by Janet Dailey
Griff watched him but never said a word. As soon as he plated up the last food order, Griff went to work up a bag of nonperishable items: dried beans; potatoes; flour; coffee; powdered milk; and an assortment of canned meat, vegetables, and fruit. As always, once it was all packed, he set it outside the back door.
Saddlebags had disappeared after emptying the trash, but Griff knew he’d be back to sweep up after they closed for the night. That was the usual routine.
The white cue ball struck the point of the triangular formation with explosive force, sending the first ball crashing into the rest, scattering them over the felt-covered slate. Two balls spiraled into the pockets, landing with a thud.
Flushed with the success of his break shot, Tobe swaggered over to the corner of the pool table and rubbed the chalk over the tip of his cue stick. He grinned at the onlooking Fargo. “I told you this was gonna be my game.”
“We’ll see.” With eyebrows beetling in concentration, Fargo studied the ball layout.
With the last order from the kitchen delivered to its table, Ima Jane made a swing by the billiard area. “Do either of you need another beer?”
“I’ve gotta win some of my money back from this one-armed hustler first,” Tobe told her when Fargo shook his head in refusal.
“Good luck.” Leaving them, Ima Jane made her way to Angie’s table. “Do you need a refill on that iced tea?”
“I don’t think so, thanks,” Angie refused, then turned to the young girl sitting with her. “How about you, Dulcie? Would you like another Coke?”
Dulcie answered with a mute shake of her head, then popped another ice cube into her mouth and crunched noisily on it.
“In that case, I’ll join you two.” Ima Jane pulled out a chair and sat down at their table, taking advantage of the fact that business, as usual, was slow on a Sunday night. Not counting Angie, Fargo, Tobe, and Dulcie, there hadn’t been more than a half dozen customers in. Saddlebags made seven, but Ima Jane didn’t consider him a customer. “You’ll never guess who showed up at the back door a while ago. Saddlebags.” She volunteered the answer. “Luke told you all about him, didn’t he?”
Angie nodded. “He’s the old man who’s been looking for the gold.”
“That’s him,” Ima Jane confirmed. “And he was very curious about you—and what you were doing out there. Of course, I explained who you were and your reason for coming. Then something interesting happened.”
“What?” she asked, her curiosity aroused.
“When I mentioned that you had shown us the letter and indicated that it contained no useful information about the gold’s hiding place, he acted as if he had known that all along. Which tells me that somehow, someway, he got his hands on the copy your grandfather brought with him.”
“It’s possible,” Angie agreed. “Almost none of my grandfather’s things were recovered with the body.”
“I’ll bet you anything that Saddlebags found them and kept them for himself. Can’t you just imagine how excited he must have been when he discovered that letter among his things? And how disappointed he was afterward?”
“Luke mentioned that he’s been searching for years,” Angie recalled idly.
“He’s grown old searching for it. If that doesn’t prove how futile looking is, nothing will,” Ima Jane declared.
“You’re probably right.” But Angie was convinced she had discovered a vital key.
“I know I am,” Ima Jane insisted, then glanced at the front door, distracted by another thought. “I wonder where Luke is tonight.”
“He said he had chores to do at the ranch.”
“Just the same, he’s usually here on Sunday nights unless they’re in the middle of calving, haying, or roundup. It’s not like him to stay at the ranch alone.” Her statement had the ring of knowledge.
Angie had learned just enough about Luke to want to know more. “Why?”
“Why what?” Ima Jane turned, her expression blank of understanding.
“Why wouldn’t it be like him to stay alone at the ranch?”
“Because—” She paused to make a quick, assessing study of Angie. “I imagine you noticed the ruins of the ranch house while you were there.”
“Yes. Luke told me it had been destroyed in a fire a few years back.”
Ima Jane’s expression took on a wise and knowing look. “I don’t imagine that he also told you his wife and two-year-old son were killed in that fire.”
“No.” Angie was stunned by the news. “No, he didn’t.”
“It was such an awful tragedy,” Ima Jane recalled, with a sigh. “A fire is devastating enough, but losing your wife and child, too.... Luke has never fully recovered from that.”
“I don’t know if anyone ever recovers from a loss like that. You just learn to go on with your life.”
“So far, Luke has only managed to go on living,” Ima Jane said, with regret. Then she went on to explain, “The spring following the fire, a bunch of us went out there—in all, there were probably thirty of us, friends and neighbors—to help haul away all the rubble and clean up the site. We planned on pitching in to build a new ranch house, like the old-fashioned barn raisings. But Luke chased us off. He wanted it all left just the way it was—a kind of memorial, I guess. As if he needed a reminder.”
“I’m sorry.” For what, Angie couldn’t have said exactly. A whole host of emotions welled up inside her, sympathy and regret among them.
“We all are.” Ima Jane’s mouth curved in a sad smile of understanding. “Most of all, I think we’re sorry about what it’s done to him. In some ways, he isn’t the same man at all.”
“That’s to be expected, though,” Angie stated. “We’re all changed by the things we go through in life.”
“That’s true, I know, but—” A troubled frown altered her expression as Ima Jane searched for the words to explain her concern. “I suppose it’s his drinking that bothers me most. Maybe it isn’t a problem now, but in time, it will be.”
On that, Angie had to agree.
Grease popped and spattered around the fat patty of ground chuck in the iron skillet. Luke lifted a corner of it with a metal spatula to see if it was ready to turn. Almost, he concluded and left it to brown a little more, then used a fork to test the potatoes boiling in another pan on the stove. The centers were still on the hard side of firm. He put the lid back on the pan and laid the fork on the spoon rest along with the spatula, then reached for the drink glass sitting on the counter.
Barely a quarter inch of amber-colored whiskey remained in the bottom of it. All the rest was ice. When he tipped the glass to his mouth, he got a noseful of cubes along with the swallow of liquor.
The fifth of Wild Turkey by the sink held less than a shot. Unconcerned, Luke emptied it into the glass, tossed the bottle into the trash, and opened the cupboard door above it. Another fifth of whiskey sat on the shelf, its seal unbroken.
As his hand touched the bottle, the lid to the potatoes rattled a noisy accompaniment to the sound of rapidly boiling water. It bubbled over the sides of the pan and fell onto the red-hot burner, erupting in a hiss of steam. Cursing under his breath, Luke swung to rescue the potatoes and accidentally bumped the whiskey bottle. It somersaulted off the shelf, struck the edge of the countertop, and cracked open like an egg, spraying liquor and chips of thick glass everywhere.
For a split second, Luke froze, torn between the shattered bottle with its pooling whiskey on the floor and the pan boiling over on the stove. But the wildly rattling lid and the smell of scorched potato water demanded immediate attention.
Swearing in earnest now, Luke jerked the pan from the burner and turned off the heat to it, then went to work picking up the chunks and bits of glass from the broken whiskey bottle. Once they were all gathered, he dumped them in the trash and stalked to the utility room for a mop and a bucket.
When he reentered the kitchen, he was greeted by the stench of two new aromas mingling with the reek of whiskey: scorched green beans a
nd charred beef. One look confirmed what his nose had told him; his supper, dull as it had been, was ruined.
In disgust, he switched off the burners, left the pans to set, and turned to the puddle of liquor on the floor, his temper simmering with the knowledge he couldn’t even console himself with a drink. He made a couple of swipes with the mop to absorb the bulk of the liquid, then jammed the mop in the bucket.
“The hell with it.” He snatched up his hat and truck keys before heading for the door and Ima Jane’s.
Angie waited by the cash register while Ima Jane rang up her bill. At the pool table, Tobe and Fargo were playing off the night’s second rubber match. Dulcie sat alone at the table, quietly drawing on a blank sheet of paper Ima Jane had provided along with a cup of crayons. Something told Angie this wasn’t the first time Dulcie had entertained herself in such a manner while waiting for Tobe.
Studying Dulcie’s head, bent in concentration over her drawing, Angie was struck by the fact she had met all these people for the first time just a little over twenty-four hours ago. Yet, despite the short time she’d spent with them, she had the feeling she’d known them most of her life. The thought brought a small, bemused smile to her lips.
“Are you sure you won’t reconsider and sleep upstairs tonight?” Ima Jane counted out her change.
“Thanks, but I’ll be fine in the camper.” Angie slipped the change in her wallet and returned it to her purse.
“If you’re sure.” But her expectant glance invited Angie to change her mind.
“I’m sure.”
“Okay, but if you should hear any strange noises in the night, you just holler.”
“I will,” Angie promised, then wished her a good night and waved to Dulcie.
Watching her leave, Ima Jane half hoped someone would come prowling around the camper and instantly felt guilty for wishing such a thing. It was just that there had been so much talk, so much excitement swirling about, generated first by the discovery of the skeleton, then by Angie’s arrival and the existence of the letter with its possible clues to the missing gold.
Ima Jane wished that Angie had never shown them the letter. Speculating about its contents had been infinitely more stimulating than reading them. The aura of mystery was gone, and life threatened to return to its mundane patterns. It would seem terribly dull and uninteresting after this.
“She isn’t callin’ it a night already, is she?” Griff’s question pulled her around.
“No, she said she was going to do some reading and relax a little before turning in.” Her voice sounded as flat as she felt. Ima Jane couldn’t even summon up enough curiosity to wonder why Griff had asked.
He grunted a response of sorts, then swept a narrowed glance over the nearly empty tables. “Doesn’t look like we’ll have any more customers tonight. I’m gonna start cleanin’ up the kitchen.”
“Might as well,” she agreed, but Griff hadn’t bothered to wait for her approval. He was already heading toward the kitchen.
“Dulcie,” Fargo called and propped his pool stick against the wall. “You watch this brother of yours and make sure he doesn’t cheat while I’m in the john.”
“Ha!” Tobe countered. “If there’s any cheatin’ goin’ on around here, you’re the one doin’ it.”
Fargo snorted at that and started down the back hall. “You were the one movin’ the cue ball, not me,” he taunted over his shoulder.
“That was an accident,” Tobe protested to Fargo’s back, then swung to Ima Jane, desperate to convince someone of that. “I swear it was.”
“Of course.” Her murmured response showed the measure of her distraction.
The first evening stars glittered against the sky’s purpling backdrop. Angie paused on the Rimrock’s steps to drink in the magic of the Wyoming night, breathing in air that was fresh and pure. A quietness enveloped the landscape, magnifying the stillness and the simple sounds of nature.
Cocking her head, she listened to the sigh of a lazy breeze in the nearby trees, the fluttering of wings, and a scurrying in the tall grasses near the roadside. She made a slow descent of the steps, dawdling on each tread, deliberately delaying her walk to the camper.
This was the kind of night meant for sitting on a porch swing idly contemplating the horned moon up above. A night for humming half-forgotten melodies of old songs and watching the dance of fireflies. Back in Iowa, it would be the kind of night for sitting and listening to the corn grow. She was curious to discover what it would be like in Wyoming.
The haunting call of an owl echoed from the trees, plaintive in its cry of “Whooo. Whooo. Whooo.”
“Only me,” Angie replied and smiled at the foolishness of talking to a bird.
The quarter moon’s pale light silvered the graveled lot where the encroaching shadows failed to claim it. On the far end of the lot, the camper’s white sides gleamed softly. Angie strolled toward it, regretting that it didn’t come equipped with a porch and a swing. She wasn’t eager to shut herself inside it, knowing how hot and stuffy it would be after being closed up all day. At the same time, she wanted to kick back and replay the day’s events in her mind.
So much had happened; yet so little had happened, too. So much more was still before her.
The camper, at least, would afford her privacy, Angie reminded herself. And if she cranked out all the windows, hooked the door open, and closed only the screen portion of it, it wouldn’t take long for the camper to cool down.
As concerned as Ima Jane was for her safety she would have a fit if she knew Angie wasn’t locking herself in the camper. Imagining the woman’s reaction if she found out, Angie couldn’t help but smile.
Still smiling at the mental picture, Angie wandered past the other pickup trucks parked in the lot, invading the blackness of their elongated shadows. From far down the highway came the low drone of an approaching vehicle. Glancing around, she spotted the twin beams of its headlights in the distance, glowing like small beady eyes.
With the muffling crunch of her shoes on the gravel, she almost didn’t hear the whisper of sound behind her, a sound like the rushing of air. As she started to look back, pain exploded in her head as something hard struck the side of it with a glancing blow.
She reeled backward, then staggered forward, fighting an inner blackness that threatened to swallow her. Struggling to stay on her feet, Angie stumbled against the tailgate of a parked truck and grabbed hold of it. Something jerked at her arm, pulling her off balance.
Chapter Thirteen
The drive from the ranch had done little to improve the foulness of Luke’s mood. Brakes and tires both squealed when he whipped the steering wheel around, making the turn into the parking lot at a speed faster than wisdom dictated.
The swooping arc of the truck’s headlights raked the building and the vehicles parked outside it, then washed over a figure struggling to rise from the ground, fully illuminating the vivid red lights in her dark hair. Intent on Angie, Luke almost missed the second figure the truck beams captured. A glimpse was all he got of the man momentarily frozen by the glare. Then he was gone, merging with the darkness of the building’s shadows.
In that same flash of an instant, Luke slammed on the brakes, and the pickup fishtailed to a skidding stop. Leaving the truck running with the headlights pointed at Angie, he piled out of the cab and ran to her side. By the time he reached her, she was on her knees, sitting back on her heels. She looked dazed and a little groggy, her face unnaturally white in the beams’ bright glare.
He crouched beside her, laying a hand on her shoulder while his gaze examined her. “What happened? Did you fall?” His own expression was a mixture of concern and lingering irritation.
“Yes—No—I’m not sure.” She reached up and gingerly touched an area behind her ear, then winced immediately. “I think . . . someone hit me. I kind of remember hearing footsteps afterward.”
“Let me look.” He shifted slightly to avoid blocking the light from the pickup and carefully parted
her hair. “You’ve got the beginnings of a bump, but the skin isn’t broken. Did you lose consciousness? Even for a few seconds?”
“No,” she said after some thought, then managed a weak grin. “Although for a split second, I swear I saw stars.”
A part of him admired her ability to find humor in this incident, but another part of him wanted to shake her for not treating it more seriously. For the time being, Luke chose to ignore her comment.
“Can you stand?” he asked.
“Sure,” she replied with easy confidence.
Just the same, Luke maintained a steadying hold on her as she rose to her feet, exhibiting a little awkwardness. Once she was upright, Angie gently cupped a hand over the bump on her head.
“Are you feeling woozy? Sick to your stomach?” He watched her closely.
“No, but my head’s throbbing like it’s been whacked good.”
“Come on. Let’s get you inside.” He circled a bracing arm around her and turned her toward the entrance to the Rimrock.
“No.” She stiffened in resistance. “Ima Jane will fuss all over me. Let’s go to the camper instead. I’ll get my—” She reached for her purse, but it wasn’t there. “My purse.” The pounding of her head was momentarily pushed from her mind as she began scanning the graveled area near her feet. “I must have dropped it.”
But it was nowhere in sight, which didn’t surprise Luke in the least. “It’s not here. The guy who hit you over the head probably took it.”
“But my keys are in it. And my wallet with my money and all my credit cards. And—Oh my gosh.” Stricken by the realization of another now-missing item, she pressed a hand to her mouth.
“The letter, I suppose,” Luke concluded in disgust. “You didn’t take my advice and put it somewhere else.”
“It isn’t that. The letter’s here in my pocket.” She absently touched the side pocket of her slacks. “It’s all of the pictures in my wallet. Most of them are old family snapshots that can’t be replaced.”
