing her boots and her right toe hit the underside of the brick ledge overhanging the low hearth. She felt something shift under her foot and leaned forward for a closer look. One of the bricks was tilted on edge, but the mortar wasn’t crumbled.

  Curious, she moved the brick with her hand. It slid smoothly back on a concealed hinge and a long, shallow drawer popped soundlessly out of the base of the hearth.

  “Jesus, Daddy, really?” she muttered, moving out of her chair and onto the floor to examine the contents of the drawer. She drew out a single ledger, and inside she found the answer to where Langston Lockwood acquired the funds to build his fortune.

  In his neat, elegant hand, the pages were covered with descriptions of artifacts, when and where they were sold, and how much he received for each one. All of the dates fell between 1958 and 1976, the 18 years he’d lived on the ranch as a recluse before he waged his campaign to steal her mother from George Fisk.

  She flipped the page and was startled to see a detailed rendering of what looked like a cave, with each artifact drawn in its original location. The next page, however, was the motherlode. A hand drawn map of Baxter’s Draw, which was, as Jenny had so carefully researched, really a box canyon. All the way in, on the back wall, Langston had marked a spot and written, “Shift the round rock.”

  Now what the hell was she going to do? Jake might not be back for a week. They had every good reason to believe the draw was under surveillance. She had zero intention of putting her sisters or the other men in danger . . . but she had to know what was still in that cave.

  Kate glanced at her watch. One in the morning. The moon was full. She could see to ride up there. She’d be well past the creek bed before the sun came up. If anybody was out there, they’d be asleep. Why the hell not?

  Kate stood up, took the pistol from the table and walked to the gun cabinet to get a real holster, which she slid onto her belt along with a pouch holding two extra clips of ammunition. She added a second pouch with a Maglite and then took out her father’s double-barreled .45 derringer and tucked it in the top of her right boot.

  She extinguished the oil lamp and went into the hall to put on her coat and hat. There were no lights on at Jenny’s, so she slipped silently across the yard to the barn. Her own horse, Bracelet, didn’t like night rides, so she saddled Horsefly, who gave her a questioning look as if to say, “Are we going coon hunting at this hour?”

  “I know it’s late, boy,” she whispered, stroking his cheek, “but I need you to take me up to Baxter’s Draw.”

  Opening the stall, she led the horse out and walked him to the pasture gate being careful not to
rattle the chain. She didn’t climb into the saddle until they reached the cover of the far brush line, and then dismounted again when they arrived at the creek bed. Skirting the open area as best she could, Kate walked Horsefly along the edge of the small valley leading up to the mouth of the canyon. Once safely inside its walls, she mounted again.

  Unbeknownst to her, however, the man on the cliffs, awakened by the call of nature, spotted her as she’d crossed the valley. “Well, well, well,” he said, zipping his fly. “What do we have here?” Knowing there was only one way out of the canyon, he took his time, staying above Kate on the high ground and watching her through night vision goggles.

  When she reached the back wall of the canyon, Kate dismounted and unclipped the Maglite. The mark on her father’s map had been a little left of center on the back wall. She swept the ground with the flashlight’s beam looking for a round rock. The only one that seemed to fit the description was no larger than a tennis ball. She tapped it with the edge of her boot, but the stone refused to budge.

  Kate got down on her knees and found the rock securely anchored in place. How the hell was she supposed to shift the damn thing if it wouldn’t move? She ran her fingers over the rough surface and on the back side found a small indentation. As she probed, a click sounded in the still air, and with virtually no effort, she was able to slide the stone back. To her astonishment, the wall of the canyon made a scraping noise, and a concealed door opened a few inches.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” she muttered, standing and examining the entrance. The door itself was made of thick wooden planks, but they were covered with a perfect facsimile of the native stone. There were even straggly weeds growing out of the surface. “Daddy,” she said, “we seriously underestimated you.”

  Kate pushed the door open enough to be able to squeeze inside. Playing the flashlight’s beam around the space into which she stepped, she did not find herself inside a cave as she had expected. She was standing in a paneled room with a heavily beamed ceiling and a plank floor. In one corner, an unfinished portrait of a woman stood on an artist’s easel. There was a fireplace that vented God knows where, and beside it a leather easy chair and a round table that held stacks of books, an oil lamp, and a box of matches.