“You’re a … woman?”

In a breathless whisper, she said, “You just now noticed that? Could you let me breathe?”

Shocked, he shifted his weight to allow her to take breath into her lungs. This was the cat burglar?

She freed one arm and wiped away the powdery snow from her eyes as she whispered something else.

He cut his eyes to her, suddenly worried that he had injured her when he’d taken her down. She motioned for him to lean closer. He bent down.

Her free hand cupped the back of his neck, pulling him down into a kiss before he could stop her. Suddenly her lips were on his, her mouth parting as if they were lovers …

Reunion at

Cardwell Ranch

B.J. Daniels

www.millsandboon.co.uk

B.J. DANIELS is a New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author. She wrote her first book after a career as an award-winning newspaper journalist and the publication of thirty-seven short stories. She lives in Montana with her husband, Parker and three springer spaniels. When not writing, she quilts, boats and plays tennis. Contact her at www.bjdaniels.com, on Facebook or on Twitter, @bjdanielsauthor.

There are books that seem to write themselves. And there are books that try to kill me. This one drove me crazy. But thanks to an escape to the Bahamas with people I love, I was able to finish the book. This one is for Danielle, Travis, Stelly, Leslie and, always, Parker. Your faith in me keeps me going.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

The moment she’d stepped into the dark house, she could feel the emptiness surround her like a void. The owners wouldn’t be coming to Montana for Christmas this year. The couple was getting a divorce. The man’s third marriage, the woman’s first.

She’d gotten her information from a good source, but she’d learned, though, that you can never be certain of anything, especially the rumors that ran more wildly than the river ran through the Gallatin Canyon past Big Sky.

Standing stone still in the dark, listening, she waited for a few moments before she snapped on her tiny penlight. There were no other homes close to this one. The owners of these expensive spacious second homes wanted to feel as if they had the mountainside to themselves. Because of that there was little to no chance that anyone would notice if she turned on lights. But she didn’t like playing against the odds when it came to the chance of being discovered.

As she moved through the house, she saw sculptures that she knew had cost a small fortune and paintings like some she’d sat for hours studying in museums back East. She hurried on past them, reminded that time was never on her side. In and out as quickly as possible was her personal motto. Otherwise she knew all too well things could go very badly.

She found the painting in the master bedroom on the third floor. A twenty-by-sixteen-inch signed Taylor West original depicting a rancher on horseback surveying his herd. It was one of her favorites. She stepped to it quickly, admiring the brushstrokes and the skillful use of shading as she let the penlight move over it until she found what she was looking for.

Lifting it off the wall, she checked the time. She was running a little over five minutes on this job because of the three stories she’d had to search for this piece.

Quickly she replaced the painting with the one she’d brought, noticing that the bag she’d carried it in had torn. Wadding up the bag, she stuffed it into her coat pocket and tucked the painting from the wall under her arm.

She made her way back through the house, pleased. If only they were all as easy as this one. She’d barely completed the thought when a set of headlights washed over the room.

* * *

LARAMIE CARDWELL MENTALLY kicked himself for driving up this snow-packed narrow mountain road in the dark. But according to his sister-in-law, and the real-estate agent for the property, if he wanted a house in the Big Sky area, he had to jump on it the moment it became available.

“Why would you want to buy a house up here when you can stay in one of our guesthouses on the ranch whenever you come?” his cousin Dana Cardwell Savage had argued.

While he appreciated her hospitality at Cardwell Ranch, as much time as he found himself spending in Montana, he wanted a place of his own. It had been family that had brought his brothers back to Montana. But it was love—and barbecue—that had them staying.

He often marveled that it had all started with barbecue—the one thing all five brothers knew. They’d opened a small barbecue joint outside of Houston. Surprisingly, it had taken off and they’d opened others, turning a backyard barbecue into a multimillion-dollar business. It had been his brother Tanner “Tag” Cardwell who’d first come up with the idea of opening their first Texas Boys Barbecue restaurant in Montana in Big Sky.

While some of them had balked at the idea, it had proved to be a good one. Now his brothers were talking about opening others in the state. His four brothers had all returned to their Montana roots, but Laramie was a Texas boy who told himself that he had no desire to live in this wild country—at least not full-time.

With his entire family here now, he wanted his own place, and he could darn sure afford a second home. Though he suspected the one he was on his way to check out would be too large for what he needed.

But there was one way to find out. He figured he’d get a look at the house from the outside. If it wasn’t what he wanted, then he wouldn’t waste his sister-in-law McKenzie’s time looking at the interior.

As he topped a small rise in the road, a moonlit Lone Mountain, the peak that dominated Big Sky, appeared from behind a cloud, making him catch his breath. He’d seen the view numerous times on his other visits to the area, but it still captivated him.

He had to admit this part of Montana was spectacular, although he wasn’t so sure about staying up here for the winter. While the snow was awe inspiring in its beauty, he still wasn’t used to the bracing cold up here.

“You wouldn’t mind it if you had someone to cuddle with at night,” his brother Tag had joked. All four of his brothers had fallen in love in Montana—and with Montana—and now had wives to snuggle up to on these cold winter nights.

“I only want a house up here,” Laramie had said. “I can kick up the heat when I spend time here during the holidays.”

As he topped the rise in the road, his headlights caught on a three-story house set against the mountainside. Laramie let up on the gas, captivated by the design of the house and the way it seemed to belong on the side of the mountain in the pines.

That’s when he spotted the dark figure running along the roofline of the attached garage.

Chapter Two

Laramie remembered hearing that an alleged cat burglar had been seen in Big Sky, but so far the thief hadn’t gotten away with anything.

Until now.

Slamming on the brakes, he threw open the door of his rented SUV, leaped out and took off running. It crossed his mind that the robber might be armed and dangerous. But all he could think about was catching the thief.

The freezing snowy night air made his lungs ache. Even though he’d been the business end of Texas Boys Barbecue, he’d stayed in shape. But he felt the high altitude quicken his breathing and reminded himself he wasn’t in Houston anymore.

The dark figure had reached the end of the roofline and now leaped down as agile as any cat he’d ever seen. The thief was dressed in all black including a mask that hid his face. He was carrying what appeared to be a painting.

Laramie tackled the burglar, instantly recognizing his physical advantage. The burglar let out a breath as they hit the ground. The painting skidded across the snow.

Rolling over on top of the thief, Laramie held him down with his weight as he fumbled for his cell phone. The slightly built burglar wriggled under him in the deep snow.

“Hold still,” he ordered as he finally got his cell phone out and with freezing fingers began to call his cousin’s husband, Marshal Hud Savage.

“You’re crushing me.”

At the burglar’s distinctly female voice, Laramie froze. His gaze cut from the phone to the burglar’s eyes—the only exposed part of her face other than her mouth. The eyes were a pale blue in the snowy starlight. “You’re a...woman?”

In a breathless whisper, she said, “You just now noticed that? Could you let me breathe?”

Shocked, he shifted his weight to allow her to take breath into her lungs. This was the cat burglar?

She freed one arm and wiped away the powdery snow from her eyes as she whispered something else.

He cut his eyes to her, suddenly worried that he had injured her when he’d taken her down. She motioned for him to lean closer. He bent down.

Her free hand cupped the back of his neck, pulling him down into a kiss before he could stop her. Suddenly her lips were on his, her mouth parting as if they were lovers.

The next thing he knew he was lying on his back in the snow looking up at the stars as the cat burglar took off. Her escape had been as much of a surprise as the kiss. He quickly sat up. He’d lost his cell phone and his Stetson. Both had fallen into the snow. He plucked them up as he lumbered to his feet. But by then she was already dropping over the side of the ridge.

He took off after her, but he had gone only a few yards when he heard the roar of a snowmobile engine.

Scrambling after her, he turned the corner of the house in time to see the snowmobile roar off through the snow-heavy pines and disappear. He listened to her get away, feeling like a fool. He’d let her trick him.

She’d taken advantage of his surprise and the extra space he’d given her to breathe. She was a lot stronger and more agile than she had appeared and she had a weapon—those lips. He groaned when he thought about the kiss—and its effects on him.

As he turned back, he saw a corner of the painting sticking up out of the snow. Laramie trudged to where it had landed. The only good news was that she hadn’t gotten away with the painting.

Surprisingly the frame was still intact. He carefully brushed away the snow, thinking about the woman who’d gotten away. He’d known his share of women in his life. A few had tempted him, a couple had played havoc with his heart and several had taken him for a ride.

However, none of them had tricked him like this. He could well imagine what his brothers would say.

But would he be able to recognize her if he ever saw her again? She’d never spoken above a whisper and he hadn’t gotten a chance to remove her ski mask before she’d dumped him in the snow.

Those eyes. Those lips. He told himself if he ever saw either again, damn straight he’d recognize her.

She thought she was smarter than he. She thought she’d gotten away. But he had the painting. And he would find her—if she didn’t find him first, he thought, glancing at the painting in the moonlight.

To the fading sound of the snowmobile, he walked back to his rental SUV. Placing the painting in the backseat, he called his cousin’s husband, the marshal.

* * *

THAT HAD BEEN too close. As Obsidian “Sid” Forester pulled the snowmobile around to the back of the cabin, she glanced over her shoulder. No headlights. No lights at all. She hadn’t been followed.

She’d taken a longer route through the trees. At first she’d thought the man who’d tackled her was the owner of the house. But she’d done her research on him and knew he was much older than the man she’d just encountered.

So who was that cowboy with the Southern drawl? Moonlight on snow did strange things to one’s vision. But she had gotten a good look at him—a better look than he’d gotten of her, she assured herself. Thick dark hair. Ice-cold blue eyes. Handsome, if you liked that clean-cut, all-business kind of man. She did not.

The only thing that had thrown her was his accent. Definitely from down South. Definitely not the New Yorker who owned the house.

That wasn’t all that had thrown her, she had to admit. The kiss. It had worked just as she’d planned and yet... She touched her tongue to her upper lip, remembering the electrical shock she’d felt when they kissed. Worse was the tingling she’d felt in her belly. True, she hadn’t kissed a man in... She couldn’t even remember when, but she’d never had that kind of reaction. She certainly hadn’t expected to feel...anything.

Her pulse was back to normal by the time she entered the cabin. The air smelled of oil paint, turpentine and linseed oil. She shrugged out of her boots and coat at the back door, hung up her coat and kicked her boots aside as she moved to the painting she’d been working on earlier that day.

She gave it a critical perusal before moving into the small kitchen. Unfortunately she hadn’t been to the grocery store in several days. She was always starved after one of what she called her “night jobs.” With a bottle of beer—her last—a chunk of cheese and some stale bread, she stepped into the living area where a half dozen paintings were drying.

The cabin was small with only a living room, kitchen, bedroom, small bath and a storage room off to one side at the back. The moment the owner had shown it to her—and told her about all its peculiarities—she’d had to have it and had quickly signed the papers.

Sitting down now, she considered each of her paintings as she ate her snack and sipped her beer. It was hard to concentrate after what had happened earlier, though. She’d come close to getting caught before, but nothing like tonight. What would the man do?

Go to the marshal.

She considered that and decided she wasn’t worried about the law catching up with her.

What did worry her was that he had the painting.

Taking another bite of cheese and bread, she chewed for a moment before washing it down with the last of the beer. She really did have to go to the store tomorrow.

Just the thought of going out in public made her wonder if she would run into him. That was the other thing about her cabin. It was nestled in the woods, far from urban Big Sky.

What if she did see him again? She had no doubt that she would recognize him. She’d gotten a good look at him. He had high cheekbones, a patrician nose and generous mouth. She felt that ridiculous stirring again over that one stupid kiss.

She assured herself that there wasn’t any way he could recognize her since she’d had the black ski mask on the whole time. Nor could he recognize her voice since she hadn’t spoken above a whisper.

Shaking her head, she tried to put him out of her mind. There was more than a good chance that she would never see him again. Obviously he was a tourist, probably only here for the holidays. Once the holidays were over, he’d be on a jet back to wherever he’d picked up that Southern drawl.

Still, she wondered who he was and why he’d driven up to the house tonight. Probably lost. Just her luck. What other reason could he have had to be there?

But while she’d gotten away, it hadn’t been clean, which upset her more than she wanted to admit. She prided herself on her larceny skills. Worse, she’d failed. She didn’t have the painting.

Losing her appetite, she tossed the crust of stale bread in the trash and put the cheese back into the fridge before she returned to her work in progress. She always did her best thinking while she painted.

* * *

“SO, YOU DIDN’T see her face?” Marshal Hud Savage asked as he looked up from his report at the marshal’s office later that night.

“She was wearing a ski mask with only the eyes and mouth part open. Her eyes were this amazing...bluish-silvery color.” Laramie frowned. “Maybe it was the starlight but they seemed to change color.” He realized the marshal was staring at him. “Just put down blue. If I ever see those eyes again, I’ll recognize her.” Or those lips, he thought, but he wasn’t about to tell Hud about the kiss.

It had taken him by surprise—just as she’d planned. But for a moment, his mouth had been on hers. He’d looked into her eyes, felt something quicken inside him, then her warm breath on his cheek and...

He shook his head, reminding himself that it had only been a ploy and he’d fallen for it, hook, line and sinker. He’d kissed a thief! What annoyed him was that he had felt anything but disgust for what she’d done.

“How about height and weight?” Hud asked after writing down blue.

Laramie shrugged. “Small. Maybe five-five or -six. I have no idea on weight. Slim. I’m sorry I don’t have a better description. It all happened too fast. But I have the painting. Maybe you can get her fingerprints—”

“Was she wearing gloves?”

He groaned.

“And you say she got away on a snowmobile?”

All he could do was nod.

“Did you get a make or model?”

Another shake of his head.

“And she overpowered you? Was she armed?”

Laramie groaned inwardly. “Not armed exactly. She was much stronger than I expected and she moved so fast... She caught me off guard.”

Hud nodded, but he appeared to be trying hard not to laugh.

“You wait until you find her. She’s...wily.”

Hud did chuckle then. “I’m sure she is. Here. Sign this.”

“So what are the chances you’ll catch her?” Laramie asked as he signed the report.

“With a description like the one you just gave me...” Hud shook his head. His phone rang and he reached for it. “Marshal Savage.” He listened, his gaze going to Laramie. “Okay. Yep, that’ll do it.” Hanging up, he picked up the signed report and ripped it in half before tossing it into the trash.

“What?” Laramie demanded.

“I just spoke with the owner of the house. He hadn’t planned to come up this holiday, but apparently McKenzie called him yesterday and told him you would be looking at the house. Seems he’s anxious to sell, so he flew in tonight.” Hud met his gaze. “When I called the maintenance service and asked them to check the house, they found him there. He looked around to see what was missing and found nothing out of order.”

“There wasn’t anything missing? Was he sure?”

“It seems he has a painting, just like that one...” He pointed to the one leaning against the wall on the floor near Laramie, the painting the cat burglar had dropped. “It isn’t missing.”

“That’s not possible.”

Hud shrugged. “The owner says he has the original—the only one of its kind. Also, he said his house hasn’t been broken into.”

“That can’t be right. I saw her coming out of the house.”

“Or did you just see her on the ridge of the garage roofline?” the marshal asked.

Laramie thought back. “Maybe I didn’t see her come out of the house.”

“Since the first report we received about a cat burglar, we’ve had several sightings. But in all three cases, nothing was taken, the house showed no sign of forced entry...”

Laramie could see where this was going. “So it was a...hoax?”

Hud studied him openly for a moment. “You didn’t happen to mention to your brothers that you were going up to that house tonight, did you? They also didn’t happen to tell you beforehand about a cat burglar in the area, did they?”

He would kill his brothers. “You think it was a setup?”

Hud shrugged. “You know your brothers better than I do, but I’d say you’ve been had.”

Had in more ways than the marshal could even imagine. He got to his feet. “I’m sorry to bother you with this, then. I just hope they haven’t planted counterfeit money on me, as well.” His brothers had told him that Hud was investigating a counterfeit operation that had been passing fraudulent money in the canyon.

“Let’s hope not,” Hud said with a groan. “I get a call a day about a bad twenty. Someone’s churning them out,” he said getting to his feet. “In the old days it took a lot of expensive equipment and space along with some talent. Now, all you need is a good copy machine. A video online will walk you through the entire process. The good news is that these operations are often small. We aren’t talking millions of dollars. Just someone needing some instant spending money.”

“Well, good luck finding your counterfeiter and, again, I’m sorry about this. You have enough going on.” But as he turned to the door, he said, “What about the painting?”

“The owner swears he has the authenticated original with paperwork on the back.” Hud shrugged. “I would imagine this is nothing more than a cheap prop.”

“Then you don’t mind if I keep it?” Laramie asked.

The marshal chuckled. “It’s all yours.”

Laramie considered the painting on the floor. It was what he would have called Old West art, a rancher on horseback surveying his herd. It was titled “On The Ranch” and signed by an artist named Taylor West. The painting looked expensive to him, but what did he know?

“If someone comes looking for it, I’ll let you know. But I have my doubts.” Hud grinned. “If you ever see that woman again, though... I’d be curious just what color her eyes are since they seem to have made a real impression on you.”

* * *

“REALLY?” LARAMIE DEMANDED when he saw his brother Tanner “Hayes” Cardwell at his house the next morning. “That wasn’t funny what you and the others pulled last night.” He couldn’t help but wonder if the kiss had been planned, as well. It was a nice touch, something that would have had his brothers rolling on the floor laughing. “Hud got a real kick out of it since he has nothing to do but take bogus crime reports. I hope he arrests the whole bunch of you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hayes said as he poured coffee for them.

Laramie looked to his sister-in-law and real-estate agent McKenzie. He’d been staying with them this holiday and, while he enjoyed being with them, he was anxious to get his own place. McKenzie had been helping him find a house.

“Tell me you weren’t in on it, too,” he said to her.

“I abhor practical jokes.” McKenzie shot a disapproving glance at her husband. “What did you and your brothers do?”

“Nothing. Honest. I have no idea what he’s talking about,” Hayes said holding up his hands. He looked genuinely innocent.

But Laramie wasn’t buying it. He knew his brothers too well. They’d all treated him as if he was the bookworm who ran their family business, Texas Boys Barbecue. They would all have said he was the brother who never had enough adventure in his life.

So it would be just like them to set this up to add some spice to his life, as they would call it.

“Who was the woman?” Laramie demanded.

“There was a woman?” Hayes asked and grinned.

McKenzie shook her head. “You’ll have to tell me about it on the way to the house, Laramie. I promised the owner we’d be there by nine. You can deal with your brothers later.”

On the way up the mountain, he told McKenzie about what had happened last night.

“That doesn’t sound like something Hayes would do,” she said. “Are you sure your brothers were behind it?”

“It’s the only thing that makes any sense. I saw her leaving with a painting. So, of course, I thought she’d stolen it. I guess that’s what I was supposed to think.”

“Are you sure the painting you have is a fake?”

“It doesn’t look like it to me, but I’m no expert by any means. The owner says he still has the original. So maybe I stopped the woman before she could make the switch, but I could have sworn she was coming from the house.”

McKenzie seemed to give it some thought. “Maybe she saw your headlights coming up the road and took off before she could make the switch.”

“I suppose. If she really was a cat burglar. Or it could be just what the marshal thinks it is—my brothers’ idea of a joke.

“I know an art expert if you’re interested in finding out about the painting. Or, if it is by a local Western artist, you could take it right to the source,” she said.

“Have you ever heard of Taylor West?”

McKenzie looked over at him in surprise. “He’s a well-known artist in these parts. He lives farther up the canyon near Taylor Fork. I’m sure if you took the painting to him, he’d be able to tell you if it was his or not.”

“I just might do that.” He looked up the mountain road ahead and thought about what he’d seen last night as he’d come over the last rise. He couldn’t help thinking about the woman. She’d certainly played her part well. If his brothers had been in on it.

He thought about what he’d seen in her eyes just before he started to call the marshal. She’d looked scared. But that could have been an act, too.

“First thing I want to do is see the original,” he said to McKenzie.

“You think the owner lied about having it? Why would he do that?” she asked as the house came into view.

“I don’t know. To collect on the insurance, maybe. He could be in on some scam involving the artwork if this artist is that well-known.”

McKenzie raised a brow as she parked next to a white SUV next to the house. “Cowboy art doesn’t go for that much. A Taylor West might sell for near a hundred grand to the right market. But we aren’t talking the Mona Lisa.”

He didn’t know what the original was worth, but he was anxious to see it. “I looked up the artist’s website last night. Most of Taylor West’s original work sells for twenty-five to seventy-five thousand depending on the size. Some of his older works are worth more.”

“Did you see this particular painting on the artist’s website?”

“No.”

The owner, Theo Nelson, turned out to be an older distinguished man who’d apparently made his money in real estate back East. “If you have any questions, just let me know. I’ll be in my study.” Nelson disappeared up the stairs, leaving them alone.

“So what do you think, so far?” McKenzie asked as they stepped to the bank of windows that looked out on Lone Mountain. The snow-covered peak glowed in the morning sun against a robin’s-egg-blue sky.

“The view is incredible,” Laramie said. Then he dragged his gaze away to look at the paintings on the walls.

“This open concept is nice,” McKenzie said as she went into the kitchen. “Great for entertaining. 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.

Chapter Three

“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 not for sale.” He reached again for the painting and this time the gallery owner handed it over, though reluctantly.

“I would be happy to authenticate it for you in writing,” the gallery owner said.

Laramie wondered if he’d authenticated the one now hanging in the house he hoped McKenzie was getting for him. “I’ll think about it.” The art dealer walked him toward the front door.

Just then a tall, thin older man with a shoulder-length mane of white-blond hair and a handlebar mustache came in on a gust of wind. He looked like something out of an Old West movie.

“Cody can verify what I’ve told you,” Darlington said.

Laramie eyed the man, wondering if he was also considered an art expert.

“Cody Kent is another of our Western artists,” the gallery owner said. Then he turned to Cody. “Mr. Cardwell brought in a Taylor West painting. He was questioning its authenticity.”

“Really?” Cody tilted his head to look at the painting in Laramie’s hand as Darlington explained to him that while this was a one-of-a-kind piece, apparently there was another one owned by another collector.

That definitely got the man’s attention. “So you’re saying one of them is a forgery?”

“I’d stake my reputation that this is the original,” Darlington said, puffing himself up. “Do you agree?”

Laramie handed the man the artwork and watched him as he inspected it. He noticed that the man’s hands seemed to tremble as he stared at it.

The artist handed it back. “Sure looks like the real thing to me.” Cody Kent’s gaze met his. “Where did you get it?”

“Just picked it up recently,” Laramie said. He took it back from the older man. “Glad to hear you both agree it is an authentic Taylor West.”

As he headed for the door, Darlington followed. “Well, if you decide to get rid of it...”

Laramie shook his head but then stopped just short of the door to ask, “How much would you say it’s worth?” He noticed that Cody Kent had moved to one of the paintings on display only yards from them, clearly listening to the conversation.

Darlington seemed to give a price more thought than was necessary since he’d just offered to buy it. “I could give you...thirty,” he said, keeping his voice down.

“Thirty?”

“Thirty thousand,” Darlington said. “It would be more but it’s an older piece. His work has improved over the years.”

Was that right? Laramie smiled to himself. From what he’d seen online last night, artists’ older work appeared to have more value—especially if the artist was now dead. Taylor West was still kicking, apparently, but Laramie suspected the painting must be worth a lot more that what he was being offered.

“Thanks, but I think I’ll keep it,” he said as he tucked it under his arm. “It has...sentimental value.”

* * *

SID PUT ON clean jeans and a sweater to go to the grocery store. Often she went in her paint-streaked pants and shirts. Anyone who paid any attention was aware that she painted since she spent most Saturdays at the local craft show selling her wares.

Not her paintings, but haphazardly done Montana scenes on everything from old metal saw blades and antique milk cans to ancient tractor parts and windmill blades. Amazingly, her crafts sold well, which proved to her that most people didn’t know the difference between good art and bad.

But today she wanted to fly under the radar. No reason to call attention to herself as an artist. It might be too risky if the man from last night was still in town. She knew she was being silly. He’d probably completely forgotten about her.

She assumed he would have gone to the marshal last night with a story about her robbing that house. Since the painting wouldn’t be missing, she wasn’t worried.

Her only regret was losing the painting. She needed it. Which meant she had to get it back. Or taking all these chances would have been for nothing.

Where was the painting now? She’d learned at a young age to make friends where needed. Now she picked up the phone and called her friend who worked at the marshal’s office as she drove to the grocery store.

After the usual pleasantries, she said, “So what’s new down there?” Dispatcher Tara Kirkwood loved her job because she got to know everything that was going on—and she loved to share it.

“Counterfeit bills keep turning up,” Tara said, keeping her voice down although the office was small and she was probably the only person down there right then. The marshal and detectives were probably out.

She and Tara had established long ago that anything Tara told her wouldn’t go any further—and it never had. “The marshal is chasing one right now that was passed at the Corral Bar.”

“No more cat burglar sightings?” she asked after listening to what Tara knew about the counterfeit bills.

“Actually, before Hud left, he said his wife’s cousin who is in town caught the cat burglar last night.” She laughed. “According to him, the burglar turned out to be a her.”

“No kidding? So is she locked up down there?”

“Naw, she got away.” Tara laughed again. “Hud got a chuckle out of it since apparently there was no crime and his cousin-in-law was quite taken with the woman.”

Sid laughed even though this was not what she wanted to hear. The marshal’s cousin-in-law? Just her luck. Not to mention “quite taken with her”? Really? She thought of the kiss. It might have been a mistake since she’d had a hard time forgetting about it, as well.

“What’s the guy’s name?” she asked.

“Laramie Cardwell.”

Cardwell? Anyone who lived in the Gallatin Canyon knew that name. The Cardwell Ranch was one of the first established in the canyon. But she’d never heard of a Laramie Cardwell before.

“You said he was in town. So he’s not from here?” she asked even though she knew his accent was way too Southern.

“His father is Angus Cardwell. Apparently his mother got a divorce years ago and took her five sons to live in Texas. Laramie’s up here from Houston. He and his brothers own that new place, Texas Boys Barbecue.”

“Huh.”

“Have you tried it yet?” Tara asked.

“No. I’ve been meaning to, though,” she said, realizing it was true.

“It’s really good.”

“So did the so-called cat burglar get away with anything?” she had to ask. “You said no crime was committed?”

“Laramie found a painting, but it wasn’t stolen from the house. I overheard Hud say Laramie is hanging on to it. Kind of like a souvenir.”

Sid mouthed a silent oath. She’d reached Meadow Village and the grocery store. “So now it’s hanging at Cardwell Ranch,” she joked.

“More than likely at his new house,” Tara said.

“His new house?”

The dispatcher dropped her voice even further. “The house that he caught her allegedly robbing? He’s buying it.”

Sid pulled into a parking spot in front of the store. Tara was always a wealth of information. “Now that is a coincidence,” she said. “So apparently he’s staying.”

“At least for the holidays I would think. You really should try their barbecue. It is so good.”

“I just might do that. Got to go. Sure hope they catch those counterfeiters.”

“Me, too. Hud is fit to be tied. It will be nice when things die back down around here.”

Disconnecting, Sid parked in front of the grocery, thinking about everything Tara had said. How was she going to get the painting back? She’d never been one to push her luck and hitting the same house twice was more than risky, especially since now Laramie Cardwell might be expecting her. But did she really have a choice?

Her stomach growled. Still hungry and realizing it was almost lunchtime, she looked up the hill at the sign for Texas Boys Barbecue.

* * *

THE FAMILY HAD gathered at the Cardwell Ranch for lunch. Everyone but Laramie.

“What’s going on with him?” Austin asked. For years he had been the no-show brother, the one who caught grief because he didn’t play family well. Since meeting Gillian and returning to his birthplace, he’d changed. He loved these family get-togethers.

“He’s looking for the cat burglar,” McKenzie said. “And the four of you can blame yourself for that if you’re behind this.”

“What?” Austin asked, looking around the table. Hayes told him what he knew, Hud added his part and McKenzie finished it up. “Seriously? Laramie is trying to find this woman?” He turned to Hayes. “You told him we had nothing to do with this, right?”

“I swore we didn’t.”

Austin groaned. “So he might actually be chasing a real cat burglar.”

“Only if the cat burglar is a young woman with silvery-blue eyes,” Hud said, shaking his head. “This whole cat burglar thing started when a few residents saw a dark-clad figure sneaking around a couple of houses. But the bottom line is that no one has reported being burglarized. No valuables or paintings are missing.”

“So you think it’s a hoax,” Austin said.

“I do,” the marshal agreed. “Probably the local security company put the woman up to it to drum up more business. A lot of the people in Big Sky are from urban areas so security is a concern for them. The rest of us locals don’t even bother to lock our doors.”

“He told me he was going to visit the artist whose painting the woman dropped,” McKenzie said between bites. “Taylor West. He lives up the canyon near Taylor Fork.”

“Why didn’t he come to us?” Austin asked his brother Hayes. “We are actually trained for this sort of thing.” He’d gone to work for Hayes’s detective agency after quitting the sheriff’s department in Texas—he hadn’t been satisfied being simply retired. Gillian had been right. He’d been miserable. He was too young to retire and he enjoyed investigative work.

“Seriously?” Dana asked. “You don’t understand why your brother might want to solve this thing on his own? It involves an apparently attractive woman who tricked him and escaped. Laramie is related to all of you. Enough said. He probably thinks she’s in trouble and is off to save her.”

They all laughed, but Austin couldn’t shake the bad feeling he had.

“I know that look in your eye,” Gillian said to Austin. “Don’t do it.”

“She’s right,” Jackson said speaking up. “We need to stay out of this. I think Laramie’s been getting bored running the business. Why not let him have a little...fun, since there is nothing to the cat burglar stories?”

They all agreed. Except Austin. “Fun? What if this woman is dangerous?”

“Laramie can take care of himself,” Hayes said. “He hasn’t just been sitting behind a desk for the past ten years. He’s worked with some of us on cases. I think Jackson’s right. He needs this and he needs us to stay out of it.”

Austin couldn’t help being protective of his youngest brother. While he and Hayes had both worked in law enforcement, Laramie had no experience dealing with criminals.

“I hope you’re right,” Austin said as he watched his family finish their lunches. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Laramie had no idea what he was getting into.

For the time being, he’d stay out of it since, if Hud was right, it had been nothing but a prank. But if a woman was involved...

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.

Chapter Five

Laramie left the restaurant, his mind on the painting and the woman, of course. The winter day sparkled under a blinding sun that ricocheted off the new-fallen snow. At loose ends waiting to hear if McKenzie got him the house, he went for a drive up the canyon.

Next to the highway, the Gallatin River snaked through the canyon under a thick layer of aquamarine ice. He tried to enjoy the beauty of this alien winter place. The snowcapped pines bent under the weight of their frozen burden, reminding him that it was less than a week until Christmas. His cousin Dana loved the holidays and went all-out surrounded by her family. He smiled at the thought.

Glancing in his review mirror, he realized he’d seen the large dark brown older-model sedan behind him before—right after he’d left Taylor West’s house. It was behind him again.

He tried to laugh off the thought of someone following him. First cat burglars now this? Well, there was one way to find out, he thought as he neared the Corral Bar. He slowed and pulled in. The car went on past.

The windows on the vehicle had been tinted, so he hadn’t gotten a good look at the driver. If he had to guess, he’d say male. As it disappeared up the road, he told himself the driver hadn’t been following him anyway.

He thought about going inside the bar and having a burger and a beer. This was his father and uncle’s favorite bar. Their band often played here.

But he was too antsy. He wanted to get back and find out if McKenzie had gotten him the house...and the painting. He pulled back on the road headed toward Big Sky again, his thoughts going to his cat burglar. The forgery at the house had to have been painted by someone with a whole lot of talent as Taylor West had said.

So if it was a forgery, who had painted it? Not some dead man named H. F. Powell unless he’d painted it before his demise. But the big question was why would his thief take it instead of the authenticated original?

She wouldn’t. So if he was right and she’d been coming out of the house when he’d arrived, then she’d been in the process of stealing the original when he’d stopped her.

Which meant McKenzie was about to make a deal for a forgery.

Shaking his head at his own foolishness, he glanced in his rearview mirror. The brown car was back.

He felt a start at the sight of it behind him again. As he glanced in his rearview mirror again he saw that the vehicle was coming up fast. The canyon road had been plowed, but the dark pavement was still icy. Add to that the twists and turns the highway took as it wound through the Gallatin Canyon and the driver of the car was going way too fast.

Laramie had only a moment for his brain to take it all in before he realized that the driver had no intention of slowing down. A curve was coming up, one with a steep rock face on one side of the road and a precarious drop to the frozen river on the other.

He felt the vehicle’s bumper connect with the back of his rental. Just a tap. But on the icy road that was all it took. The rental SUV began to fishtail on the ice as the dark car bumped into him again. He could feel the tires lose traction and the next thing he knew he was sliding toward the river. He felt the tires go off the pavement. A wall of snow rushed over the hood.

Expecting the SUV would be pitched into the river and break through the ice, Laramie braced him. Moments later, heart in his throat, he was shocked when the deep snow off the side of the highway stopped his descent just yards from the frozen river. He sat, so shaken he didn’t notice the dark car backing up on the highway above him until he heard the roar of the engine.

Looking up, all he saw was the dark tinted windows on the passenger side as the car sped away.

* * *

THE PULLED PORK sandwich was to die for, just as Tara had said. Sid couldn’t believe she hadn’t been to Texas Boys Barbecue before this. The beans and coleslaw were quite good, too. She had downed the cola on the drive back to the cabin but had saved the rest until she’d reached home. Once there, she’d pulled a cold bottle of beer from the grocery bag and sat down at her kitchen table to devour the barbecue. She couldn’t help licking her fingers.

Her father would have loved the food, she thought, and then pushed the thought away. While he was always with her, driving her more than ambition, remembering him often brought aching pain. One day that pain would go away, once she accomplished the job she’d set for herself, she told herself as she cleaned up the mess and changed her clothes.

Back at her easel, she considered the painting she was working on. It was one of her father. He was standing by a horse next to the corral. His battered straw cowboy hat was pushed back, sunlight on his weathered face. Behind him were the rocky cliffs and scrub pine of her youth. She was painting it from memory since all the photos had been lost.

She thought of the stash of original artwork she had hidden all these years. It had been years since anyone had seen those paintings—herself included.

Until recently.

* * *

LARAMIE CALLED 911 the moment he was out of the SUV and standing at the edge of the highway. He couldn’t believe how lucky he’d been. Just a few more yards and the rental would have been in the river.

Marshal Hud Savage came on the line. “What’s this about you being forced off the road?”

He told him and Hud promised to have a wrecker sent down to get his rental out of the snowbank.

Laramie had given him what little description he could of the vehicle that had forced him off the road. As with the alleged cat burglar, he had little information other than the car was large and brown with tinted windows.

“It happened too fast,” he said. “But there was no doubt of the driver’s intent.” He could almost see Hud nodding.

“Had you passed the driver? Or had any interaction before 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.”

* * *

TAYLOR WEST 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 calls he’d made the moment Laramie Cardwell left. But he’d been so upset and he wasn’t in this alone.

Rock Jackson had sounded as if he’d been asleep before the call.

“I’m telling you this painting was so good... I’m not even sure it isn’t the original,” he’d told Rock. “Tell me there isn’t any chance—”

“Take it easy. You’re jumping to conclusions. Who brought you the painting?”

Taylor told him.

“The guy’s gone, right?”

“He just left.”

“Then there is nothing to worry about,” Rock had said. “Look, I have to go. Have a drink. Everything is fine.”

Artist Hank Ramsey had told him pretty much the same thing, only Taylor had heard more worry in Hank’s voice.

“If you had seen this painting...” Taylor had said feeling sick to his stomach.

Hank had asked the name of the man who’d stopped by and what painting it had been. Hank had tried to calm him back down. “Taylor, we’re all painting cowboys, horses and Indians. We’ve all had someone copy our paintings. Since you’re at the top of the heap, your paintings are going to be forged the most. Let me see what I can find out. In the meantime, don’t do anything crazy.”

He’d hung up, thinking about the other members of OWAC, picturing each of their faces and telling himself that none of them were good enough to paint such a perfect forgery.

He’d tried to call Rock back, but the number had gone to voice mail. “This is Taylor West. Call me. We really need to talk. If that painting is what I think it is... Call me.” He’d disconnected, wondering where Rock was. Or if he just wasn’t taking his calls after the first one. Which would make Rock look pretty suspicious, wouldn’t it?

Now he took a long drink, admitting that he never should have trusted Rock. Rock wasn’t that much different from H. F. Powell when it came to women. Now Rock was in trouble because of another woman. In the middle of an ugly divorce, he was probably desperate for money. But how far would he go?

Taylor knew his suspicion of Rock could also be because Rock had always been jealous of him—especially when Taylor had married Jade.

Jade. Where was his beautiful young wife? She’d probably gone to her mother’s back in Indiana. He shoved the thought of her away as he took another drink. He had a lot more to worry about than Jade.

* * *

“THE HOUSE IS YOURS,” McKenzie announced when Laramie stopped by her office after getting his rental SUV pulled out of the snowbank. He was still shaken, but even more determined to get to the bottom of whatever was going on.

“And the painting?” he asked expectantly. He told himself he couldn’t be sure which was original and without it, he might never know.

She chuckled. “Yours, as well. He wanted extra for it, but I convinced him that you wanted pretty much everything in the house except, of course, any items that he couldn’t possibly part with. If you don’t want the furniture, I know a consignment place—”

“No, furnished is perfect. So what is he leaving?”

“Everything, including the kitchen sink, except for the other paintings and sculptures. He has an art dealer coming to take the lot of them this afternoon.”

Laramie couldn’t hide his relief. He wasn’t sure why the painting was so important. But what had happened after he’d left Taylor West’s house had him convinced the painting was at the heart of it. He thought about the house—where he’d seen his alleged cat burglar. “How soon can I take occupancy?”

“Right away, I suppose, if you’re in that much of a hurry.”

He’d been staying with Hayes and McKenzie and didn’t want to hurt her feelings. “No hurry, just anxious to get settled.”

“I can understand that. Since the house will come completely furnished, there won’t be much that you will need. He’s leaving bedding, all of which he said is brand-new. Apparently they haven’t gotten to use this house much. I take it that his soon-to-be-ex wife didn’t like it up here. Too isolated. Since you’re paying cash, I can arrange a rental agreement until the sale is final. You should be able to move in this evening. The owner is in a hurry to get out of town.”

“Great.”

“But this...urgency to get settled, it wouldn’t have anything to do with your...cat burglar, would it?”

Laramie smiled to himself. “You sound like Austin. I ran into him earlier at the restaurant. Like I told him, I know what I’m doing.” He wished that was true.

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