by Becki Willis
“Hidden treasure!” Hannah read aloud. “Knowing JoeJoe, that’s the whole reason he bid on this crazy place.” She blew away a tendril of dark hair that kept falling into her face. There was a bit of a draft in the room. “As if the man needs any more money,” she grumbled. “He just loves the thrill of the hunt.”
Despite his crazy, impulsive ways, she adored her uncle. He was the only family she had.
True, her mother was still living, but their relationship was hardly described as that of ‘family.’ They were more like polite strangers, exchanging Christmas cards and occasional texts. When was the last time she had heard from her mother in person, anyway? Sometime around husband number five, she thought. The producer who claimed he could revive her career and get her the type of leading roles she deserved. No more achy joint commercials and dowdy grandmotherly-type roles for the talented actress; she was a star, and he would help her shine. When that same husband and producer polished off her bank account a few months later, Jacqueline called her daughter. “Just to talk,” her mother claimed, but Hannah knew the drill. Her mother only called when she needed something.
Back then, Hannah was in a position to help her mother when times got rough. With no one else to spend her hard-earned money on other than herself, Hannah could afford to be generous, in more ways than one. She would graciously overlook her mother’s lack of parenting skills and send a note of encouragement after each hard-luck phone call. She always tucked a check in along with it, something to tide her mother over until her next big break came along.
Jacqueline called Hannah’s father the dreamer, but it was she who lived in a fantasy world. Life in rural East Texas never suited the voluptuous brunette. She wanted something bigger, something better, than a wildcatter husband who worked in the oil fields. Even when it meant leaving her only child behind, Jacqueline could no longer resist the lure of fame and fortune. Terrell could chase his dreams of finding oil; Jacqueline had dreams of her own, and they led her to Hollywood.
Oddly enough, both realized their dreams, at the same exact time. Duncan Drilling hit a huge vein of oil, launching them into the big time, on the very day Jacqueline landed the role of Rhonda in Doctors’ General, the most popular soap opera on television. With both of their careers spinning out of control, neither had time for an inquisitive little girl. Hannah bounced between the two of them like a ping-pong game that neither wanted to play. JoeJoe became the bright spot in little Hannah’s life, the only person who ever seemed to have time for her.
Her uncle was just an overgrown kid, himself. Technically, he was a partner in Duncan Drilling, a business the two brothers inherited from their father. Terrell ran the company while JoeJoe finished his education and squandered his share of the profits on things like cheap women and expensive birthday presents for his only niece. By the time Terrell died in a rig explosion, the company was almost broke. Hannah inherited her father’s share, but promptly sold it to her uncle. She wanted no part of the business, blaming it for taking her father’s life and driving her mother away, all those years ago. One year later, her uncle was daring enough—or foolish enough—to throw in with an innovative new oilfield product coming out of Dubai. It made him an instant millionaire, several times over.
Now her uncle was a very rich overgrown kid, still buying extravagant gifts for his only niece.
Hence, here she sat, queen of her own little sad kingdom, reading over ledgers recorded in longhand.
The music began to cut in and out. Hannah picked up her phone and checked the signal. Something was playing havoc with the connection, causing interference.
Too bad, because the music kept the strange noises at bay.
A building as old and rambling as the inn made all sorts of odd and unexpected sounds. Nights were the worst, when silence settled in, broken only by the creak and groan of shifting seams and aging beams. And when Walker was away, and the house was empty save for her and Leroy, the noises came again, reminding Hannah of her isolation and her vulnerability. It was best to drown out the sounds with the radio, or Leroy’s shuddering snores, or by whatever means she could find. Television, unfortunately, wasn’t an option. The subscription to the satellite service had lapsed, and new equipment was required before the system could be restored. A technician wasn’t scheduled until early next week.
Curious about the mention of a hidden treasure, Hannah typed it into her phone’s search engine. The slow connection was excruciating. Deciding it was time for a break, she went upstairs to use her laptop. The inn’s computer was password protected, and until the elusive Sadie and Fred returned, there was no getting in.
Hannah was surprised to read that, according to local legend, there was a hidden treasure buried somewhere in the nearby hills. In the late 1870s, notorious outlaw Sam Bass and a ragtag team of bandits perfected their robbery skills, targeting stagecoaches before moving on to the more modern—and lucrative—steam-powered locomotive. Most of their hits were smalltime efforts, executed more for experience than for wealth. However, legend had it that one of the stages carried covert cargo: two huge crates of gold and silver.
The Army was transferring a sizable fortune from Fort Worth to San Antonio. The plan was to send a decoy troop of soldiers by rail, armed to the hilt but in fact guarding empty crates. While attention was drawn to the pomp and circumstance of Army pageantry, the real gold traveled by stage, protected only by three undercover officers and the usual stage driver. The plan worked so well, two separate teams of bandits held up the train, fifty miles apart, and were taken into custody with minimal loss of life.
All went well until the stage neared the Hannah stop. As the vehicle neared South Grape Creek, a lone rider came up from the south and attempted to flag down the stage. Behind him, the Bass gang rode into view at the top of the hill, intent on overtaking that very same stage.
No one knew exactly what happened next. The only eyewitness left to tell the story was one of the officers, and he was in little shape to tell his tale. Best as anyone knew, fate played a cruel trick upon the men that day. When the officer grabbed his chest during the beginning stages of a heart attack, his fellow officers thought he had been shot. In the confusion, they over-reacted and assumed it was a robbery. Before Sam Bass and his gang made it down the hill toward the crossing, two officers and the driver were dead, the third officer was mistaken as such, and the lone rider was injured. The crates spilled out on the ground, revealing their fortune.
No one knew for certain how much money was at stake. The Army refused to give details. Some denied the freight was even on the stage to begin with; a blunder such as this didn’t look good for their reputation. Bass and his gang, now plus one, were smart enough to keep their good fortune quiet. Right there at the creek crossing, they decided to hide the money and lay low. No need in spending a sudden unexplained fortune. When the time was right, they would return to the area and claim their booty.
Sam had success with a similar plan the year before, when he and the Collins gang robbed a train in South Dakota and got away with sixty thousand dollars in newly minted gold. After that heist, the men broke off in pairs, each with their share of the money. The poor fools who spent their money openly were now dead, while Sam, on the other hand, still rode free.
The lone rider from the stagecoach, injured and in need of care, entrusted his share to Sam. Even a poor farm boy from Kansas had heard of the great Sam Bass. He was known as a fair outlaw, if such a thing existed. To prove his trustworthiness, Bass drew a map, gave the only copy to the injured fellow, and took him to the nearest farmhouse, which just happened to be the stage stop. They concocted a story about the fellow being on the stage and injured when an outlaw rode up and robbed them, single-handed.
It was weeks before anyone knew the real story, or parts of it, at best. The surviving officer tried to set the record straight, but his speech was weak and slurred. He had difficulty relaying the conversation he overheard that day, about a band of outlaws hiding the gold. Eventuall
y, it was determined that the injured man recuperating in Hannah was actually the lone outlaw. Before they could take him into custody, however, he somehow managed to escape. Most believed he had an accomplice, and some thought it was the young girl from the stagecoach stop, young Lina.
According to legend, the treasure was never recovered. While the lone rider recovered from his injuries, too weak to retrieve the gold, Bass and his gang rode into Round Rock, intent on robbing the bank there. The notorious outlaw was injured in a gunfight and died. People spoke of Bass’ other hidden treasure, the money from the Dakota train robbery, but no one knew about the stagecoach heist. Not until the officer told his garbled story and the lone rider escaped in the night, never to be seen again.
Hannah read the story with a sense of mild amusement. Funny how rumors and legends came into being. If there were ever any hidden gold to begin with, the lone rider probably took it with him when he left the country. She supposed it was more interesting, however, to imagine that it still hid somewhere in the hills, just waiting to be discovered. It was one of those stories people told their kids, in random moments when they had nothing else to talk about, or those times when they wanted to distract them and pull their minds away from current circumstances. It was something to tell visitors to the area, when there was little else to hold their attention. A fun tale to recite around a campfire, or when one ran out of ghost stories.
Hannah could definitely see her uncle falling for such a ruse, caught up in the thrill and romance of the Old West legend.
“So much for that,” she said, closing the website with a click of her tongue. “If you ask me, legends of hidden treasure just never seem to pan out. Stories like that are for dreamers.” A wicked thought occurred to her, and she giggled aloud. “And if hell freezes over and my mother ever comes to visit, I’ll share the story with her. That might just be her best shot of getting any money out of me these days. Alas, my well—therefore, her well—runneth dry.”
As Hannah descended the stairs, her mind went back to the ledgers. She had spent the past few days studying them. Mention of hidden treasures aside, the books for the old inn boasted a healthy bottom line. If staying captive for the full thirty days meant a generous bonus for improvements and remodeling, she might very well be sitting atop a hidden treasure of a different kind. The sort that required a little imagination, a lot of hard work, and an investment of time and energy. The kind that paid off in the long run.
Was she up to the challenge? Hannah pondered the enormity of the question as her foot hit the last step. This meant making a commitment. This meant no wiggling out of the contract terms. This meant no quitting in a year, even after she earned the second bonus.
And that sound she heard meant someone was in the kitchen…
Hannah picked up the pace.
Chapter Twelve
She rounded the corner, thinking she would see Walker, at best. Caroline—or perhaps Everett Tinker, don’t you know—at worst. She never expected to see a beggar.
“Who—Who are you!” she demanded, seeing the strange man in the kitchen. He wore a ragged, dusty suit of clothes that had seen better days, with a floppy-brimmed western-styled hat and a bandanna at his neck. He looked as surprised as she did, his eyes wide.
“Name’s Varela, ma’am.” He tilted his head in a polite bow.
“How did you get in here?” Highly suspicious of him, Hannah darted her eyes around the room.
“I never meant for you to see me, miss.”
“Why are you in here?” Hannah’s voice rose in panic. “Are you robbing me?”
“Robbing you? No, no. No, ma’am, Orlan Varela is no thief.” He bowed deeply, as if to prove his words with the polite gesture. This time, she detected a Spanish lilt in his rusty voice.
“If you don’t explain yourself, right this instant, I’m calling 9-1-1.” Her voice was still high with emotion.
“Please, ma’am, do not be upset. I’m friendly.”
“You have no business being in the kitchen!”
He wore a sheepish expression upon his face. “It smells so good in here,” he admitted.
Something in Hannah softened, but her guard was still up. “Did—Did you take the pork chops?” she asked.
The intruder was clearly confused. “The pork chops? No, ma’am, I am afraid not.”
He sounded so sad. Mournful, in fact. It occurred to her that the man could be hungry and looking for food. She took a closer look at him, noting he was frightfully thin. “When was the last time you ate?” she asked.
“I could not say.”
Praying she wasn’t making a mistake, Hannah told him, “If you’ll go out to the dining room, I’ll bring you a sandwich. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave after that. Take the sandwich with you.”
“I do not ask for your food, ma’am.”
“I’m offering.”
“You are a kind lady.”
Hannah edged away from him, making certain she was well out of arm’s length as he came toward the doorway that led into the hall and out to the great room. She skirted along the far side of the kitchen, keeping her eyes trained on the back door, judging the distance, should she need to break and run.
And where, her racing mind screamed, was Leroy? He hadn’t even barked, alerting her to the man’s presence.
“I mean you no harm,” the man told her, nonplussed by her avoidance of him.
“Wait out there,” she repeated, already regretting her offer. “I’ll bring your sandwich.”
The moment he was out of sight, she dialed Walker’s number. “Do you ever pick up!” she wailed, when the phone just rang and rang. She slammed it down as she rummaged through a drawer, looking for a knife. A nice, long, sharp butcher knife. She kept it by her side as her trembling hands prepared a sandwich.
She tried Walker’s number again as she carried the food from the kitchen, wrapped in a plastic baggie. The butcher knife hid in the dishtowel she carried. As Walker’s voicemail picked up, she stepped into the great room, eyes searching the empty space for her hungry and dusty guest.
“Mr. Varela?” she called. She hated the warble she heard in her voice. “Orlan? I—I have your food.”
Great. Now she couldn’t reach either man.
At the mention of food, Leroy came trotting forward. Hannah was relieved to see the shaggy giant as she called the beggar’s name again. When still he didn’t answer, Hannah looked for the man. He being in the kitchen was bad enough. Being in the office or behind the front desk was quite another, and completely unacceptable.
He was in neither place. Hannah had a sinking feeling. He was robbing her! He was upstairs this very moment, rummaging through her things, looking for anything of value.
Hannah dialed Walker’s number again, to no avail. After a moment’s hesitation, she dialed 9-1-1 and reported a trespasser. She told the dispatcher the person might possibly be robbing her.
“Ma’am, I want you to leave the property.” The dispatcher spoke in a slow, clear, concise voice. “Can you do that?”
“Yes. Well, no, not completely.”
“What do you mean, ma’am? Is the man preventing you from leaving? Is this a hostage situation?”
“No, nothing like that. It’s… complicated.”
“Ma’am, do you know the man who’s in your house? Is this a domestic dispute?”
“No, I’ve never seen him before in my life!”
“If you’re able to, I want you to exit the house,” the dispatcher repeated calmly. “Exit the property, if at all possible.”
“I can go outside.” Hannah bobbed her head up and down, even though the person on the other end had no way of seeing.
“Are you there alone, miss?”
“I have Leroy with me. He’s a dog. A really big dog.”
“Good. That’s good. Did he engage with the suspect?”
Hannah frowned. “No. As a matter of fact, he didn’t even bark.”
“Could you describe the intrud
er, ma’am? I’ve dispatched a deputy to your location, but it may take him several minutes to reach you. At least fifteen minutes, I’m afraid. In the meantime, please tell me everything you can about the perpetrator.”
“He was about thirty,” Hannah began. She wracked her brain, trying to recall the details she had been too frightened to notice. “Hispanic, I think, or at least a descendant. About five feet seven, and very thin. He—He wore brown cloth pants, like—like wool, or something. A brown-checkered shirt. And an old floppy hat.”
“It sounds like you’re describing a scarecrow, ma’am,” the woman said, her tone slightly reproachful.
“No, more like an Old West cowboy. A—A vaquero. He had a bandanna around his neck and a…” her voice trailed off, as she all but whispered, “…a gun belt around his waist.”
“A gun belt?” the woman squeaked. “The suspect is armed? Why didn’t you say so!”
Hannah shook her head, suddenly getting a sinking feeling in her gut. “No, I don’t think so. I—I’m sorry, I think I made a mistake. I think this man may work at the history farm. Leroy didn’t bark. N—Never mind. I think this man may be a friend of Walker’s.”
The woman’s voice brightened. “Walker Jacoby?” she chirped.
Hannah gasped. “You know him?”
“Know him? I’ve been half in love with him, most of my life!”
The sinking feeling reached her toes. “You’re his wife?” Hannah whispered.
“Wife? Wife! Walker Jacoby’s wife? Now that’s a good one!” The dispatcher laughed, the sound deep and throaty. “I could only wish!”
Hannah stared at the phone. In the few and rare times she had need to call 9-1-1 in Houston, she had never once engaged in a personal conversation with the dispatcher. It seemed highly unprofessional, and borderline unethical. She cleared her throat.
Effectively brought back on task, the dispatcher asked, “You say you want me to call off the deputy?”