Something More (17 page)

“I didn't?”

“No, you didn't.”

“Just because I saw someone, that doesn't mean he was the one who attacked you,” Luke reasoned.

“But if he wasn't, what was he doing out here?”

“Maybe he was taking a walk.”

“Maybe,” Angie conceded, thinking about her own leisurely stroll across the parking lot and her initial enjoyment of the evening. “It was a lovely night for one.”

He caught her use of the past tense and smiled. “But not anymore.”

Her smile held the same trace of dryness that had been in his. “It doesn't seem as peaceful as it did before.”

“I don't imagine it does.”

As they climbed the steps to the Rimrock's door, her flitting thoughts jumped back to the man Luke had seen. “That man in the shadows might have seen the person who knocked me down and took my purse.”

“It's possible.” Luke paused with his hand on the doorknob. “I wouldn't say anything to the others just yet about the man I saw.”

“Why?” She frowned at his odd request.

There was a mocking lift of one eyebrow, accenting the gleam in his eye. “With Ima Jane inside, you have to ask? She'll have people pointing fingers in every direction as it is. I think it's best if we keep this little piece of information strictly between ourselves and the police.”

His reasoning sounded both sensible and wise. “That's probably a good idea.”

Ima Jane rose from her chair the minute they walked through the door. “Where's the patrolman and Deputy Sparks?” she asked, glancing behind them. “They haven't left, have they?”

That possibility seemed to worry her. “They're outside looking around,” Luke explained, then wondered at her barely suppressed agitation. “Why?”

“Well—” She glanced uncertainly at her husband. “Griff just reminded me of something that we probably should have told them.”

“What's that?” But Luke had already put two and two together and come up with the answer.

“Saddlebags was here tonight,” Ima Jane announced as if the news were momentous.

“Really.” Luke knew his lack of any real interest wasn't what Ima Jane expected. “When was that?”

“I never noticed the time,” she admitted, half disgusted with herself. “But it must have been somewhere around eight. Wouldn't you say, Griff?”

“Sounds about right,” he agreed.

“It probably wouldn't hurt to mention he was around tonight.” Luke sensed Angie's questioning glance. He avoided it and pulled out a chair at the table for her.

“There's more, Luke,” Ima Jane said, exhibiting an unusual tension. “I didn't think too much about him showing up at the back door earlier. I assumed he was here to get a hot meal, so I had Griff fix him a plate of beef and noodles.” She paused, her glance darting to Angie. “This might be all my fault, Angie.”

“How could this be your fault?” Angie countered, ready to brush off the whole idea as ridiculous.

“Because . . . right from the minute Saddlebags sat down to eat, he started asking me about you. I told you that,” she reminded Angie.

“I remember.” The pounding in her head seemed to get worse, making it difficult to think. “You mentioned something else, too—something about suspecting he already had a copy of the letter. You thought he might have found the one my grandfather had with him.”

“That's what I thought then. But, what if he only pretended not to be interested in the letter so he could divert suspicion from himself?”

“So you're saying,” Luke began, a crooked smile slanting the line of his mouth, “that you think that old man waited outside for Angie, snuck up behind her, hit her over the head, and took her purse.”

“Why not?” Griff reasoned. “For an old man, he gets around pretty good.”

“And you know how obsessed he is with finding that gold, Luke,” Ima Jane reminded him. “He's devoted his entire life to it.”

“I know.” As damning as it all sounded, Luke still had trouble believing Saddlebags was responsible. “In all these years he's been here, he's never given anyone a single reason to question his honesty. He doesn't even take a can of beans off a shelf without paying for it in some way.”

“But think how desperate he must be feeling,” Griff argued, “knowin' he might die any day without ever layin' his hands on that gold. Desperate people can do desperate things.”

“It's got to be Saddlebags.” Tobe pitched himself into the conversation. “Who else would do it?”

That was a question no one wanted to answer. If the finger of suspicion wasn't pointed at Saddlebags, a recluse who was virtually a stranger, then it would have to search out someone they knew—and knew well.

Luke closed the discussion. “You wouldn't happen to have any of those beef and noodles left, would you, Griff? I haven't had supper yet, and my stomach is beginning to complain.”

“I could use some coffee, too.” Fargo pushed his empty beer bottle aside.

“I'll get it.” Ima Jane plucked the bottle off the table and glanced at Angie. “How about you? Would you like another cup?”

“No, but I could use a couple of aspirins if you have any.” She rubbed her fingers over her throbbing temple. “I had a bottle in my purse, but . . .”

“Say no more.” Ima Jane laid a consoling hand on her shoulder. “We always have aspirins on hand around here.”

Griff was halfway to the kitchen when the swinging door rocked open and the uniformed patrolman came striding into the bar area. A handbag swung by the strap hooked over the ballpoint pen in his hand.

“That's my purse!” Angie said incredulously. “You found it!”

“It was in the alley.” With a faintly triumphant expression, he dumped the contents onto a table and used the pen to separate the various items. “It looks like everything's here. Driver's license, credit cards, cash.” He flipped the wallet open to show her.

“And my pictures, too,” she said happily and started to reach for them.

The patrolman stopped her before she could touch them. “We'll have to dust for fingerprints, but I wanted to make certain nothing was missing first.”

“Of course.” Angie pulled her hand back and made a visual inventory of the items. “It's all there.” She was dazzled by the discovery. “I was so sure I'd seen the last of all this.”

“You were lucky,” the officer told her.

“Very lucky,” she agreed, thinking of all the phone calls and money transfers she wouldn't have to make—and all the time that would have been lost doing it.

But the recovery of her purse made it obvious that the thief hadn't been after money. The cash was still there in the fold of her wallet. If any of it was missing, it couldn't be more than a few dollars. Which left the question: Why take the purse at all?

Again, it seemed to come back to the letter. The realization sobered Angie.

“It appears we may have also found the object your attacker used to hit you over the head,” the patrolman informed her.

Her head came up, the movement igniting twinges of fresh pain. “What was it?”

“A dead tree limb. See these strands of red hair caught in the bark?” he replied. “As branches go, this one is pretty lightweight. It's not surprising it didn't do much damage to your head. I think it's safe to say your attacker wasn't out to hurt you. He just wanted to stun you enough to get the purse.”

“Maybe.” Fargo's voice held a wealth of skepticism. “And maybe it was the only thing at hand to do the job.”

“I wouldn't be so sure.” The patrolman's chest puffed up with a slow indrawn breath. “There were definitely heavier objects scattered between the parking lot and the alley. Ones that could have been much more deadly—like a rusted fence post, a two-by-four, and part of a broken bat, to name a few. If he had used any one of those, you'd be in an ambulance on your way to the hospital right now.”

“If she was still alive.” When Ima Jane glanced at Angie, guilt and remorse haunted her expression. Head down, Ima Jane turned away. “I'll get your aspirins.”

“Wait a minute.” Griff reached out to detain her. “We haven't told the patrolman what we remembered.”

“You tell him,” she said. “I've already talked too much.”

Those were words Ima Jane thought she would never utter. But no matter how fast she walked, she couldn't escape the truth in them.

The kitchen's swinging door slapped back and forth behind her in an ever-diminishing arc until it stopped altogether. Near the grill, the oscillating fan continued its noisy whir, alternately blowing warm air on her, then away.

Moths and mosquitoes had joined the flies beating at the screen door. In her mind, Ima Jane again saw Saddlebags's face beyond the mesh. She stared sightlessly at the spot, trapped in the memory of that moment.

A white spear of light stabbed the blanket of darkness beyond the wire mesh. Distracted and puzzled by it, Ima Jane watched as it moved slowly about, first lengthening, then shortening. She was halfway to the door before she remembered the sheriff's deputy was still outside. It had to be his flashlight she was seeing.

“What on earth did you think it was?” she scolded herself, then gasped in alarm when Saddlebags stepped from the small wedge of space between the wall and the propped-open back door.

His hard, keen eyes pinned her to the spot as he held up a silencing finger, then threw a quick look outside. Ima Jane looked, too, but there was no sign of the deputy's flashlight.

“The redhead.” His voice was pitched too low to carry beyond the kitchen. “How bad was she hurt?”

“She has a nasty knot on her head, but that's all.” She hesitated, then threw caution aside, driven by the need to know the degree of her guilt. “Did you do it, Saddlebags?”

But he was already ducking out the screen door. He disappeared instantly, merging with the shadows.

“Did you?” Ima Jane repeated to an empty room.

H
unkered against the building's raised foundation, Saddlebags scanned the alleyway, searching for the uniformed deputy still somewhere outside. As long as he remained motionless, he knew it was unlikely he would be spotted. Even if Ima Jane alerted the patrolman, chances were he would never check the area so close to the tavern's back entrance. He'd be looking beyond it, expecting Saddlebags to be running away. And at night, it was movement that caught the human eye.

Farther down the alley, the beam of a flashlight washed the rear of an old shed, giving Saddlebags the deputy's location. Saddlebags waited a few more seconds to make sure Ima Jane didn't sic the patrolman on him, then crept along the side of the building, quietly working his way to the corner nearest the parking lot.

Crouching low, far below a human's normal line of vision, he peered around the corner. An old pickup went by on the highway, its broken tailpipe striking sparks off the pavement. Saddlebags waited until the noise of its engine had faded into nothing. He used the time to identify the vehicles in the lot and choose a route that offered the best concealment.

When all was quiet once more, he broke from the corner of the building and scurried across the intervening space at a crouching trot. His heart was slamming against his ribs like a jackhammer when he finally reached Luke's old Ford pickup. But this was no time to rest.

It took two attempts before he succeeded in hauling himself over the side of the truck bed. On his hands and knees, Saddlebags crawled to the cab area, wincing in worry at the scuffling noises he made. But there was no one about to hear them.

He felt around with his hands. At last his fingers encountered the familiar feel of stiff cloth. He cackled silently. Good ole Luke still kept that old canvas tarp in the back of his pickup.

Working swiftly, he maneuvered his body underneath, taking pains not to disturb a single fold or buckle in the canvas and using its heavy weight to verify every inch of him was covered. Wrapped in blackness, he breathed in the musty smells of dust, old grain, and a hint of mildew.

It was stuffy under the thick canvas, but the warmth of it felt good to his old bones. Making a pillow of his arm, Saddlebags settled down to wait. This wasn't the first time he'd hitched a ride to the Ten Bar without Luke being the wiser.

Confident his hiding place wouldn't be discovered, he dozed some, which was about all he did anymore. It had been years since he had slept soundly. At the first click of a latch and creak of a door hinge, he was wide awake.

There were footsteps and voices, followed by the metallic sound of car doors opening and closing. The little gathering was breaking up and, just as Saddlebags expected, the patrol cars were the first to pull out of the lot.

A few minutes later, Tobe and Fargo came out of the Rimrock and climbed into their separate vehicles. Luke was the last to emerge, but the sound of a second voice warned Saddlebags that he wasn't alone. The redhead was with him. Saddlebags was quick to detect the underlying note of weariness in her voice, discernible despite a gallant effort to disguise it.

“Look, it's very generous of you to offer,” she was saying, “but there's no need at all for you to give up your bed—”

Luke's drawling voice broke in, lazy with humor. “Is that some sort of proposition?”

“It's nothing of the sort and you know it.” The redhead sounded more amused than offended. “I meant that it's unnecessary for me to stay at your place. You're all overreacting. I'll be perfectly safe in the camper tonight. Believe it or not, I am capable of taking care of myself. I don't need someone to protect me.”

“You're absolutely right. What you really need is a keeper.”

“Don't be ridiculous.” There was a smile in her voice despite the scoffing tone of her words.

“If anyone around here is being ridiculous, it isn't me,” Luke told her. “In less than twelve hours, your camper has been broken into and you've been hit over the head. Someone is very determined to get their hands on that letter, in case you haven't noticed.”

“It does look that way.” A thread of uneasiness entered her voice.

“It is that way,” Luke stated. “You know, most people after they've been hit over the head get some sense knocked into them. Your skull must be a lot thicker.”

“I'm not dense, if that's what you're implying. It's just that . . .” She let the sentence hang there unfinished.

“It's just that you don't want to believe anyone here actually set out to harm you,” Luke guessed at the rest of it.

“Do you?” she challenged.

“No. But greed does funny things to people—even the best of them.”

“I suppose.” There was a trace of sadness in her words that said she didn't want to believe it.

“Why did you ever admit you had the letter?”

“Why should I lie about it?” She sounded surprised by the suggestion.

“Why, indeed,” Luke murmured dryly. “There are times, Angie, when honesty isn't always the best policy.”

“Really? You don't seem to pull your punches,” she chided lightly.

“We're not talking about me.”

“My mistake.”

“I'm curious about something else—why did you show them the letter? It's one thing to admit you have it, and another to produce it.”

“I did it because—” She stopped, hesitated, then sighed.

“I don't know. Maybe because I'm a teacher. I enjoy sharing information, especially something as fascinating as that letter.” Saddlebags could hear the excitement building in her voice, tired as she was. “The code he used is so simple, yet so cleverly done, too. In a way, I think I wanted to see if they would catch it.”

Up to that point, Saddlebags had listened with only token interest. Now he was alert to every word that was said.

“You're crazy,” Luke declared.

“Probably,” she agreed. “I know there was a part of me that was sorry when none of them discovered the code.”

“I'm surprised you didn't point it out to them.”

“The teacher in me wanted to, especially when they were so convinced the letter contained absolutely no clues at all. Or, at least, none that made sense.”

“They aren't going to be convinced for long, are they?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that sooner or later everyone is going to find out that one of your primary reasons for coming here is to look for the gold,” Luke replied.

Saddlebags stiffened under the tarp, alarm shooting through him.

“I hadn't thought of that,” she murmured.

“You'd better start thinking about it,” Luke advised. “Whoever wanted the letter before—without being sure it contained anything—that person will be doubly determined to get his hands on it. You're not as safe as you think you are, Angie.”

She attempted a shaky laugh. “Are you trying to scare me into staying at your place tonight?”

“Have I succeeded?”

“No.” But she didn't sound as definite about it as she had earlier.

“Let's compromise,” Luke said.

“Compromise? How?”

“You'll be coming to the Ten Bar to look for the gold anyway, so why not make the move tonight?”

“Let me make sure I understand you. You're suggesting that I take the camper and drive out to the ranch tonight?”

“You'll be safer there, even in the camper. In town like this, right on the highway, the parking lot here is too accessible.”

“That's true,” she admitted.

“Good. Then I'll follow you, or you can follow me.”

“All right. But it will take me a couple minutes to get everything packed away and make sure all the cupboards and doors are latched tight.”

“Do you need help?”

“No, I can manage.”

Saddlebags could hear the crunch of her footsteps as she walked away. After a span of several seconds, the pickup door was pulled open and the bed of the truck dipped slightly when Luke stepped into the cab. The engine turned over once, then rumbled to life, and the truck vibrated beneath him. Saddlebags shifted a little, seeking a more comfortable position for the bumpy ride that was to come.

 

 

The hour was late when both vehicles pulled into the Ten Bar Ranch yard. At Luke's direction, Angie parked the pickup camper on a level stretch of ground beneath the yard's tall security light. He looked on while Angie plugged the camper's electrical cord into the pole's outlet.

“Is there anything else you need?” Luke asked after she had closed the camper panel.

“No, I'm all set.” She brushed imaginary dust from her hands.

As one, they strolled toward the camper's rear door. “How's your head?”

“Much better. The aspirin helped a lot.” Pausing in the yard light's bright pool, Angie rummaged through her purse for the key to the camper door.

Luke braced a hand on the side of the camper and watched the search. “Are you still going to the sheriff's office tomorrow?”

“First thing in the morning.” Keys jangled from the metal ring she pulled out of the purse.

“Then what?” Luke was thinking in terms of the procedure to be followed in claiming her grandfather's body for burial.

“Then I look for the gold. Hopefully with your help.” Her smile was brief and faintly chiding. “You surely didn't think that this knock on the head was going to change my mind about that, did you?”

“Something tells me it would take more than a knock on the head to do that.” And that didn't exactly cheer him.

“You'd be right.” When she moved to insert the key in the lock, something fell with a thud, startling both of them. Scuffling noises came from the rubble of the old ranch house. “What's that?” Tension held Angie motionless.

Pushing away from the camper, Luke took a step toward the rubble. At almost the same instant, a cat bounded out of the tall weeds and streaked toward the barn. Luke saw it and relaxed.

“It's only a cat,” he told her. “Probably doing some hunting and knocked something over.”

She released a sigh of relief that was part nervous laughter. “I guess I'm a little jumpier than I thought.”

“Under the circumstances, that's understandable.”

Her gaze was drawn to the area of the ruins, hidden from view by thick shadows. Unbidden came the sobering memory of Ima Jane's words.

“Ima Jane told me that you lost your wife and son in the fire.” The instant she mentioned his family, Angie could almost see the shutters closing, locking all emotion from his face. “How did it happen?”

“You mean Ima Jane didn't tell you?” he countered, with a smile that didn't ring true.

“I didn't ask,” Angie replied quietly and waited, conscious of the lengthening silence.

Just when she decided Luke wasn't going to talk about it, he said, “They think it was started by a faulty coffeemaker. By the time I got here, the whole house was in flames.”

“You weren't at home when it started,” she said, noticing that he was staring straight at her, but his eyes were unfocused.

“No. I'd gone to Sheridan to buy a new bull. Fargo went with me. Bill Skinner's boy Jake was working for me then but still living with his folks. By the time Fargo and I got to the Crossbow Ranch outside of Sheridan, picked out a bull, and got him loaded in the stock trailer, it was already the middle of the afternoon. On the way home, the truck broke down. Busted fan belt. We were able to get it fixed, but—I called Mary from the garage to tell her we'd be late and not to wait up for me. I knew she was alone at the ranch, and I didn't want her sitting up worrying about where I was.”

Guilt and irony twisted through his words. It was easy to read between the lines and know that Luke had never been able to stop wondering whether the outcome might have been different if he hadn't called. If she had stayed up to wait for him, she might have discovered the fire in time to save herself and their young son.

“It was after midnight when we finally turned onto the ranch lane,” Luke continued. “I remember Fargo made some comment about the dark storm clouds boiling up to the south. Not long after that, we saw the glow of the fire and realized it was smoke, not clouds we'd seen. By the time we arrived, the entire house was engulfed. The heat was so intense you couldn't get within ten feet of it.” He dragged in a long breath, his gaze finally focusing on Angie before sliding away. “They found Mary's body in Jason's room, just inside the door. She never made it to his bed.”

“I'm sorry.” Angie knew how inadequate those words were, yet they were the only ones that expressed her feelings. She paused a moment then remarked, “I'm surprised you haven't cleared all this away and rebuilt. It can't be easy seeing this all the time.”

One eyebrow lifted, cool and mocking. “You don't really think that by clearing away the rubble, I'll ever forget the way they died, do you?” The pain and bitterness in his voice was almost palpable.

“Of course not.” Angie hesitated, then plunged on. “But it might help you remember the way they lived—instead of being so caught up in the way they died.” Angie turned, unlocked the camper door, and pulled it open. “Good night.”

Without waiting for a response, she stepped inside the camper and closed the door. Luke stood outside for several more seconds, his mind unwillingly dwelling on the things she had said.

Among the rubble of the ruins, Saddlebags hugged close to the scrap of cover he'd found, a cheek pressed tight to the disintegrating charcoal beneath it, bony fingers cupped over the knee he'd banged into a charred and rutted stud he'd failed to see in the dark. But lately his sharp eyes were always failing him at night.