What’s done is done. Now we have to live with it.
Barton paused near the end of the aisle separating the plaintiff’s and defendant’s tables. His delicate features and pale skin were blotchy and flushed, as if he’d just run all the way there. He took off his black overcoat, showing a lightweight cream suit beneath. Like everything else about him, his clothes had an expensive eastern cut. In this case, New York via Miami, where he had been trying to finalize a big real estate deal.
Or so people said.
Jay didn’t much care for gossip, but he could see that something was eating on his brother from the inside out. Beneath the pink flush of exertion, his skin was white and his shoulders hunched like a man hefting a heavy load. His rust-red hair was barely tamed by the expensive razor cut. At twenty-four, his light blue eyes had a look of permanent anxiety in them.
When Barton’s eyes darted toward the defendant’s table, Jay used his boot to shove out a chair in silent invitation.
Barton looked toward Liza just as she turned to him and raised her eyebrows. With an apologetic glance at Jay, the younger man went to the plaintiff’s table. He reached to pull out a chair, discovered it was heavy, solid wood, and had to put his back into the effort. A few moments later he flopped down next to Liza.
She didn’t even look at him.
Jay shook his head slightly. A winter wind is kinder than that woman, and JD was old enough to be Barton’s grandfather. Lousy way to raise a kid.
Money only fixed the things that money could. Barton’s childhood wasn’t one of them.
“Give it up,” Henry said. “The boy knows which side his bread is buttered on.”
“If he did, he’d be sitting next to me. I keep trying to give him a chance, to teach him about the ranch.”
“Can’t teach what a kid don’t want to learn.”
Jay didn’t argue with the truth. “In one way, Barton is exactly like I was at his age. I wanted to be hell and gone from the ranch.”
Henry’s gnarled fingers fiddled with the brim of his going-to-town Stetson, started to put it on, then remembered why it was on the table. “You sure got what you wanted.”
“I sure did,” Jay said, and then turned his mind from the distant place that had been dubbed the Meatgrinder by the troops who survived. “I guess lawyers are more civilized than bullets. But being sued to death one inch at a time gets tiresome. Thank God Sara—Ms. Medina—helped us fight for JD’s claim to the paintings. Don’t know what we would have done without her. And you, of course, helping to find those receipts.”
“Foolishness, sneezing through boxes of old stuff when the ranch needed tending.”
“It was what JD wanted.”
Henry sighed. “He was set on keeping those paintings. Never knew why. Pure cussedness, likely.”
“It was the last thing he ever asked of me. If I can keep the Custers out of Liza’s hands, I will,” Jay said simply.
It was the same vow he’d made every night to JD, a vow his father had to hear before he slept. Then he would curl around the reassurance like a big diamond as he slept.
Some diamond. It felt like an unsheathed blade to me, a cut that he mistook for comfort.
Or maybe he liked pain.
It sure would explain Liza.
“The man loved what he loved,” Henry said. “Wasn’t real smart about it, though.”
Jay hissed out a breath. “I’m not sure that love had much to do with it. Liza and JD fought to the death over these paintings. But custody of the child? Settled in an hour. When I got old enough and left, Barton was stuck with two parents who were too busy fighting to raise him.”
“Don’t feel bad for him,” Henry said drily. “Either way, he can go with the winning side.”
Jay looked at his brother in his pale Miami suit and knew that Vermilion Ranch wasn’t ever going to be home for him. But it was home for Jay and all the hands who worked there. Now more than ever, it was his job to make the place thrive.
In seven years, Barton gets a chunk of the ranch or I buy him out. If I have the money.
A stir went through the room as Judge Flink was announced. Everyone rose while the judge entered from the side and took her seat on the bench. When people were seated again, she smacked the gavel sharply and began summarizing the high points of the long case.
Good thing the military taught me patience, Jay thought, settling in to listen to the facts he had long ago memorized.
CHAPTER 3
THE ECHO OF Sara’s footsteps faded inside the courthouse as she stopped in surprise. A small crowd loitered in front of the door to hearing room 3, where she’d been told the final words on the Vermilion case would be spoken. Most of the people who were waiting seemed to know one another. They were chatting in knots of two and three.
And everyone kept glancing toward the hearing room, waiting.
Friends of either side? Reporters? Bill collectors?
Nothing happened to answer Sara’s silent questions.
Two men stood near the door to the hearing room. One was a bailiff in a sharply pressed khaki uniform with a thick brown jacket on top of that. His bronze badge gleamed in the hall’s fluorescent lights. Sara recognized the second man, who was tall, gaunt, and dressed in a blue seersucker suit that bunched at his joints. Though his back was turned to her, she knew he would be wearing his trademark fuchsia bow tie.
Guy Beck. How did that pompous con artist find out about the Custers?
“Sorry, sir,” the bailiff said clearly. “The defendant requested and received a closed hearing to avoid a media circus. You may wait with the others. Please clear the doorway.”
Beck hesitated for a second, then turned and sauntered toward the knots of conversation.
Didn’t see me, thank God, Sara thought. Hope it stays that way.
A uniformed man came down the hallway from the other side, had a quick, low-voiced conversation with the bailiff, then turned to the people waiting for the hearing room doors to open.
The new man was tall, tanned beneath his hat brim, thick through the body but not slack. His dark, keen eyes took in everyone with a quick sweep. There was some belly beneath his uniform, but he made no effort to hide it behind his open jacket.
Sara decided that he was a confident man, in or out of uniform.
“Excuse me,” he said clearly, “is Sara Anne Medina here?”
From the corner of her eye she saw Beck’s head snap in her direction. She ignored him and walked forward.
“I’m Sara Medina.”
“Sheriff Cooke, ma’am.” He nodded slightly.
“Look who’s in trouble with the authorities,” Beck said, and laughed.
The sheriff flicked him a glance. “God bless bystanders.” His tone said the opposite. Then he said to her, “This way, please. It shouldn’t take long.”
Grateful that Beck wouldn’t be able to overhear, Sara followed the sheriff about twenty feet farther down the hall, into the interior of the building.
“I understand that you’re here on Vermilion Ranch business?” he said.
That’s half true, she thought wryly. Wonder which half he’s most interested in.
“I submitted testimony on the ranch’s behalf,” she said, indicating the closed hearing room down the hall. “But this isn’t an official visit. I was hoping to see the case concluded.”
He nodded. “When I was informed about the break-in and your connection to Jay, I figured that I had a moment or two to spare for this incident.”
Someone sure has friends in high places, Sara thought. Must be nice.
“Mind telling me about your morning?” he asked.
Quickly, Sara ticked off the events of the morning, finishing with, “Can you tell me anything about the robbery? I was thinking that it might have been someone with a master key, since the door wasn’t marked up.”
The sheriff rolled his head just a little. “I doubt that there was much planning in this one. Feels more like a crime of opportunity. You prob
ably didn’t pull the door shut all the way when you hurried out for coffee. Good luck for them and bad luck for you.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
The sheriff smiled slightly. “Crime didn’t give Jackson a pass just because we aren’t a big city. There are restaurants here that won’t leave the good hot sauce out on the tables because it’s too easy to pocket.”
“Really? Why would petty thieves bother with hot sauce?”
“I’ve learned that the only real petty thieves are kids looking for a thrill. The rest of them are just plain thieves.”
“Well, whoever trashed my room wasn’t much good. He, she, or they missed the jewelry case in my luggage.”
“Good news. Careless thieves can be caught. The careful ones rarely see the inside of jails.”
Sara managed not to roll her eyes. “I know my computer and coat are pretty small in the big scheme.”
“They are,” he agreed. “But we fill out forms anyway.” Without looking away from her, he pulled out his phone and swiped out the passcode with his thumb. “Any other details you can add?”
She gave him the model and year of the computer, described her black coat, and knew it was a waste of breath. Briskly she added, “I have my computer backed up to the cloud. The security on it will baffle an ordinary hacker, if it matters.”
For the first time, the sheriff looked interested. “Had trouble before?”
“No. I live in San Francisco, so I’m careful about security of all kinds. I’m really angry about having to replace and restore a tool I use daily—and nightly—in my business. And I won’t sleep in that room again. But that’s not the kind of detail that will help you.”
“Have you got another room?”
“Not yet.”
“It will be tough,” the sheriff said matter-of-factly. “The Norwegians are in town.”
“The who?”
“Norwegians. They’re late this year. Big group of them comes every year and takes over the town. Svarstad.”
“Svarstad?” Sara asked, feeling like she had stumbled into someone else’s play.
Nodding, he jotted out some notes on the phone while he talked. “Some generations back, a whole bunch of their kids ended up here. It’s a big, multifamily reunion. Like I said, late this year. Add to that the regular tourist traffic and you’ve got a lot of No Vacancy signs.” He looked at her with a smile in his eyes. “And don’t try to buy any cod or salmon at the local stores.”
“No cod, no salmon, no rooms. So I’m stuck at that motel?”
“You could try out of town, but there’s not a whole lot to choose from.”
Sara thought about having to rent a car and wondered if they were all snapped up, too. And she still had to order a new computer. And buy a coat. And find a place to sleep tonight. And break Guy Beck’s kneecaps so he couldn’t swoop in on the Custers. And meet Jay Vermilion in the flesh.
So much to do, so little time.
“If you think of anything else that might help, please call the sheriff’s office.” He flipped the cover on his phone and pocketed it once more. “When you see Jay, tell him I said hello.”
“He mentioned knowing you,” Sara remembered from a late-night conversation.
“I’ve known him for some time, worked for his dad. I might still be, but JD said that I was cut out for bigger things. Helped put me on this road.”
“The Vermilions seem to be everywhere out here,” she said. “He has some buildings downtown, right? I remember seeing that name on at least one from the taxi.”
Cooke nodded and pulled up the zipper on his uniform jacket. “They’re not the Kennedys, but they get by. Good to know that someone’s taking a strong hand back at that ranch after JD’s illness. Place was getting way too run-down. Henry did what he could, but he’s no spring chicken.”
Sara nodded. Jay had talked about that, too. A lot. “Well, thanks for your time, Sheriff. Good luck catching those guys.”
He tipped his hat and nodded just as the hearing room door flew open and cracked sharply against the doorstop. A woman who looked like an aging showgirl stormed out.
A hard, sharp heart of mean wrapped in cashmere and diamonds, Sara thought.
Long platinum hair framed a face made rigid by anger. Rage boiled out of her as she brushed past the bailiff. Then she turned her head and growled.
“Barty, come along.” Her heels clicked down the hallway with an irritable sound.
A short, redheaded man in a cream suit with a black overcoat over one shoulder slouched along after her. He was four steps behind and obviously not in any hurry to catch up.
“Well,” the sheriff drawled as the woman vanished into the street, “looks like the Wicked Bitch of the West lost. Bless her.”
“Who?”
“Liza Neumann, once Vermilion.”
CHAPTER 4
THE REST OF the courtroom emptied more slowly. Most of the people who had been waiting in the hall rushed off after Liza Neumann. The rest converged around two men dressed like lawyers. Questions fell in a hard, cold rain.
When another man came out of the courtroom, everything female in Sara came to attention. It wasn’t just the man’s height that made him stand out. It was the way he carried himself, a man completely at ease in his own body. He had a face that was too strong, too masculine to be called beautiful and too unusual to be handsome. Striking. His skin had the kind of weathering that came from working outdoors. His soft leather jacket couldn’t conceal the male power beneath. Dark, western-cut pants outlined long, powerful legs. A black Stetson and polished black western boots were perfectly at home in the Wyoming setting.
Hoo doggies, that is one hot man, she thought. Bet there isn’t a Big Mac’s worth of fat on him.
Sara knew she was staring and didn’t care. On- or offscreen, that kind of sheer maleness was rare.
Maybe I should get out of the city more.
Yeah, yeah, go to the country where men are men and smell like sweat and cow flops and have more children than they can take care of. No thanks. I had a whole childhood of that.
But she still could enjoy the one hundred percent male standing only twenty feet away.
Wonder if he’s smart enough to add three and two and get five, or if he just coasts along on his sheer presence.
Then she saw Guy Beck closing in on the man.
That can’t be Jay Vermilion, she thought. It wouldn’t be fair if the rest of the package lived up to that deep voice.
Flashing a big smile and an embossed business card, Beck slid like grease through the people who had gathered around the man.
But then, whoever said life was fair?
Sara eased through people, careful to stay behind Beck, where he couldn’t see her. She wanted to learn more about what Jay was like when he wasn’t a voice on the phone, telling her about Skunk the Wonder Dog and his buddy Lightfoot, or King Kobe, the Terror of the Pasture.
As she closed in, she saw that Jay had navy blue eyes that were as clear as gems. There were small lines on his cheeks and the corners of his eyes that didn’t look like age. They looked like experience. The hard kind.
Jay’s dark, arched eyebrows rose as he considered the city man waving a business card at him.
“Guy Beck, Mr. Vermilion. Masterworks Auction Agency.”
Jay took the card and considered the fancy letters stamped into the heavy stock. “Mr. Beck. And it’s Captain Vermilion.”
“Forgive me, Captain,” Beck said. “Since it’s obvious you’re a very busy man, I’ll be brief. It’s my understanding that you have a considerable body of paintings that will be up for sale.”
As he spoke, his eyebrows and face made exaggerated gestures of both sympathy and avarice, as if he was sorry for the burden of selling someone else’s belongings and taking a generous cut of the value on the way by.
Jay waited for the rest of the spiel like what he had once been, a soldier ready for the newest round of political wish-think masquerading as orders.
Opportunity knocking for so many folks on my behalf, he thought drily. No wonder Henry took a side exit. He’ll be back at the ranch long before I will.
“Mr. Guy Beck,” Jay said as he tipped up the brim of his hat slightly, revealing a band of hair as black as the Stetson. “Heard of you. Hollywood, right?”
“You flatter me. I had no idea my reputation had preceded me all the way out here to Jackson Hole.”
“It’s just Jackson,” Jay said gently. “Jackson Hole is the entirety of the valley made up by the Tetons, all the way to the plains. Doubt if the elk and pronghorn out there have heard of you.”
“Oh.”
“Makes no difference to me,” Jay continued, his voice as easy as his eyes were hard. “Just trying to save you looking ignorant if you plan to work with folks around here.”
Beck took a quick breath. “Ah, thank you. About the Custers . . .”
Jay looked puzzled. “The what?”
Sara stifled a snort. If Jay poured it on much thicker, she’d need barn boots to wade through the stuff. Beck, however, didn’t seem to notice the aroma.
“The paintings by Mr. Harris. Armstrong ‘Custer’ Harris,” Beck said with a grim kind of patience.
“Oh, right, those. Sorry,” Jay said with a smile. “I only ever called him Armstrong. It was the folks who hated him that called him Mr. Harris.”
“Fascinating, I’m sure. Now that custody of the paintings is in your hands, I wondered if they might be for sale.”
“The custody of the Vermilion estate, you mean.”
“Well, of course.” Beck’s fingers folded themselves into uneasy origami.
Jay paused and held a finger up. “Just realized who you were.”
“The owner of Masterworks Auction Agency, yes, I know,” Beck said.
“You’re the dealer who’s working for Liza Neumann. Better hurry along, son. She’s got anger and a good lead on you.”
Sara bit back a cheer when Beck realized that he wasn’t the smartest man in the conversation.
“There was no formal arrangement,” Beck said finally. “Nothing signed and notarized, you understand.”
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