Reunion at Cardwell Ranch

by B. J Daniels

  Without another word, Darlington took the framed painting from him and moved over to a table. He snapped on a light, pulled on a pair of glasses and bent over the artwork.

  “Where did you get this?” he asked after a moment.

  “I picked it up from an unknown source.”

  Darlington shot him a look over one shoulder before returning to the painting. “It’s quite good.”

  “But it’s not a Taylor West.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Laramie waited impatiently as the man pulled out a magnifying glass and went over the entire painting again. So much for being able to tell at a glance.

  After a few minutes, Darlington let out a sigh, took off his glasses, snapped off the light and turned. “It’s an original Taylor West.”

  Laramie let out a laugh as he raked a hand through his hair. How was that possible? How did any of this make sense? It didn’t. “You’re sure?”

  The art expert gave him a pained, insulted look. “I’m guessing you picked it up for a song.”

  “Something like that.” He reached for the painting.

  “So you’re interested in selling it,” Darlington said. “I suppose I could make you an offer.”

  “It’s not for sale.” He reached again for the painting and this time the gallery owner handed it over, though reluctantly.

  “I would be happy to authenticate it for you in writing,” the gallery owner said.

  Laramie wondered if he’d authenticated the one now hanging in the house he hoped McKenzie was getting for him. “I’ll think about it.” The art dealer walked him toward the front door.

  Just then a tall, thin older man with a shoulder-length mane of white-blond hair and a handlebar mustache came in on a gust of wind. He looked like something out of an Old West movie.

  “Cody can verify what I’ve told you,” Darlington said.

  Laramie eyed the man, wondering if he was also considered an art expert.

  “Cody Kent is another of our Western artists,” the gallery owner said. Then he turned to Cody. “Mr. Cardwell brought in a Taylor West painting. He was questioning its authenticity.”

  “Really?” Cody tilted his head to look at the painting in Laramie’s hand as Darlington explained to him that while this was a one-of-a-kind piece, apparently there was another one owned by another collector.

  That definitely got the man’s attention. “So you’re saying one of them is a forgery?”

  “I’d stake my reputation that this is the original,” Darlington said, puffing himself up. “Do you agree?”

  Laramie handed the man the artwork and watched him as he inspected it. He noticed that the man’s hands seemed to tremble as he stared at it.

  The artist handed it back. “Sure looks like the real thing to me.” Cody Kent’s gaze met his. “Where did you get it?”

  “Just picked it up recently,” Laramie said. He took it back from the older man. “Glad to hear you both agree it is an authentic Taylor West.”

  As he headed for the door, Darlington followed. “Well, if you decide to get rid of it...”

  Laramie shook his head but then stopped just short of the door to ask, “How much would you say it’s worth?” He noticed that Cody Kent had moved to one of the paintings on display only yards from them, clearly listening to the conversation.

  Darlington seemed to give a price more thought than was necessary since he’d just offered to buy it. “I could give you...thirty,” he said, keeping his voice down.

  “Thirty?”

  “Thirty thousand,” Darlington said. “It would be more but it’s an older piece. His work has improved over the years.”

  Was that right? Laramie smiled to himself. From what he’d seen online last night, artists’ older work appeared to have more value—especially if the artist was now dead. Taylor West was still kicking, apparently, but Laramie suspected the painting must be worth a lot more that what he was being offered.

  “Thanks, but I think I’ll keep it,” he said as he tucked it under his arm. “It has...sentimental value.”

  * * *

  SID PUT ON clean jeans and a sweater to go to the grocery store. Often she went in her paint-streaked pants and shirts. Anyone who paid any attention was aware that she painted since she spent most Saturdays at the local craft show selling her wares.

  Not her paintings, but haphazardly done Montana scenes on everything from old metal saw blades and antique milk cans to ancient tractor parts and windmill blades. Amazingly, her crafts sold well, which proved to her that most people didn’t know the difference between good art and bad.

  But today she wanted to fly under the radar. No reason to call attention to herself as an artist. It might be too risky if the man from last night was still in town. She knew she was being silly. He’d probably completely forgotten about her.

  She assumed he would have gone to the marshal last night with a story about her robbing that house. Since the painting wouldn’t be missing, she wasn’t worried.

  Her only regret was losing the painting. She needed it. Which meant she had to get it back. Or taking all these chances would have been for nothing.

  Where was the painting now? She’d learned at a young age to make friends where needed. Now she picked up the phone and called her friend who worked at the marshal’s office as she drove to the grocery store.

  After the usual pleasantries, she said, “So what’s new down there?” Dispatcher Tara Kirkwood loved her job because she got to know everything that was going on—and she loved to share it.

  “Counterfeit bills keep turning up,” Tara said, keeping her voice down although the office was small and she was probably the only person down there right then. The marshal and detectives were probably out.

  She and Tara had established long ago that anything Tara told her wouldn’t go any further—and it never had. “The marshal is chasing one right now that was passed at the Corral Bar.”

  “No more cat burglar sightings?” she asked after listening to what Tara knew about the counterfeit bills.

  “Actually, before Hud left, he said his wife’s cousin who is in town caught the cat burglar last night.” She laughed. “According to him, the burglar turned out to be a her.”

  “No kidding? So is she locked up down there?”

  “Naw, she got away.” Tara laughed again. “Hud got a chuckle out of it since apparently there was no crime and his cousin-in-law was quite taken with the woman.”

  Sid laughed even though this was not what she wanted to hear. The marshal’s cousin-in-law? Just her luck. Not to mention “quite taken with her”? Really? She thought of the kiss. It might have been a mistake since she’d had a hard time forgetting about it, as well.

  “What’s the guy’s name?” she asked.

  “Laramie Cardwell.”

  Cardwell? Anyone who lived in the Gallatin Canyon knew that name. The Cardwell Ranch was one of the first established in the canyon. But she’d never heard of a Laramie Cardwell before.

  “You said he was in town. So he’s not from here?” she asked even though she knew his accent was way too Southern.

  “His father is Angus Cardwell. Apparently his mother got a divorce years ago and took her five sons to live in Texas. Laramie’s up here from Houston. He and his brothers own that new place, Texas Boys Barbecue.”

  “Huh.”

  “Have you tried it yet?” Tara asked.

  “No. I’ve been meaning to, though,” she said, realizing it was true.

  “It’s really good.”

  “So did the so-called cat burglar get away with anything?” she had to ask. “You said no crime was committed?”

  “Laramie found a painting, but it wasn’t stolen from the house. I overheard Hud say Laramie is hanging on to it. Kind of like
a souvenir.”

  Sid mouthed a silent oath. She’d reached Meadow Village and the grocery store. “So now it’s hanging at Cardwell Ranch,” she joked.

  “More than likely at his new house,” Tara said.

  “His new house?”

  The dispatcher dropped her voice even further. “The house that he caught her allegedly robbing? He’s buying it.”

  Sid pulled into a parking spot in front of the store. Tara was always a wealth of information. “Now that is a coincidence,” she said. “So apparently he’s staying.”

  “At least for the holidays I would think. You really should try their barbecue. It is so good.”

  “I just might do that. Got to go. Sure hope they catch those counterfeiters.”

  “Me, too. Hud is fit to be tied. It will be nice when things die back down around here.”

  Disconnecting, Sid parked in front of the grocery, thinking about everything Tara had said. How was she going to get the painting back? She’d never been one to push her luck and hitting the same house twice was more than risky, especially since now Laramie Cardwell might be expecting her. But did she really have a choice?

  Her stomach growled. Still hungry and realizing it was almost lunchtime, she looked up the hill at the sign for Texas Boys Barbecue.

  * * *

  THE FAMILY HAD gathered at the Cardwell Ranch for lunch. Everyone but Laramie.

  “What’s going on with him?” Austin asked. For years he had been the no-show brother, the one who caught grief because he didn’t play family well. Since meeting Gillian and returning to his birthplace, he’d changed. He loved these family get-togethers.

  “He’s looking for the cat burglar,” McKenzie said. “And the four of you can blame yourself for that if you’re behind this.”

  “What?” Austin asked, looking around the table. Hayes told him what he knew, Hud added his part and McKenzie finished it up. “Seriously? Laramie is trying to find this woman?” He turned to Hayes. “You told him we had nothing to do with this, right?”

  “I swore we didn’t.”

  Austin groaned. “So he might actually be chasing a real cat burglar.”

  “Only if the cat burglar is a young woman with silvery-blue eyes,” Hud said, shaking his head. “This whole cat burglar thing started when a few residents saw a dark-clad figure sneaking around a couple of houses. But the bottom line is that no one has reported being burglarized. No valuables or paintings are missing.”

  “So you think it’s a hoax,” Austin said.

  “I do,” the marshal agreed. “Probably the local security company put the woman up to it to drum up more business. A lot of the people in Big Sky are from urban areas so security is a concern for them. The rest of us locals don’t even bother to lock our doors.”

  “He told me he was going to visit the artist whose painting the woman dropped,” McKenzie said between bites. “Taylor West. He lives up the canyon near Taylor Fork.”

  “Why didn’t he come to us?” Austin asked his brother Hayes. “We are actually trained for this sort of thing.” He’d gone to work for Hayes’s detective agency after quitting the sheriff’s department in Texas—he hadn’t been satisfied being simply retired. Gillian had been right. He’d been miserable. He was too young to retire and he enjoyed investigative work.

  “Seriously?” Dana asked. “You don’t understand why your brother might want to solve this thing on his own? It involves an apparently attractive woman who tricked him and escaped. Laramie is related to all of you. Enough said. He probably thinks she’s in trouble and is off to save her.”

  They all laughed, but Austin couldn’t shake the bad feeling he had.

  “I know that look in your eye,” Gillian said to Austin. “Don’t do it.”

  “She’s right,” Jackson said speaking up. “We need to stay out of this. I think Laramie’s been getting bored running the business. Why not let him have a little...fun, since there is nothing to the cat burglar stories?”

  They all agreed. Except Austin. “Fun? What if this woman is dangerous?”

  “Laramie can take care of himself,” Hayes said. “He hasn’t just been sitting behind a desk for the past ten years. He’s worked with some of us on cases. I think Jackson’s right. He needs this and he needs us to stay out of it.”

  Austin couldn’t help being protective of his youngest brother. While he and Hayes had both worked in law enforcement, Laramie had no experience dealing with criminals.

  “I hope you’re right,” Austin said as he watched his family finish their lunches. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Laramie had no idea what he was getting into.

  For the time being, he’d stay out of it since, if Hud was right, it had been nothing but a prank. But if a woman was involved...

  Chapter Four

  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.”