by Rob Buckman
"Stole what?"
"My father's land?" She snapped. Her anger all fired up now.
"You know," He said, cocking his head to one side, "that blouse compliments the color of your eyes."
"My blouse?" She was completely confused. Now what was he talking about. Why couldn't he stay on one subject? It was getting infuriating. "What's the color of my blouse got to do with anything?"
"Why on earth would you want to throw my ass in jail? I didn't hit you." He switched subjects again. "I might have kissed you given half a chance. But I don't see how you can get me jailed for that as I didn't do it."
"I … I… WAIT A DAMN MINUTE! You, kiss me! It's be a cold day in ..." She stopped, not wanting to finish the sentence. What would it be like if he kissed her? Held her in his arms? Damn it, he kept shifting the conversation.
"I've got to run now. I hope to see you again." Saying that he lifted her hand and kissed it, turned and left.
For a moment or two, she was stunned, unable to move. When she did, it was too late, he'd done a vanishing act. Even kneeling on the stool, looking over the heads of the crowd she couldn't see him. It should have been easy to pick him out, being half a head taller than most of the men in the room. But she couldn't find him anywhere.
"Damn him!" She snapped, angry again. But she didn't know the reason why. Was it because he'd left; or because she didn't get a chance to finish what she was saying?
"Damn him?" Her body felt hot and cold at the same time. Her hand tingled where he'd kiss it. "Of all the ...!" He was the most infuriating man she had ever met.
The vanishing act wasn't much of a trick, a sort of Groucho Marx routine. By bending his knees, he made himself shorter, quickly working his way through the crowd to a side exit. No sooner had he slipped outside when Charley and Max materialized out of the gloom.
"Thought you'd bug out. Go on up to the house, told Ruth you'd be there. She's got a cup of coffee and a slice of plum pie waiting for you."
"You taking up mind reader Charley?" He asked.
"No sir, captain. Just a man helping a buddy who’s been hit hard get medvac treatment."
"Hit hard? Medvac? What on earth are you talking about?"
"You'll find out. See you soon." With that cryptic remark, he left. Mike shook his head, at a loss to know what he was talking about. He did take the invitation, and went up to the house. A knock brought Ruth a few seconds later, who opened the door and let them both in.
"Coffee on the table with the pie," She said with a smile.
"Thanks Ruth." Pulling up a chair he sat down, Max laying down beside him. "Are you running a wayfarers house now as well?"
"Only for very special people." Mike raised an eyebrow, but saw she wasn't joking. Why they liked him was a mystery to Mike, unable to think of one single reason, or what he might have done to warrant such consideration. Ever suspicious of people, it never occurred to him that they just might like him for himself. That he didn't have to do anything except be himself.
"Are you going up the mountain tonight?" Ruth asked, sitting down opposite with a glass of milk.
"Yes."
"Thought so. Told that dumb husband of mine that you wouldn't be staying."
"Did he think I would?"
"He said you might, especially after your dance with the beautiful lady."
"Dance! Christ. I almost killed her!" Ruth's remark was like a ball coming out of left field, his response instinctive.
"But you didn't. Why not?" Ruth unruffled by his admission. Her question stopped him cold. Why had he stopped? He sipped his coffee, thinking, his mind dancing around the central issue.
"Charley said you were hit hard. He was right." She snorted, laughing lightly.
"Hit hard? She didn't even touch me." Now Ruth was doing it. Mike started getting red around the ears.
"You really don't know do you?"
"Know what?" This was getting ridiculous.
"Why didn't you hit her Mike?"
"Christ, I don't know!" He snapped defensively. "You're not supposed to hit a women and all that, or I didn't' feel like it. Take your pick." The question was making him feel more and more uncomfortable.
"That's not an answer Mike. When she threw the punch your training took over, your body went into overdrive, ready to kill. Yet you didn't. What stopped you?" Mike shook his head.
"Ruth. Honestly, I have no idea. I was cocked and ready to go off. Then Charley lunged across the bar and stopped me." Even before he'd finished, Ruth was shaking her head.
"Charley said you'd already decided not to strike before he grabbed your arm, he could feel it."
"Then he was wrong." Mike snapped. Ruth just smiled, reaching across the table to take his empty hand in hers, turning it over. Mike didn't usually like people holding his hands. It made him feel uncomfortable, insecure, and vulnerable. With Ruth, he didn't feel that.
"I've seen these hands before."
"I don't get you, you've never held my hands before."
"Oh, I don't mean these hands in particular. I mean hands like this. Charley's got them, and so have a few other boys I've known over the years."
"What are you getting at?"
"These hands have been trained to kill—rifle, pistol, knife, grenade, you name it." Her voice sounded sad and far away. "They haven't been trained to touch a woman. These touched one tonight. They started to do what they were trained to do."
"Ruth, you're losing me."
"Maybe you fell in love?" She said, smiling softly. Mike quickly drew his hand back, picked up his coffee cup, laughing.
"Like hel...." He stopped. "I'm not in love that’s for sure." He said firmly. Yet even to him his laugh sounded hollow. Ruth gave him a smile, but he saw a note of sadness in it and her eyes.
"Whoever gets you is going to have one hell of a job on her hands, I can see that."
"Never happen, Ruth." It was his turn to give her a sad smile. "Like the old songs said “To many lonely nights and the road has been too long." Faintly, somewhere in the back of his mind the words of the song 'The Rose', haunted him.
Kat Ballard wasn't doing much better. Her erstwhile date had returned, somewhat repaired by the roadhouse staff, who’d also kept him on ice until Mike had left. Kat felt sorry for him. It was an ignominious end to an otherwise interesting evening, but she couldn't get Mike Grainger's face out of her mind. Nor the fact she came across like a teenager on her first date, all tongue tied and tripping over her own words. She hadn't done that in years, not since she left high school. When it came to men, she'd learned long ago how to handle herself. Deftly manipulating them with her body, eyes, and words. The fact she was twenty-four and still a virgin attested to her will power.
Not that she didn't like men, she did, but never letting her heart rule her head when it came to the bedroom. In that she was old fashioned. She wanted to be a virgin on her wedding night, knowing, as they say, only one man in her life. So far, it had worked, but she still hadn't found Mr. Right. There were a few here and there who had come close, both to being Mr. Right and getting her into bed. Kat was more than willing to play up to a point, after that point she said no. More than one having been handed his manhood for trying to make her say yes. A few going home, happy with other pleasures that satisfied them almost as much. Where sex was concerned, Kat had put in as much time to studying it as she had in any subject she wanted to learn and understand. Technically, she thought of herself as half a virgin, mentally knowing as much about the subject as there were books on it; physically enjoying many of the associated pleasures that go with dating and courtship. Her present date and business partner had come very close to being her Mr. Right—good looking, attentive, in many ways the perfect gentleman. He was successful, sure of himself and his position about her and the world. Thereby enjoying all the privileges that position had to offer. Tonight her perception of him had changed. Not because he'd lost a fight. That could happen to anyone, but his reaction to it. He kept whining and complaining, saying
"…he took me by surprise" …and "...I wasn't ready..." Forgetting that it was he who'd rushed to defend her honor or something and attack Mike Grainger, who defended himself using minimum force at that. She didn't want to compare them, but her mind wouldn't listen. It came off like a wolf and a puppy dog, a domestic puppy dog at that. Meaning that no matter how much the puppy grew up he would never be in the same class as the wolf. Charley Savage watched her for the remainder of the evening, before they finally left. That her brush with Mike had upset her was obvious. He could see that it shook her, but whether from almost getting killed or something else he wasn't sure. He said so to Ruth later.
"It sounds like both of them were shaken, I know Mike was." Ruth commented.
"You think cupid got them both?" He asked.
"Maybe, but cupid’s arrow didn't get through that armor plate Mike's got around his heart of stone, but it sure made one hell of a dent."
"Maybe he should switch to armor piercing, otherwise I don't see how our friend up on the mountain is going to do anything about it." The sound of Charley's bass chuckle filled the bedroom.
"If that lady gets him, she is going to have her work cut out house training him." Ruth commented from the bathroom.
"I'd sure like to be around to see that, it promises to be one humdinger of a battle. You want to lay odds on who will win?" The thought of the battle they'd have tickled him.
"What do you have to bet with?" She said coming out of the bathroom, giving him a smile. "I own you body and soul Charley Savage. Besides that, I tamed you.” She smiled at him, slipping her dressing gown off, and except for a pair of skimpy white lace panties, she was naked.
Charley sighed. "Lady, you're right, but you don't play fair!" He said, looked at her. After all these years his mouth still went dry, and his heart still started to pound every time he saw her like this. "You have better equipment to work with than I do."
"Come here Gunny, and show me you still know how to use it." He did, showing her in no uncertain terms.
CHAPTER FIVE:
Roland Hawkins stayed up late, contemplating the latest financial report on Ballard & Crossman. It made interesting reading, very interesting indeed.
"You are sure of this information?" He asked without looking up.
"Yes, sir," Edward answered. "It was found to be accurate on all points. I also verified it with our associates in Las Vegas."
"I see that we were eminently successful in placing Ballard and Crossman in the right position. I take it that the principles in this matter have been contacted?" There was a note of malicious pleasure in his voice.
"Yes, sir. I have instructed our people to hold off on making any moves. Also, our associates have convinced the accountant for Ballard and Crossman not to inform his clients of their predicament."
"I see no reason we shouldn't obtain the property without too many additional problems."
"It's fortunate that the accountant has young children, it makes our job that much easier." Edward’s laugh echoed Roland Hawkins.
"What of our business with Mr. Grainger?"
"The officer in charge of the investigation into the late Mr. Ballard's death is very diligent. Especially, after we brought our concern in this matter to his attention." That told Roland Hawkins all he needed to know.
"I believe it's time that he moved the investigation along and reopened the case."
"Yes, sir, I shall inform him of your wishes."
"I'm sure you know that I'd be distressed to hear of that. It would mean a good deal of time and expense for Mr. Grainger to fight this in courts."
"Yes Sir, especially if there was the additional investigation into how he acquired the land."
Roland Hawkins chuckled. "War is hell is it not Edward."
"Yes, sir. Indeed, it is."
"Is there anything else on Mr. Grainger?"
"No, sir. Other than, he's a very solitary man. No close friend, no girl friend, no associates, no family we can locate, nothing. He lives by himself, comes to town infrequently, and is content to live in his house on Thunder Mountain. He is working a gold mining claim up there, and seldom leaves the area." He consulted a notebook a moment. "There is one item of interest. He and Ms. Ballard had a run in with each other at a place called the 'Buckthorn'. It's a roadhouse come restaurant that he goes to on occasions."
"Now that is interesting. Do we know the nature of this 'run in'?" Roland Hawkins asked.
"It would appear that it is on the same subject. Ms. Ballard is under the impression that he stole the land from her late father. She is looking for some sort of paper to prove it."
"It's a pity there is no romantic interest." He mused.
"There might be. According to our contact, sparks flew when they met.
"That could be of advantage to us if other avenues fail." His mind jumping nimbly, from one possibility to the next in rapid succession. "What about our consignment, is it on schedule?" He asked at length.
"Yes, sir. We are expecting it to arrive within the week."
"Excellent. Then we must move this situation along as rapidly as possible.
"You believe then, that Mr. Grainger is not what he pretends to be?"
"I do.”
“And yet you have been unable to unearth anything that gives us a clue as to who he is; or whom, he might be working for now, or in the past."
"The evidence dose supports the theory that Mr. Grainger is not all that he, appear. Could he be an agent investigating our activities." Edward asked. The thought making him start sweating again.
"That is a possibility, yet our information shows that he purchased the property two years before we had any interest in it."
"Just a coincidence then?" Edward asked.
"Apparently. Not that I like, or believe in coincidences. I get the uneasy feeling that the sooner we deal with Mr. Grainger the better."
"I take it then sir, that you do not believe Mr. Grainger will take our offer for his land?"
"It would be remiss of us not to cover that possibility." Roland Hawkins steeple his hands and contemplated the ceiling. As if looking for divine inspiration, or praying. "As soon as we know the results of our offer for the property, I would suggest we terminate our association with the unfortunate employee, should the answer prove negative. Also, we should ensure it looks like a murder, with Mr. Grainger as the culprit." The look on Roland Hawkins face was a study in malicious hatred. Edward nodded in agreement.
"I will arrange for his untimely death to occur near Mr. Grainger’s present area of activity."
“Excellent. Mohammed and the Mountain so to speak." Roland Hawkins chuckled at his own joke, getting a smile in respond from Edward.
Yet, Roland Hawkins wasn't satisfied. His sixth sense warned him that it might not be sufficient for the purpose. He said so to Edward as his mind considered all aspects of the situation. Then, another idea struck him, one more appealing to his bizarre sense of humor.
"If all else fails, let’s take steps to ensure that Mr. Grainger is on hand for our forthcoming dinner party." Roland Hawkins looked at him, waiting for an answer.
"I take it, you think he might find a way out of the situation?"
"That is correct. I believe he may find ways to foil our surprise package, even in the short term. From all appearances he seems to be a resourceful man.” For a few seconds Edward was stumped. He could see no direct way to get Grainger to a dinner party. Being a solitary person, the normal avenues of approach were closed.
"I'm not sure that's possible, sir. Unless we have a legitimate reason, I see no way for getting Mr. Grainger to come down off his mountain."
"You said earlier that he is working up there?"
"Yes sir, a gold claim."
"You might try the direct approach. See if he has a telephone, or a message service. If he does, invite him to the party. Say that we have a business deal he might be interested in, one gold miner to another so to speak."
"Yes, sir." Edward couldn't see the logic,
and the expression showed on his face.
"You are puzzled Edward?"
"Yes, sir. If he should, accept our invitation, what then?"
"I believe we have some professional help on hand, do we not?"
"Indeed, we do sir. They are coming with the consignment as security."
"Someone we can trust, I hope?"
"Yes, sir. Very reliable people, especially hired for their proficiency in this line of work."
"Good, I see no reason not to retain professional help just in case the need should arise. It might behoove us to inquire if they are available for additional work. If so, we can use them to handle the problem with Mr. Grainger in private. Should the need arise."
"I'll get to work on it right away. I will also instruct our men to make the initial offer to Mr. Grainger."
"I want this matter handled in the most expedient manner."
"Yes, sir." Edward permitted himself a smile. It should be an interesting week.
"I'm sure it will be. Good night, sir."
"Good night, Edward."
CHAPTER SIX:
Everything at the camp was as he'd left it, Max giving it the once over with his nose. Someone had been there, that he could tell. Whoever it was had been careful to remove any traces. That was the problem, they, or he, had been too careful. Where there should have been traces of occupancy, there were none. Checking around Mike was surprised to find nothing missing or disturbed. That puzzled him. With several thousand dollars worth of equipment and supplies lying around, he expected to find something gone. He shrugged, puzzled by the mystery, filing it away for later. Climbing into his wet suite, he set about moving the dredge into position over the bar, at last anchoring it in place. The quick look below the surface showed crystal clear water, and that the sediment deposited by the river wasn't as bad as he thought it would be. He started the dredge, listened for a moment as it settled down into a steady note. Next, he checked the airline and regulator, before locking his ‘Kirby-Morgan’ helmet in place. Buckling the weight belt around his waist, he settled it into place and slipped over the side. It was late in the day, being almost mid morning, before he started work. Mike had slept late for once after a slow walk up the mountain. Last night he'd taken his time, instead of his usual fast hike back to camp. Enjoying the cool night air and dark forest around him. For one reason or another, he felt good today. As if, he had a reason for living. So far, he'd been unable to put his finger on what it was. Positioning the dredge, he set out the underwater lights, knowing he'd be working late into the night, and having done that sank back beneath the clear mountain water and started work.
