Wyoming Brave

by Diana Palmer

  She wondered if he’d tell Randall why she’d really left. Probably not. He did love his brother. He considered that she was Randall’s woman, so he might not want to admit that he’d wanted her. Not that he hadn’t had his successes with Randall’s other women, as he’d confessed to her.

  She went down to breakfast in jeans and a T-shirt, her hair in a ponytail and no makeup on. She didn’t care if she looked as bad as she felt.

  When she got to the table, she did a double take. There was another man in the room, and it wasn’t Paul or the Avengers.

  He was broad, with a big nose, high cheekbones and a chiseled mouth. His hair was jet black and wavy, his eyes large and dark. He resembled Paul, but there was a dangerous air about him. Then she remembered. She’d painted him from photographs Paul had given her, as a birthday present he’d commissioned for his cousin Mikey.

  “Cousin Mikey,” she blurted out, then flushed with embarrassment when his thick eyebrows arched over twinkling dark eyes. “Sorry,” she added quickly as she sat down. “I painted you...”

  “Ah. The sister-in-law.” He grinned. “Yeah. It was a good likeness. The knife on the table beside me was a touch of genius,” he added with pursed lips.

  “Oh, stop that, she looks like a fire engine already, you dope,” Paul said, making a face at him as he joined them.

  “Sorry.” Mikey chuckled. “Couldn’t resist it.” He cocked his head and stared at Merrie. “You don’t look like I thought you would, baby doll,” he added.

  “What did you expect?” she asked, curious.

  He accepted a cup of black coffee from Paul with thanks before he turned back to Merrie. “A fortune-teller, with a crystal ball. Maybe a kerchief around your head.”

  Her eyebrows arched.

  “I’m a bad man,” he mused, and it wasn’t an apology or a conceit. “You painted the real me. And you didn’t know a thing about me.”

  “Oh.” She managed a shy smile. “I just sort of see inside people. Paul didn’t say anything about who you were or what you did. He just handed me the photographs and said you were his cousin, and asked if I could do a painting of you for a present. I said sure.”

  “Well, it’s amazing,” he said. “I had it framed and put over the mantel in my living room,” he added. “I don’t get a lot of visitors, but it’s had its share of attention.” He laughed out loud.

  “What’s so funny?” Merrie asked.

  “This big mob boss—and I mean, big, he controls half of a state up north—wanted to know who you were so he could ask you to paint him.”

  Merrie’s eyes widened. “What did you tell him?”

  “That it was a present, and I didn’t know who did it.” He became serious as he looked at her with eyes twice as old as he looked. “You don’t want to get mixed up with a guy like that, unless it’s the end of the world.”

  “Thanks for protecting me,” she said, understanding what he was saying.

  He nodded. He stared at his plate and scowled. “Not being rude, but what the hell is this white stuff?” he asked, pointing.

  “It’s grits,” Mandy said as she came back into the room with a wicker bowl of biscuits wrapped in expensive white linen cloth. “Merrie!” she exclaimed. She stopped long enough to hug Merrie. “Oh, it’s so good to have you home!” she said, fighting tears.

  “I’ve missed you, too, Mandy,” Merrie said, sighing. It was nice to be home, where she really was loved.

  “Come on, enough of this.” Mandy laughed, fighting tears of joy. “Sit down. I’ll get out all the preserves. He—” she indicated Mikey “—will do almost anything for my homemade blueberry preserves.”

  “Almost anything,” Mikey agreed with a grin. “Okay, come on, tell me about grits.” He pointed at his plate. “Is it grit, like the stuff you polish stones with?” he asked, poking at the dubious food with his fork.

  “It’s what you get when you grind up corn,” Mandy mused, smiling. “You know about grinding up stuff, don’t you, Mikey?” she added, teasing.

  He wrinkled his nose. “Hey, I never did that thing they accused me of,” he said with faint belligerence. “Putting a guy in a grinder? That’s lowbrow.”

  “Try the grits,” Mandy said. “I’ve put butter in them.”

  He looked at them dubiously, but he put a forkful into his mouth, chewed and lifted both eyebrows. “Hey. That’s not bad. Tastes like polenta.”

  She laughed. “Told you so.”

  He shook his head. “Grits. Cowboy hats. Horses and cattle.” He made a face at Paul. “What the hell is a good Jersey boy like you doing in a place like this?” he added.

  Paul looked at Sari with his heart in his eyes. “Living the American dream.”

  Sari smiled back at him.

  Mikey just shook his head. “Well, you guys can have it. No casinos. No bars to speak of. Not even a decent nightclub. It’s the end of the world, that’s what it is!”

  “We have butterflies and lightning bugs and hay rides and county fairs,” Merrie protested. “That’s better than nightclubs.”

  “I’m gonna break out in hives any minute,” Mikey promised her, with a belligerent expression.

  She just grinned.

  Just then, the front door opened and booted feet came marching in.

  “Well, we got the new cameras installed, finally,” Barton, the broader of the two bodyguards, announced. “Hey, is that grits? You made them just for me, didn’t you, you sweetheart!” He caught Mandy by the arm and kissed her cheek.

  She blushed. “I did not! I made them for her!” She pointed at Merrie.

  “Welcome home, Miss Grayling.” Rogers, the taller of the bodyguards, greeted her with a smile.

  “Thanks. I hear I had company up in Wyoming,” she added. “I did a really dumb thing. I used my credit card at a store.”

  “Nobody’s perfect,” Barton assured her as he sat down with his companion.

  “Except me,” Mikey said, sipping coffee. He glowered at the bodyguards when they looked at him.

  “Absolutely perfect,” Rogers said abruptly.

  “Model of perfection,” Barton agreed.

  Merrie looked astounded.

  “He took down both of them in hand-to-hand combat in less than thirty seconds,” Paul said complacently.

  Merrie pursed her lips and hid a laugh. “Spec ops, Middle East,” Mikey explained with a grin. “I was a bad boy.”

  “You must be, if you could take them both down,” Merrie agreed.

  The bodyguards managed to look sheepish and charmed all at once.

  Paul chuckled. “They were in the same unit, believe it or not. Afghanistan, and then Iraq.”

  “Hard times,” Mikey said.

  “Steel needs tempering, I guess,” Paul said.

  “I guess,” his cousin agreed.

  “What sort of cameras?” Paul asked Barton.

  “Classified cameras,” Barton replied with pursed lips. “Sorry.”

  “I’m with the FBI, for God’s sake,” Paul exclaimed.

  “We outrank you,” Rogers said brightly.

  Paul glared at him. “Nobody outranks the FBI. We wrote the book on classified!”

  “Oh, yeah?” Mikey said. “Then why don’t you know about the flying saucer that crashed in Roswell, New Mexico, and all that technology they found on it? I’ll bet they know,” he added, nodding toward the bodyguards.

  “I know nothing,” Barton said blithely.

  “I know even less,” Rogers seconded.

  “They probably even know where the bodies are,” Mikey scoffed.

  Rogers and Barton exchanged amused looks but remained silent.

  “See?” Mikey said, pointing toward them with a fork as he stared at his cousin. “And what do you know?” he ad
ded. “How to track down bank robbers!”

  “Hey, somebody’s got to catch common criminals,” Paul shot back. “It’s your money we’re protecting.”

  “I don’t even have enough money to afford good shoes,” Mikey said.

  “Oh, my heart bleeds,” Paul scoffed. “Sell your Mercedes and buy a pair.”

  “I like the Mercedes,” Mikey said. He looked thoughtful. “I guess I could sell the Rolls. I never drive it anyway. It’s too pretentious.”

  “Too pretentious?” Paul exclaimed.

  “Well, it gets you noticed by the cops, anyway,” Mikey said. “Really noticed.”

  “Gee, that could be bad if you’re stalking somebody, huh?” Paul chuckled.

  “Cut it out,” Mikey muttered. “Baby doll over there will think I’m as bad as you tell people I am.”

  Merrie laughed, because he was pointing at her. “No. You’re only as bad as you think you are,” she returned. She cocked her head and looked at him warmly. “You’re not bad unless people hurt somebody you care about.”

  A faint dusky color burned along his high cheekbones. “You’re sharp.”

  “Like a tack,” she teased.

  He smiled. His eyes smiled along with his mouth.

  She read so many things in his face. Pain. Terror. Love. Death. Hope. Anguish. Loneliness. “You were very hard to capture in oils,” she remarked, thinking out loud.

  “Try a net,” Paul prodded.

  “Stop that,” Mikey said. “Or I’ll tell them what you did to Grandmama when nobody was looking.”

  “I was ten!”

  “It was still bad,” Mikey retorted.

  “Not that bad.”

  “You got such a whipping,” Mikey said, smiling as he reminisced. “Poor little Paulie.”

  “You told.”

  “I never!” Mikey chuckled. “I just pointed, as you shot that hand up in the air.”

  “Same difference. I was doing it behind her back!”

  “Not after I pointed, you weren’t,” Mikey replied.

  “You bad boys!” Mandy chided.

  They grinned at her, looking so much alike that Merrie and Sari exchanged amused glances.

  * * *

  SEVERAL DAYS LATER, Merrie was still brooding about Ren and worried about the killer. Cash Grier had come to the house to talk to Mikey. They went off in a room together. It had seemed ominous, but soon there was muffled laughter coming from the study. They learned later that Cash had been with a spec ops group near where Mikey was stationed during his time in the military. They were exchanging memories, not all of which seemed to be traumatic, judging by the laughter.

  But Cash left. Mikey went out. Paul was still at work. Sari had come home for lunch. Merrie was wandering around the house, lost in thought and misery.

  The bodyguards were patrolling outside. Mandy was cooking. Merrie was brooding. Sari saw her from the staircase, watching, worrying.

  “You’ve got too much free time on your hands,” Sari remarked. “You think too much.”

  “I can’t help it,” Merrie retorted. She drew in a long breath and smoothed back her ponytail. “It kind of figures that I’d go overboard for the first man who paid me any real attention, right?” she added. “I was an idiot.”

  “You didn’t know what he thought you were,” Sari said. “Randall should have made it clear to him.”

  “Randall’s a sweetheart, but he’s flighty,” Merrie explained. “He told Ren I was his friend. But we both know how that word gets thrown around these days.” She grimaced. “I never thought...” She swallowed. “Well, live and learn. I won’t be so gullible next time.”

  “My poor baby.” Sari hugged her. “Why don’t you go into town and see Brand Taylor? You spoke about buying him out at the art gallery. This is a good time to sound him about it.”

  “What a good idea!” she exclaimed.

  “You can take the bodyguards with you.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, in Jacobsville? Even a professional hit man would think twice about trying to pop me in the middle of town. If he’s even here. I left Wyoming in the middle of the night. He’s probably camping outside Ren’s ranch, waiting for me to show myself in a window. Paul flew me down here in the private jet, with our own pilot. Even if the killer checked commercial flights, he’d be no smarter, and Delsey drove us to the airport in Catelow. We didn’t leave a paper trail. Not even a digital one.”

  “You could be right. But maybe we should ask the bodyguards first what they think,” Sari began.

  Merrie kissed her cheek. “It’s nice that you worry about me, but now you’re going overboard. I’ll have the chauffeur bring the limo around. It’s got bulletproof glass. And that new driver is an ex-cop, right?”

  “Yes, he is. He had references, and we checked them. He’s very nice.”

  “I wouldn’t know. You hired him while I was in Wyoming.”

  “Take my word for it. He’s very nice. He also has a concealed-carry permit, and he carries a .45 automatic.”

  “You’re sure he isn’t following in Morris’s footsteps?” Merrie wondered, alluding to the former chauffeur who was in jail awaiting trial on attempted murder charges for taking two shots at Sari. He’d been one of two killers Timothy Leeds had hired to kill the Grayling sisters, in a failed attempt to torment their father. Leeds had put out the contracts without knowing Grayling was already dead.

  “I’m sure. Paul checked him out, too. The driver has relatives in Corpus Christi. They vouched for him. So did the former police chief there, where he worked.” Sari smiled. “My, you’re developing a suspicious nature. Good for you!”

  Merrie laughed. “I guess I am. After what we’ve both been through lately, I guess we’re all a little twitchy.”

  “Nice choice of words,” her sister replied, tongue in cheek.

  “Thanks. I’m also developing a larger and more useful vocabulary.” She pursed her lips. “One of Ren’s cowboys hit his thumb with a hammer outside the kitchen window and I learned five new words.” She grimaced at the memory of Ren.

  “You must have enjoyed some part of that visit.”

  “I enjoyed a lot. There was this poor horse, Hurricane,” she added. “One of Ren’s men had beaten him very badly. He wouldn’t let anyone near him. But Hurricane let me take off the bridle they hadn’t been able to remove. He even let me doctor his cuts. Ren was furious, because he’d told me not to go near Hurricane.”

  “Horses can be very dangerous. You know that.”

  “I do. But the horse was in terrible pain and scared to death. I think he sensed that we were kindred spirits. Later on, I painted him. And...oh, dear, Willis’s wolf!”

  “Willis’s what? Who’s Willis?”

  “He’s Ren’s ranch foreman. He has a pet wolf. It lost a leg to a bear trap, so he rescued it and tamed it. He takes it to schools to teach children about wildlife.” She grimaced. “I promised to paint him, but my sketchbook is still at the ranch. I have to send boxes and a label out there. Delsey will package up my stuff and send it on if I ask her to.”

  “Who’s Delsey?”

  “She’s Ren’s housekeeper,” Merrie said softly. “She’s so sweet. She was kind to me.” She lowered her eyes. “Ren was, too, until...”

  Sari hugged her. “Merrie, time heals all wounds, and that’s the truth. Listen, it’s almost November. Thanksgiving will be here before you know it. We have to order new Christmas ornaments for the tree.”

  “Ren won’t let Delsey put up a Christmas tree, except in her room,” Merrie said. “He made me hide my cross under my shirts so it didn’t show.”

  Sari frowned. “Why?”

  “His mother celebrates Christmas. He went to one of those liberal colleges up north, and when he went home for the holidays, he ma
de some sarcastic remarks about religion being nothing but superstition and backward people who believe in a higher power. Hurt his mother’s feelings. Then she said some things about Ren’s father, and he overheard it. He just walked out the door and went to live on the ranch with his father. He pulled the ranch out of bankruptcy and built it into an empire. But he hasn’t spoken to his mother since. He holds grudges.”

  Sari drew in a breath. “That’s sad. Sometimes I wish our mother was still alive. She was so kind.”

  “I think Ren’s mother is, too,” Merrie said. “He let me use her studio to paint in while I was there. He said she loved to paint flowers.”

  Sari smiled. “A woman who loves flowers can’t be all bad.”

  “I thought the same thing. I hope he relents someday and talks to her. Delsey said something about his mother having a test and being worried about a biopsy.” She looked at Sari. “Sometimes you think you have all the time in the world to make up, and you don’t.”

  “I know many cases of that. Grudges are sad.”

  “They are. Ren’s so alone,” she said softly. “Except for Delsey and Randall he really doesn’t have anybody. He’s...self-contained. He lives alone, inside himself. He won’t let anyone else in. I guess Angie dynamited the last little bit of love he had inside him.”

  “He might change one day, honey.”

  “He might not.” Merrie was sad. “I thought we were headed toward such a sweet future together. And here I am back home alone.” She sighed. “But it could be worse, I guess,” she added. “I asked Delsey if she could fix me some grits, and she asked me what a grit was.”

  Sari laughed. “Paul says they aren’t common up north.”

  “I can’t imagine people who don’t eat grits,” Merrie replied. “It’s the seeds of barbaricism!” she said facetiously.

  “There’s no such word,” her sister said.