Читать книгу Reunion At Cardwell Ranch - B.J. Daniels - Страница 11

Chapter Four

Artist Taylor West was a tall drink of water. At least that’s how Laramie had seen him described on his website. The man who opened the door at the West home was tall. He’d aged, though, since he’d put his photo on his website. Laramie guessed he must be in his sixties and had once been very handsome. The gray hair at his temples gave him a distinguished look, but his complexion told the story of a man who drank too much.

“I don’t usually meet clients at my home,” West said, looking put out.

Laramie was glad he hadn’t called ahead. “This was a matter that couldn’t wait.” A photograph on the wall behind the man caught Laramie’s attention. It was of Taylor with a pretty young green-eyed blonde. He was staring at the photo more intently than he realized—especially at the eyes. Could this be the woman he’d tackled last night? She looked the right size but the eye color was wrong.

“My wife, Jade,” West said.

Laramie blinked in surprise. Given the age difference between the artist and the woman in the photo, he would have thought it was West’s daughter.

West’s gaze went to the painting Laramie was holding in one hand. “Is that one of mine?” He sounded like a man worried that Laramie had come here to complain.

“That’s what I’d like to know. I promise not to take any more of your time than necessary.”

“What makes you think it’s mine?” West asked.

“Because it has your name on it.” He didn’t mention that the so-called expert at the gallery had authenticated it.

“Well, fine, come on in out of the cold. This shouldn’t take long.” He didn’t look less perturbed, but he did step back to let Laramie in.

But that was as far as the invitation was extended. Standing in the entryway of the house, Laramie uncovered the painting and handed it to the artist. Past West, he could see that the house was a huge mess. So where was the young wife?

West looked at it and said, “I don’t see what the problem is,” and started to hand it back.

“So it’s yours?” Laramie asked.

“Obviously,” the artist said with impatience.

“Then there is a problem.” He told him about the one that Theo Nelson owned, the one that had been authenticated. “How do you explain that?”

“One of them must be a forgery since I only painted one.”

“And you’re sure this one is the original?”

West snatched the painting from him and with a curse headed down a hallway. Laramie followed, stepping over boots and shoes, jackets, dirty socks and assorted dog toys.

“The cleaning crew comes tomorrow,” West said over his shoulder before turning into what was obviously his studio. It, too, was in disarray.

Laramie suspected the man didn’t have anyone to clean the house. Or the young wife to do so, either, for that matter.

West snapped on a lamp and put the painting under it. “Where did you get this?”

“I picked it up recently.”

“Nelson is right. If he has the original, then this one isn’t mine,” West said.

“Are you sure?” Clearly he wasn’t. “I should tell you that before I came here, I took the painting to a local expert,” Laramie said. “He confirmed it was yours and offered me thirty thousand for it.”

The artist’s eyes widened in surprise. “The original is worth over fifty.”

Just as Laramie had suspected. “But the question is, which is the original?”

West swore. “If this is a forgery, it’s a really good one.” The man was frowning at the artwork, clearly angry and also seeming confused.

“I’ve looked at both. They appear identical. So if you didn’t paint the copy, then who did?”

The artist shook his head. “How would I know?” He was upset now.

“It would take some talent, wouldn’t it?”

West sighed impatiently. “Sure, but—”

“Otherwise, you’re saying any art student could copy your paintings?”

“I see what you’re getting at,” the older man said angrily. “Yes, it takes talent. A lot of talent. They would have had to have studied their craft and have some natural ability, as well. Also they would have had to study my work. Not just anyone could make a reproduction this good.”

“So has this person been hiding under a rock, or is it someone you know?”

West seemed shocked by the question. “It couldn’t possibly be anyone I know.”

“Why not? I would think the cowboy art market is very small. It must also be competitive. There can’t be that many of you painting at this level, right?”

The artist nodded. “There are only twenty of us in the OWAC.” Seeing Laramie’s quizzical expression, he elaborated. “The Old West Artists Coalition.”

Laramie considered that. “Only twenty? That sounds like a pretty elite—and competitive—group.”

“We’re all friends. We encourage and support each other. The only competition is with ourselves to get better.”

“But some of you must make more money than others,” he prodded. “Who is the best paid of this group of cowboy artists?”

West met his gaze with an arrogant one. “I am, but there are several others who do quite well.”

“And you’re telling me there is no jealousy?” Laramie scoffed at that. He knew too well, being one of five brothers, that competition was in male DNA. “So who are the others who are doing ‘quite well’?”

“Cody Kent and Hank Ramsey, in that order. Rock Jackson quite a ways behind those two.”

Laramie couldn’t help but laugh. Just the fact that West knew that proved he at least had a competitive spirit. “So what exactly does this group do?”

“I told you. We support each other. We came together because of a desire to keep this art form alive in memory of the greats like the late Frederic Remington and Charles M. Russell. But also to ensure the work is an authentic representation of Western life. Without standards of quality and a respect for each other and the work...” He sounded as if he was quoting the group’s bylaws.

“And you belong to this group?”

“I’m one of its founders along with Rock, Hank and Cody Kent,” he said proudly.

Laramie had heard something in the man’s tone. “What does it take to be a member?”

“You have to apply. The members decide if your work and your character meet our standards.”

“Your standards?”

“Originally, you had to have cowboy experience as well as talent. That’s changed some. Why are you asking me all this?” West demanded.

Laramie wasn’t sure. “So it’s an exclusive...club.”

“None of my fellow artists would have any reason to rip me off by duplicating my work, if that’s what you’re getting at,” West said. “Not to mention, most of them don’t have the talent to copy my work.”

Laramie tried not to smile. No competition here.

“Look,” West said as if he knew he’d said too much. “There aren’t that many of us. We’re a dying breed of artists who care about our work. The satisfaction comes from painting and selling our own work—not copying someone else’s and passing it off for money.”

“Even if they needed money badly?” Laramie asked.

He saw something change in West’s expression as if the question had made him think of someone. Laramie knew money could be the most obvious reason for making forgeries of Taylor West’s work. Or maybe to rub West’s arrogant face in it.

West picked up the painting, frowning harder as he studied it again. “This is definitely the original,” he said, but he seemed to lack conviction.

“If no one in your group is talented enough to make you question if this painting is yours or not...”

“I’m telling you,” West snapped, “there’s no one alive who could have copied my work well enough to fool an expert, let alone me.”

Laramie thought that was a ridiculous statement given that someone obviously had, and he said as much.

West suddenly looked even more upset. “There is one man,” the artist said after a moment. He’d paled. “H. F. Powell.”

“Where would I find him?”

West didn’t seem to hear him for a moment. He shook his head as if clearing away cobwebs from his brain. “Find him?” His laugh was more of a grunt. “Six feet under, last I checked.”

* * *

TEXAS? SO THAT was Laramie Cardwell’s accent, Sid thought. The barbecue restaurant had opened in Big Sky Meadows just last year. She’d heard it was owned by five brothers from Houston. Since she didn’t get out much—at least during the day—that had been all Sid knew about the place.

Good sense told her to go into the store, buy some food and take it back to the cabin. The sooner she got home, the sooner she could get ready for tonight. Last night’s close call was a good reminder that she needed to finish this and move on.

But barbecue sounded good. More than anything, she was curious. She quickly shopped for what groceries she needed, telling herself she would get a barbecue sandwich to go. She knew she was taking a risk, but then again, she’d been taking risks for some time now. Putting the groceries into the back of her SUV, she walked quickly up the hill to Texas Boys Barbecue on the recently plowed sidewalk. The sun glistening off the snow was almost blinding. It was one of those clear, cold winter days in Big Sky when she could see her breath as she walked. She looked up at Lone Mountain, momentarily stunned by how beautiful it was this morning.

Sometimes she got so busy she forgot to notice what an amazing place this was. Once she was done with all of this, maybe she would take a few weeks off and snowboard up on the mountain. She deserved it after this.

A bell jangled over the door as she entered the restaurant. It was early so the place was busy but not packed, and there were enough people that she didn’t think she would stand out. Not that she believed Laramie Cardwell could recognize her.

The aroma of smoked meat filled the air, making her stomach growl again. Slipping into a booth, she pulled out a menu from behind an array of barbecue sauces with names like Hot in Houston and Sweet and Spicy San Antonio.

She’d just opened it when she heard a male voice with a distinct Southern accent coming from the kitchen. Looking up she saw a head of dark hair. The man was talking to another man with the same accent. As the first man turned, she realized he wasn’t the one from last night, but the resemblance gave her a start even before she laid eyes on the second man.

It was him!

Suddenly, as if sensing her staring at him, he glanced in her direction. Sid quickly ducked behind her menu as a young waitress approached her booth.

“What can I get you?” asked a teenaged girl with a ponytail and an order pad.

“I’ll try the pulled pork sandwich with beans and coleslaw,” Sid said from behind her menu. “Can I get that to go?”

“Great choice. What would you like to drink?” the girl asked.

Sid peeked out from behind the menu. Through the window into the kitchen she could no longer see the two men—nor could she hear them. Maybe they’d left.

“And a beer.”

The girl nodded, then shyly asked if she could see her ID. “I’m sorry, but I have to ask.”

Sid might have found that amusing since she was thirty. But she was aware that she didn’t look a day over twenty. Behind the waitress, she heard the men’s voices coming from the kitchen again. They sounded as though they were arguing.

She heard one say he didn’t like what the other one was doing. “Austin, if I need your help I’ll ask for it. I can handle this.” Laramie Cardwell’s voice. Handle what?

Sid looked up at the waitress. Today of all days, she didn’t want to show her ID. She knew it was silly since Laramie Cardwell hadn’t seen her face last night. But he might have a few moments ago. She remembered him above her in the moonlight and the way he’d looked into her eyes...and felt a shiver.

“You know, just make it a cola. I have work to do this afternoon.”

The poor girl nodded without looking at her and wrote on her order pad.

“The owners of this place, are they really from Texas?” Sid asked.

The girl brightened. “They sure are. Five brothers. They just opened this place, but I heard there’s another one going to open at Red Lodge.”

“Really? Five brothers, huh?”

“Yep, all raised in Texas. They were born here, but left when they were kids. Four of them have moved back.”

“The fifth one?” Sid asked, remembering how strong the man’s Texas accent had been.

“Laramie still lives in Houston. That’s where the main office is located. He’s the one in charge of all the restaurants. They’re cousins to Dana Cardwell of Cardwell Ranch, if you’re familiar with the area.”

Anyone who lived in the Canyon as the Gallatin Canyon was known had heard of the Cardwells of Cardwell Ranch.

“Their story is on the back of the menu, if you’re interested. I’ll get your order right out,” the girl said. “You want that cola while you wait?”

Sid would much rather have had a beer and felt foolish for not showing the girl her ID. What were the chances that the waitress would remember her name or have any reason to mention it to her bosses?

Glancing toward the kitchen, she didn’t see the men. Or hear them, but that didn’t mean they weren’t still back there. And if the man from last night had seen her a few minutes ago...

“Sure, I’ll take the cola now, but make it to go,” she said as she picked up the menu and turned it over.

The Cardwell brothers’ story was on the back along with their photos. What surprised her was that Texas Boys Barbecue was a franchise the brothers had started. She’d just assumed they only owned this one restaurant.

Less surprising was that all five brothers were drop-dead gorgeous. In the photo on the back of the menu, the photographer had lined them up along a jack-legged fence, a ranch house in the background. Each brother wore jeans, boots, Western shirts and Stetsons. Each was equally handsome.

Her gaze went to Laramie. He was definitely the one who’d tackled her last night. She felt a shiver as she looked at his photo. His blue eyes stared back at her almost challenging. She told herself she had nothing to fear. He didn’t know who she was or the marshal would have been to her door already. Even if he had bought that house, he’d be like most of the residents—staying only a few weeks of the year.

She wished she could wait for him to return to Texas. Unfortunately, she couldn’t. Time was running out. She had to get the painting back—even knowing there was a chance of crossing paths with Laramie Cardwell again. She would just have to make sure that didn’t happen.