Hard Rustler. B.J. Daniels
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doctor had said Bernie didn’t have more than a year to live. But that was four years ago. Tough as old pigskin and meaner than a junkyard dog, the old man had defied modern science with just stubborn determination alone, Rob thought.
“I’m honored that you would trust me to take care of this,” he said.
His uncle chuckled and met his eye. “Honored. And smart. You know what will happen to you if you don’t come back with my goods.”
His goods. Arrogant bastard. “Let’s say this dame is your...Baby Doll.”
“Don’t call her a dame, okay?”
“What if she still didn’t have any of it when she died?” Rob asked for the sake of argument. “What if she’s been selling it off? After all, it’s been over fifty years.”
Bernie shook his head. “I would have heard if any of it had turned up. She took all of it, the cash, the jewels, the gold. I’m betting she still had it when she died. Just to show me,” he said, admiration in his tone. “She willed the house to one of her granddaughters, someone named Annabelle Clementine. The Realtor made it sound like I should know who she was.”
Rob shrugged. “Never heard of her.”
“Apparently she’s getting the house ready to sell. Take care of her and soon. She might throw out something not realizing what it is. Just don’t call attention to yourself or her. I shouldn’t have to spell it out for you.”
“No,” Rob said. But he hadn’t done any wet work in years. He didn’t want to start again. “Tomorrow is Thanksgiving—”
His uncle shot him a look of disbelief and the rest of the words in Rob’s mouth dried up. “When you find my loot you’ll want to take off with the whole lot, but you won’t. You know why?”
He shook his head even though they’d had this discussion before, since his uncle never got tired of telling him.
“Because there’s a curse on the loot, but nothing like the curse that would be on you. Take me back to my room and then get on a plane. You can’t waste any time. If that house sells before you get there...or the granddaughter finds the goods...”
Rob nodded since there was nothing else he could do.
“There’s one more thing,” Bernie said. “I doubt I’m the only one to recognize Baby Doll. Nor am I the only one who’s been looking all these years.” Rob doubted that was the case but kept his trap shut. “Which means you won’t be alone even if the Feds aren’t wise to her. There’s the insurance company guy who had to pay out all those years ago, not to mention the museum curator who swore he’d get his priceless jewels back and see me in prison.”
Rob didn’t bother to mention that both of those guys were probably dead by now.
“So watch your back,” his uncle said. “If they recognized Baby Doll like I did... You know our photos were all over the society pages. Me and Baby Doll at the swankiest parties. She was some woman.”
* * *
DAWSON KICKED AROUND his house, unable to settle more than a few minutes in any one place. He’d cleaned the kitchen after making himself some dinner, washed his hunting clothing, unpacked all his gear and even put clean sheets on his bed.
He’d been looking forward to that bed all the way from the hunting camp, but even though he was bone-weary tired, he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. Sadie didn’t have that problem. She was curled up on her bed in front of the fireplace, snoring softly.
At a hard knock on his door, he started. His first thought was Annabelle. She’d come to thank him for the gas and apologize for not saying something earlier. His heart began to pound until he reminded himself how unlikely that was. He told himself it better not be Luke with more news about Annabelle. He thought about not answering the door, but the knock was so insistent...
He opened the door and blinked when he saw that it was his neighbor from the adjoining county. “Cull?”
“Sorry to bother you so late,” the cowboy and horse rancher said. “I was riding fence earlier and you’ve got some barbed wire down that I thought I better warn you about. I did what I could, but I’m worried you’re going to have cattle out on the county road if you can’t get it fixed soon.”
“Thanks for the heads-up.” He liked Cull McGraw. He liked all the McGraws, actually, and was glad to have them as neighbors. Anyone else might not have bothered to tell him until his cattle were running wild. “You want to come in? I think there’s a couple of beers in the fridge.” Suddenly he didn’t want to be alone.
“Thanks, but I need to get on home,” Cull said, and he realized his neighbor was probably anxious to get home to his wife. “Maybe some other time.”
He closed the door and turned back to his empty house. Empty. Funny, but he’d never thought of it that way until... He swore. Until Annabelle’s return. Cursing himself, he began to turn out lights. After making sure the screen was on the fireplace, he headed for bed.
Behind him, he heard the soft patter of four feet as Sadie decided to join him. He told himself the pup was all he needed for company as he heard her lie down on the floor at the foot of his bed.
But the moment he was between the cool sheets, his thoughts spun back to Annabelle, his first love, his first lover. What was he going to have to do to get her out of his system?
Whitehorse, Montana. Rob swore as he sat for a moment in the dark in the parking lot of the expensive nursing home. Unfortunately, this wasn’t the first time Bernie had been convinced he’d found Baby Doll. Before, it had been some old woman in Maine. Then one in California. Another in Maryland. Oh, and that one in Tennessee.
Now Whitehorse, Montana? He’d gone on too many wild-goose chases, all of them dead ends. None of the women had been Baby Doll. None of them had had the loot. All they had in common was that they were six feet under now.
He pulled the photocopied snapshot and obit from his pocket and looked at them again. Francesca Clementine? At least he wouldn’t have to kill this one—she was already dead. But the granddaughter wasn’t, he reminded himself.
He debated not going and telling the old man that he had and that Francesca Clementine wasn’t his Baby Doll. It would break the old man’s heart, but it wasn’t the first time. After all, what were the chances that this Francesca Clementine had even been to New York City, let alone had a love affair with a mobster and stolen a king’s ransom in already stolen loot? Less than nil.
So why waste his time? Just give it a few days and then report back to Bernie... It was a gamble, though. He suspected the old man had Alzheimer’s or dementia and his brain was more pickled than his aunt’s canned beets.
But that didn’t mean Bernie wasn’t dangerous. He still could make Rob’s life a living hell. That’s if he didn’t just cut bait and have Rob killed.
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