B.J. Daniels - Reunion At Cardwell Ranch

Artist Taylor West was a tall drink of water. At least that’s how Laramie had seen him described on his website. The man who opened the door at the West home was tall. He’d aged, though, since he’d put his photo on his website. Laramie guessed he must be in his sixties and had once been very handsome. The gray hair at his temples gave him a distinguished look, but his complexion told the story of a man who drank too much.

“I don’t usually meet clients at my home,” West said, looking put out.

Laramie was glad he hadn’t called ahead. “This was a matter that couldn’t wait.” A photograph on the wall behind the man caught Laramie’s attention. It was of Taylor with a pretty young green-eyed blonde. He was staring at the photo more intently than he realized—especially at the eyes. Could this be the woman he’d tackled last night? She looked the right size but the eye color was wrong.

“My wife, Jade,” West said.

Laramie blinked in surprise. Given the age difference between the artist and the woman in the photo, he would have thought it was West’s daughter.

West’s gaze went to the painting Laramie was holding in one hand. “Is that one of mine?” He sounded like a man worried that Laramie had come here to complain.

“That’s what I’d like to know. I promise not to take any more of your time than necessary.”

“What makes you think it’s mine?” West asked.

“Because it has your name on it.” He didn’t mention that the so-called expert at the gallery had authenticated it.

“Well, fine, come on in out of the cold. This shouldn’t take long.” He didn’t look less perturbed, but he did step back to let Laramie in.

But that was as far as the invitation was extended. Standing in the entryway of the house, Laramie uncovered the painting and handed it to the artist. Past West, he could see that the house was a huge mess. So where was the young wife?

West looked at it and said, “I don’t see what the problem is,” and started to hand it back.

“So it’s yours?” Laramie asked.

“Obviously,” the artist said with impatience.

“Then there is a problem.” He told him about the one that Theo Nelson owned, the one that had been authenticated. “How do you explain that?”

“One of them must be a forgery since I only painted one.”

“And you’re sure this one is the original?”

West snatched the painting from him and with a curse headed down a hallway. Laramie followed, stepping over boots and shoes, jackets, dirty socks and assorted dog toys.

“The cleaning crew comes tomorrow,” West said over his shoulder before turning into what was obviously his studio. It, too, was in disarray.

Laramie suspected the man didn’t have anyone to clean the house. Or the young wife to do so, either, for that matter.

West snapped on a lamp and put the painting under it. “Where did you get this?”

“I picked it up recently.”

“Nelson is right. If he has the original, then this one isn’t mine,” West said.

“Are you sure?” Clearly he wasn’t. “I should tell you that before I came here, I took the painting to a local expert,” Laramie said. “He confirmed it was yours and offered me thirty thousand for it.”

The artist’s eyes widened in surprise. “The original is worth over fifty.”

Just as Laramie had suspected. “But the question is, which is the original?”

West swore. “If this is a forgery, it’s a really good one.” The man was frowning at the artwork, clearly angry and also seeming confused.

“I’ve looked at both. They appear identical. So if you didn’t paint the copy, then who did?”

The artist shook his head. “How would I know?” He was upset now.

“It would take some talent, wouldn’t it?”

West sighed impatiently. “Sure, but—”

“Otherwise, you’re saying any art student could copy your paintings?”

“I see what you’re getting at,” the older man said angrily. “Yes, it takes talent. A lot of talent. They would have had to have studied their craft and have some natural ability, as well. Also they would have had to study my work. Not just anyone could make a reproduction this good.”

“So has this person been hiding under a rock, or is it someone you know?”

West seemed shocked by the question. “It couldn’t possibly be anyone I know.”

“Why not? I would think the cowboy art market is very small. It must also be competitive. There can’t be that many of you painting at this level, right?”

The artist nodded. “There are only twenty of us in the OWAC.” Seeing Laramie’s quizzical expression, he elaborated. “The Old West Artists Coalition.”

Laramie considered that. “Only twenty? That sounds like a pretty elite—and competitive—group.”

“We’re all friends. We encourage and support each other. The only competition is with ourselves to get better.”

“But some of you must make more money than others,” he prodded. “Who is the best paid of this group of cowboy artists?”

West met his gaze with an arrogant one. “I am, but there are several others who do quite well.”

“And you’re telling me there is no jealousy?” Laramie scoffed at that. He knew too well, being one of five brothers, that competition was in male DNA. “So who are the others who are doing ‘quite well’?”

“Cody Kent and Hank Ramsey, in that order. Rock Jackson quite a ways behind those two.”

Laramie couldn’t help but laugh. Just the fact that West knew that proved he at least had a competitive spirit. “So what exactly does this group do?”

“I told you. We support each other. We came together because of a desire to keep this art form alive in memory of the greats like the late Frederic Remington and Charles M. Russell. But also to ensure the work is an authentic representation of Western life. Without standards of quality and a respect for each other and the work...” He sounded as if he was quoting the group’s bylaws.

“And you belong to this group?”

“I’m one of its founders along with Rock, Hank and Cody Kent,” he said proudly.

Laramie had heard something in the man’s tone. “What does it take to be a member?”

“You have to apply. The members decide if your work and your character meet our standards.”

“Your standards?”

“Originally, you had to have cowboy experience as well as talent. That’s changed some. Why are you asking me all this?” West demanded.

Laramie wasn’t sure. “So it’s an exclusive...club.”

“None of my fellow artists would have any reason to rip me off by duplicating my work, if that’s what you’re getting at,” West said. “Not to mention, most of them don’t have the talent to copy my work.”

Laramie tried not to smile. No competition here.

“Look,” West said as if he knew he’d said too much. “There aren’t that many of us. We’re a dying breed of artists who care about our work. The satisfaction comes from painting and selling our own work—not copying someone else’s and passing it off for money.”

“Even if they needed money badly?” Laramie asked.

He saw something change in West’s expression as if the question had made him think of someone. Laramie knew money could be the most obvious reason for making forgeries of Taylor West’s work. Or maybe to rub West’s arrogant face in it.

West picked up the painting, frowning harder as he studied it again. “This is definitely the original,” he said, but he seemed to lack conviction.

“If no one in your group is talented enough to make you question if this painting is yours or not...”

“I’m telling you,” West snapped, “there’s no one alive who could have copied my work well enough to fool an expert, let alone me.”