A Western Romance: Rob Yancey: Taking the High Road (Book 10) (Western Mystery Romance Series Book 10)

by Morris Fenris

  Rob rubbed his tired eyes and, yawning, slumped into the uncomfortable wooden ladder back of his chair. His neck hurt, his shoulders hurt, his back hurt, and, curse it all, his posterior hurt. Not as much padding as he’d thought, evidently.

  At first glance, when he’d arrived, the Sea Wind presented a beckoning invitation for the prospective guest to get down, come on in, and sit a spell. The hotel might be seen as a beautiful young seductress, with a can’t-miss figure and a come-hither look. Its wraparound porch, with gingerbread railings painted soft blue-green against its cream-colored frame siding, enclosed all three stories. Attractive, viewed from a distance; surrounded by palm trees and tropical vegetation, benches scattered about, a striking mosaic fountain, and the smell of the sea from far-off climes.

  At second glance, seen closer to, the seductress segued into middle age. Landscaping seemed to be a hit-or-miss proposition, with overgrown or broken branches creating a distraction from the overall impression of luxury and comfort. Wall paint was chipped or peeling; horse droppings decorated the gravel driveway; a blue-green shutter once attached to a third-floor window hung awry.

  By the time Rob reached the verandah, the middle-aged siren had degenerated into a raddled old crone. One step leading upward sagged; the next was too splintered to use. The spittoon near a group of chairs had been overturned, spilling its black and noxious contents across the floor. Nor had the front door escaped damage, with a sizable crack across the upper portion of one panel.

  And—Good God! Was that a bullet hole?

  Here Mr. Amory Kincaid reigned supreme. Just the man Rob wanted to meet.

  “Mr. Kincaid?” repeated the desk clerk clumsily, when questioned. “Oh, he’s down the street, sir, at the Donnybrook. Havin’—uh—havin’ a late dinner. Or—uh—maybe havin’ an early supper.”

  And maybe drinking it straight from a bottle.

  Affably Rob gave his thanks, then took himself and his trusty briefcase on down to the Donnybrook. Wondering, meanwhile, whether the saloon’s owner even knew the meaning of the word. Or, perhaps he did, and this was his sly joke on the public who didn’t.

  “What’ll you have, mister?” queried the bartender, master of his domain.

  Rob glanced around. Dusty, scruffy, and of inferior quality: rather like the building from which he had just exited. “Nothing, thanks. Just looking for Mr. Kincaid.”

  “That’s me,” came the disembodied voice from a dark and dingy corner. “Who wants t’ know?”

  Rob, blinking against the dim light, approached quietly but determinedly. “I’m Robert Yancey, Mr. Kincaid. By now you would have gotten the corporate telegram, to inform you that I would be here today to audit the Sea Wind’s books. I have credentials, also, if you feel it necessary to check.”

  Grinning, Kincaid lifted his full glass of some pungent clear liquid and gulped thirstily, looking him up and down like a cattle buyer out to increase his herd. “Well, bless my boots. If it ain’t the fancy-pants cub of the ol’ he-wolf, himself.”

  “I beg to differ, sir. My pants aren’t at all fancy. Although I am definitely the cub.” And his navy blue eyes, shadowed in the shadowy room, acquired a feral gleam.

  “You don’t say. Well, then, if you’re dead set on doin’ an audit—” he winked, “—sit yourself down and have a drink whilst we get acquainted.”

  During his lifetime, Rob had met a few unsavory characters. He had also met a few filled with animosity and the spit of the devil, and ready to take it out on the world, for whatever reason. He hadn’t often met anyone that was both. Amory Kincaid not only sounded sleazy, he looked sleazy, with greasy brown hair, a pencil mustache, and a suit that needed both pressing and cleaning.

  “Thank you, Mr. Kincaid, but I must decline. If you’re quite finished here—and I believe you are—I’d like to head back to the hotel and get started.”

  “Go ahead.” The manager waved a negligible hand. “The desk clerk can get what you need. I’ll be along directly.”

  Still standing, in the position of power, Rob looked him dead-on, with the chilly glare occasionally used by every Yancey male at one time or another to such good effect. “You do realize,” he said softly, “that I have the authority to fire you, here and now, should the situation warrant.”

  “Yeah? Be my guest,” sneered Kincaid. “Ain’t got an assistant. Get rid of me, and who d’ you think will run things till you get somebody else in? This place will go t’ hell in a handbasket, pretty damn fast.”

  “From what I can see,” said Rob in that same soft, significant tone, “it already has. Either return to the hotel with me right now, Mr. Kincaid, or pack your bags.”

  The confrontation lasted less than a minute. Stare met stare, posture stiffened, and teeth set, before the man finally crumbled. Shoving his glass aside, he slid out of his chair and, ignoring the young man who was clearly his superior, clomped to the bat-wing doors.

  “What exactly are you lookin’ for?” he demanded, once back in his office, now temporarily abdicated to Rob. A stack of ledgers teetered on one corner of the desk, while Kincaid hovered in the doorway as if now reluctant to leave.

  “I’ll let you know when I find it,” answered Rob shortly. Jacket removed, shirt sleeves rolled up, windows opened to light and fresh air, he was ready to set to work. “A pot of coffee, if you please.” What was beginning to be his usual request.

  “Sure. No problem.” Still the manager hesitated. “Listen—about firin’ me. That won’t work, see? You’ll find out. Just ask Mr. Hadley.”

  Rob’s head shot up. “Walter Hadley?”

  “Well, yeah. In SanFran. He hired me, coupla years ago. And he always said, if I got int’ trouble somehow, just let him know, and he’d back me up.”

  “Did he?” Unblinking, intent, Rob digested that little nugget while his brain kept on processing events of the last half-hour or so.

  Evidently, Kincaid didn’t much like what he saw in the young man’s expression, because his mouth tightened, his eyes narrowed, and he backed silently out of the room.

  Once the desk clerk had appeared with the desired pot of coffee—and even, surprisingly, a plate of sandwiches—Rob closed the door upon further interruptions. Then, unlatching his briefcase, he removed a gun belt, its holster, and the Colt Peace Maker his father had given him.

  With his favorite stallion, Remiel, safely stabled and paddocked not far away, Rob spent the night in one of the third-floor executive “suites” at Hotel Turquoise Sea Wind. A most uncomfortable and unpleasant night. If this were typical for any potential guests, no wonder the place stood empty most of the time, running its once healthy profits into the red and draining the Yancey coffers of income.

  Noise from an altercation and eventual fight in the street below didn’t just drift in through the open window; it slammed up against the glass and barged its way inside. The mattress felt old and lumpy. The chimneys of too few kerosene lamps still held black smoke from prior use, however long ago that was. The faded quilt lay like a thin rag upon the bed, which smelled faintly of dog. Pillow? Rob’s saddle would have provided more support.

  Not to mention that this high-priced room had obviously not been well-cleaned in a long time.

  Waking with a headache and a stiff neck, Rob made his way to the bathroom down the hall, took care of business, washed hastily via sponge bath rather than plunging his length into the grimy tub, and prepared to do battle with the manager yet again.

  “He ain’t here,” said the same desk clerk, with an edge to his voice. Evidently short of temper at this early hour, and the demand Rob had made on his time by pulling him away from his perusal of a week-old newspaper. “Said he was headin’ off t’ the telegraph office, then he was gettin’ somethin’ t’ eat. No, I dunno for sure. Check the Donnybrook.”

  Interesting. Did the saloon really open its doors before noon? And had Kincaid just gone off crying to his mentor, Walter Hadley?

  “Very well. I’ll have some breakfast in your din
ing room, and then—”

  “”Closed.”

  Rob turned back. “Closed? I see.” Another tick mark against management. “All right, I’ll go find a café. When Mr. Kincaid returns, please let me know I want to see him.”

  Mr. Kincaid had still not put in an appearance when Rob, comfortably full of a satisfying meal and several restorative cups of hot coffee, came back to the reception desk. And the clerk was quick to tell him so.

  “Go get him.”

  The clerk goggled. “Beg pardon?”

  Resting one arm atop the counter, Rob leaned forward, deliberately insinuating himself into the man’s personal space, just short of grabbing him by the collar, and caught his attention with the famous Yancey unblinking stare. “I said, go get him. Now. Bring him back here, even if you have to hog-tie the man and haul him in a wagon.”

  By the time Amory Kincaid showed up, slovenly and unapologetic, Rob had inspected the top two floors, room by room, and made a detailed, thorough list of each item needing attention.

  All bedding and linens were to be replaced, as were all carpets and drapes; walls were to be repainted and / or repapered, as the occasion warranted; floors were to be sanded, finished, and cleaned; windows washed; bathrooms scrubbed to within an inch of their lives; vases of fresh flowers introduced every morning onto every bedside table.

  If Kincaid reeled under this brisk and unemotional presentation, he hid it well. Nodding, he merely handed over a telegram from Walter Hadley.

  “He wants me to keep you on, does he?” Rob said coldly. “And just why, given your piss-poor performance so far, would I want to do that?”

  The manager shrugged. “He hoped that I could get a second chance.”

  A muscle flickered briefly along the hard edge of Rob’s jaw: teeth clenched, teeth unclenched.

  “I’ll think about it. Meanwhile, let’s finish inspecting the first floor and the kitchen. If you’re up to it, that is. I suspect I won’t like whatever else I find.”

  He didn’t. Nor did he like any of the answers or non-answers he received in response to his questions, during a formal review in the office later that morning. Kincaid’s attitude had improved slightly, even if his appearance had not; the tone of his voice showed some measure of respect, rather than sarcasm, and his words had lost their cutting verge. Perhaps he wanted to keep his job, after all.

  “I’ll do better,” he quietly told his new boss. “I know things’ve been slippin’ a lot lately, but I’d appreciate it if you could let me make it right.”

  Rob considered. “All right. One more time. I’ve already packed up, got all my information together, and I’m leaving shortly. But I’ll be back in two months. By then I expect to see a turnaround, not only in the way this hotel looks and operates, but in its financial picture. Is that clear?”

  “Very clear. Don’t worry, Mr. Yancey, I’ll take care of it.”

  Pushing back his chair, Rob rose from behind the desk and closed his briefcase with a sharp snap. “Mr. Kincaid. Start now.”

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  He was halfway home, trotting along on Remiel at a steady pace through one quiet and lonely stretch of oak woods, when the shot rang out.

  It skimmed past his ear with the force and fury of a hornet. By the time it had been joined by three others, Rob was pelting his stallion with the reins and heading hell-bent for leather into the trees for shelter. There, he flung himself to the ground, yanked free the Colt from his gun belt, and squinted through the lowering sun and its dust motes for anyone approaching.

  Silence. He watched and waited, hunkered down behind a mossy log. Soon a few birds overhead took to chattering again, and a squirrel began scolding in anger and disgust. No more sign of trouble, no rider fore or aft, no more bullets.

  A warning, then.

  Rob, grown from boyhood to manhood with no more serious danger to face than a scuffle here and there with neighborhood toughs, or the usual risk of accident that might befall, felt surprise and indignation. The very idea, that someone would dare to fire upon him! What the hell?

  But Rob was his father’s son. He had learned, early on, to take care of himself.

  Eventually he rose, holstered his weapon, and brushed off his pants. As he climbed back into the saddle once more, still keeping a wary eye on surroundings, a twinge of pain in the muscle of his left upper arm demanded attention.

  “Damn!”

  One of the bullets, zooming past, had creased his jacket sleeve and cut through the material. Even now he could see a small splash of scarlet where the wound was beginning to ooze.

  “And my best suit, too.” Anxious now to get home, he set his boot heels into the stallion’s sides and rocked on into a full gallop. While at the same time letting loose a string of red-hot obscenities that would have done his father proud.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  “This happened down by Clark’s Station?” Matthew pressed his son.

  They had congregated in the kitchen, both parents and Rob, as soon as he had shown up at their door dripping blood through the hastily applied pad of a handkerchief tied around his arm. Shocked but proficient, Star had hustled him back to where her medical supplies were stored, with Matthew traipsing along close behind.

  Now, in the assembled light of several kerosene lamps, Rob sat shirtless and impotent on a stool while his mother tended the wound. Warm water to cleanse, and a hiss through Rob’s gritted teeth; antiseptic carefully applied, and another hiss.

  “I’m sorry, Robbie.” Star had cut a length of gauze bandage to wrap in place, holding everything together, and finished with the neatness and efficiency as much her hallmark as the stoic acceptance shown by Yancey males.

  He sighed “I know, Ma.” Finished, he pulled up his dangling underwear and pulled on his full-sleeved blouse, then rose to kiss her cheek. “Thanks. And thanks, too, for keeping the younger ones outa here. Don’t know how you managed that.”

  An impish glance toward her husband. “Occasionally, your father puts his foot down, and they actually obey. Now. Some coffee, and something to eat from supper?”

  “I’d surely appreciate it. You got any of those oatmeal cookies hidden away from the gluttonous horde?”

  “I might have one or two left.” Pausing, with the yearning, saddened expression every mother wears for an injury to her child, she curved one palm along his cheek in a brief caress, then turned away to fetch cups and cutlery.

  Rob packed up what had been used, then joined his father at the table. “Yes, Pa,” he finally answered the question. “Not far from Clark’s, anyway. Wooded area. Reckon if I’d been shot dead, my body could’ve been carted off into the hills and never found.”

  Star sucked in a horrified breath; Matthew, tightening his grip around the steaming mug in both hands, gritted his teeth. Both burst into speech together.

  “Matt, you can’t keep sending him into danger, when—”

  “Rob, I’m beginnin’ t’ worry that we’ve opened a can of worms, and—”

  “You want me to back out now?” Eyes blazing, Rob surged to his feet. “You want me to play the coward, and run? Pa, this just proves that we’ve got somebody rattled. So we have to keep going. If what I saw at Sea Wind is any indication, there are some serious problems with our company that have to be solved, and we need to find out who’s behind it.”

  Troubled, Matthew slipped a spoon into his cup to stir a dissolving sugar lump. “All that is true, son. Just not so sure now I did a smart thing in gettin’ you involved.”

  “Not if it means there’s a possibility of you—of you—”

  “Ma.” Standing, Rob towered over his stepmother, enough so that, with his good arm settled around her waist, he could rest his chin atop the shining black coronet of her hair. “I know what you’re thinking. And there’s that possibility for all of us Yanceys, anytime, anywhere.”

  Her fingers caught in the buttons of his shirt. “But I don’t—”

  “Ma,” he repea
ted, smiling down at her. “How much of a greenhorn d’ you think I am? I went into this with my eyes open. I’m not surprised by what’s happened.”

  “Maybe not,” said Matthew, face shadowed and voice husked. “Just didn’t expect it t’ happen this soon.” A sip of coffee, and a gesture toward Rob’s vacated chair. “All right, son. Have a seat again, and fill me in on all the details.”

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  Rob spent the next day working in his office at corporate headquarters on Vine Street, next door to Hotel Blue Sky. Papers and ledgers, correspondence, meetings, casual encounters between employees: all interrupted by a superlative dinner in the superlative hotel dining room and time taken out for a couple of brisk walks. Time that was needed for contemplation.

  He loved this city, where he had spent most of his formative years. He loved the fog, and the forlorn ships’ horns that sounded warning in the midst of it. He loved its seven hills and its history. He loved the view of the Bay, and the Pacific beyond, glittering in the sunlight like a walkway strewn with diamond chips.

  His movements were hampered by stiff sore muscles, he had found, upon rising this morning, and probably would continue for a few days until the wound had completely healed. Thanks to that, and thanks to the myriad thoughts weaving their path through his brain, he had slept poorly and was paying for it now. A tad cranky, a lot tired. He could use a nap.

  “Keepin’ you awake, son?” Quint asked, grinning from the doorway.

  Rob greeted his uncle with an unapologetic yawn. “Ahuh. Need some more coffee. How are things?”

  Shambling inside, Quint parked his estimable backside into a wooden side chair kitty-corner to the desk and made himself comfortable. “Oh, fair t’ middlin’, I’d say. Hear you ran int’ some excitement headin’ home from Sea Wind.”

  “You heard right. Never got a look at the shooter, but it could only be somebody hooked up somehow to Amory Kincaid. Probably didn’t want to do the dirty work himself.”