She wasn’t sure how long it might take to authenticate the supposed Randell painting, but she hoped she could do it in a day and spend no more than one night at the ranch. But it was important to get it right. She needed plenty of time to study the painting. This was only a preliminary authentication and she wanted to be sure of the advice she offered to the Morgans.
Amanda drove down to the lodge and parked the car next to a red pickup. She took her carry-on from the trunk, leaving her suitcase in the car. Her carry-on was just big enough for her laptop and cowboy hat, which she had brought along even though she was sure she would never wear it. She was already out of her comfort zone wearing cowboy boots instead of her usual pumps, knee boots, or running shoes.
Up close, the house—or lodge—was even bigger than she had thought. Wide stone steps led up to a large front porch that wrapped around the front and two sides. A balcony to the second floor rooms also wrapped around the front and sides, forming the roof of the porch. The heavy front door of the house was open, covered only by a Victorian-style screen door. Amanda had just reached the top step when she heard yelling and the sounds of a scuffle through the open door.
Suddenly, the screen door burst open and a heavyset man in a black cowboy hat and gray Western cut suit burst out backward, his boot-clad feet backpeddling rapidly as he tried to maintain his balance. Another man, taller and younger, was up in his face, propelling him backward with quick jabs of a pointed finger in his chest. Even though the second man’s face was contorted in anger, she knew immediately that he must be Justin Morgan. He looked so much like Jake that the two men could be twins. The man backing up was almost at the edge of the porch, just a few feet from her.
“Goddammit,” the man was shouting. “It’s mine, Justin! It’s never been yours or your daddy’s or your granddaddy’s.”
The younger man’s eyes, more gray than deep green like Jake’s, were blazing with anger.
“And you’re full of crap, Winslow! Granddaddy hung that painting on the wall a hundred years ago and it’s been there ever since.”
“It’s mine, you son of a bitch! You give it up, you goddamn thief!”
“You get the hell off our property, Winslow, or I’ll kick your ass from hell to Sunday!”
By this time, the man walking backward had reached the edge of the porch. Amanda had to leap to one side to keep from being run over. She made it, but her rolling carry-on didn’t. Just as she tried to jerk it out of the way, the heavy set man stepped down, his boot smashing the center of the bag.
“Watch out,” Amanda cried as she pulled the handle of the bag, trying to get it out of the way. Her effort pulled the man off his feet and he fell sideways, landing in the mud at the edge of the porch.
The younger man gaped at Amanda in open-mouthed astonishment. He had been totally unaware of her presence and now, as she looked in dismay at her crushed roll-on, he forgot all about the man he’d been arguing with.
Winslow, covered in mud and livid with anger, lunged at Amanda and her carry-on, apparently thinking she had tripped him on purpose. “You goddamn bitch! I’ll…”
As she raised her hands and jerked back in fear, almost falling off the porch herself, an arm shot past her shoulder, propelling a fist into Winslow’s nose. Once again, he went down, this time on the steps, blood flowing from his nose onto his muddy suit.
Amanda turned to see it was Jake Morgan who had slugged the man. Two other cowboys appeared from nowhere and in seconds had the injured man up and stumbling toward the red pickup she had parked next to.
“Jesus!” The younger brother held her by one elbow. “I’m damn sorry about that.”
Jake, holding her other arm, helped her up onto the porch, guiding her to the open front door. “Let’s get you inside.” He reached down to grab the handle of her carry-on.
As they reached the doorway, both men called out, “Rosita,” A beautiful, middle-aged Mexican woman appeared. She was wearing jeans and an off the shoulder peasant blouse decorated with colorful embroidered flowers. The woman immediately took over, guiding Amanda to a large wingback leather chair.
“I’m okay,” she said as she sat down. “Really, I’m just fine…” In fact, she was trembling and tears were beginning to well up in her eyes. It had been a day of intense emotions, from getting lost, to the frightening hailstorm, to witnessing the stallion breeding the mare. Then getting caught finger-fucking herself while she spied on the cowboy and cowgirl in the barn. Her nerves were on edge and the unexpected argument and fistfight had finally sent her over the brink. Noticing splatters of blood on her tank top, she began to cry. She tried to hold back the tears, but they came in torrents. At least it was a quiet cry, and she wasn’t sobbing hysterically.
The two men stood watching her, their hands dangling uselessly at their sides. Neither man seemed quite sure how to comfort her. The Mexican woman shoved the helpless men out of the way and brought Amanda a glass of water. Before she handed it to Amanda, the woman retrieved a bottle of brandy from a side table and added several ounces to the glass.
“Drink,” she insisted, handing Amanda the glass. Tears still running down her cheeks, she took a sip and made a face. “Drink,” the woman urged. “It will help.”
Amanda took another sip, then tipped the glass up and drank it all. The smooth burn spread through her tummy and she realized she had stopped trembling. She held the glass out, sniffling loudly. The Mexican woman smiled and poured another three inches of brandy into the glass. Amanda sniffed again as she downed it, hoping that her mascara wasn’t running too badly.
As the warmth of the second brandy spread through her, she wiped her eyes with tissues the Mexican woman had provided and took a deep breath. She looked at the two men staring at her. Both still appeared clueless about how to deal with an emotional woman.
Jesus, they’re both handsome, Amanda thought, looking from one to the other. Finally, she sniffed loudly and smiled. “I’m fine.” She took a deep breath. “If I could just use your restroom.”
“Sure. You bet.” The men both answered at once and, once again, the Mexican woman pushed them aside. She extended her hand to Amanda, helping her from the chair.
Jake stepped forward. “Justin, Rosita, this is Miss Sloane from New York. She’ll be spending the night. Maybe a few nights. Rosita, please show her to one of the guest bedrooms.”
“I’ll get her bags.” Justin quickly stepped back out onto the front porch.
Amanda followed Rosita up a wide staircase to a hallway that branched in two directions. Rosita opened a door and ushered her into a large bedroom with French doors that opened onto the balcony above the front porch. The room, filled with golden light from the setting sun, was tastefully decorated with a large four-poster bed and a collection of antique Western-style furniture. A small side table held bottles of sherry and brandy, along with crystal snifters. A beautiful handmade patchwork quilt covered the bed, which sported a stack of pillows against the headboard.
Rosita opened the door to a large bathroom, also tastefully decorated, with big fluffy guest towels and an assortment of soaps and lotions. Shelves by the clawfoot tub were stocked with candles, matches, and bubble bath. Just the place she needed to spend the next couple of hours.
Rosita stepped aside to let her into the bathroom. “Please, señorita. If you’ll give me your top, I will try to remove the bloodstains. And if there is anything at all you need, just ask. I’ll be downstairs in the kitchen.”
Justin appeared in the bedroom doorway with her carry-on and overnight suitcase, which Rosita took from him and arranged on the large chest at the foot of the bed. After Justin left, Rosita waited as Amanda slipped out of her flannel shirt and tank top. She took them both, quietly closing the bedroom door as she left.
Now wearing only her bra and jeans, she took a deep breath and studied herself in the bathroom mirror. Damn, she thought, looking at her running mascara and red, swollen eyes. Her nose was red, too, but she didn’t know if that was f
rom crying or from embarrassment. She wet a washcloth and began to wash her face. Amanda girl, she thought, you’ve got to get a hold of yourself. A wry smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Maybe she should rephrase that. She had already gotten a hold of herself once today and had been caught doing it.
As she washed her face, she thought of Jake Morgan watching her at the barn. She looked at her breasts in the mirror, her nipples easily visible through the thin lace of her bra. Getting caught had been horribly embarrassing, but now the thought of it had her nipples as hard as pebbles again. Maybe she was a voyeur and an exhibitionist.
Had watching her turned on Jake Morgan? He hadn’t indicated as much. So far, he hadn’t indicated much of anything, other than an obvious interest in her breasts. And being a bit pissed off for scattering his cattle with her frantic honking. Otherwise, he had been the stereotypical stoic cowboy. And a damn good-looking one, too. But so was his brother, Justin. Talk about doubling your pleasure. Of course, Justin Morgan had been anything but stoic when he’d thrown that Winslow man off the property.
What was that about? Taking her makeup bag from her suitcase, Amanda began to repair the damage that had once been her face. Was there some dispute over ownership of the painting she had come to evaluate? She glanced at her watch. It was seven-thirty in New York. Richard must be pacing the floor waiting for a phone call. She slipped her phone out and scrolled to Richard’s number.
“Mandy! Sweetheart. Is it real?” Richard almost screeched.
“I don’t know Richard. I haven’t seen it yet. I just got here. My flight was delayed by the weather. And then I got caught in a hailstorm.”
“Oh dear! Are you all right?”
“I’m fine and here at the ranch for at least tonight. I want to hold off looking at the painting until tomorrow so I have fresh eyes. God knows my eyes are not fresh right now.”
“Whatever you think best, sweetheart.” His disappointment was obvious to Amanda even over the phone. “But if you change your mind, and want to look at it tonight, call me whenever you do. Any time, okay?”
“I’ll call you tomorrow, Richard, as soon as I have anything to report. And tell Sarah I’m fine and I’ll call her tomorrow.” She considered saying something about the possible question of ownership, but decided not to worry him until she had more information.
Doing the best she could to hide her puffy eyes and red nose, Amanda stepped into the bedroom and unzipped her carry-on. Her new cowboy hat was crushed, just as she feared, but her main concern was her laptop. Taking it out of the case and turning it on, she was relieved that it seemed to be working fine. She opened her files on Charles Randell and everything looked okay.
She returned her attention to the crushed hat. She popped the crown back out, but it would always be a little worse for being stepped on. She tried it on, standing in front of the large mirror that topped the antique dressing table. She adjusted the brim down a bit on her forehead and struck a hands-on-hips pose, tilting her head at an angle and thrusting her bra-clad breasts out.
“Howdy, partner,” she said with a drawl, then made a playful quick draw, shooting “bang bang” with her forefingers. Blowing imaginary smoke from her fingertips, she smiled and slipped the pretend guns back into their holsters.
She checked herself in the mirror again, thinking she didn’t look half bad in her cowboy hat. She lifted it off for a moment and tucked her hair up beneath the crown. Even better, she decided, wondering if she would ever actually have the nerve to wear the hat in public. “Not yet,” she said aloud, setting the hat on top of one of the high posts at the foot of the bed.
She took a clean pink tank top and lavender plaid shirt out of her suitcase and slipped them on. She had planned on this being an overnight trip, but she’d packed for a two-night stay just in case. She had also thrown in a handful of sexy lingerie. Even if she had to stay a week, Amanda would have clean panties.
After running a brush through her hair, she made her way downstairs and back to the lodge’s main room. Jake and Justin Morgan sat in two leather club chairs in a corner, their heads close as they talked quietly. She took a moment to study the room before she entered.
The space was huge and filled with Western-style furniture arranged in various conversation areas. A large stone fireplace filled one wall and a massive set of elk antlers was mounted above the mantle. A small painting hung to the right of the antlers and, even from this distance, she could tell it was the painting she had come to see.
The rest of the room was decorated in hunting lodge chic, with trophy heads of deer and antelope displayed throughout. She didn’t like the idea of animals being shot for sport, but she wasn’t here to judge anyone’s lifestyle. There were a few other paintings in the room and some Native American artifacts, but nothing close to the value of a Charles Randell oil. As she stepped into the room, Jake and Justin both rose from their chairs. Seeing them together, she could tell that Jake was the older brother, perhaps by three or four years. They were both over six feet tall and ruggedly built with amazingly handsome faces. They both looked at her the way a woman wants to be looked at by an attractive man.
She smiled and stood a little straighter, angling her breasts up and out, her nipples firm against the pink tank top. She walked across the room, extending her hand. “Maybe we should do introductions again. I’m Amanda Sloane, with Peabody, Patterson & Cope.” She shook each man’s hand. “I’m sorry about what happened earlier. It’s been a somewhat eventful day for me.” She looked at Jake Morgan as she said this and caught just a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth.
“We’re the ones who are sorry.” Justin Morgan shook her hand. “I’m sorry you had to witness that business with Winslow. It’s embarrassing.”
“So would you like to look at the painting now?” Jake Morgan gestured toward the fireplace.
“Absolutely,” she said. “That’s what I’ve come eighteen hundred miles to do. But I must tell you, I’m only going to give it a quick look tonight. I’ll need to study it in detail tomorrow when I can look at it with fresh eyes.”
“Fair enough.” Jake led the way to the painting.
The painting was a vertical oil on canvas, about twenty by thirty inches, of a cowboy riding on a horse and lighting a hand-rolled cigarette. At first glance, everything about the painting screamed Randell: The color palette, the brushwork, the subject, and especially the signature—a small M for his middle name Marion tucked inside the C for Charles and his trademark buffalo skull painted in outline below Randell.
She studied the painting intently for a few minutes then turned to look at Jake and Justin.
“Well, what do you think?” Justin looked at her expectantly.
She smiled and said nothing. Now it was her turn to be stoic.
“Well?” Jake asked. “Any thoughts about it at all?”
“I really can’t say anything positive or negative about the painting until I have some time to study it in detail. Plus, it really needs a good cleaning. The fireplace is probably the worst place to hang a painting like this. It must have a hundred years of soot and smoke residue on it.”
Jake and Justin both frowned.
“Don’t worry. A good conservator can bring it back pretty quickly and at not much cost. Tomorrow, maybe I’ll be able to tell you if we need to take that step.”
The Morgans stopped frowning and Justin said, “Okay. That’s that until tomorrow.”
“One other thing.” She looked from one man to the other. “I’ll need you to sign a contract making Peabody, Patterson & Cope your brokerage firm in the event you do want to eventually sell the painting. Regardless of whether the painting is an actual Randell or not.”
“No problem,” Jake said. “Just show us where to sign. Right Justin?”
“Absolutely,” Justin affirmed. “You’re the broker.”
“You’ll also have to provide the provenance and proof of ownership.”
“We can do that,” Jake replied. “No pr
oblem.”
Rosita appeared in the doorway and announced that supper was ready. The two men escorted Amanda to a large dining room paneled in knotty pine. An eight-foot diameter pedestal table filled the center of the room. Jake and Justin took places on each side of her, and Rosita brought in large platters of enchiladas, tacos, and tamales.
She had enjoyed Mexican food in New York and on her trips to Santa Fe and Taos, but she had never tasted anything equal to this. The enchiladas and tamales were accompanied by bowls of spicy rice and refried beans, which, following the Morgans’ lead, she scooped up with pieces of rolled flour tortilla. Washed down with cold Mexican beer, the meal was beyond delicious.
As she wiped refried beans from her plate with a piece of tortilla, she looked up to find Jake and Justin looking at her with amusement.
Suddenly realizing she had been stuffing food into her mouth like she was starving, she blushed. “Sorry I’m eating like such a little pig. I’m afraid I missed lunch, and this is delicious.”
“No problem.” Justin grinned. “Enjoy. We’re used to eating with ranch hands. Rosita is the best cook in Texas. But save room for sopapias. She makes the best. And we have wild honey from the ranch. The bees love the bluebonnets.”
The flaky, sugarcoated sopapias were even better than Amanda expected, and she ate three, liberally coated with bluebonnet honey. As she finished the third sopapia, Rosita placed a bottle of chocolate liqueur on the table, along with cups of dark, rich coffee.
As the trio sipped chocolate-laced coffee, Amanda asked how the Morgans came to own the painting. At some point, she would have to ask about Winslow’s claim. Proof of ownership would be critical if PP&C were to broker the sale.
****
Jake leaned back and hooked a boot heel over the rung of his chair. He looked at his brother. “Jump in Justin, if I leave anything out.” He looked back at Amanda. “Family history,” he said, “says that our great granddaddy, Odel Morgan, who built the first house on the ranch in 1890, went on a cattle drive from Texas to Montana with Charlie Goodnight in 1886 or 87. He was sixteen at the time and drove the chuck wagon for the drive. Odel stayed in Montana a couple of years. He wrote back to his mother in Fort Worth that he had met an artist called Kid Randell, who gave him a picture of a cowboy on a horse in exchange for a piece of blank canvas Great Granddaddy cut from the back flap of the chuck wagon.”
One Hard Ride Page 4
