Chasing the Sun (44 page)

“I hope so.” He was in the mood to hit someone. The banker, Blake, Ashford—he didn’t care which. They all deserved it.

He found Sheriff Foley sitting outside his office with his chair propped back against the wall, studying the inside of his eyelids. “Howdy, Sheriff,” he said, giving the chair a nudge with his foot.

Foley awoke instantly but without noticeable concern. Calmly pushing back his hat, he glared up at Jack. “What do you want?”

“Two things. First, I’d like to find out what you know about this.” Fishing the worn poster from his pocket, Jack passed it over.

With a labored sigh, the sheriff let the front legs of his chair thud back to the boardwalk. He took the paper, studied it for a moment, then shot Jack a hard look. “Where’d you get this?”

“From my brother. He said it sort of showed up with a weasel.”

The sheriff’s eyes narrowed. “Then he must have taken it off my board here, since that’s where it was last.”

Jack shrugged. “You know weasels.”

Foley studied the paper again, then pointed to a notation on the bottom. “This is dated over a month ago.”

“Yes, it is.”

Foley looked up with a frown. “I guess you want me to wire San Francisco. See if it’s valid.”

“I do.”

“Why?”

“I might have information.”

“What kind?”

“The pertinent kind.”

“Christ.” Folding the paper, the sheriff slipped it into his vest pocket. “And the second reason you came bothering me?”

“I’d like to post my bail.”

Foley blinked. “For what?”

“Beating the stink out of a weasel. It’ll happen about an hour from now. I’ll let you know for sure once I find him.”

“Oh, hell.” Foley sighed wearily. “You’re a Wilkins.”

“I am. And proud of it.”

“You’re the one who left, aren’t you?”

“I am. And proud of that too.”

Foley took off his hat, scratched the top of his graying head, then replaced the hat. “Who’s the weasel?” he asked in a bored voice.

“Stanley Ashford.”

That perked him up. “Ashford. I know him. Works for the El Paso and Pacific Railroad. Pockmarked face, girlish manners. Definitely a weasel.”

“That’d be the one.”

“You’re too late. He’s gone.” Tipping his chair back against the wall, Foley added, “Bastard cleaned out the EP & P account and left this morning. Pinkerton detectives are already heading out of Chicago, hot on his trail. I’m hoping the Apaches get him first.”

Jack’s good mood faded. Then he remembered Blake. “How about his cohort, Franklin Blake? He still in town?”

Anger flashed in Foley’s eyes. “Bastard’s here. Hangs out at the Palace. Wish the Indians would get him too.”

Spirits happily restored, Jack grinned. “Then as soon as I pay him the money I owe, I’ll be beating the stink out of him.”

“Why?”

“He acted harshly toward the woman I’m going to marry.” Just picturing Daisy’s bruised face after Blake tried to run their buggy through the quarantine made Jack’s hands clench. “Elbowed her in the face.”

“Sounds like Blake. He purely loves beating on women.” Foley smiled as he said it, but it wasn’t a pleasant expression. “Just don’t kill him. I know how you Wilkins boys are.” Tipping his head back, he closed his eyes. “I’ll send the wire to San Francisco after my nap.”

The major was waiting with his bid when Jack arrived at the bank. After talking horses for a minute, Billingsly made his offer. It seemed reasonable, but Jack countered on principle, then left the major to mull it over while he excused himself and stepped into the bank manager’s office.

Harold Lockley wasn’t a robust man, so Jack didn’t consider using force to get his point across. It would be like slapping around a maiden aunt. And judging by the look of terror on the bookish man’s face after Jack introduced himself and plopped down in the chair in front of his desk, Brady had already explained the Wilkins position on selling loans to a third party. Still, Jack felt he should do something, since he’d come all this way and was in town anyway.

He decided to get right to the point. “You shouldn’t have sold our paper.”

“N-No, sir.”

“You won’t do it again.”

“N-No, sir.”

“Ask me why.”

“W-Why?”

“Because we won’t like it.”

“Y-Yes, sir.”

Hell, this is no fun at all
. Then inspiration struck. Reaching into his pocket, Jack pulled out the shrunken head he had planned to use on Ashford. Idly he passed it from one hand to the other, enjoying the way Lockley’s eyes bulged as they tracked it. “Know what this is?” Jack asked pleasantly.

Lockley made a garbled sound.

“Right. A shrunken head. Ask me where I got it.”

“W-Where d-did you g-get it?”

“I don’t remember. Here.” Leaning forward, Jack placed the fist-sized head in the center of Lockley’s desk. “As a show of trust, I want you to have it. No, I insist,” he added with a wave of his hand when the little banker tried to distance himself by pressing as far back in his chair as he could. “Ask me why.”

“W-Why?”

Jack showed his teeth in a wide grin. “Because if I need to, I can always make another.” He waited for that to sink in, then ignoring the banker’s rapid breathing, got down to business. “How much is in my account?” On the ride in, he’d decided to get Daisy a ring. Something special that would show her just how serious he was. Something so pretty she wouldn’t be able to refuse.

“W-Which one?” Lockley asked, his gaze still pinned to the stringy-haired head, which would have been staring back at him if it had eyes and its lids weren’t sewn shut.

Jack frowned in confusion. “Which one what?”

“W-Which account. You have t-two.”

“I do?”

Finally Lockley glanced up. Some of his color had returned and he seemed pathetically eager to answer Jack’s questions as quickly as possible. “You have the account you transferred money into from the bank in San Francisco. And you have the account your brother set up several years ago. Which one?”

“What the hell are you talking about? What account my brother set up?”

A fine sheen of sweat glistened in the fuzz on Lockley’s top lip. “The, ah, one from the mine profits.” He gave a sickly smile. “He didn’t mention it to you?”

“No. He didn’t.” Confusion gave way to disgust. Did Brady think he was some good-for-nothing spendthrift who had to be put on an allowance?

Something in Jack’s expression caused color to fade from Lockley’s face again. “Your brother, Brady, set up accounts for each of you as soon as the mines starting producing. His and Hank’s accounts have been seriously depleted by capital expenditures like equipment purchases, the cost of the spur line, a locomotive, and such like. But yours has remained untouched. In fact, it’s grown quite rapidly over the last couple of years.”

Jack was so stunned he just sat there, his mind spinning, his anger building with every heartbeat. “How much is in it?”

The banker didn’t know exactly, but offered to go check.

“Take a guess,” Jack said through stiff lips.

Lockley did, and Jack felt as if the floor had bucked beneath his feet. It was a substantial amount. At least as much as the horses would bring in. More than they owed Blake. More than enough to cover any debt they’d ever had.

So why hadn’t Brady used it to pay off the smelter? And why hadn’t he told Jack about it? Did he think Jack wouldn’t want to help?

Then realization came, and a sick feeling moved through Jack’s gut. Was Brady really so pig-headed he would rather put the ranch at risk than turn to his little brother for help?

Goddamn him
.

Jack didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud until he saw Lockley’s startled expression. It took him a moment to bring his temper under control, then in a voice he barely recognized as his own, he said, “Exactly how much do we owe Blake?”

“Well, em, actually Blake was acting as agent for another gentleman. A Mr. Stanley Ashford.”

“So how much do we owe Ashford?”

“Well, em, that’s the thing.” With a wrinkled kerchief, Lockley mopped his top lip then his damp brow. “Apparently, Ashford stole the money from the railroad account to buy the paper from us. So in effect, you owe the EP&P—the El Paso & Pacific Railroad, that is.”

“How much?” Jack asked for the third time.

“W-With interest? I-ah-have to check.”

“Do it.” Jack realized he was gripping the armrest so tight, his fingers had gone numb. Forcing them to relax, he said as calmly as he could, “Take whatever we owe out of my mine account, and move the rest into the ranch account.”

“All of it?”

“All of it. Then close the account my brother set up for me and never open it again. Understand?”

“Y-Yes, sir.”

“Then draw up papers marked ‘Paid in Full.’”

When Lockley just sat there, blinking and sweating, Jack leaned forward and said softly, “Now.”

The banker shot to his feet. “Y-Yes, sir.” A second later, he was out the door.

Jack waited, drawing in deep breaths to calm the cyclone of fury and disbelief and disappointment whirling through his mind.

He was done. This was the final insult. He wouldn’t subject himself to his brother’s highhanded arrogance any longer. Now that he knew with certainty that Brady held him in such low esteem that he’d rather lose the ranch than accept—or even
ask—
for his help, Jack saw no reason to stay.

But
Jesus
, it hurt to realize his brother held him in such contempt.

He had reached a level of icy calm by the time Lockley returned with the papers and a packet of cash to repay the loan. Jack counted it, made sure the papers were in order, then, moving stiffly, rose from the chair and went back into the lobby, where Billingsly and Langley waited.

“Change of plans,” he said tersely. “Major, you can have the colts that are ready this year, and first option on those that will be ready next year. But we’re not selling the brood mares or studs, or anything younger than three years.”

Langley’s mouth fell open.

When Billingsly started to argue, Jack held up a hand. “Forget my counter. I’ll take your first offer on the colts and discount it ten percent because they’re still green. But it’s not negotiable. Think about it, and if the offer is agreeable to you, have Lockley draw up the bills of sale.”

He turned to the old cowhand. “Langley, if the major takes the deal, hold the three-year-olds until his men come for them, but send the mares and studs and foals back home as soon as possible.”

Then without waiting for a response, he spun on his heel and walked out of the bank.

Twenty-five

“THINK IT’LL WORK?” BRADY ASKED, WATCHING OVER THE side rails as Hank slid the sail-wrapped mast into the back of the wagon.

“Probably.”

“Seems small.”

“It only has to move eight hundred pounds.”

“Still.”

Mumbling to himself, Hank tossed in the box of tools and extra parts with more vigor than necessary.

Brady could see he was still mad. They’d had words earlier, but Brady was convinced it was their brotherly duty to help Jack any way they could. “Maybe you should test it. You know, just to be sure.”

Hank threw in the ax and his saddlebags, then turned to glare at him. “Have at it then.”

“It’s your invention.” Seeing the set of Hank’s jaw, he quickly added, “What’s the ax for?”

“You, if you don’t get away from me.” Backing that up with a surly look, Hank resumed loading items into the wagon bed—a water cask, a basket of food, extra slickers and jackets, his repeater, a pouch of toys, a fluffy blanket with bunnies sewn on it, Daisy’s valise. “Or in case they need to stop quick,” he added as a mumbled afterthought.

Alarmed, Brady reared back from the rails. “I thought the handcar had a brake.”

“It does. Probably.”

“Probably?”

Hank lifted his head and looked at him.

Brady recognized the warning and changed the subject. “Our wives are planning something.”

Hank went back to loading.

“Jessica asked when Jack would be back from Val Rosa, then she asked how soon he would leave here for Redemption. When I told her, she kissed me, put on a big smile, and asked where my good boots were. Sounds suspicious, don’t you think?”

“I think you’re an idiot. That’s what I think.”

“Then I saw her whispering to your wife,” Brady went on. “Furtive like. And when they saw me seeing them, they shut up. Something’s not right.”

“Probably you.”

“Still.”

A commotion drew Brady’s attention, and he turned to see his wife step out of the house. Behind her came Daisy, leading Kate by the hand, followed by Molly. They clustered on the porch, talking and hugging and looking overwrought. Daisy looked especially weepy, but after careful study, Brady could see Molly was almost smiling. Furtively.

Women. They loved their secrets.

As the ladies started down the steps, the door banged open again and kids stampeded across the porch, trailed by the overworked Ortegas, each with a wiggling twin on her hip. Charlie held back a little, being too mature now for emotional displays, and Abigail just tagged along for the hell of it. But Ben and Penny seemed genuinely concerned that their cousin was leaving.