by Janet Dailey
The tavern door opened, and out piled Ima Jane with Tobe, Fargo, and Griff crowding close behind her, all of them clearly in a hurry.
“I wonder where the fire is?” Luke cocked a puzzled glance at the group.
“You don’t suppose there is one?” Angie’s glance raced over the building’s roofline, searching for smoke.
Their attention focused elsewhere, the group led by Ima Jane was halfway to the parking lot before they saw Luke’s truck pull in.
As one, they instantly changed directions and converged on it, forcing Luke to stop in the middle of the lot.
Luke stuck his head out of the window. “What’s the problem?”
Ignoring him, Ima Jane went straight to the passenger side, her expression a study of concern. “I’m so glad you’re back, Angie,” she declared. “Tobe saw somebody messing around your camper.”
“My camper?” Angie repeated in disbelief.
“When?” Luke fired the question at Tobe.
“Just now—when I was driving in.”
“Who was it?”
“I don’t know,” Tobe admitted. “I only got a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye when I pulled in.”
“Tobe thinks the guy was trying to break into your camper. We were on our way to investigate and make sure everything was okay,” Ima Jane inserted. “You’d better come with us, Angie,” she urged.
In a slight daze, Angie reached for the door handle. “But why would anybody want to break into my camper?” she argued in confusion. “There’s nothing in it but my clothes and some snacks.”
“After all this talk about the gold and Wilson’s letter, you have to ask why?” Luke mocked in amazement and switched off the engine while simultaneously reaching for the driver-side door.
An agitated Ima Jane waited for Angie as she climbed out of the truck. She paused to hold the door for Dulcie as she scrambled out of the passenger side, all agog over this frantic flurry of activity and its cause.
“You did lock your camper when you left, didn’t you?” Ima Jane hurried after the men already bound for Angie’s pickup camper.
“I’m sure I did. It’s almost automatic.” Walking swiftly to keep pace with the woman, Angie dug the key to the camper from her purse.
By the time she reached the camper, the others were already there. Before she could insert the key, Luke tried the knob. It turned under his hand, the latch clicking.
“You can forget the key,” Luke told her, pulling the door open.
“I could have sworn I locked it,” Angie frowned in bewilderment, then glanced at Tobe. “You saw me, didn’t you?”
“I don’t know if you locked it or not.” He shrugged his lack of knowledge. “I wasn’t paying any attention.”
Luke inspected the dead-bolt lock. “Were these scratches here before?”
Bending closer, Angie studied the small metal scars around the keyhole. “I’m not sure.” She regretted that she hadn’t taken the time to notice such details when she borrowed the camper.
“Hadn’t you better check and see if anything’s been stolen?” Fargo suggested.
“I guess I should,” Angie agreed, conscious of the uneasy flutterings in her stomach.
When Luke swung the door open for her, she took a step forward. Griff shouldered his way in front of her. “I’ll go first and make sure nobody’s hidin’ in there.”
That possibility hadn’t even occurred to her. She stopped in her tracks, offering no protest when Griff hauled himself into the camper.
“I’ll come with you.” Hitching up her skirts, Ima Jane climbed in after her husband.
“Me, too.” Tobe crammed in behind her.
Smiling grimly, Luke opened the door wider and waved Fargo toward its high steps. “You might as well go in, too, and give Beauchamp another set of fingerprints to sort through.”
“No, thanks.” Fargo remained where he was, his mouth quirked in a wry smile, and held up the metal pincer hook that served as his left hand. “Besides, this claw of mine doesn’t leave fingerprints.”
The camper shell rocked and groaned with the shifting movements of its occupants. From inside came the sounds of bathroom and closet doors opening and closing, curtain hoops scraping across rods, and the odd thump without an identifiable cause. Somehow Griff managed to squeeze past the others and appear in the doorway.
“If there was anybody in there, they’re gone now.” He swung to the ground and turned back to give Ima Jane a hand out of the camper.
“I’m not sure, but I think someone has definitely been in there,” she told Angie. “But you’re the only one who can tell for sure.”
Angie waited until Tobe emerged, then climbed into the camper. Her eye went first to the blanket and sheets hanging loose from the mattress in the cab-over bunk. All had been neatly tucked under when she had returned to the camper before church and lingered long enough to make up the bed.
Then she noticed the family scrapbook lying on the table of the recessed dining nook. It had been stowed in the overhead cupboard along with her area maps. The folder with those same maps now lay on a seat cushion. Angie was certain, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she hadn’t left them there.
Last night she’d been too tired to do more than undress and crawl into bed. This morning, there hadn’t been time.
Knowing that someone had been in the camper gave her an eerie feeling, one Angie found difficult to describe. Something told her she wouldn’t sleep as soundly tonight as she usually did.
A check verified that her clothes were still in the closet and the few items of jewelry she’d brought with her were still in the drawstring bag tucked in her cosmetic case. Other than those things, she had left nothing of value in the camper.
All eyes were fastened on her when Angie returned to the doorway. “Well? Was I right?” Ima Jane prodded her with the question.
“Yes. Someone’s been in here,” Angie replied, still distracted by the discovery. And disquieted by it, too. “But nothing seems to be missing.”
Griff’s eyes narrowed on her. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” She stepped down from the camper.
“What about Wilson’s letter?” Fargo wondered. “Are you positive that wasn’t taken?”
“Gracious!” Ima Jane pressed a hand to her heart in a gesture of shock. “I hadn’t even thought of that.”
“Don’t worry. I still have it.” Angie patted her shoulder bag. “It’s right here in my purse.”
“That’s a good thing,” Ima Jane declared in relief. “I know it’s only a copy of the original, but I’m glad it wasn’t stolen just the same.”
Was that what they were after? Angie wondered, then decided she didn’t want to know the answer to that. Inadvertently she glanced at Luke, and the grimness of his expression seemed to confirm her own unvoiced suspicions.
“It’s time we called Beauchamp and reported this,” he announced.
“Nothing was taken,” Angie said, as a kind of protest. There was a part of her that didn’t want to treat any of this too seriously. And involving the police would do exactly that.
“Breaking and entering is still a felony,” Luke reminded her.
Still reluctant, Angie shook her head. “Just the same, there’s no sense in bothering the sheriff on a Sunday. I have to meet with him tomorrow anyway. I’ll tell him about it then.”
“Have it your way.” But there was a definite edge to his voice.
“Imagine someone breaking into your camper. And in broad daylight, too.” Ima Jane all but tsked in disapproval, then gasped loudly, struck by a sudden thought. “Were any blankets or food missing, Angie? Did you notice?”
“No, I . . . I never even checked—”
Luke interrupted her answer. “If you’re thinking it might have been Saddlebags, you’re wrong,” he told Ima Jane. “We saw him this afternoon at the Ten Bar. And unless he can sprout wings, he couldn’t have made it into town ahead of us—not on foot.”
“It was a t
hought.” Ima Jane looked a little disappointed that it had turned out to be a wrong one. But she was quick to shake it off and send a bright-eyed glance around the group. “Now that the excitement’s over, why don’t we all go back inside and have some coffee.” Compassion warmed the look she gave Angie. “You look like you could use some.”
Angie smiled back. “You’re right. I could.”
“Count me out,” Luke said. “I need to get back to the ranch.” He half turned to leave, then noticed Dulcie. “Are you riding with me or coming back with your brother?”
“With Tobe.” Her upward glance never quite made it to his face.
When the others started toward the tavern, Angie lingered. Ima Jane paused. “Aren’t you coming?”
“In a minute,” she promised. “I need to talk to Luke about something first.”
“What do you need?” he asked when the others moved away. But he didn’t turn to face her, his expression oddly aloof, without its usual hint of amusement.
After a brief hesitation, Angie made her request. “You indicated earlier that you could locate the site of the shoot-out with the posse on the map I have. I wonder if you could take a few minutes and do it now.”
Luke didn’t hesitate at all. “Maybe another time. I’ve got evening chores waiting for me back at the ranch.”
“You’re upset about something.” She was certain of that. “What?”
He regarded her in wry amazement, his mouth twisting in a lazy smile. “Why do you think someone broke into your camper?”
“I’m not sure.” When she remembered the maps and the family scrapbook, honesty made her add, “They might have been looking for the letter.”
“Give the teacher an A,” he mocked in a droll voice.
“But they didn’t get it,” Angie reminded him, touching her purse again. “I have it right here.”
“And who knows that?”
“You, Ima Jane, T—”
“Enough said.” He swung toward his truck, then pivoted back. “Do yourself a favor, and don’t leave that letter in your purse. And wherever you end up putting it, make sure you’re the only one who knows it. Either that or post the damn thing on a wall inside the Rimrock. Which would be the safest thing to do.”
He turned on his heel and walked off, little puffs of dust rising with each strike of his boots on the graveled lot. Her gaze followed him, lingering on his long and lanky frame, a rider’s narrow hips tapering out to wide shoulders. Angie smiled to herself, secretly pleased by the discovery that his irritation was rooted in a concern for her safety. Something told her he didn’t want to care, which further irritated him that he did.
That was something Angie understood. Being attracted to the owner of the Ten Bar Ranch had never been part of her plans for this trip. But that fact was becoming more and more difficult to ignore.
When Luke’s pickup accelerated onto the highway, Angie closed the door to the camper and automatically locked it, well aware that a locked door was no deterrent to a bold thief.
As she returned the key to her purse, her fingers brushed the photocopy of the letter tucked inside it. The contact reminded Angie of Luke’s advice. She smiled again. There was a third option that probably hadn’t occurred to Luke.
Upon entering the Rimrock, Angie saw no trace of its earlier church disguise. The floor was once again crowded with bar tables and chairs, scarred with use. Liquor bottles and drink glasses stood in full view on the shelves of the mirrored back bar. No fragrant candle burned to mask the scent of stale tobacco smoke and sour beer.
Clustered around one of the tables near the long bar sat Ima Jane; her husband, Griff; Tobe; and Fargo. Only Dulcie remained apart from them, perched quietly on a chair at a nearby table, her hand lightly stroking the ponytail drawn over one shoulder.
“There you are, Angie. Come join us,” Ima Jane invited and immediately began issuing orders. “Tobe, pull one of those chairs over here for her. Griff, get Angie some coffee.” When Griff rose, she added, “And bring a spoon, too, for the sugar.”
“Might as well bring the pot back with you,” Fargo told him. “I could use a refill.”
The instant Angie arrived at the table, Ima Jane urged her into the chair Tobe held. “How are you feeling?” she asked, resuming her seat to study Angie with concern.
“Fine,” she insisted and leaned back to give Griff room to set the spoon and coffee cup in front of her.
“Are you sure?” Ima Jane pressed, then murmured, “It has to be an unnerving experience for you to have someone break into your camper like that.”
“It is,” Angie admitted and poured two spoons of sugar into her coffee. “I still don’t understand why anyone would bother. There certainly isn’t anything of any value in there—although Luke thinks they were after Ike Wilson’s letter.”
“Don’t you?” Griff frowned.
“I honestly don’t know what to think.” She took off her ball cap and shook her hair to let it fall in thick, loose waves about her shoulders.
“If you ask me, it’s a good thing you had it with you,” Tobe declared as he swung a leg over the seat of his own chair, straddling it. “Otherwise it would be in someone else’s pocket now.”
“You might be right.” Angie swallowed a sip of coffee, feeling the sweet, strong burn of it travel down her throat and bring a jolt of caffeine to her system, banishing the last remnant of shaky nerves. Lowering the cup, she released a troubled sigh. “But even if the thief had taken the letter, I’m not sure he would have had anything.”
“Are you kiddin’?” Fargo scoffed. “It could point him straight to the gold.”
“It might,” she conceded, using a tone that stressed doubt. “I know my grandfather was convinced that it could. But I must have read it a thousand times and—” Breaking off the sentence, Angie set her cup down and flipped open the purse in her lap. She reached inside and pulled out the folded photocopy of Ike Wilson’s letter. Opening it, she smoothed the creases left by the folds, then pushed it across the table to where Fargo and Griff were seated.
“You read it for yourselves,” Angie told them, “and see if you can find anything more than a few vague references.”
With surprising swiftness, Fargo reached out and pulled the letter to him while Griff crowded against his shoulder to read it with him. Still straddling his chair, Tobe half walked and half dragged it closer to peer across Fargo’s arm at the letter.
“What does it say?” Ima Jane got up and went around behind the two men, then leaned over them to get her own look at it.
“That handwriting is sure hard to read.” Tobe directed his complaint at Angie.
“A different style of penmanship was taught in those days,” she explained.
“It’s a pity the schools today don’t put more emphasis on it,” Ima Jane commented absently, as she gave up trying to read over her husband’s shoulder, and returned to her seat.
“With the advent of computers, it’s on the verge of becoming a lost art.” Angie sipped at her sweetened coffee, eyeing the two men over the cup’s rim as they pored over the letter.
Without effort, she visualized it in her mind: the masculine scroll of the handwriting, the partially underlined date in the upper-right-hand corner, the affectionate salutation, and the body of the letter itself.
12 July, 1887
My dearest Caroline,
It grieves my soul to write this to you, my love. Gold is a curse. I regret that my crime cannot remain forever hidden from you. Tomorrow I die on the gallows. Outside the church bell rings the hour. All that awaits me is a deep, dark hole, a fitting end for murdering thieves. What has happened to the pillar of righteousness you married? The question will haunt me constantly all evening. Temptation dragged me to the bottom. Evil lured me into its shadow. Did not my father’s teachings warn me that greed for wealth points only to destruction?
I alone survived to ride out of that canyon. My sinners in crime met their death there at its very entrance. By God’s
grace I lived. I cannot say if that is right or wrong. God has forgiven me. My heart soars like an eagle in flight. Jesus once again is my salvation and my steadfast rock, as I know He is yours. He will not let this bury you. Cry your tears, my love. Cry your tears ten times ten, then lift your head, my darling wife, and rise to your feet. Mourn not my passing. Instead look to the life that is left. For your sake as well as our son’s, happiness is a reward you both deserve, not the pain I have caused you. Live for tomorrow and place it in God’s hands. Mighty will be your return.
Your repentant husband,
Isaac Alfred Wilson
P.S. Remember. Always remember God’s way is not man’s way.
After a quick scan of the entire contents, Griff went back to study it word by word, while Fargo was content to read it through one time slowly and thoroughly. Angie waited until Fargo straightened away from it, his bushy brows pursed together in a thoughtful frown.
“Do you see what I mean?” she asked. “He does mention a pillar, and something about an eagle, but if those are supposed to be clues, they don’t tell me anything. Do they, you?”
“Nope.” The corners of Fargo’s mouth turned grudgingly downward.
Griff was slower to let go of it. He held up the letter, waggling it back and forth. “Is this all there is?”
“That’s it.” Angie nodded.
“What about the original letter itself? Were there any marks on it? Anything like a drawing or a map?”
“That photocopy shows you every mark that was on the original,” Angie assured him.
He shook his head. “No, I’m not talkin’ about marks that are necessarily visible. A copier would pick those up.”
“Then what are you gettin’ at?” Fargo drew back, his eyes narrowing in confusion.
“Invisible ink, you mean,” Tobe guessed, all bright eyed with certainty.
Ima Jane was skeptical. “Was that even invented when this letter was written?”
