Last Call: A Camden Ranch Novel

by Jillian Neal

  “Listen Cheryl, we’re heading out. We’re leaving for Anchorage tonight. It’ll be a long trip. It was nice to see you.” One of the many things he’d learned in special ops training was how to lie. That had served him well.

  “Well, at least give me your new number so we can keep in touch. You still own that business you were telling me about. It sounded so lucrative and exciting.”

  T never told anyone outside the agency what he actually did for a living. He searched his mind for exactly which story he’d told Cheryl.

  “Company went bankrupt,” Griff explained. “He lost everything. Can’t get a job doing anything but working the pipelines in Alaska. Rough work. No money. He’s got nothing to show for it but debt.” He slapped T on the back consolingly. Okay, so T wasn’t the only one who occasionally came up with brilliant ideas.

  “Oh.” Cheryl took two steps backward and T almost laughed out loud. “Well… uh… it was nice to see you.” She ran away from them like they’d suggested she go back to Camden Ranch and take on Mrs. Austin Camden again.

  “Okay, I owe you one,” T sighed.

  “Oh, dude, you owe me more than one. What the hell? Did you sleep with her?”

  “I was hard up.”

  “You see the statue of the cowboy on the horse right there?” He pointed to the small concrete statue in front of the courthouse. “Even he is not hard up enough to go there. Now, since someone in this town besides Triple A knows your name, we’re gonna go get lost until tonight when we can come back and do this right, fucker.”

  “Yeah, all right. Where the hell do you get lost in a town like this?”

  “Let’s take a drive and figure out what we can see of Camden ranch.”

  T’s phone rang while they drove past the Camden’s land. It extended on for miles. “Biggest cattle ranch I’ve seen in a while,” he commented before taking the call. “Talk to me, Mad-Dog.”

  “Two hundred and fifty acre farm of sorts. Nothing on it but wheatgrass. They’ve got it leased to Orpington Cattle for the moment and a feedlot management company in town is managing it. Nothing out of the ordinary. Lease agreement says the Camdens have owned it for the past twenty-five years. There’s been no changes in ownership or any sign that they sold any of it off or purchased more. Sorry, T. Looks like this is a dead end.”

  “Marking something off the list isn’t a bad thing. Easier for me to figure this out if it’s up here anyhow. Triple A says to thank you for your help. That goes for me, too.”

  “No problem. How’s he doing?”

  “He’s got it bad for a cowgirl. If he doesn’t fuck this up you might get a wedding invite sometime.”

  “Oh, yeah? Good for him. He deserves something good in this life. Tell him to give me a call sometime.”

  “Will do.” He ended the call. “Got nothing to do with the land in Oklahoma.”

  “I figured,” Griff sighed. “If land changed hands records of it have to be in that courthouse.”

  “What time do you figure everyone in this town goes to sleep?”

  “Well, you gotta give Junior time to do his chores and his homework then there’ll be some top ten rides or some other shit everyone’ll watch on the PBR network assuming the satellite signals don’t give out ’cause we’re out here in Bumblefuck. God, I do not miss this,” Griff spat with far more anger than was necessary.

  T loved growing up on a ranch. The wide open prairies of Camden Ranch made him long to turn down the gravel road and baptize himself in the sanctuary of it all. Hell, he’d even shovel manure if they’d just let him stay for a day or two. Griff hadn’t fared as well. He still held a grudge.

  “Want to have a conversation with me that we’ll swear we never had?” T hoped he’d agree. This had been eating at him ever since they’d seen Cheryl.

  “Is it gonna be about how fucking gorgeous Natalie is and how jealous Cheryl is and why women do shit like that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We got nothing to burn but time. Why not?”

  “She’s pretty, right?”

  “She ain’t my type but she’s all kinds of Triple A’s. You see her ass? Damn. This town wants to build a sculpture and put it in front of the courthouse that’s what they ought to show off.”

  “You know they get that way from riding.”

  “Guess the country does have something going for it.”

  “A’s always liked ’em small with an ass men would donate a nut just to see.”

  “Well, he got it all then. She’s gorgeous and more importantly she’s smart and sweet and all kinds of into him. Cheryl’s a gold digger with three functioning brain cells and they’re all squealing give me mon-eee. I’m done with this conversation now. A’s in love with her. That’s all I need to know.”

  T chuckled. “Yeah, all right.”

  By ten o’clock, the honkytonk where Aaron worked was the only thing open. The rest of the main thoroughfare through town was dark and empty.

  “Let’s park at the bar, keep to the shadows, and see what we find,” Griff commanded.

  T parked behind the bar. “Wonder where A and Natalie are tonight?”

  “His bed if he’s got any sense left.”

  “Oh, come on Griff. How have you not figured this out yet?”

  “Figured what out?”

  “Whatever this guy did to her scared her badly enough to be afraid of men. That’s part of why A wants this guy dead instead of just mangled but breathing. I’ll bet you a Benjamin he hasn’t gotten her in his bed yet. He’d never want to scare her more.”

  “Poor kid. Now I want him dead, too. At first I just wanted to beat the shit out of him because A didn’t like him. I didn’t know what he did was that bad. Sick bastard.”

  T-Byrd nodded. “So, let’s go find this shitwhistle.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Aaron rang out his register drawer and emptied the tip cup. There were two fifties in it along with a handful of ones and a few fives. What the hell? T-Byrd and Griff. Shame slithered over his skin. He didn’t need their charity.

  “You made somebody’s day.” Natalie beamed at him.

  “They shouldn’t have done this.”

  “They wanted you to have it. That’s what friends do for each other, right?”

  “Maybe.” Deciding to spend it on her, he grinned. “Okay, so it’s lady’s choice this evening.” He took her hand and escorted her out to his truck.

  “What does that mean?”

  “I came up with three date ideas and you get your choice.”

  “Okay.” Her brow furrowed but delight danced in the moonlight in her eyes.

  “First option, you tell me your favorite place in this tiny-ass town and we go there and hang out. Second choice, we go out to the County Fair in North Platte.”

  “I love the fair. I haven’t been in years. I didn’t even know it was in town.”

  “Then let’s go, baby.”

  “No, wait, what’s my third choice?”

  “We go to Ogallala and get Runza’s and then go to the drive-in that they opened back up since the theater’s being rebuilt.”

  “Wow, when you decide you’re going to make plans you really go all out.”

  Aaron chuckled. “I am definitely not a man who does anything halfway, babe. Besides I figure whichever two we don’t do we can do another time.”

  “I really don’t care what we do. I just like hanging out with you.”

  “Well, I was planning on being with you on all three dates,” he teased her.

  “All right, smarty pants, take me to the fair.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He ran his right hand over her ass as she climbed up in his truck.

  “Or we could go back to my house and do more of that,” she offered hopefully.

  He climbed in the driver’s seat and turned the key. “You are going to be the death of me, woman. We’ll get to all of that later. I might even cop a feel on the Ferris Wheel.”

  “Luke go
t caught with his hand down Indie’s jeans at the fair when they were in high school. The North Platte Sheriff called Mama and Daddy and her parents. I thought Mama was going to kill him. Every time they went out for a year after that Grant and Austin would ask him if he wanted to take his gloves with him.” She giggled.

  “Poor guy. Rough getting caught by the sheriff.”

  “Don’t feel too bad for him. He can talk his way out of anything. It was just that the sheriff didn’t know who he was. It was high time he got caught doing something.”

  “What’s your favorite ride at the fair?”

  “I like anything where you feel like you’re flying. The Skyflyer is my favorite. I love how the wind whips in your face and you’re so far off the ground you can barely see the people below you.”

  “You ought to try jumping out of planes.” The words fell out of his mouth without much thought. He used to love that feeling, too. Those moments when you floated between the clouds and the ground, where no one could reach you, when destiny stretched out in front of you, the rush and the free fall, the lift and rip of the chute, he’d lived for that a lifetime ago.

  “I can’t believe you used to do that.”

  “Came with the job.”

  “I know your job was probably awful but did you like that part?”

  “It wasn’t always awful. I lived for the jumps.”

  “Whenever I get to really fly on Sundance it’s the greatest part about being a cowgirl. No one can touch you while you’re flying. Everything blurs around you. Everything that’s important matters and everything that doesn’t just fades away. It’s like in that moment life makes sense. No one can get to you, you know?”

  “Yeah, baby, believe me, I know.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  T-Byrd

  Glancing back over his shoulder once more, T watched Griff extract the lock pick set from his pocket. They were in the shadows of a huge cottonwood but not quite as covered as he would’ve preferred.

  Griff had spotted a side entrance to the courthouse. It was a safer bet than walking in the front but it was a push-handle door. Picking it would be far more difficult.

  Taking a chance, T pulled on a glove and pressed the latch handle. To his shock, it opened.

  “What the hell? They don’t even lock up the freaking courthouse?” Griff huffed quietly.

  “Middle of Nebraska my friend, not the middle of Baghdad. Bet the front door’s locked but not this one.”

  They slipped inside and Griff eased the door shut. “I’m locking this. I don’t want any interruptions.”

  “Just remember to unlock it when we leave.”

  “We have to go out this way, genius.”

  “See, if we’d come in this afternoon we could’ve seen all of this in the daylight,” T reminded him.

  “We were too busy with Cheryl.”

  “How the hell was I supposed to know she’d show up?”

  “It’s a small town, T. Everyone shows up because showing up is all there is to do.”

  T clicked his Taclight on and kept it low. There was a front counter, a desk in the corner, eight by ten photographs of mayors from the last hundred years along one wall, and three rooms with shut doors behind the counter. One was conveniently labeled Land and Family Records.

  “This is going to be like taking candy from a baby.” He immediately took photographs of the room with his phone so they’d be able to restore the things they went through to make certain no one knew anyone had been in the courthouse after hours.

  “I don’t know. This computer looks like it crawled up from the Carter administration. We should’ve brought Echo with us,” Griff huffed.

  “We don’t need Echo for this. Boot it and see if there’s anything interesting but I’m betting everything we need is in there.” He pointed to the door.

  “I’m not sure it’ll even boot without defib paddles, man. Hang tight, I’ll see.”

  The threadbare carpeting in the front room appeared to be older than the computer, but T was thankful for it. It did a decent job of masking their footsteps.

  Griff shook his head. The computer groaned to life only to display a picture of three kids with jelly smeared faces sitting in a tree. Had to be somebody’s grandkids.

  “Looks like this is mostly for show. This is probably the only courthouse in America that didn’t get metal detectors after nine eleven.

  “Nah, I bet none of these ranching towns have ’em. It’s a different world. You know that.”

  “Yeah, I know and I want to get back to the real one. Let’s check the records room.”

  T tried the door. “Well, you are gonna get to use your lock pick kit after all.”

  “Good. I’m glad something’s secure. This is way too fucking easy.”

  The lock took less than five minutes to pick and Griff was pissy again. T rolled his eyes. “Not everything has to be difficult.”

  Metal filing cabinets lined every wall of the room. Griff tugged on the drawer label with a handwritten C. “Spoke too soon, my friend. Every one of these drawers is locked too.” This seemed to please Griff.

  “Good thing I hired a guy who can break most any lock.” This lock proved no more difficult than the door.

  Griff extracted a handful of manila folders. “The Camdens.” He laid them on a folding table in the center of the room.

  T rubbed his hands together. “I love my job.”

  “You take the first half. I’ll take the second.”

  T set a Rothco anglehead flashlight on the table and they dug in. “Okay, I love my job slightly less.”

  “I take it you just figured out there’s no filing system here. They just stick stuff in the folders however feels good.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  An hour later, he stumbled upon something very interesting. “Hand me those birth certificates.” He pointed to a neat stack by Griff.

  “Okay, so Ev and Jessie have five living children, right?”

  “Uh yeah, I’ve got Lucas, Grant, Austin, Natalie, and Holly. Here are their records.”

  “Yeah, so who is Brock Camden?”

  “Uh…” Griff dug through papers until he located another yellow sheet of paper. “Birthdate in 1982. No death certificate that I see. Mother’s signature is here. Her name is Mary Mendell Camden. No father’s signature.”

  “Apparently, half of Camden Ranch actually belongs to him. Looks like it’s nothing more than a gentlemen’s agreement. It’s not even typed, just handwritten.”

  “But he isn’t one of the kids.”

  “Right, so who the hell is he?” The familiar feeling of discovery and digging surged through T. He loved this part.

  “Hang on. Okay, I’ve got a marriage certificate for Everett and Jessie and one for Henry and Camille from 1952. There’s one for Austin and Summer, Lucas and Indieanna, Holly and Declan St. James, who I also have immigration paperwork on, one for Grant and Kaitlyn Sommerville, and one for Brock Camden and Hope Hendrix. They’ve been married a while and had to have gotten married here for the certificate to be here.”

  “Was he adopted?”

  “I haven’t come across any adoption paperwork and you and I both know if he had there’d be four more folders of just that.” Griff sighed.

  “And I’m back to who the hell is he.”

  “Answer has to be here somewhere. Dig.”

  “Holy fuck.” T lifted another set of birth certificates from one of his folders. Certainty and accomplishment surged through him. This was why he loved his job.

  “What?”

  “Looks like Henry and Camille had two children, Everett and Michael.”

  “Who’s Michael? Why haven’t we seen more of his shit?”

  “No idea, but I’m betting I know who Brock belongs to.”

  “Interesting. Did Cheryl ever mention any of the Camdens while she was trying to calculate your net worth, specifically whoever Michael is?”

  “I wasn’t interested in her telling me all about the resi
dents of Pleasant Glen.”

  “Work from what we know. Find everything you can on Brock.”

  “On it.” They continued reading every piece of paper and stacking them according to generation and then individual families in each generation.

  “There’s got to be more somewhere. We’re missing something. I feel it. Do you feel that?”

  “No, but after serving with you for twelve years I tend to trust your feelings,” Griff allowed.

  T stood, stretched out his right calf. The steel rod they’d put in, making him able to walk after the incident, always made him stiff if he sat too long.

  Stalking to another set of filing cabinets, he tugged on yet another drawer labeled C-L. “Dammit, open this one, too.”

  “Don’t get your g-string in a knot.” Griff popped the lock and then returned to his methodical searching.

  Flipping through folder after folder, nothing caught T-Byrd’s eye until he reached the last folder in the drawer. “What do we have here?” He extracted a file from a lawyer’s office. He turned to Griff with a sly grin. “I just found the Camden wills.”

  “Well, bring them over here. We don’t have all fucking night.”

  T flipped through all of the standard lawyer speak laid out in every last will and testament until he reached the special family allocations and instructions.

  Ink written over the typed print on one of the final pages of Henry and Camille Camden’s will immediately caught his eye. “Well, I found Michael.”

  “And?”

  T shoved the will in front of Griff. “Looks like Michael Brock Camden was written out of the will September 27, 2000. Everything was given to Everett and it was done in red ink.”

  A low whistle slid between Griff’s teeth. “Bet that made for some bad blood.”

  “Yeah, but hang on. Everett’s will gives each of the six children, not his five, their agreed upon portion of Camden Ranch with the stipulation that it be given to their children equally upon their deaths.”

  “Wait, when did A say her birthday was?” Griff sorted through one of his piles until he found Natalie’s birth certificate. “September 20, 1988.”

  “He said whatever happened, happened just before her…”