He stopped and stared at her. “Why on earth not?”
“Speaking of foolhardy, everyone knows not to open the two car doors at the same time in Wyoming.”
“Bad luck?”
“No, city boy. The wind forms a funnel, like a tornado, and whips everything out of the car. It’s gone for good, unless you can run at sixty miles an hour and catch it.”
He shook his head in disbelief. “You don’t say.”
“The force of the wind can even rip the car door off. I’ve seen it happen. Cross my heart and hope to die.”
Marlena was swiftly getting in while he stood outside the passenger door. Realizing he was looking foolish standing there holding the door handle, Coddie had no choice but to go over to his horse and pull himself up by the bridle.
“Easy there. Whoa. Easy, fella.”
The horse reared before he could get on, throwing Coddie onto the wet ground.
Rolling down her window as he picked himself up, Marlena called out, "You okay? Need help?”
He shook his head. As he scrambled back on to the house, cursing, off she went with a wave of her hand.
He reflected angrily that he hadn’t even managed to tell her what he came to say--that he was hoping to convince her to destroy the signed papers and try their marriage again.
He viciously kicked the horse's sides with his cowboy boots. The new boots pinched his feet; he'd bought them at Saks in a hurry before flying yesterday.
Chapter Seventeen
Bryce Scattergood's clear-sighted blue eyes, forthright nature, and manly, sculpted physique made the single father of three boys a spitting image of his famous Alta ancestor from the turn of the century, Caleb Scattergood.
Caleb had been a coal miner before he started his own ice harvesting business. He was also an early Native-American rights activist. Thanks to Caleb and Caleb's uncle, Ian Scattergood, a California financier, Bryce Scattergood had been blessed by considerable holdings in Wyoming and California, all held in trust for the Scattergood descendants.
Marlena's grandmother, Sarah Bellum, was Caleb Scattergood's niece. She acknowledged this when Bryce told her so, meanwhile wondering what he was driving at. It was already clear he was better versed in her family’s history than she was.
Raised and educated in Colorado, Bryce had returned to his roots in Alta ten years ago, initially taking on an accounts manager position for Wells Fargo.
“Primarily,” he told Marlena as he served her a steaming cup of green tea, “because I was sick and tired of watching developers clear cut every damn acre to build shitty little frame houses with plastic siding."
In a Houston subdivision, he’d watched his spindly, toothless neighbor take down a majestic live oak and pave his yard. The next week, Bryce sold his ranch house and moved to Wyoming.
He was ambitious, eager to learn the ropes, and also a self-described, unapologetic “tree-hugger.”
Within the decade, Bryce had lost his wife to cancer, raised his boys alone, opened his own real estate brokerage firm, and garnered as much detailed knowledge of the territory and its homesteading families as any man alive.
Along the way, he'd collected as many unique physical remainders of the past as his house and office could hold.
The office building he owned and occupied in downtown Alta was an original brick schoolhouse, the first one in the territory. It was packed like a museum with Wyoming paraphernalia, ancestral memorabilia, Native American artifacts, and enough books to rival the public library’s archives of the history of the West.
Among them were first editions of the entire collection authored by Nicholas Brighton, teacher, philosopher, and the area's first and foremost civil rights agitator.
“Last winter,” Bryce said, “I had a meeting with our foundation board in San Francisco, and I stopped by the PAD offices in San Francisco in hopes of speaking with you. Then your husband told me you spend about half your time right here in Alta. Afterward, I learned you are the brains of Drake's hotel operation, the power behind the throne. I felt pretty stupid that I didn't even realize you were here."
He felt pretty stupid as well about the tumescence he was feeling now, but he couldn't help himself. The young woman gazing at him with eyes the color of aquamarines had a waspish waist and voluptuous curves, long legs and slim ankles, and gorgeous Titian hair rippling down to the rounded line of her ass.
A goddess, much too good for old Drake.
Bryce added: “I assume Mr. Dimmer told you about our meeting.”
Marlena nodded at him in a neutral fashion, though Coddie had not done so.
“Do you mind terribly going over it all again with me?” She batted her long eyelashes, then added a lie on Coddie's behalf: “My memory is not what it should be.”
Bryce told her that when her grandmother married John Bellum, she voluntarily waived all rights of inheritance to Scattergood trust properties. She even created a binding legal document that carried forward to all descendants.
“Apparently she acted out of emotional spite. I hope you don't mind my saying so.”
Sarah’s family had posed strong objections to her marriage to John Bellum, who was a Presbyterian, even though he promised to change his religion to accommodate the wishes of his bride's Catholic family. Sarah never forgave them their harshness; she split from the family, never speaking to them again.
“Granny was a flinty pioneer woman,” Marlena admitted. “When she lost her twin infant girls to diphtheria, she threw her rosary across the room, and she never forgave God. Please, go on.”
Bryce said Sarah's exclusion of her descendants from any interest in the amassed Scattergood properties, though it might be legal, represented to him an ethical problem. He didn’t like to think his good fortune was at someone else’s expense.
Ultimately he had decided to do something about it, which was why he'd sought her out in San Francisco.
He went on to say the northern California real estate holdings of Ian Scattergood had long ago been parceled out to various charities. But, there were several historic Alta properties remaining in the trust which were about to be put on the market for a price much below market value. Investors were eagerly hovering, and in anticipation of this pre-arranged sale, Bryce had been called into San Francisco for his necessary consent.
He'd told the bank officers he felt it was his moral obligation to offer Sarah Bellum’s grand-daughter first right of refusal, even though her acting on the option would effectively block the large development deal. Reluctantly, they had drawn up papers that put the offer to her in writing.
“When I gave your husband the document, as he requested, I also told him the land under your grandparents' home--or the Fairwell house, as it's historically known--is the only hindrance to West Third Street being developed."
"By that you mean, what?"
"They will raze the buildings, clear cut the trees, and erect cheap, coyote ugly condominiums.”
Hearing received no contact after his visit, Bryce had assumed there was no interest on her part. Now, he was being pressured to ink his consent to the pre-arranged sale.
“Are the investors local?” she asked.
“Local and powerful. I guess you know that means Harry Drake. But,” he added, looking her squarely in the eye, “it’s not too late for you to change the game back to square one.”
Marlena had followed his briefing closely, clenching an embroidered linen handkerchief Annie had pressed upon her as she left the house.
Was Scattergood motivated by a desire other than altruism? He came from a long line of naturalists and environmentalists who were also savvy businessmen. Was he casting about for a likeminded partner to help him beat the developers at their own game?
What about Coddie’s role in the play action? Had he forgotten about Bryce’s visit and the tendered offer? Was there another reason he had kept the information from her?
“I very much appreciate your giving me another chance."
Bryce looked at her keenly.
She’d said “me," not “us,” and she’d introduced herself by her maiden, not her married, name.
He said, “I'd buy it myself if I wasn't so over-invested. I’ve been holding the wolves at the door for some time. Oh, I’m sorry, ma'am. It occurs to me Harry Drake is your employer.”
Marlena could feel the blood rushing into her face.
What was behind Harry’s involvement? He might have inside information, possibly about the interminably delayed northeast freeway, bringing a population surge to the district and a bonanza for developers with cheap land at their disposal.
Harry may have counted on the bad blood between the Bellums and Scattergoods to keep me out of the loop regarding the value of our property.
“So, do you think the bank’s interest in the Bellum house is connected to the development deal?”
“It smells like it.”
“What would you advise us to do?”
“I would strongly advise holding tight. They’re eager to push the deal through before the situation changes. There’s money coming into the area, not only from investors who see potential for a quick buck, but also from a different kind of investor, those working with government agencies to restore historic architecture in America’s small towns."
He told her rehabilitation projects were springing up all over the country. Ordinary citizens were saving old houses and building historic replications in vacant lots.
"It’s exciting for someone like myself, or anyone who values our storied past. In your case, you have the right background and the opportunity to make a difference and save a community’s history.”
So that was the pitch.
She knew what Harry would think of it. Outside of his twin castles, Harry was all for throwing up crap and reaping quick profits. Some charged he'd lavished money on circumventing common land regulations, to develop untitled property for his own purposes.
She didn't mind that Harry's home and hotel were monuments to himself, but she didn't like his shoddy time shares. And she minded very much if her heritage was to be sacrificed on the altar of monopoly.
Marlena’s eyes blazed. "I hate what’s happening in our country. Unbridled development is draining the life’s blood from our small towns."
Scattergood sat up straighter.
“It needs to be stopped, before there isn’t a small town in America that hasn't been malled to death, without a shred of identity or vitality left in the original downtown.”
In the sixties, instead of agitating against the war, Marlena had put her energies into attempting to defeat the forces that were toppling beloved old buildings. She’d traveled to New York in 1963 to protest the demolition of Pennsylvania station, a nine-acre building of glass and steel with a soaring 450-foot ceiling that had captured the modern spirit and stood as the landmark for New York City since 1910.
Sadly, the building was sacrificed and replaced by a boxing ring and a subway station, but the long fight was credited with sparking the architectural preservation movement and the National Register of Historic Places.
“I see I have an able ally," observed Bryce. "I’ll continue to hold off the wolves as long as possible. But you can help in the short run by not selling your historic house to those Rotarians at the bank. They’d as soon swing a wrecking ball at it as a golf club.”
“And they’d hang you at their sunrise meeting for tattling, Mr. Scattergood. Or bite your leg off with their big false teeth.”
“Call me Bry.”
“Call me Lena. I've never seen a condo development that I didn't want to tear down--including Top Hat.”
"That's what I hoped to hear."
They were both thinking of Hatter's Field.
In olden days, when Hatter's Field was viewed as unusable commons not worth stealing from the Indians, Hatter’s Field and its highest point, a thumb-like landmark known as the Hat, were un-gated. The Hat bore a resemblance to Devils Tower, thirty four miles distant, though it was much smaller; both overlooked the Belle Fourche River.
Now, the Hatter’s Field wilderness was enclosed by security fencing that bore the stamp of Drake Enterprises. The iconic Hat was brimmed by the ugly sprawl of Drake’s new time-share project, Top Hat, adjacent to the Alta Hotel. The sight of it made Marlena feel physically sick. No true native, she thought, would be caught dead owning a "time share" on Hatter's Field.
“I’ll take my chances with the bankers and the developers,” Bryce was saying. “And if they start showin' teeth, I’ll wear my leather breeches. Now we both know where the wind lies. I'll wait for your call as to when we should meet again."
"I'll get back to you very soon, probably right after Christmas."
"Good. Well, is there anything else I can help you with today?”
“I'd like to use your bathroom, if I may, and then your telephone.”
“The bathroom is down the hall, to the left of the moose head. The office is yours as long as you like. I'll leave you to it, as I’ve got a showing down the street. Just lock the front door behind you when you leave.”
“Thanks, Bry. I’ll think carefully about your offer.”
After fiddling with something on his desk, Bryce wound a muffler around his neck, shook hands warmly, and went out the door.
Chapter Eighteen
From her perch on the wooden toilet seat, Marlena found she was gazing squarely at a poster of Charlie's Angels. It was good to know her ally was no Bible-toting jackass. Scattergood probably jerked off while he was sitting here.
Any woman might be happy to have those stout arms around her. Why didn't she fall for guys like Bryce, the upright, protective type? What was it about Harry that drew her to him so obsessively?
She forced her mind back to Scattergood.
He had made her see Alta in a new light. Right here in her home town was a cause very dear to her heart, the rescue of historic buildings. It could be combined with saving her own heritage, about which, she was beginning to realize, she knew very little.
Tomorrow, however, would be another story. Her head would be swimming with family history, the naughty story of old cousin Cassandra that had been forbidden fruit for over twenty years.
As she returned to the office, she resolved to check out further what Scattergood had implied about Drake Enterprises and the detrimental effect of corporate greed on the community.
While she lingered in the leather desk chair, enjoying the aroma of pipe smoke and the pleasant afterglow of their enlightening conversation, her eyes fell on a scrapbook. It was placed so she could scarcely help from being drawn to it.
Had Bryce Scattergood left it there on purpose?
She felt a queasy lurch of disloyalty, but kept on turning page after page of yellowed newspaper clippings. Each revealed a new shenanigan in the region's development. One headline in particular caught her eye: “Prince of Darkness Uncloaked as Spy for Feds in Native American Land Scandal.”
“Prince of Darkness” referred to Princeton Negrah, a man she knew to be one of Drake’s secret, powerful partners.
The story behind the headline was an eye-popping thriller, a tale of political payoffs and scamming that had occurred back in the late 1960's when Negrah had got the permitting necessary for building “affordable housing” on vacant land near Laramie that had once been occupied by a Native American tribe, now dwindled to three families.
When bribery stopped working, Negrah resorted to a genetics scam, claiming he was twenty percent Cherokee; he had the forged DNA tests to prove it. Therefore, he was legally exempt from the land protection laws applicable to non-native Americans.
A sidebar told the story of Princeton Negrah, who was neither East Indian nor Native-American Indian. Born a dairy hand's son in Wyoming as plain Richard Miller, he changed his name in the early 60's and set out in a turban to develop wildernesses. The first of the young man's holdings was a dirt parking lot in Laramie, offered in lieu of cash for a variety of nefarious services that earned him a nickname among associates as "the Prince o
f Darkness."
The parking lot had been transformed into a real estate empire by 1965, encompassing huge tracts of vacant land, the ownership of which had been previously untested in the courts. All transactions took place behind closed doors.
In 1969, a fraudulent scheme to take over a huge tract of unclaimed Native American property in Wyoming was uncovered by a Laramie reporter. It promised to be as big as the Teapot Dome Scandal of the 1920’s. The land-grab scheme took down a hapless mayor and county attorney who were implicated in the payoff pipeline. The attorney was disbarred and the mayor got out of his fix the hard way. He died of a heart attack on the tarmac of the Casper Airport as he was preparing to fly to Brazil, in a desperate move to head off arraignment on federal charges.
Princeton Negrah, however, remained untouched by the scandal. In this instance, he had been working for the Feds, wearing a wire in his Brooks Brothers boxer shorts. His silent partner Harold Drake then stepped in to parlay the land negotiations, more openly playing the role of Satan to Negrah's Prince of Darkness. The deal had been stalled by environmentalists for years, but it was now nearing completion.
Chapter Nineteen
Marlena dialed her mother's room number at Ho Jo's. After seven rings, Faith answered the phone.
“Mama? It’s Lena.”
“Oh, hi, Lena.”
“You sound distracted.”
“What? It’s just that the maid is in here again.”
Marlena laughed. “You're keeping an eye on your fries.”
“Fries? What nonsense are you talking, Lena? It’s way past lunch time.”
“Nothing, Mama. It’s an expression. Listen, I’m here at Bryce Scattergood’s office. He gave me an earful about the local real estate picture. His advice is the same as Coddie’s. He says we shouldn’t jump at any offers on the house. How much is the mortgage on it?"
"It's $25,000 and change, not exactly chicken feed."
The Fire Night Ball Page 10
