by B. J Daniels
Sid had met both of them at the local art shows. She often struck up conversations, especially with people who had a piece of art she was interested in. Art lovers were quick to talk about the artists they liked. It hadn’t been easy to find the owners of the pieces she still needed, but she’d finally tracked them all down.
As she came over a rise, she saw the house. It loomed up out of the darkness. No lights on inside. No large SUV in the drive. The couple kept it in the garage for the next time they flew in.
She killed the engine on the snowmobile some distance from the house. There were no other homes around, one of the benefits of this affluent community. No one wanted neighbors. At least not ones they could see from their houses.
The snow was deep on this side of the mountain. She’d brought snowshoes for the last part of the hike up to the house. Strapping them on, she grabbed her canvas bag and started up the mountain. The moon had come up and now poured silver over the snowy landscape.
Sid could see her breath. The house sat on the side of a mountain at about six thousand feet above sea level. She stopped to catch her breath and look back down the mountain to where she’d left her snowmobile. Nothing moved in the darkness of the pines.
Ahead, moonlight shone a path to the house. Sid listened. Hearing nothing but her own breath, she headed for the house.
In and out. She set her watch. Five minutes. Then she slipped in through the back door that had been unlocked for her by Maisie at the precise time. She knew exactly where the painting she needed would be hanging and, turning on her penlight, headed right for it.
The exchange didn’t take more than a few seconds. She put the painting into the large canvas bag, remembering the night before when the other bag she’d used had a hole in it. Another mistake. She was getting sloppy. Not because of overconfidence, she told herself. No, it was that she’d done this so many times it was becoming routine.
She thought of Laramie Cardwell as she locked the door behind her, texted Maisie “Lunch tomorrow?”—their code—and headed for her snowmobile. As she drove the snowmobile toward her cabin, she realized that once she had the painting she’d lost last night, she’d be done with these kinds of night jobs.
It filled her with a strange nostalgia. She’d been at this for several years now. When she’d started, she had questioned her sanity. Why do this when it could go so badly if she were caught?
Last night that had almost happened. Unfortunately, it wasn’t in her nature to leave anything undone—even if she hadn’t needed the painting to finish what she’d started. She would get that painting back and end this once and for all.
* * *
“SO WHAT DO YOU THINK?” McKenzie asked as Laramie used his key to enter his new house.
“I love it,” he said as he stepped in and took a deep breath. Through the wall of windows at the front of the house Lone Mountain glistened in the twilight.
“From what I can tell, he left everything but the artwork—other than the one you bought,” she said. He looked around, realizing he would have to get more art for the walls, especially with these high ceilings. Walking through the house, he didn’t see much that he would change. Theo Nelson’s decorator had done a grand job of furnishing the house.
“He even left dishes, flatware and stemware,” McKenzie said shaking her head. “He must not have been very attached to the house.” She sighed. “There is a used furniture shop down the valley that we call the Second-Wife’s Club. Most of it comes from Big Sky. New wife, all new furnishings. You can get some great deals, if you’re interested.”
Laramie shook his head. “I can’t imagine anything more that I would want or need. It is clear that Theo and his wife didn’t spend much time here. Everything looks brand-new. I expect to see the price tags still on everything. Let me get some things from the car and then let’s take a look upstairs.”
The second floor looked the same except for the study. Theo’s computer was gone, but that seemed to be the only change. “He didn’t even take any of the books on the shelves,” McKenzie commented.
In the bedrooms, the beds were still made up with new linens, down comforters and expensive duvets, she noted. “He left all the linens in the bathrooms and the closets for the entire house.”
Laramie glanced around and then headed for the stairs to the master bedroom with the two paintings he had acquired. The room looked much the same, save the spot on the wall where the Taylor West had hung. He took the painting he’d purchased from Theo Nelson and hung it back where it had been. On the wall next to it, he hung the one his cat burglar had dropped.
He turned on the small spotlights that shone on the paintings and stood studying the two, still unable to find anything to distinguish either of them.
“I’m glad you like the painting,” McKenzie said joining him. “I could have gotten the price of the house down another twenty grand without it.”
He chuckled. “According to the artist, the original is worth fifty. Your art expert offered me thirty thousand for the one I acquired from my mysterious alleged thief.”
She let out a low whistle. “Wow, so you got a deal on both of them. That makes me feel better. But I get the impression you would have paid even more for it and the house.”
Laramie smiled. “You did great, McKenzie. I can’t thank you enough.”
“But which painting is the real McCoy?”
“That is the question, isn’t it?” he said. “Meanwhile, I love the house.” He walked over to the wall of windows. In the darkness of the winter night, the snow-covered Lone Mountain looked ghostlike.
He stood, admiring his view and wondering when his cat burglar would be back. If she would be back. He thought of Obsidian “Sid” Forester and wondered how he could make sure they crossed paths if she didn’t come back.
Logic, something he’d always prided himself on, reminded him that he couldn’t be sure Sid was his cat burglar.
“Not yet,” he said to himself as he looked out at the Montana winter night. But all his instincts told him he’d already found her. Now it was just a matter of catching her in the act.
Chapter Seven
The next morning, after a rough night, Taylor West woke up hungover and upset. He hadn’t gotten a moment’s sound sleep last night, worrying that he’d been betrayed. Worse if the truth came out...
He picked up his cell phone and saw that it had been turned off. He had four calls from Cody Kent. He listened to the voice messages, then returned the man’s call.
Clearly either Rock or Hank had called him—or they both had. And they’d both pretended to him that there was nothing to be worried about. He swore as he tapped in Cody’s number.
“What’s this about some forgery?” Cody demanded, sounding both angry and worried. Cody related that he’d been by the gallery yesterday and had run into a man with one of Taylor’s paintings.
“Laramie Cardwell. I know. He came by my house.”
“Was...it...the...original?” Cody asked.
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“I would swear it was.”
“So the other one is a forgery. Have you seen it?”
“I know what you’re getting at,” Taylor said. “The other one has to be a forgery, right? And anyone could have painted it.”
Cody agreed. “So stop getting everyone all riled up over nothing.”
“You’re right.” Still Taylor had a bad feeling about this.
“You’ll let me know if there is a reason to worry, right?”
“Of course.” He hung up and tried Rock’s number. It went straight to voice mail. Where the hell was Rock? He’d gotten off the line so quickly yesterday...
Taylor felt sweat break out under his arms even though his house was cold this morning because he h
adn’t bothered to turn up the heat.
He’d had a long night to think about it. If anyone had betrayed them, it would be Rock.
* * *
LARAMIE HADN’T SLEPT well the first night in his new home. There was nothing wrong with the bed, the Egyptian cotton sheets or the house’s ambiance. Still, he’d had trouble getting to sleep. Even after he’d dozed off, he’d awakened often thinking he’d heard something. All night he’d lain in the king-size bed, listening and waiting for the woman to return and thinking about the vehicle that had tried to put him in the river yesterday.
The incident had to have something to do with the painting, right? Which meant it had something to do with the cat burglar. What, though?
Before going to bed, he’d had a thought. Taking out his pocket knife, he’d carefully scratched a very small mark on the back of the canvas on the painting he’d purchased with the house.
He was sure she’d come back for one—or both—of the paintings. He figured if he ever saw them again after that, he’d know which was which. And if she only took one, he’d know which one she’d left behind. He was pretty sure she knew which one was the real one.
With that, he’d turned out the lights and gone to bed. When he’d opened his eyes this morning, he’d half expected to see the paintings gone. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d sneaked in and taken them both.
But upon waking, he was almost disappointed to see both paintings right where they’d been when he’d gone to bed. She hadn’t come for either one. What if he was wrong and she wouldn’t be back?
His phone rang. Seeing it was from the marshal, he quickly took the call. “Do you have some news for me?” he said without preamble.
“Yesterday you asked me to check on vehicles owned by Taylor West,” Hud said.
“Right. And you told me he didn’t own a large brown car.”
“No, he doesn’t. But his wife, Jade, does. I got to thinking and checked to see if there were other vehicles that might be registered to someone other than Taylor.”
“His wife?” Laramie remembered the photograph he’d seen of the pretty young blonde.
“I’ve put a BOLO out on it,” Hud said. “We could get lucky. But why would Jade West—or someone using her vehicle—want to run you off the road?”
Laramie hung up convinced that it had something to do with the painting, but what, he had no idea. As he headed for the shower, he wondered if Obsidian Forester was indeed his cat burglar. The only way he’d know for sure was if she came back for the painting. He realized how much he was counting on it.
Showered and dressed, he went downstairs. He’d just poured himself a bowl of cereal that he’d bought at the store yesterday when the security company he’d called rang his doorbell.
Theo Nelson had a security system but it hadn’t gone off the night Laramie had seen the woman on the roofline. Which meant that the woman had disarmed the alarm before entering the house or she had outsmarted the system.
So he wasn’t going to bother adding more security. All he wanted were cameras, and nowadays they made such small ones, she wouldn’t know she was being captured on video.
He glanced at his watch. He needed to know more about cowboy art. McKenzie had handled everything including changing over the utilities and contacting the alarm company for him. Leaving the security people to do their work, he drove to Bozeman to the Museum of the Rockies. It was another beautiful winter day, not a cloud in the sky, the blazing sun bright on the snow.
He found himself watching his rearview mirror, looking for the large dark car that had run his off the highway the day before. But by the time he reached Bozeman, he hadn’t seen it.
Parking near Montana State University, he entered the museum. While known for its dinosaur collection, the museum also held a variety of other exhibits throughout the year, according to the clerk who took his money, stamped his hand in case he wanted to come back later and handed him a map.
Since the museum had just opened for the day, there were only a handful of people in the new exhibit featuring Old West master artists. There were paintings by both Charles M. Russell and Frederic Remington, two well-known Old West artists from the 1800s.
They had apparently painted what they saw around them, capturing a lifestyle that they romanticized with their art. While four-wheelers had replaced horses at a lot of ranches, his cousin had told him, the cowboy life survived even to this day out here in the West.
Laramie had just stepped into an adjoining exhibition room when he saw a young woman standing in front of a large painting of a Native American chief in full headdress.
It was the same woman he’d seen coming out of Texas Boys Barbecue yesterday. Obsidian “Sid” Forester.
At seeing the woman again, his pulse jumped as excitement raced through his veins. He reminded himself that she was an artist in her own right, so of course she would be here. That didn’t make her guilty of being the cat burglar.
She wore jeans and a canvas jacket over a rust-colored sweater. Her coppery hair was tucked up under a Cubs baseball cap, which pitched her face into shadow, making it impossible to see the color of her eyes at this distance. Nor could he get a good look at her mouth. But even in silhouette he could tell that her lips were full.
He remembered the taste of her mouth and felt an ache that had nothing to do with cowboy art. His reasons for wanting to find this woman had gotten all tangled up with a desire to kiss her again. He knew it was crazy and could just imagine what his brothers would say. But he couldn’t wait to get his hands on her as if to assure himself that she was actually real. That what she evoked in him that night was real, as well.
Warning himself to take it slow, he moved closer. As if sensing him staring at her, she looked in his direction, then quickly turned away. He felt a start. Was it possible? He wouldn’t know until he got a better look, but all his instincts told him he had her.
* * *
IT DIDN’T TAKE Taylor West long to drive to Gallatin Gateway, a small, almost forgotten town at the mouth of the canyon. Once billed as the Gateway to Yellowstone, the town back then had a train that brought tourists to the beautiful large hotel, before ferrying them into the park.
Rock Jackson owned a small ranch against the foothills overlooking the Gallatin River. The place was run-down, the house small and old with some outbuildings behind it, including Rock’s studio.
As Taylor pulled up and got out, he thought he saw movement at one of the front windows. But when he knocked hard at the front door, there was no answer from within.
“He probably saw me and doesn’t want to deal with me,” Taylor told himself. The drive had sobered him up since he’d been drinking before he’d left home. He hated that the drive might have been for nothing, until he reminded himself that he needed to go to a liquor store anyway.
He pounded again. Still no answer. Moving to peer into a front window, he saw that the place was neat and orderly inside. That made him all the more angry since his own house was a mess. Somehow that convinced him even more that Rock Jackson was guilty of something.
Walking around the side of the house, Taylor noticed Rock’s art studio. Was he back there working? Raging inside, now positive that Rock had betrayed him, he stormed toward it. This time, he didn’t bother to knock. He grabbed the door handle and turned it. Locked.
Cursing, Taylor cupped his hands against one of the windows. The studio was exactly like something he’d always talked about building on his property. He could see only one painting from where he stood. It appeared to be one of Rock’s in progress.
As he started to turn away, he saw that there was another room behind the studio. When he got around back, the door into that part of the building had a padlock on it. That alone seemed suspicious.
He picked up a rock and tried to break the padlock but, failing, tossed the
rock away and swore. The mellow he’d had earlier was starting to wear off along with the booze, leaving him with a headache and a worse mood. Furious, he stood outside the studio feeling as alone as he’d ever felt. The temperature had dropped with the appearance of clouds obscuring the sun. He shivered and looked around, not sure what to do then.
He could smell snow on the freezing air and wondered why he hadn’t gone south this winter. Jade had wanted to go, but he hadn’t wanted to make the long drive to Arizona. Now he wished he had. Laramie Cardwell wouldn’t have been able to find him and he wouldn’t have known about the painting.
Taylor knew that kind of thinking was crazy. Even if he’d been in Arizona, the painting would have surfaced. He’d seen it with his own eyes. He knew what that meant.
Behind him, he spotted an old barn on the property and walked toward it, thinking he’d look around and wait for Rock to return, since he now realized there was no vehicle here. He didn’t want to have to drive all this way again if he could help it.
He pushed open the barn door and stepped into the dim darkness. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, but he didn’t mind. It was warmer in here and with the booze wearing off...
Taylor blinked as a large dark object in the barn took shape before him. At first he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He thought for sure it must have been the beginning of a hangover making him only imagine it.
But there was no doubt. The question was what was his wife’s car doing in Rock Jackson’s barn?
* * *
SID TRIED TO calm her racing heart. Her mind raced, as well. What was Laramie Cardwell doing here? Her first impulse was to flee, but that would be the worst thing she could do. Seeing him here had been so unexpected. She hadn’t been prepared. That’s why her pulse thrummed and skin prickled at the memory of his touch.
Why was he here? Maybe he was simply interested in cowboy art. She groaned silently as she moved from painting to painting, aware of him tracing her steps like a wolf on the scent of its prey.
