B.J. Daniels - Reunion At Cardwell Ranch

That’s when he knew he was in trouble. There was only one man who could have painted the forgery. He’d be kidding himself if he thought it was anyone but H. F. Powell. He thought of Powell’s last words to him. “I could paint one of your pieces and you wouldn’t know the difference, that’s how good I am.”

Taylor shook his head. He hadn’t let himself think of H.F. in years. Some things were best forgotten. Everyone knew that the painter had become a recluse in the last years of his life. No one had seen him for almost two years before the tragedy. There hadn’t been a funeral—at H.F.’s request. No memorial service. No family.

H.F. must be rolling in his grave since his paintings were now worth a small fortune. Taylor admitted grudgingly, the man had been one hell of a painter. But look where it had gotten him. The arrogant old fool had died alone and miserable.

Just like you’re going to die. Taylor snorted at the thought and the one that came after it. What goes around, comes around. He shuddered and took another drink, regretting the calls he’d made the moment Laramie Cardwell left. But he’d been so upset and he wasn’t in this alone.

Rock Jackson had sounded as if he’d been asleep before the call.

“I’m telling you this painting was so good... I’m not even sure it isn’t the original,” he’d told Rock. “Tell me there isn’t any chance—”

“Take it easy. You’re jumping to conclusions. Who brought you the painting?”

Taylor told him.

“The guy’s gone, right?”

“He just left.”

“Then there is nothing to worry about,” Rock had said. “Look, I have to go. Have a drink. Everything is fine.”

Artist Hank Ramsey had told him pretty much the same thing, only Taylor had heard more worry in Hank’s voice.

“If you had seen this painting...” Taylor had said feeling sick to his stomach.

Hank had asked the name of the man who’d stopped by and what painting it had been. Hank had tried to calm him back down. “Taylor, we’re all painting cowboys, horses and Indians. We’ve all had someone copy our paintings. Since you’re at the top of the heap, your paintings are going to be forged the most. Let me see what I can find out. In the meantime, don’t do anything crazy.”

He’d hung up, thinking about the other members of OWAC, picturing each of their faces and telling himself that none of them were good enough to paint such a perfect forgery.

He’d tried to call Rock back, but the number had gone to voice mail. “This is Taylor West. Call me. We really need to talk. If that painting is what I think it is... Call me.” He’d disconnected, wondering where Rock was. Or if he just wasn’t taking his calls after the first one. Which would make Rock look pretty suspicious, wouldn’t it?

Now he took a long drink, admitting that he never should have trusted Rock. Rock wasn’t that much different from H. F. Powell when it came to women. Now Rock was in trouble because of another woman. In the middle of an ugly divorce, he was probably desperate for money. But how far would he go?

Taylor knew his suspicion of Rock could also be because Rock had always been jealous of him—especially when Taylor had married Jade.

Jade. Where was his beautiful young wife? She’d probably gone to her mother’s back in Indiana. He shoved the thought of her away as he took another drink. He had a lot more to worry about than Jade.

* * *

“THE HOUSE IS YOURS,” McKenzie announced when Laramie stopped by her office after getting his rental SUV pulled out of the snowbank. He was still shaken, but even more determined to get to the bottom of whatever was going on.

“And the painting?” he asked expectantly. He told himself he couldn’t be sure which was original and without it, he might never know.

She chuckled. “Yours, as well. He wanted extra for it, but I convinced him that you wanted pretty much everything in the house except, of course, any items that he couldn’t possibly part with. If you don’t want the furniture, I know a consignment place—”

“No, furnished is perfect. So what is he leaving?”

“Everything, including the kitchen sink, except for the other paintings and sculptures. He has an art dealer coming to take the lot of them this afternoon.”

Laramie couldn’t hide his relief. He wasn’t sure why the painting was so important. But what had happened after he’d left Taylor West’s house had him convinced the painting was at the heart of it. He thought about the house—where he’d seen his alleged cat burglar. “How soon can I take occupancy?”

“Right away, I suppose, if you’re in that much of a hurry.”

He’d been staying with Hayes and McKenzie and didn’t want to hurt her feelings. “No hurry, just anxious to get settled.”

“I can understand that. Since the house will come completely furnished, there won’t be much that you will need. He’s leaving bedding, all of which he said is brand-new. Apparently they haven’t gotten to use this house much. I take it that his soon-to-be-ex wife didn’t like it up here. Too isolated. Since you’re paying cash, I can arrange a rental agreement until the sale is final. You should be able to move in this evening. The owner is in a hurry to get out of town.”

“Great.”

“But this...urgency to get settled, it wouldn’t have anything to do with your...cat burglar, would it?”

Laramie smiled to himself. “You sound like Austin. I ran into him earlier at the restaurant. Like I told him, I know what I’m doing.” He wished that was true.

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