A Father's Stake

by Mary Anne Wilson

  Her world had always felt a bit unstable, ready to tip upside down in a second. And she’d been holding on for dear life. But now, she had the means to let go and have a life, a stable life. A real life.

  * * *

  JACK GOT HIS horse out of his parents’ stable around dawn and rode off before he saw anyone stirring. He’d spoken with his mother on the phone only once since the confrontation with his father, hearing determination in her voice to make the best of what had happened. He’d hated it when she’d apologized to him for the land being lost to them, as if it was her fault.

  He hadn’t had any contact with his father over the past six weeks, and that was fine with him. He didn’t want words and promises. They were too easy to speak and impossible to back up.

  He spent most of the day up in the high country, visiting a few friends on the Rez, then headed back down in the middle of the September afternoon. The heat was at its peak, but more mellow than it had been for a while, and the day was bright and clear. When he approached his parents’ land, he hesitated, then road past, farther east, and a short time later cut between the worn stone pillars that marked the drive to the old ranch.

  He slowly headed up the incline of the packed dirt trail to a smaller rise that hid the old house from view. He wound around, past the stables, and the house appeared. He was trespassing again, he knew it, but he had to come. Just one last time until he could be here legally again.

  He drew up by the hitching post, dismounted and secured his horse. Instead of going inside the house, he sat down on the stone step where he’d waited for his brothers back in July when he’d felt as if his world was going to end. It had come darned close, but it hadn’t ended. His determination to get this land back one way or the other kept him going,

  Now frustration was driving him. The problem was, he’d found out plenty about Charles Luther Michaels, except the most important things—where he was and how to reach him. They knew he was basically a drifter and a professional gambler, moving constantly from place to place. The papers he’d sent to the address listed on the legal documents with an offer for the property had been returned. By the time a private investigator checked out the address, a boarding house in a small city near the Jersey shore, Charles Luther Michaels had been gone for two weeks.

  Adam had found a criminal record for the man, a few DUIs, public disorder, minor confidence charges, vagrancy, misdemeanor assault on a casino bouncer, all scattered around the country, one in Canada. But all of them had been more than five years old. Jack and his brothers knew he’d been in Las Vegas in June, but that led nowhere. The game had been “private,” which meant big spenders in a private suite in one of the hotels and unreported to any gambling authority. They couldn’t find anyone who would admit to him being there. Privacy for big spenders was everything in that city. But it meant the man had enough stake money to get in the door, and he’d walked out with whatever cash he’d won along with the deed their father had thrown into the pot.

  Michaels was out there somewhere, they knew that, but the man left no tracks. That frustrated Jack to no end. Somewhere along the way he’d come to believe that healing the tear in the Wolf family heritage by regaining the lost land would mean he could heal his own wounds. But unless their luck improved and they found Michaels, he didn’t know what would happen with the land and with him.

  He flexed the tension in his shoulders as he glanced at his horse, then over to the stables. He frowned and looked back to his horse. Something was different than the last time he’d come here, but he couldn’t figure out what. Then he knew. The dead weeds in the gravel edging the drive had been cleared, but only in front of the house. He went down to take a closer look, and found lugged tire tracks. Glancing around first, he followed them down the slope to the end of the abandoned stables.

  Booted foot prints in the dust led to the hay doors, and he followed them along the side of the stables to the doors to the stalls. A new lock glistened in the sun. Jack stared at it then spun around and broke into a run, heading across the dry weeds and packed earth and up the shallow hill to the drive. He took the stone step in one stride and stopped in front of the door to the house.

  A new key lock with a dead bolt above it had been installed there. Going to the nearest window, he cupped his hands around his eyes and peered through the streaked glass into the great room. Nothing had changed. Dust covers were in place, and as far he could tell, nothing had been moved. He went back to the door and pounded on it. “Hello! Hello? Anyone here?”

  When there was no response, he stopped, suddenly feeling like the trespasser he was on the land he loved. He stood at the top of the step, unsure what to do. Someone had been here to make sure the property was secured. Possibly Charles Michaels. Or had he hired someone to come out and check on things, then change the locks?

  At least something was happening. Jack headed for his horse, then rode off down the driveway and turned back to the family ranch. He needed wheels. “This could be very good,” he thought as he pulled out his cell phone and put in a call to John Longbow at the police station.

  * * *

  AS SOON AS Santa Fe was in the rearview mirror, Grace felt the gnaw of hunger, but didn’t want to take the time to have a sit-down meal. She couldn’t remember when she’d eaten last, not even peanuts on the flight, but right then the hunger was starting to be tinged with nausea. She needed food. Not sure how long it would take to get to Wolf Lake, she started looking for signs for take-out food. One proclaimed Willie G’s, The Best Food Around, Eat-in/Take-out, just two exits ahead.

  A few minutes later she found the off ramp, drove onto it and down a narrow road. She could see a grouping of buildings back under the highway overpass and headed toward them. The cluster comprised little more than a gas station, a teepee-shaped souvenir shop with a heavy emphasis on Indian and Western collectibles, and a group of trailers beside a broad parking lot that serviced an old adobe building with a huge sign proclaiming Willie G’s Diner.

  She pulled into a space in front of the dark wooden entry doors, shadowed by a heavy beamed overhang. A flat roof, trimmed in overlapping half pipe tiles, and plastered pink walls that were chipped to show spots of adobe brick gave the place an old Southwestern style. Only a few vehicles were parked in front—an old blue pickup truck and a very big motorcycle, painted patriotically in red, white and blue with an eagle decoration on one side. An eighteen-wheeler was parked off to the side.

  Grace slid out into the blanketing warmth of the afternoon, thankful she’d worn a short-sleeved white shirt and denim shorts with sandals. As soon as she stepped inside she was greeted with cool air. The space was larger than it had looked from the exterior, with low-beamed ceilings and worn Salito tiles underfoot. Western music hummed in the background.

  “Help you?” someone asked, and she looked toward a set of swinging doors to the kitchen. An older man, dressed in stained cook’s whites, smiled at her as he stepped into the room. He came to the counter and wiped his hands on a white rag. Lines fanned the edges of his eyes, and his gray hair was pulled back from a center part in a long braid.

  “I need some food to go,” she said, crossing to the counter and slipping onto the nearest stool.

  “Just name your poison,” he said as he passed her a single sheet menu protected by plastic.

  She realized it was about the same as the menus in most of the diners she’d worked in—sandwiches, burgers and fries, chili, even some pizza. “I’ll take a turkey sandwich on wheat, not toasted, with steak fries and the largest cola you have with lots of ice, please.”

  He nodded and crossed to a soda machine, packing ice in a large take-out cup before filling it with soda. He brought it back and set it down in front of her. “Thought you could use this first,” he said, and reached for a straw from under the counter.

  “Thanks.”

  He didn’t move to put in her food order. “Where you heading to?”

  “Wolf Lake.”

  “You’re too ea
rly if you’re looking for the casino or hotels that way,” he said. “Not even up yet, but they will be.” He shook his head. “So, what you got left is picking up some native art, or souvenirs, or maybe taking in one of the tours near the Rez.”

  She undid the straw and pushed it through the lid. “None of that,” she said, then took a sip of the chilled drink.

  Thankfully, he turned, saying, “Gonna get your food,” before heading through the swinging doors. Next thing she knew, he was pulling on a cook’s cap over his gray hair. He winked, then got busy with her order.

  She took another drink and glanced around. No waitress was in sight, and only five customers were at the tables near the front windows. The cook looked as if he was doing everything by himself, moving quickly around the kitchen. He came out with two plates of food for one of the tables, then hurried back into the kitchen, reappearing almost immediately with a large white bag. “There you go, Ma’am. Napkins and ketchup in the bag.”

  She paid, then grabbed the bag.

  “Drop by on your way out of town if you’re going this way,” he said. “I’ll get you some real food when you’ve got the time to sit and enjoy.”

  “If I come this way again, I’ll do that,” she said, slipping off the stool. “You know Wolf Lake very well?”

  He chuckled. “Heck, yeah, born and bred on the Rez, then slipped on down into town when I was, oh, around twelve. Been there ever since, except when I’m down here running this place. If you need a place to stay, my niece runs a bed-and-breakfast in town. Nice place, too, and reasonable.”

  “Thanks, but I have a place,” she said, hoping the house was livable.

  “Where’s that?” he asked, reaching for the white rag and starting to clean the counter.

  “On a ranch on the other side of town, from what I was told.”

  “What ranch?”

  “Wolf Ranch.”

  His hand stilled and his dark eyes looked right at her. “Wolf Ranch,” he echoed. “You sure you have that right?”

  “Yes, sir, I do,” she said.

  “You’re a friend or something with the new owner?”

  She had a feeling the man was upset for some reason, but his voice stayed even. “I am the new owner,” she said, and loved the words as they came out of her. The new owner. That sounded so great, but the cook didn’t look pleased at all.

  “I knew that whole mess with the Carsons was crazy, but sure never expected old Jackson Wolf’s property to be bought by a tiny thing like you.”

  She’d been called a lot of sexist things by men over the years, and she hated it, but she barely reacted anymore. Now this man was calling her a “tiny thing,” and she knew it wasn’t a sexist thing to him. He just couldn’t believe she had the land—a woman, on her own, coming in to take it over. “I didn’t buy it,” she said by way of clarification. “But it’s mine.”

  “Yeah, I heard,” he said in a low voice, “I guess you didn’t buy it.”

  “Sir, I need to get going,” she said.

  He came around the counter toward her. “First of all, I’m Willie G., not ‘sir’ to anyone, and secondly, I was a friend of Jackson Wolf, the original owner. Old man used to head the council for years on the Rez. Town’s named after his people. Great man,” he said. “And that was his place, a Wolf place.”

  She had decided from the start that she liked the idea of the land having a history, but obviously this man didn’t think she had any right to be there. She tried to divert the conversation. “What’s it like there?”

  “Fallow. Empty,” Willie G. said, “for maybe four or so years, since the old man passed. Age ninety-two, I think, and still on that land until the day he died.”

  “I’m here to check it out,” she said, sticking to the bare facts and not letting his attitude make her defensive. She had nothing to be defensive about.”

  He shook his head. “So, it’s come to this?” he asked softly, as if talking to himself. “Stupid man,” he muttered, then must have realized he’d been speaking out loud. “Sorry, Ma’am, but life gets crazy sometimes around here.”

  “It does everywhere,” Grace said and started for the door.

  “Miss?” he called after her.

  She turned just before reaching for the handle. “Yes?”

  “Who have I been talking to?”

  “Grace, my name’s Grace.”

  “Okay, Grace. I know this will sound strange, but if you decide by any chance that that hunk of land isn’t for you, would you let me know? I’ve been looking for a bit of land around that area.”

  She was as shocked by his question as he’d seemed to be when she’d told him she owned the land. “I won’t be selling it, I don’t think.”

  “Just let me know, one way or the other, okay?” He reached for the order pad lying on the counter and quickly wrote something on it before tearing the page off. “Just let Willie G. know, okay?”

  “Okay,” she said, and started to shift her load so she could take it from him, but he simply reached over and dropped it in her bag.

  He opened the door for her, calling after her, “Safe trip, Grace.”

  His interest in the property had taken her back, but once she saw what condition it was in, she might hunt the man down and see how much she could get out of it. She slipped inside the sweltering interior of her car, put her purse and the food bag on the seat, then started the engine and flipped the air conditioner on. She put her drink in the holder in the console, then reached into the white bag to get a French fry.

  Cool air flowed into the space and she put the car in gear. Glancing up at the restaurant, she was a bit surprised to see Willie G. still standing there in the doorway watching her. He lifted a hand in her direction, that smile back in place, before ducking inside. She felt odd for a moment, then pushed the feeling away and drove back toward the highway.

  CHAPTER THREE

  GRACE REMEMBERED THE crumpled paper Willie G. had pushed in the food bag. She took it out, saw a phone number with his name under it, then folded the note and dropped it into her purse. She glanced at the directions the attorney had given her, then kept her eyes open for the turnoff to Wolf Creek.

  After just a few more miles, she finally saw two signs. One was a billboard, announcing the way to the reservation, and the other, much smaller, informed travelers that they had twenty miles to go to arrive at Wolf Lake, population 3,201, altitude 5,106 feet.

  She’d been surprised at the altitude and the heat, but one seemed to go with the other. The off-ramp curled back under the overpass, and Grace found herself driving north on a two lane, paved county road that cut through hauntingly beautiful land. Not much green, and the few trees seemed twisted and stunted by the heat. But the colors were stunning.

  The sky was starting to be invaded by the suggestion of purple, gold and orange from the west. The shadows of majestic buttes and mesas that rose from the high desert floor were lengthening. Small dust devils skipped over the packed earth, leaving puffs of cloud in their wake. The land made her feel very small and insignificant.

  A few cars passed her in the opposite lane, but she hadn’t seen anyone in her rearview mirror since she turned onto the highway. Gradually, she started to notice patches of green off to the west, along with trees here and there that looked tall and ancient. Over the next few miles, the green patches grew in proportion to the parched earth. Finally, a sign for Wolf Lake appeared, overshadowed by a more elaborate one for the Reservation ten miles beyond the town. At a rise in the road, she could see Wolf Creek, maybe three miles to the northwest. It was a simple layout, a long main street, with streets branching out from it. The first buildings were clustered together, as others then fanned out in the colors and shadows of the low sun. Beyond those were large chunks of land, with greenness and distinguishable pastures.

  When she finally drove onto the main street after passing through a section of construction, she realized the place had been fine-tuned for tourists. The buildings that lined the street w
ere separated from the road by an old-fashioned raised wooden walkway that used to protect people from snakes and mud. Now they added a quaint charm.

  Some of the businesses had been determinedly fashioned after frontier structures, with a mix of aged wood and stone and brick. Others were designed like Willie G’s, with adobe and chipped stucco shouting “Southwest.” When she had time, she’d come back and walk the wooden sidewalks, but for now the elaborate window displays in the businesses were a blur of color and glitter. The only thing she noticed was the bed-and-breakfast Willie G. had told her about, then she was heading out of the town.

  She looked at her odometer, made a note of the miles, and was about to reach for another French fry when the roar of an engine sounded behind her. A bright red Jeep gunned past, then cut back into the lane with very little distance to spare.

  She caught a glimpse of the driver, a man with a cap pulled low over an angular face. He was staring at her instead of the road as he raced ahead, rounded a curve, and disappeared from sight.

  “Jerk,” she muttered, realizing that even though there were no traffic jams out here, the area still had its share of crazy drivers.

  She popped the almost forgotten French fry into her mouth, aware now of the ranches that seemed to spread all the way to the horizon, checkerboarded with green and brown sections. The houses and ranch buildings were far off the road, barely visible, but the entrances were fancy, with intricate gates of wrought iron, wood, stone and brick.

  She rounded a curve and saw a new sign for the Reservation in the direction of the foothills. Then her attention was caught by the entry to yet another ranch, but this one was different. It was a simple entrance, almost plain, with worn stone pillars on either side of a dirt drive. The wooden gate stood open. On the pillar to the left, chiseled into a flat stone halfway up from the dead weeds and dirt at the base, were two weather-eroded words. Wolf Ranch.