Reunion at Cardwell Ranch (14 page)

He had.

Now he found himself pacing the floor as she had done. He couldn’t help being worried about her. Like he’d told her, this was dangerous. It probably explained why someone had tried to run him off the road after his visit with Taylor West. He was reminded as well of Cody Kent’s reaction to the painting as well as Taylor’s. Had Taylor called Cody as soon as he’d left? He probably called all of the others, if Sid was right and they were responsible for H. F. Powell’s death.

“They know now that the forgeries were never destroyed,” Laramie had told her. “They’ll be running scared and who knows how far they’ll go to keep this from ever coming out. It isn’t just about ruining their reputations. We’re talking murder.”

Sid had smiled. “If I’m right, they’ll start turning on each other—if they haven’t already.”

“Or they’ll all come after you.”

“They don’t even know that I am H. F. Powell’s daughter,” she’d said with a shake of her head. “But I’ll be careful.”

He had seen that she was touched that he was worried about her. He had moved to her, cupping her cheek with his palm. “Let me help. Two of my brothers are private investigators and I—”

“No.” She’d moved away before turning to look at him again. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am that you are involved at all.”

“Sid, can’t you see that I... I care about you?”

She’d smiled and nodded. “But now I need you to trust me. Can you do that?”

He’d said he could. “But if you need me—”

Sid had stepped to him to give him a quick kiss. “I’m almost finished with this. Any interference now could destroy all the work I’ve done.”

Against his better judgment, he’d agreed to stay out of it. What choice did he have? Go to Hud with what he knew? He couldn’t do that to Sid. Nor did he know how to help her—other than letting her finish what she’d started.

Getting to his feet now, he walked into the kitchen and saw the wet cloth on the counter. Frowning, he picked it up as a flash of memory came rushing at him. Sid leaning over him, pressing the cold washcloth to his forehead.

More of the memory teased at him. Sid with something else in her hand, only...only something was wrong. He shook his head, regretting it as he felt his headache kick in again. The bottle of aspirin was also on the counter. She must have gotten it from the medicine cabinet upstairs.

A slice of memory wove its way in. He’d heard a sound upstairs, like someone dropping something on the hardwood floor. Or was it behind him? He remembered turning. The falling snow in the doorway. He’d seen a woman’s face the instant before he’d felt the blow. Sid’s? No.

His pulse jumped.

It hadn’t been Sid who’d hit him.

Chapter Sixteen

Laramie had believed Sid. But if there’d been someone else in his house last night, another woman who looked like Sid, then Sid had left out a key part of her story.

The problem was that this morning, in the light of day, he couldn’t be sure of what he’d thought he’d seen before taking the blow. Wouldn’t Sid have mentioned it if someone else had been there last night before he came to?

He’d quickly checked the security cameras he’d had installed. And hadn’t been surprised to find the cameras had been turned off during the burglary. The woman knew how to cover her tracks. That should have given him some assurance that she knew what she was doing going after her father’s killers.

His headache had subsided, but he still had a knot on his skull from where someone had nailed him. A mystery woman who looked enough like Sid to fool him? Or Sid herself?

He’d had trouble getting to sleep last night under the weight of what Sid had told him. He reached for his cell phone. Last night, he’d promised to stay out of it. But how could he? If he did and something happened to her—

Sid’s number went straight to voice mail.

“It’s just me. I was thinking about you this morning.” He disconnected knowing there was no reason to ask her to call him. He doubted she would anyway. She’d been pretty clear last night.

Gingerly touching the bump on his head, he tried to remember what exactly he’d seen. He’d barely pocketed his phone when it rang again. He hoped it was Sid.

“It’s Dana,” his cousin said cheerfully. “I hope I’m not calling too early. I just wanted to remind you that the ball and auction is tonight.” He groaned silently, having forgotten about it. “I took the liberty of having them hold three different costumes, but you need to let them know which one you want.”

He swore silently. “Thank you,” he said.

“I promise you will be glad you went to it,” Dana said. “Everyone will be there.”

Not everyone
, he thought, thinking of Sid.

“I’ll go and pick up my costume this morning,” he told her.

“See you tonight. Let us know if you need a ride.”

He had to smile as he pocketed his phone. There was no one quite like Dana. Whether or not he’d be glad he attended the ball was debatable, but he would go nonetheless because he adored her. Not because he thought for a moment he would enjoy it.

He couldn’t get his mind off Sid and what she’d told him last night as he went to pick up his costume for tonight. She was so sure that the four founding members of the Old West Artists Coalition had been involved in her father’s death.

They’d apparently stolen the forgeries and trusted one of them to destroy them. He hadn’t. At least that was Sid’s theory. Now she thought they would turn on each other. Laramie wished he believed that. They’d kept quiet about what they’d done, if Sid was right, for all these years.

It wasn’t until later in the day, after running errands, that he turned on the television. He made up his mind that he couldn’t sit back and do nothing. He would find out everything he could about the artists she thought were involved, he told himself, as he dressed for the ball.

That’s why, when the local news came on, he couldn’t have been more shocked. Maybe Sid was right after all.

* * *

R
OCK
J
ACKSON
’
S
MURDER
topped the news. Even more shocking was the arrest of Taylor West.

Laramie stood in front of the television, having a hard time believing what he was hearing. Taylor West had apparently been found passed out in his vehicle outside the Jackson residence, holding what was believed to be the murder weapon.

West had been intoxicated, resisted arrest and was now charged with multiple offenses, including homicide.

“The cowboy artist’s death has now been linked to a counterfeit money operation,” the broadcaster was saying. “It is uncertain if West was involved in the counterfeit operation with Jackson. But items found at the scene along with that found in a storage unit implicates artist Rock Jackson in the counterfeiting operation.”

The broadcaster cut to an interview with Cody Kent and another man identified as cowboy artist Hank Ramsey. He recognized Cody and turned up the volume. Cody was saying he was shocked by the turn of events. He said he hadn’t seen either man in some time.

“What a tragedy,” Cody said. “Two such talented artists. They’ll both be missed.”

Hank Ramsey was as dark as Cody Kent was blond. Unlike Cody, he was clean-shaven with his dark hair cut short. He nervously turned the brim of his Stetson while he talked, his voice breaking at times.

“A tragedy. I only know what I heard on the news this morning. I talked to Taylor recently. I knew he was upset, but I never dreamed... Just a tragedy.”

The television station cut back to the broadcaster, who moved on to other news. Laramie’s phone rang.

“I assume you’ve seen the news,” his brother Austin said.

“Do they know why Taylor West killed him?” Laramie had to ask. His head swam. Did this have something to do with the forgeries?

“I talked to Hud. Apparently Rock was having an affair with Taylor’s wife. Taylor swears he didn’t kill the man, but his gun appears to be the murder weapon, and he was in possession of it at the time of his arrest. Hud thinks it might also have something to do with the counterfeit money operation. Taylor swears he had nothing to do with that, either.”

Laramie thought about telling his brother what had happened at his house last night. But apparently it had nothing to do with the murder or the counterfeit operation. At least he hoped to hell it didn’t.

“Glad Hud caught the counterfeiter,” he managed to say, wondering if anyone else was involved. And if Taylor West was telling the truth about not killing Rock, then who did?

He tried Sid’s number again only to have it go straight to voice mail. He didn’t leave a message. As he pocketed the phone, he feared she might be up to her neck in all this.

* * *

T
HE
H
OLIDAY
B
ALL
and Art Auction was held each year at the Big Sky Pavilion. Laramie saw the lights from miles away. Valets parked cars in one of the huge snowy lots above it. Along with arranging for a costume, Dana had made sure that Laramie had his ticket.

She had a one-in-three chance of figuring out who he was, given that she had arranged the costumes. But he wasn’t sure what she and Hud would be wearing. His brothers had been equally secretive.

Waiters moved through the crowd with bubbling champagne flutes and fancy hors d’oeuvres. The lobby was a roar of voices. Beyond it, Laramie could hear music playing. He asked one of the waiters about the art that would be auctioned off tonight and was pointed to a door off the ballroom.

The three paintings were displayed under spotlights along one wall. A dozen people milled around the room. A bored-looking older man wearing a jacket that read SECURITY stood in the corner.

Laramie moved in closer to look at the three cowboy paintings. One by Taylor West, one by Rock Jackson and the last by H. F. Powell. As he caught bits of conversation, it appeared that everyone had heard the news tonight. The expectation was that both the West and Jackson paintings’ bids would go quite high.

But he realized the real prize in this room was the H. F. Powell painting—if the low murmurs he’d picked up were any indication. There was talk of the painting going for more than a couple hundred thousand, but that it could go even higher because it was one of the few works of the deceased artist anyone had seen in years.

“Excuse me.” Laramie addressed a woman who was studying the Powell painting. “I take it H. F. Powell paintings are rare?” he asked, remembering what Sid had told him.

The woman lifted one fine shaped brow. “He was one of the most prolific artists of his time, but he stopped painting a few years before he died.” She leaned in closer. “It was rumored that he had personal problems. It was such a tragedy. He was killed in a fire at his studio. A lot of his work was lost in the fire so any painting of his is even more valuable now. This is one I’ve never seen before.”

Interesting, Laramie thought as he studied the Powell painting. It was of a beautiful woman on a galloping horse, a rock-and-pine landscape behind her. The colors were warm as if the day had been, as well. The woman’s face was filled with joy. He got the feeling she was riding toward her lover.

He studied it, surprised that not only could he feel the warmth of the day, he could almost smell the dust being kicked up by the horse’s hooves. Surprising himself, he also realized he was going to have to bid on the painting. He wanted it like he had never wanted anything before because, given the resemblance, he would swear the woman on the horse was Sid’s mother.

He’d never cared that much about material things. But he had to have this painting—no matter what it cost. He just hoped that wasn’t what everyone else in the room was thinking, as well.

* * *

S
ID
SPOTTED
THE
MAN
dressed as Zorro standing in front of the H. F. Powell painting. She had cheated, waiting outside until she’d seen Laramie Cardwell’s SUV pull up. She hadn’t wanted to take any chances, but the truth was she would have recognized him no matter his disguise.

She’d spent her life studying forms as an artist. Laramie’s form was quite fine. As she slipped through the small crowd standing around the paintings, she realized she would love to paint him. The thought surprised her, since it had been so long since she’d gotten to paint what she really loved.

Sid could see that Laramie was taken with the H. F. Powell painting. The painting was one of her father’s best compositions, she thought, as she admired it under the soft lights highlighting it. Then out of the corner of her eye, she watched Laramie.

He couldn’t seem to take his eyes from the painting. She guessed he had seen the resemblance between her and her mother. Around her, she heard everyone talking about the painting, all of them wondering how high the bidding would go and ultimately, who would be taking it home.

It saddened her to think that most of her father’s career, this kind of art hadn’t been popular. With the influx of people like the ones in this room with money and a desire to rediscover the Old Wild West, paintings like this one were now coveted. Too bad he hadn’t lived long enough to see how badly people wanted an H. F. Powell painting.

But then again, her father had never painted for the money. And he certainly wouldn’t have been caught dead at an affair like this. She smiled to herself, remembering that she’d told Laramie the same thing about herself. She still hoped it was true.

As Laramie moved on to Rock Jackson’s painting, Sid stepped closer to the H. F. Powell painting. She stared at it with a mix of emotions. The painting caught her mother’s beauty as well as her wild spirit with brushstrokes that spoke of the love the artist had felt for this woman. Her mother had been caught with that excited look in her eyes, that unmasked joy in her face... Until that moment, Sid hadn’t felt the emotion captured in the painting. Her mother had been a woman in love.

“It is beautiful, isn’t it?” asked a woman on the other side of her. “It moves me to tears, as well.” The woman pressed a tissue into Sid’s hand as she moved away. Sid hadn’t realized she was smiling through her tears.

* * *

L
ARAMIE
CAUGHT
A
WHIFF
of perfume in a room full of warring fragrances. But he couldn’t be sure that light citrusy scent was what had made him aware of a woman standing in front of the H. F. Powell painting. Maybe he’d just sensed her.

When he looked over at the masked woman, he felt a start. She was dressed in all black, from the old-fashioned hooped-skirt dress to the large floppy hat that hid her hair. She turned her head. He caught only a glimpse of cool blue eyes framed by a dark mask—just as they had been the first time he’d ever laid eyes on her.

It couldn’t be Sid. She’d said she wouldn’t be caught dead here. And yet this woman was the right height and the right frame from what he could see of her. Her elaborate dress hid her figure and her face was obscured by the hat and mask along with the high neck of the dress.

But it was Obsidian “Sid” Forester. He moved closer, following the faint scent of her perfume. Why had she lied about coming here? Or had her plans changed since the time he’d ask her?

He was next to her now. All his senses told him it was her. But when she raised her lashes to meet his gaze, she gave no indication that she’d ever seen him before.

In the other room, someone announced that the ball was about to begin. Music soared and the crowd began to thin. As the woman in black began to move away, he grabbed her hand. Without looking at her, he whispered, “Dance with me.”

He felt her freeze. When his gaze met hers, he saw both surprise and wariness in those beautiful eyes. He tried to hide his own shocked expression. This woman wasn’t Sid, not the woman he’d kissed, not the woman he’d dreamed about every night since. But he was convinced that they’d met before. Last night, when she’d put the knot on his head.

He felt her hesitate and started to let go of her hand, when she nodded slowly and did an old-fashioned curtsy. As the crowd began to move toward the ballroom, she said, “If you will excuse me for just a moment...”

Before he could protest, she disappeared into the ladies’ room. He waited patiently. A few moments later, she returned. He saw the change instantly and yet he questioned if he was losing his mind as he led her out of the art room, onto the dance floor and into his arms.

Her eyes met his briefly, almost shyly, before she lowered her lashes. He felt his heart cartwheel in his chest. This wasn’t the same woman he’d asked to dance.

He glanced around for another woman in black, but didn’t see one. What game were they playing with him? Sid moved gracefully in his arms. His cat burglar had been light on her feet. No wonder she was such a graceful dancer. But what was she doing here? Shouldn’t she be burglarizing someone else’s house right now?