Reunion At Cardwell Ranch. B.J. Daniels
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Granite countertops, new top-of-the-line appliances, lots of cupboard space, a walk-in pantry and even more storage for multiple sets of china and glassware—if you ever get married to a woman who collects both... You aren’t listening to me,” she said when Laramie didn’t take the bait.
“Sorry. Let’s see the second story,” he said, already starting up the stairs.
The next floor had a large second living area, two bedrooms and a study. The study door was partially open, the owner at his desk, head down.
Laramie scanned the walls quickly. The painting wasn’t there.
“Another great view,” McKenzie was saying.
He agreed, taking a moment to notice the house. He liked it. “Let’s see the top floor.” He saw her shake her head, but she followed him up to the third level.
This, he realized, was a huge master bedroom. It cantilevered out so when he stood at the bank of windows, he felt as if he was flying.
“Impressive,” McKenzie said. “But I’m not sure I could sleep in here. I have this thing about heights. The master bathroom is really nice, though. Check out this shower.” She turned, no doubt realizing she’d lost him again.
Laramie stood in front of a painting, shaking his head. “This is the one.”
“Does it look like the painting you took from the woman last night?” McKenzie asked in a whisper as she stepped closer.
“It looks exactly like it. How can he be so sure it’s the original?”
“Because I had it authenticated.” Neither of them had heard the owner come up the stairs to join them. Now the man stepped past them to take the painting off the wall and show them the back.
Laramie could see that it had a small card taped to the back. He realized how easy it would have been for the cat burglar to make the switch—including the authentication.
“You must be the man who thought you saw a burglar here last night,” Nelson said as he put the painting back on the wall. “I’m glad it was a false alarm.”
“Me, too,” Laramie said, still not sure he believed it.
“So what do you think of the house?” the man asked.
“I like it.”
“We’ll be looking at some others,” McKenzie said quickly. “How long are you going to be in town?”
“Only as long as it takes. So if you’re interested...”
“You’ll hear from us,” she said, motioning to Laramie that it was time to go. “I have several other houses for us to look at this morning,” she said once they were in the SUV heading off the mountain.
“Don’t bother. I want that one.”
She shot him a look. “But you haven’t even—”
“That’s the house. Find out what furniture stays. Also I want that painting.”
As they dropped over the rise, the house disappearing behind them, McKenzie hit her brakes and skidded to a stop in the middle of the narrow snow-packed road. “You want the painting?”
“I’m pretty sure he’ll part with it. If he’s selling the house, then he’s leaving Montana. His next wife won’t want any cowboy art in her house.”
McKenzie laughed. “You are definitely decisive once you make up your mind, but did you even look at the house or do you really just want the painting?”
He smiled over at her. “I want both. See what kind of deal you can get me, but don’t take no for an answer.”
She laughed and shook her head as she got the SUV going again. “You’re more like your brothers than I thought you were.”
She had no idea. “I think you’re right,” Laramie said. “It wasn’t my brothers who put that woman up to that stunt last night.”
“I’m relieved to hear you say that,” she said.
“I think she really is a cat burglar.”
McKenzie shot him a look. “But she didn’t steal anything.”
He rubbed his jaw, surprised that he’d forgotten to shave. He’d been so anxious to confront Hayes this morning. “I’m not sure about that.”
“Why am I getting a bad feeling that you’re thinking of trying to catch this woman?”
He smiled over at her. He knew he could go to his brothers for help. Hayes was a private investigator and Austin, who’d been a deputy sheriff, now worked for Hayes at his investigative business.
But his cat burglar had made this personal. He wanted to catch her himself.
“I know Taylor West’s work well,” the art dealer said when Laramie called. “Who did you say gave you my name?”
“Local Realtor McKenzie Sheldon Cardwell. She said she’s worked with you before.”
“Oh, yes, McKenzie,” Herbert Darlington said. “You have a painting you’d like me to authenticate?”
“If you can.”
Darlington made an unpleasant sound. “If it is a true Taylor West work, I will be able to tell at once. When would you like me to take a look at it?”
“I’m parked outside your gallery right now.”
The gallery was in a narrow building along the main street of Bozeman. Laramie had driven the forty-five miles first thing that morning. He was anxious to know about the painting. Even more anxious to know about the woman who’d gotten away.
Golden light shone on the paintings on the old brick walls of the gallery as he entered. He looked for any by Taylor West and saw several of Native Americans as well as one of cowboys. This one, though, was a cattle drive filled with longhorns and cowboys driving the herd through a canyon. It looked so real he could almost smell the dust the cattle were kicking up.
“Bring it back here,” Darlington said motioning to a door at the back. The man was short and thick with thinning hair above a round red face. He wore a dark suit like an undertaker and sported a narrow black mustache above narrow thin lips.
Without another word, Darlington took the framed painting from him and moved over to a table. He snapped on a light, pulled on a pair of glasses and bent over the artwork.
“Where did you get this?” he asked after a moment.
“I picked it up from an unknown source.”
Darlington shot him a look over one shoulder before returning to the painting. “It’s quite good.”
“But it’s not a Taylor West.”
“I didn’t say that.”
Laramie waited impatiently as the man pulled out a magnifying glass and went over the entire painting again. So much for being able to tell at a glance.
After a few minutes, Darlington let out a sigh, took off his glasses, snapped off the light and turned. “It’s an original Taylor West.”
Laramie let out a laugh as he raked a hand through his hair. How was that possible? How did any of this make sense? It didn’t. “You’re sure?”
The art expert gave him a pained, insulted look. “I’m guessing you picked it up for a song.”
“Something like that.” He reached for the painting.
“So you’re interested in selling it,” Darlington said. “I suppose I could make you an offer.”
“It’s