A Father's Stake (3 page)

At least something was happening. Jack headed for his horse, then rode off down the driveway and turned back to the family ranch. He needed wheels. “This could be very good,” he thought as he pulled out his cell phone and put in a call to John Longbow at the police station.

* * *

A
S
SOON
AS
Santa Fe was in the rearview mirror, Grace felt the gnaw of hunger, but didn’t want to take the time to have a sit-down meal. She couldn’t remember when she’d eaten last, not even peanuts on the flight, but right then the hunger was starting to be tinged with nausea. She needed food. Not sure how long it would take to get to Wolf Lake, she started looking for signs for take-out food. One proclaimed Willie G’s, The Best Food Around, Eat-in/Take-out,
just two exits ahead.

A few minutes later she found the off ramp, drove onto it and down a narrow road. She could see a grouping of buildings back under the highway overpass and headed toward them. The cluster comprised little more than a gas station, a teepee-shaped souvenir shop with a heavy emphasis on Indian and Western collectibles, and a group of trailers beside a broad parking lot that serviced an old adobe building with a huge sign proclaiming Willie G’s Diner
.

She pulled into a space in front of the dark wooden entry doors, shadowed by a heavy beamed overhang. A flat roof, trimmed in overlapping half pipe tiles, and plastered pink walls that were chipped to show spots of adobe brick gave the place an old Southwestern style. Only a few vehicles were parked in front—an old blue pickup truck and a very big motorcycle, painted patriotically in red, white and blue with an eagle decoration on one side. An eighteen-wheeler was parked off to the side.

Grace slid out into the blanketing warmth of the afternoon, thankful she’d worn a short-sleeved white shirt and denim shorts with sandals. As soon as she stepped inside she was greeted with cool air. The space was larger than it had looked from the exterior, with low-beamed ceilings and worn Salito tiles underfoot. Western music hummed in the background.

“Help you?” someone asked, and she looked toward a set of swinging doors to the kitchen. An older man, dressed in stained cook’s whites, smiled at her as he stepped into the room. He came to the counter and wiped his hands on a white rag. Lines fanned the edges of his eyes, and his gray hair was pulled back from a center part in a long braid.

“I need some food to go,” she said, crossing to the counter and slipping onto the nearest stool.

“Just name your poison,” he said as he passed her a single sheet menu protected by plastic.

She realized it was about the same as the menus in most of the diners she’d worked in—sandwiches, burgers and fries, chili, even some pizza. “I’ll take a turkey sandwich on wheat, not toasted, with steak fries and the largest cola you have with lots of ice, please.”

He nodded and crossed to a soda machine, packing ice in a large take-out cup before filling it with soda. He brought it back and set it down in front of her. “Thought you could use this first,” he said, and reached for a straw from under the counter.

“Thanks.”

He didn’t move to put in her food order. “Where you heading to?”

“Wolf Lake.”

“You’re too early if you’re looking for the casino or hotels that way,” he said. “Not even up yet, but they will be.” He shook his head. “So, what you got left is picking up some native art, or souvenirs, or maybe taking in one of the tours near the Rez.”

She undid the straw and pushed it through the lid. “None of that,” she said, then took a sip of the chilled drink.

Thankfully, he turned, saying, “Gonna get your food,” before heading through the swinging doors. Next thing she knew, he was pulling on a cook’s cap over his gray hair. He winked, then got busy with her order.

She took another drink and glanced around. No waitress was in sight, and only five customers were at the tables near the front windows. The cook looked as if he was doing everything by himself, moving quickly around the kitchen. He came out with two plates of food for one of the tables, then hurried back into the kitchen, reappearing almost immediately with a large white bag. “There you go, Ma’am. Napkins and ketchup in the bag.”

She paid, then grabbed the bag.

“Drop by on your way out of town if you’re going this way,” he said. “I’ll get you some real food when you’ve got the time to sit and enjoy.”

“If I come this way again, I’ll do that,” she said, slipping off the stool. “You know Wolf Lake very well?”

He chuckled. “Heck, yeah, born and bred on the Rez, then slipped on down into town when I was, oh, around twelve. Been there ever since, except when I’m down here running this place. If you need a place to stay, my niece runs a bed-and-breakfast in town. Nice place, too, and reasonable.”

“Thanks, but I have a place,” she said, hoping the house was livable.

“Where’s that?” he asked, reaching for the white rag and starting to clean the counter.

“On a ranch on the other side of town, from what I was told.”

“What ranch?”

“Wolf Ranch.”

His hand stilled and his dark eyes looked right at her. “Wolf Ranch,” he echoed. “You sure you have that right?”

“Yes, sir, I do,” she said.

“You’re a friend or something with the new owner?”

She had a feeling the man was upset for some reason, but his voice stayed even. “I am the new owner,” she said, and loved the words as they came out of her. The new owner. That sounded so great, but the cook didn’t look pleased at all.

“I knew that whole mess with the Carsons was crazy, but sure never expected old Jackson Wolf’s property to be bought by a tiny thing like you.”

She’d been called a lot of sexist things by men over the years, and she hated it, but she barely reacted anymore. Now this man was calling her a “tiny thing,” and she knew it wasn’t a sexist thing to him. He just couldn’t believe she had the land—a woman, on her own, coming in to take it over. “I didn’t buy it,” she said by way of clarification. “But it’s mine.”

“Yeah, I heard,” he said in a low voice, “I guess you didn’t buy it.”

“Sir, I need to get going,” she said.

He came around the counter toward her. “First of all, I’m Willie G., not ‘sir’ to anyone, and secondly, I was a friend of Jackson Wolf, the original owner. Old man used to head the council for years on the Rez. Town’s named after his people. Great man,” he said. “And that was his place, a Wolf place.”

She had decided from the start that she liked the idea of the land having a history, but obviously this man didn’t think she had any right to be there. She tried to divert the conversation. “What’s it like there?”

“Fallow. Empty,” Willie G. said, “for maybe four or so years, since the old man passed. Age ninety-two, I think, and still on that land until the day he died.”

“I’m here to check it out,” she said, sticking to the bare facts and not letting his attitude make her defensive. She had nothing to be defensive about.”

He shook his head. “So, it’s come to this?” he asked softly, as if talking to himself. “Stupid man,” he muttered, then must have realized he’d been speaking out loud. “Sorry, Ma’am, but life gets crazy sometimes around here.”

“It does everywhere,” Grace said and started for the door.

“Miss?” he called after her.

She turned just before reaching for the handle. “Yes?”

“Who have I been talking to?”

“Grace, my name’s Grace.”

“Okay, Grace. I know this will sound strange, but if you decide by any chance that that hunk of land isn’t for you, would you let me know? I’ve been looking for a bit of land around that area.”

She was as shocked by his question as he’d seemed to be when she’d told him she owned the land. “I won’t be selling it, I don’t think.”

“Just let me know, one way or the other, okay?” He reached for the order pad lying on the counter and quickly wrote something on it before tearing the page off. “Just let Willie G. know, okay?”

“Okay,” she said, and started to shift her load so she could take it from him, but he simply reached over and dropped it in her bag.

He opened the door for her, calling after her, “Safe trip, Grace.”

His interest in the property had taken her back, but once she saw what condition it was in, she might hunt the man down and see how much she could get out of it. She slipped inside the sweltering interior of her car, put her purse and the food bag on the seat, then started the engine and flipped the air conditioner on. She put her drink in the holder in the console, then reached into the white bag to get a French fry.

Cool air flowed into the space and she put the car in gear. Glancing up at the restaurant, she was a bit surprised to see Willie G. still standing there in the doorway watching her. He lifted a hand in her direction, that smile back in place, before ducking inside. She felt odd for a moment, then pushed the feeling away and drove back toward the highway.

CHAPTER THREE

G
RACE
REMEMBERED
THE
crumpled paper Willie G. had pushed in the food bag. She took it out, saw a phone number with his name under it, then folded the note and dropped it into her purse. She glanced at the directions the attorney had given her, then kept her eyes open for the turnoff to Wolf Creek.

After just a few more miles, she finally saw two signs. One was a billboard, announcing the way to the reservation, and the other, much smaller, informed travelers that they had twenty miles to go to arrive at Wolf Lake, population 3,201, altitude 5,106 feet.

She’d been surprised at the altitude and the heat, but one seemed to go with the other. The off-ramp curled back under the overpass, and Grace found herself driving north on a two lane, paved county road that cut through hauntingly beautiful land. Not much green, and the few trees seemed twisted and stunted by the heat. But the colors were stunning.

The sky was starting to be invaded by the suggestion of purple, gold and orange from the west. The shadows of majestic buttes and mesas that rose from the high desert floor were lengthening. Small dust devils skipped over the packed earth, leaving puffs of cloud in their wake. The land made her feel very small and insignificant.

A few cars passed her in the opposite lane, but she hadn’t seen anyone in her rearview mirror since she turned onto the highway. Gradually, she started to notice patches of green off to the west, along with trees here and there that looked tall and ancient. Over the next few miles, the green patches grew in proportion to the parched earth. Finally, a sign for Wolf Lake appeared, overshadowed by a more elaborate one for the Reservation ten miles beyond the town. At a rise in the road, she could see Wolf Creek, maybe three miles to the northwest. It was a simple layout, a long main street, with streets branching out from it. The first buildings were clustered together, as others then fanned out in the colors and shadows of the low sun. Beyond those were large chunks of land, with greenness and distinguishable pastures.

When she finally drove onto the main street after passing through a section of construction, she realized the place had been fine-tuned for tourists. The buildings that lined the street were separated from the road by an old-fashioned raised wooden walkway that used to protect people from snakes and mud. Now they added a quaint charm.

Some of the businesses had been determinedly fashioned after frontier structures, with a mix of aged wood and stone and brick. Others were designed like Willie G’s, with adobe and chipped stucco shouting “Southwest.” When she had time, she’d come back and walk the wooden sidewalks, but for now the elaborate window displays in the businesses were a blur of color and glitter. The only thing she noticed was the bed-and-breakfast Willie G. had told her about, then she was heading out of the town.

She looked at her odometer, made a note of the miles, and was about to reach for another French fry when the roar of an engine sounded behind her. A bright red Jeep gunned past, then cut back into the lane with very little distance to spare.

She caught a glimpse of the driver, a man with a cap pulled low over an angular face. He was staring at her instead of the road as he raced ahead, rounded a curve, and disappeared from sight.

“Jerk,” she muttered, realizing that even though there were no traffic jams out here, the area still had its share of crazy drivers.

She popped the almost forgotten French fry into her mouth, aware now of the ranches that seemed to spread all the way to the horizon, checkerboarded with green and brown sections. The houses and ranch buildings were far off the road, barely visible, but the entrances were fancy, with intricate gates of wrought iron, wood, stone and brick.

She rounded a curve and saw a new sign for the Reservation in the direction of the foothills. Then her attention was caught by the entry to yet another ranch, but this one was different. It was a simple entrance, almost plain, with worn stone pillars on either side of a dirt drive. The wooden gate stood open. On the pillar to the left, chiseled into a flat stone halfway up from the dead weeds and dirt at the base, were two weather-eroded words. Wolf Ranch.

Grace slowed and made the turn into the entrance, but then she stopped, unable to drive between the pillars. Excitement, apprehension, curiosity and that bit of fear kept her foot on the brake. So much was at stake that she could barely breathe. She fingered the steering wheel, then touched the gas pedal and slowly drove through the pillars and onto the dirt drive that cut up a gentle hill between neglected wooden fencing.

Some of the crosspieces had fallen into dead weeds and grass, while others sat at crazy angles. The ranch looked as if it had been neglected for more than a few years. It felt deserted, no, abandoned, waiting for someone to come along and make things right again.

“Well, here I am,” she said over the low hum of the engine and air conditioner. She imagined the weeds gone, the fences up and painted white, surrounding green fields, the front pillars hung with iron gates. A huge tumbleweed bounced over the drive in front of her, curiously lifting at the last moment to sail over the broken fence and into the pasture.

Stacks of piping were arranged on either side of the broken fence, tangled with weeds. She had water rights. Her papers stated that, and if there was water, green grass would follow. Her heart was starting to beat faster, excitement pushing out other conflicting emotions.

She was near the top of the hill when she spotted a building off to the right. It was long and low, tumbleweeds piled randomly along its foundation. A stable, she thought, some of its many doors boarded shut. Then as the car crested the hill, she saw her house.

Without realizing what she was doing, she again stopped dead on the drive. As the air conditioning blew a cool breeze over her skin, she just sat there trying to take everything in. The backdrop of the clear sky above, streaked with pale colors from the west, trees to both sides, maybe thirty feet from the house that was much larger than she’d even dared to hope for. Low and sprawling, it was built of adobe and heavy dark wood, making it seem part of the surrounding land. A porch ran end to end along the front, shading windows that reflected back the view to the south. A massive rock chimney rose through the central ridge of the deep red and brown tiled roof.

She could see how much work the place needed, from the dried wood of the porch posts to the faded trim and weeds, but to her it looked incredible. The colors from the sinking sun were deepening gradually, the rays bathing the house in an almost ethereal light. Long shadows were gradually creeping toward a stand of huge cottonwoods nearby.

She rolled down her window to stillness, the air carrying a gentler heat now, and from out of nowhere, a sense of peace touched her. Until a voice by her open window set her heart hammering.

“Hello, there.”

She turned to see a tall man staring down at her. He had to be over six feet, darkly tanned, with high cheekbones set in a face that seemed all angles and shadows under a baseball cap. She tensed as he gripped the window frame with a strong hand and leaned down toward her. The glint of a gold wedding band flashed as it caught a glimmer of sun.

“What...what are you doing?” she gasped.

He immediately drew back, his large hand held up, palm toward her. “Hey, I’m sorry. I thought you saw me.”

She hadn’t even sensed movement before he had suddenly appeared. Gripping the steering wheel tightly, she looked away from him. “Well, I didn’t,” she muttered.

If a man had approached her car like that in L.A., she would have felt threatened, but she figured this man must be working here in some capacity. The attorney had said he’d made sure the place would be ready for her when she arrived.

He didn’t come closer, but didn’t leave, either. “Are you parking the car?” he asked.

Without a verbal response, she did just that, going slowly to the front of the house and parking beside a small stone pillar by the pathway to the porch. She wasn’t sure if she should get out of the car or stay put.

She watched the stranger in the rearview mirror slowly coming toward her. Dusty jeans on long legs, equally dusty cowboy boots and a chambray shirt open at the neck made him look all cowboy, except for the dark baseball cap. Jet-black hair was straight and long enough to touch the collar of the shirt. The shadow of a new beard darkened a strong jaw.

Before she could make a move, he was at the window again, bending down. This time she got a better look at him. Midnight dark eyes were deep set, studying her intently. Rough features and high cheekbones gave him a handsome look in her opinion. Then he smiled at her, flashing a single deep dimple to the right of his mouth. Something in her relaxed.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said in a deep, slightly roughened voice. “I was just waiting for you to get here.”

He had to be a worker, waiting for her arrival. She reached for the door handle and the man stepped back to let her get out. “I was told you would be here,” she started to say, then glanced toward the barn, stunned to silence. A red Jeep was parked by the big doors. The same Jeep that had sped past her on the highway.

“That was you on the road, wasn’t it?” she managed to get out, spinning around to confront him. “You could have killed us both!”

* * *

J
ACK
WAS
STUNNED
as he faced the tiny blonde in beige shorts that revealed remarkably long legs for someone who barely topped five feet.

“You could have killed us both!”

She was right. He could have killed them. He’d been acting crazy. But the accusation tore at him, and he felt cold in his soul. Robyn’s accident had made no sense, and the only explanation had been that she was going too fast. He crossed his arms over his chest and tried to get control. The shaking was there, deep inside, but he held it at bay and concentrated on the woman in front of him.

Willie G. had called him maybe fifteen minutes ago at the office. “Heads up, boy, there’s a lady coming your way, name’s Grace, a little, cute blonde, and she claims she owns your Grandpa’s ranch. She just left here.”

Jack had run out of the office, calling to his assistant, Maureen, “Check on the records for the land as quickly as you can!” She would understand immediately that “the land” was the Wolf Ranch.

Jack really didn’t remember most of the drive to the old ranch, except for the car that he’d impatiently gunned past. Just before he’d driven through the gate, Maureen had called to tell him the property had changed hands in August, deeded from Charles Michaels to a Grace Anne Evans. She couldn’t find any money trail.

Now he was looking at Grace Anne Evans, and when he could finally speak around the tightness in his throat, he said, “I was in a hurry.” And he’d been stupid and totally taken off balance, he should have added. All these weeks he’d planned to deal with a man, someone he’d researched and knew very well on paper. Now he was facing a stranger, maybe midtwenties, with a few freckles dusted across her small, straight nose. And those eyes. He actually wondered if that violet color came from her DNA or tinted contacts.

She lifted a hand to shade her eyes from the slowly sinking sun behind him. “How long have you been here?” she asked.”

“Just a few minutes before you drove up.”

“No, I mean, here, on the ranch?”

He shook his head. “When?”

Now she was looking confused. “You’re the one who’s supposed to be getting everything ready for me, aren’t you?”

“Sorry, no.” Why did he keep telling her he was sorry?

“Then why are you here?” she asked, trying to stand taller, but failing.

“I told you, waiting for you, as long as you’re Grace Evans.”

She shook her head, as if nothing was making sense to her at that moment. “I don’t have a clue who you are, if you’re not a handyman or a caretaker.”

“Sorry,” he said, inwardly cringing at that word again. “Neither. I’m Jack.”

“Okay,
Jack.
I need to know what this is about, or I’m going inside and I hope, for your sake and the other drivers on the road, that you’ll drive slower on your way back to wherever you came from.”

He was a bit surprised at how such a tiny woman had no problem standing her ground. She’d had an edge from that first moment he’d approached her. He understood being careful with strangers, but she seemed to have an added toughness, despite her delicate appearance.

“I was told that someone named Grace Evans was coming here.” He paused a moment. “And I’m pretty sure you’re Grace Evans.”

“You spoke to Mr. Vaughn?” she asked.

In this whole mess he’d never come across anyone named Vaughn. “No, I didn’t.”

“I don’t get it, then,” she said, cocking her head to one side. He’d run out of time. He was an attorney who could figure out a million ways around a legal case, and yet he was losing this woman. She was ready to kick him off the ranch, so he gave up any sort of attempt at finesse and simply spoke the blunt truth.

“I came to meet you and find out how you got this land and what you intend to do with it.” That was simple enough, he thought, and actually felt a bit relieved to get it out there.

* * *

G
RACE
DIDN
’
T
ANSWER
his question. She stared up at him, then took a step back. “I don’t know who you are, or why you think I’d share my personal business with you, but one thing I learned growing up was not to talk to strangers.”

She knew she was bordering on rudeness, but she didn’t even know his last name. And she was edgy, and tired from sleepless nights, then the flight out and the drive to the ranch. And she still hadn’t eaten much more than a few French fries. And she felt a bit light-headed.

“I’m Jack Carson,” he said without preamble and held out his hand to her.

Carson. He had to be a relative of the man who had owned this land before her father got it. Okay, she could deal with this. She met his grip, which was warm and firm. “Grace Evans. Not that you don’t already know that.” She drew her hand back. “And this is my land. I own it.”