Reunion at Cardwell Ranch

by B. J Daniels

  “Hot checks?”

  “Checks you can’t make good on because you don’t have any money.”

  “At least I don’t have that problem,” Taylor said, and they both laughed. “When the cops found me I was passed out in my truck with an empty quart bourbon bottle in one hand and my gun in the other. The last thing I remember before that was closing my eyes to wait for my cheating wife and Rock to return.”

  “Sounds to me like you were framed.”

  Framed? He lay back on the bunk, staring up at the stained ceiling. “Who would want to frame me?”

  “Good question,” the man said. “Have you made anyone mad lately?”

  “Who haven’t I made mad?” Taylor said to himself and closed his eyes. But the list of the people who might want to frame him for murder was short and he’d confided in them about the forged painting.

  * * *

  SID WASN’T SURPRISED when she heard the knock at her door. She glanced at the clock. Almost two in the morning. She’d known she wouldn’t be able to sleep, so she hadn’t even tried. Instead, she’d been painting. It was what she did when she was upset.

  “Your light was on,” Laramie said by way of explanation when she opened the door. He glanced past her to the costume from the ball that had been tossed onto a chair. Sid now wore jeans and a T-shirt.

  Opening the door wider, she motioned him in with a wave of her hand. After seeing him at the ball, she’d suspected it was only a matter of time before he showed up. What surprised her was that the marshal and a couple of deputies weren’t with him.

  “I thought you said you wouldn’t be caught dead at the ball,” he said as she closed the door and turned to look at him. He had stopped in the middle of her living room.

  She could tell he was angry. But she suspected he was also scared. “Fortunately I wasn’t.”

  He stepped toward her. “Where is the Powell painting?”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Don’t I?” He took another step. “You’ve been playing some kind of game with me since the first night we met. You’re lucky I’m here instead of with the marshal.”

  “Why isn’t the marshal here?”

  Another step toward her. The room seemed to be closing in, getting smaller and smaller. She could smell the cold night air on him and remembered the way he’d pulled her close earlier when they’d danced. He was almost that close again.

  “Because I wanted to give you the opportunity to level with me. For starters, I know you’re in more trouble than you’re telling me.”

  She smiled, holding her ground. “You think you know me?”

  He was just inches away now. “I know how you feel in my arms. I know how you taste.”

  She felt something give in her chest as he reached out and cupped her cheek. She’d tried to forget how his mouth had felt and tasted on hers, how safe she’d felt in his arms, how her heart raced when he was this close.

  “You weren’t alone at my house last night,” Laramie said, his voice little more than a whisper. He was so close she could smell his warm scent. “It was your twin.”

  “My twin? I don’t have—”

  “You don’t have a sister or cousin or some relative who looks enough like you that you used her tonight to pull off the heist? You want to keep pretending you don’t know what I’m talking about?”

  She started to step away, needing to put space between them, afraid of what she would do if she didn’t.

  He grabbed her arm and pulled her into him. His voice was rough, his hands strong. “Tell me what’s going on. All that stuff you told me last night? Was it just a crock of crap to keep me out of your hair tonight? Come on, Sid. You’re too good at what you do,” he said as his gaze swept over the painting on her easel.

  She’d known he would figure it out. She’d let him get too close. Her mistake.

  Laramie looked from the painting to her. His eyes widened as if the truth had just struck him. “You’re not just a master thief. You’re an art forger.”

  * * *

  SID WRENCHED FREE of his grasp and stepped past him and, for a moment, Laramie thought she might be going for a weapon. His head still ached from last night. If he could help it, he wasn’t going to let that happen again. He turned to watch her step into the kitchen and open the refrigerator.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said as she grabbed two bottles of beer. She held one out to him. When he didn’t reach for it, she said, “You came here for the truth, right? Now you’re not sure you want to hear it.”

  “Try me. Or we can just call the marshal.”

  “Which makes me wonder why you haven’t called him.” She squinted, studying him openly. “Maybe because you have no proof. You cried wolf once, the first night we met. You don’t want to do it again with the marshal. Am I right?”

  She was. It didn’t surprise him that she knew he’d gone to the marshal the first night when he’d caught her coming out of his future house with the painting.

  The truth. That was why he’d come here tonight. At least in part. He took one of the beers that she offered. Twisting off the top with both anger and frustration, he took a drink, watching her over the bottle. “What you told me last night—”

  “Was all true.”

  “But you didn’t tell me everything.”

  Sid met his gaze. “I wasn’t sure I could trust you.”

  “Trust me?” He laughed as he watched her twist off the bottle cap and toss it into the trash before taking a long drink.

  She motioned toward a place for him to sit, but he was too restless. She was right. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the truth. He’d fallen for this woman—a thief, an apparent forger, a cat burglar.

  He stepped into her studio off the living room. The room was small with large windows. Because of the lack of wall space, paintings were stacked against the walls. “You painted all of these?” he asked turning to find her standing in the doorway, holding her beer. She nodded.

  “I thought you didn’t like cowboy art?”

  She said nothing as she took another swig of her beer.

  In one corner of the room was a stack of old logging crosscut handsaws. The rusted metal between the handles had Montana scenes painted on them. He noticed at once that they weren’t half as good as the paintings. That wasn’t all he noticed. Her cowboy art wasn’t just good, it was masterful and yet she wasn’t in the Old West Artists Coalition—just like her father. Nor had he seen her work in any of the galleries he’d visited.

  He stared at one of the paintings for a long moment, something stirring inside him. He could feel her watching him. It came to him like another knock to his head.

  Turning quickly, he stared at her. “Tell me I’m wrong about you.”

  “I wish I could.”

  “I don’t get you.”

  “I think you do.”

  He smiled at that and shook his head. “I want to. You’re obviously talented. Very talented. So I ask myself what is she doing painting old saw blades? What is it she’s hiding other than her obvious talent?”

  She lifted her chin. He’d seen that defiant look on her before. “Now you think you have me all figured out.”

  “Nope, I suspect it could take a lifetime to do that.” He put down his beer and closed the distance between them in two long strides. He took her bottle from her and set it aside as he drew her to him. “The H. F. Powell painting that was stolen tonight? I wanted it more than I have wanted anything. Except,” he drawled, “you. It was because, on some level, I knew. You painted it. But what about the auction?”

  “I couldn’t let it be auctioned off as one of my father’s paintings. It was stolen from his art studio the night he was killed. One of the members of the OWAC donated it anonymously. The killer knows I’m coming fo
r him. Don’t worry. I’ll make it right with the charity.”

  “If you’re still alive. Sid, we have to go to the marshal.”

  “Are you sure we have to go right now?” She looked up at him, her blue eyes bright as diamonds, her lips parting. He dropped his mouth to hers.

  Then he swung her up into his arms and carried her to the bedroom just off the studio.

  * * *

  SID LOOKED INTO his eyes as he gently laid her on the bed. His expression made her weak inside. His touch was so tender as he crawled onto the bed next to her and drew her close again. He dropped his mouth to hers, exploring her intimately as if there was still so much he wanted to know about her.

  She felt the same way. As he drew back from the passionate kiss, he traced his thumb over her lower lip.

  “I fell in love with your mouth that night,” he said quietly. As he lifted his gaze, he said, “And your eyes. You have the most incredible eyes. I feel as if I can look into your soul.”

  Sid shivered. “Don’t look too closely.”

  He shook his head. “You’re not as bad as you want me to believe,” he said just as quietly. “What do you see when you look into my eyes?”

  “Kindness, compassion...” She halted seeing something that tied her tongue in a knot for a moment. “Caring.”

  He smiled. “Caring? Look deeper.”

  She let out a nervous laugh even as she was filled with pure joy. “Love?”

  Laramie nodded. “I’ve fallen for you, Obsidian Forester. Fallen hard.”

  Sid couldn’t speak, which was just as well because in the next moment he stole her breath away as he cupped her face in his big hands and kissed her again.

  She felt wrapped in wisps of soft, warm clouds as he began to unbutton her shirt. His fingers brushed over the tops of her breasts, hardened her nipples to aching pebbles. He followed his fingers with his mouth, suckling at her until she cried out with a desire that burned to the heart of her.

  With fumbling fingers, she helped him remove her own and his clothing. She sighed at the feel of his naked skin, the taut muscles of his chest and arms and stomach. Wrapping her arms around him, she pulled him to her.

  When they came together it was as if they had been missing pieces of a puzzle that finally had found each other. They moved with the ancient rhythm of passion and love.

  Sid arched against him, crying out when he brought her to the peak of desire, and she shuddered in his arms as she collapsed on the bed. The cool night air moved over her perspiring bare skin like a caress.

  They might have stayed like that the rest of the night—if it hadn’t been for the back door banging open.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Laramie sat up with a start, grabbing for his jeans as heavy footfalls could be heard from the other room. He glanced at Sid, her face pale and worried in the soft glow coming through the window. From her expression, she had no idea who had just broken into her cabin.

  She was reaching for her robe and he’d only managed to drag on his jeans and button all but the top button when a figure filled the doorway, a second larger figure behind it.

  The overhead light came on, momentarily blinding him.

  “Sorry, it wasn’t my idea to come barging in,” a woman said. Laramie did a double take at her—and the armed masked man holding the gun to the woman’s head.

  “What have you done now, Zander?” Sid demanded as she pulled on her robe and tied the sash tight around her middle.

  The woman who was the spitting image of Sid shrugged. “You know me, sis. Trouble just seems to find me. But this time I have a feeling this is more about you than me.”

  “She is your sister,” Laramie said as he realized this had been the woman who’d knocked him out the previous night at his house.

  “Half sister,” Zander said and smiled. “The bad half, if you ask Sid.”

  “Enough. Give me the paintings,” the man said. “All of them, including the one you stole tonight, or I kill her.”

  “I don’t think so,” Sid said.

  Laramie recognized the man’s voice. Cody Kent. “You’d better listen to him, Sid. If you’re right, he’s already killed once. Isn’t that right, Cody? You killed H. F. Powell the night you stole the paintings.”

  “What?” the artist was clearly taken aback. “I didn’t kill Powell.” He ripped off the ski mask as he shoved Zander into the room. Waving the gun, he said, “Just give me the paintings and no one gets hurt.”

  “Is that what you told our father?” Sid demanded.

  “Your father?” Cody asked in confusion. “I didn’t think H.F. had any family.”

  “He didn’t have much regard for marriage,” Zander said with a sigh. “But, like his daughters, he believed in justice. He planned to nail you and the others to the wall. He would have shown you all up and you knew it.”

  Cody waved the gun at them. “Look, we just went to his studio to talk to the crazy old coot. No one was supposed to get hurt. But H.F. was determined to ruin us all and destroy everything we’d built with the coalition. We didn’t even believe he’d forged our paintings until we entered the studio and saw them.”

  Sid made a disparaging sound. “But once you did, you couldn’t let the public see them. Were you afraid that if you just took them, he would only repaint them? He wasn’t a man easily persuaded.”

  Cody swore. “I saw that we were getting nowhere with him, I wanted to leave. But we weren’t leaving without the forgeries. H.F. put up a fight, but finally he gave in. We carried the paintings to the car.”

  “Including the one that was up for auction tonight,” Laramie said.

  “That was Rock. He had to have it. We tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn’t listen,” Cody said.

  “So how did you end up with all of the paintings?” Sid asked.

  The artist looked surprised. “What makes you think—”

  “You’re the one standing here with the gun,” she said.

  Cody chuckled. “Rock promised to get rid of the forgeries, but I didn’t trust him. I was right. I discovered where he’d hidden them. That’s why he couldn’t tell anyone when he discovered they were missing.”

  Laramie wanted to rush the man, but he couldn’t take the chance that Cody wouldn’t get off a shot. In the small cabin, it would be too easy to wound or kill one of them.

  “Why didn’t you destroy them?” Laramie asked.

  Cody shook his head. “They were beautiful.” He looked at Sid. “Your father was the most talented artist I’ve ever met. He was brilliant. Crazy as a loon, but a real genius. I knew I should destroy them, but I couldn’t. After a few years, I sold them. They were worth a lot more by then because our careers were going better. I figured the chances were good no one would ever find out.”

  “It wasn’t easy, but I found them,” Sid said.

  He didn’t seem to hear her. “Once I saw the one you brought to the gallery, I pretended to be as upset as Taylor was,” he said to Laramie. “We were all trying to get ahold of Rock. I knew he’d admit that they’d been stolen from him, but no one would believe him. But I had bigger problems. There was talk of a cat burglar in Big Sky. Only this cat burglar didn’t take anything. I paid a couple of houses a visit and realized quickly what was going on when I saw some of the originals H.F. had used to make his forgeries.”

  “Is that when you panicked and anonymously donated what you thought was an H. F. Powell painting to the auction? That painting was a new one still on the easel in his studio the night he was killed.”

  “You have no idea how hard it was to part with it,” Cody said. “That painting is worth a small fortune.”

  Sid shook her head. “It would be—if my father had painted it. During the last years of his life, H.F. quit painting his own art to make forgeries of all yo
ur work. To keep the creditors at bay and the three of us fed, I painted in my father’s style.”

  “It was a forgery?” Cody let out a bitter curse. “You’re just a family of forgers.”

  “Exactly,” Zander said. “Our family was all smoke and mirrors.”

  Cody looked sick. “I knew someone was switching the real paintings and collecting the forgeries once I heard about the so-called cat burglar. I just didn’t know who until tonight. I thought you would try to steal the painting. But I didn’t know how you would do it. Imagine my shock when I saw you in that black dress jumping down off the roof with it. I planned to follow you, but you got away. I thought I’d blown it, then low and behold, I spotted your double and she led me right to you.”

  “Hank Ramsey was in on it, too, right?” Laramie asked. “Why isn’t he here?”

  “I stopped by his place tonight.” Cody sighed. “I found him hanging from a beam in his kitchen.”

  “You might as well put down the gun,” Laramie said. “It’s all going to come out now.”

  Cody shook his head. He looked broken, like a man who had nothing to lose. “My art is all I have. Destroy that and I have nothing.” He leveled the gun at Sid. “No matter what happens to me, those forgeries have to be destroyed.” He pulled a bottle from his coat pocket. Laramie recognized it for what it was. A homemade firebomb—probably like the one he had used the night of H. F. Powell’s studio fire.

  * * *

  SID HAD BEEN watching everything play out in front of her, feeling a little dazed. Since her father’s death, she’d been grieving for all that had been lost. Once the first forgery had turned up, she’d been on a mission to catch her father’s killer.

  Cody Kent. She’d known it would be one of the original cowboy artists who started the coalition—or all four of them. She’d just never guessed it would be Cody who showed up at her door.

  Laramie took a step toward Cody. She could tell he was trying to gauge his chances. He had to know that there was no one more dangerous than a man backed into a corner.

  Sid stepped in front of Laramie. Her heart broke at the thought that she might get him killed over all this. If only she hadn’t gotten him involved. Zander, as well. She was going to get them all killed, and for what? Some artist’s ego? Or the price of an artist’s reputation?