Reunion at Cardwell Ranch by B.J. Daniels Read Free Book Online

this?”
    “No. I saw the car earlier up by Taylor Fork, then again later when I went for a drive up the canyon.” He could tell that Hud had little hope of finding the vehicle. “Can you do me a favor? Find out what Taylor West drives.”
    “Taylor West, the local artist?” Hud asked with obvious surprise.
    Hud told him that West owned a large SUV and an older-model pickup. Neither matched the description Laramie had given him.
    “What makes you think Taylor West had anything to do with running you off the road?” Hud had wanted to know.
    “Nothing really,” Laramie said. “That’s just the first place I noticed the car following me, after I visited the artist. I’m probably wrong about there being a connection.” And yet he had a feeling that if Taylor hadn’t been behind it, then someone he knew definitely was. But he had no idea why. “Maybe I ticked off the driver somehow.”
    “Maybe,” Hud said. “You sure you weren’t going too slow?”
    “Maybe.”
    * * *
    T AYLOR W EST PACED the floor after the Texan left. He’d been so shaken that he would have poured himself a drink if there’d been any booze in the house. But his wife had dumped every drop she could find down the drain before she’d left. He’d dug out enough from his hiding places that he’d been fine. Until now.
    “When are you coming back?” he’d demanded as he’d watched her throw her clothes into two suitcases and head for the door.
    “When you get some help with your drinking.”
    He didn’t need any help. He drank fine without it.
    The old joke fell flat. He knew it was more than his drinking. She’d been trying to let him down easy, he thought as he looked around the house. He hadn’t realized what a mess it was until he’d seen it through his visitor’s eyes. What had Laramie Cardwell been thinking, showing up unannounced at his door like that?
    “It’s that damned painting,” he said as he opened one kitchen cupboard after another, not even sure what he was looking for—then he remembered where he’d hidden a bottle of bourbon months ago and felt better.
    In the laundry room, he moved the washer out a little. Reaching behind it, he groped around, feeling nothing but air and cobwebs. Panic filled him. The drive to the nearest liquor store was a good ten miles. He couldn’t go to the nearest bar since he’d been kicked out of it.
    His hand brushed over the cold throat of the bourbon bottle. His relief rushed out in a laugh that sounded too loud in the small room. Clutching the bottle, he withdrew it, wiped off the dust with one of his dirty shirts lying on the laundry room floor and headed for the kitchen.
    Unable to find a clean glass, he took his first drink straight from the bottle. The liquor bathed his tongue in bliss, warmed his throat and quenched his thirst. He took another drink as the first one reached his belly and sent a golden glow through him.
    That’s when he knew he was in trouble. There was only one man who could have painted the forgery. He’d be kidding himself if he thought it was anyone but H. F. Powell. He thought of Powell’s last words to him. “I could paint one of your pieces and you wouldn’t know the difference, that’s how good I am.”
    Taylor shook his head. He hadn’t let himself think of H.F. in years. Some things were best forgotten. Everyone knew that the painter had become a recluse in the last years of his life. No one had seen him for almost two years before the tragedy. There hadn’t been a funeral—at H.F.’s request. No memorial service. No family.
    H.F. must be rolling in his grave since his paintings were now worth a small fortune. Taylor admitted grudgingly, the man had been one hell of a painter. But look where it had gotten him. The arrogant old fool had died alone and miserable.
    Just like you’re going to die. Taylor snorted at the thought and the one that came after it. What goes around, comes around. He shuddered and took another drink, regretting the