The books! Samantha thought. Ernie had raided Roark’s saddlebags for the books. That’s what Roark had intended, to lure the enemy into snatching material in order to prevent Roark from being enlightened and in consequence a threat to his schemes.
Both men were red-faced and huffing when Roark separated them. Ernie had the bag back in his keeping and was clutching it tightly.
“Let’s have the bag, Ernie,” Roark commanded him, holding out his hand.
“The hell I will!” Ernie growled. “It’s my bag, and I didn’t swipe anything that’s in it. All I was looking for was to borrow a razor blade.”
“Then you won’t mind showing us what’s inside,” Alex said, reaching for the bag.
“Get away, all of you!”
Alex made a dive for the bag, seizing one end of it. In the renewed struggle for it, the bag landed on the ground, spilling its entire contents. To Samantha’s surprise, there were no books. No sign of anything but what seemed to be Ernie’s personal possessions, including a safety razor with a missing blade.
“Ernie,” Roark said, his tone apologetic, “if you needed a blade, why didn’t you just ask one of us?”
“You were all asleep,” the stocky young man muttered.
Dick and Cappy were still in their sleeping bags, and Shep was out taking his shift with the herd. She assumed Ramona was off fetching water for her breakfast preparations. But then why, if he hadn’t stolen anything, had Ernie so fiercely resisted having his bag examined? And why did he crouch down now on the ground and begin to swiftly throw his belongings back into the bag, as if fearful of a discovery?
That question, too, was answered when Roark leaned down and clamped his hand on Ernie’s wrist, preventing him from shoving into the bag a tube of tightly rolled paper secured by a rubber band.
“Let go!” Ernie tried to snatch his hand away.
“Not until we’ve had a look at what’s inside that roll. Samantha?”
While Roark continued to hang on to Ernie, she reached down and took possession of the roll. She slid the rubber band from the tube, which opened to reveal itself as two photographs. The same photographs Wendell had sent to his boss back in Lost Springs.
“Ah,” Roark said, releasing Ernie to look over her shoulder at the likenesses of the abbot of St. James Monastery and the director of the Western Museum, “that’s what happened to them. It was you who was listening outside the cabin window that evening, huh, Ernie? And the minute you got the chance, you helped yourself to the photos.”
“So what?” he snarled, coming defiantly to his feet.
“Not
what,
Ernie,
why.
What is there about these two photos that could possibly interest you?”
“He only cares about one of them,” said a calm voice from behind them. They swung around to find Ramona standing there bearing a bucket of water in each hand. Setting the buckets on the ground, she came forward and placed a finger on the likeness of the Western Museum’s director. “This one.”
“Ma, don’t. It ain’t none of their business.”
“It’s become their business, Ernie,” she said, looking at Roark and not her son. “And if we don’t explain it, they’re going to think you’re guilty of something criminal. Which you aren’t, unless you count taking a photograph of your father as a crime.”
Samantha’s startled gaze went from the photo to Ernie’s face. No wonder she and Roark had thought there was something vaguely familiar about the man in the photograph. She could see it now. Ernie bore a faint resemblance to the museum director.
Ramona nodded. “That’s right. Frank Costello is Ernie’s father. He was also very married when I had an affair with him.”
Samantha’s gaze went sympathetically to Ernie, but he met her look with a hard glare that told her he didn’t want her sympathy. “Did he know about…”
“Ernie?” Ramona said. “Oh, yes, Frank knew all right. These days, of course, young women handle such situations differently. Things like paternity suits, I suppose. But back then all you thought about was avoiding a scandal. I didn’t want to ruin Frank or hurt his family, so I did what he wanted. I accepted the money he gave me and went away to have my baby.”
“And afterward?” Samantha pressed her.
“I let it go. I forgot about Frank Costello and concentrated on raising my son.”
“But Ernie didn’t let it go,” Roark said perceptively.
“No, he didn’t. I made the mistake of telling him who his father is, thinking that would satisfy him. It didn’t. Ernie wants to be recognized by his father, but…” Ramona shrugged. “Even though Frank’s wife died years ago, it doesn’t seem to make any difference. He doesn’t want to acknowledge his son.”
“That’s between me and him, Ma,” Ernie said bitterly. “The whole world don’t have to know about it. Damn it, why do you think I took the photograph in the first place?
It was to keep these two from poring over it and maybe finally seeing I have his nose and his eyes. I even grabbed the other picture so’s to throw them off the scent, and now you go and spill your guts about stuff that’s private and ought to have stayed that way.”
“Then why did you keep the photos, Ernie?” Roark asked him. “Why didn’t you just destroy them?”
Ernie was silent, his face stubborn and proud.
“I guess I can understand that.” Alex spoke up softly. “If it was my father, maybe I’d want to keep his picture, too. Just to look at, you know.”
But Ernie didn’t want Alex’s understanding any more than he wanted Samantha’s sympathy. Muttering an obscenity, he turned and stormed away.
Ramona gazed after him sorrowfully. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. And Samantha didn’t know whether she was apologizing to them or her son. Her heart went out to both Ramona and Ernie, but she said nothing. The woman wore an expression that plainly said she wanted to be alone. They left her behind the cook truck and moved silently away.
Alex went off to find the others. Roark, with Samantha trailing him, made straight for his saddlebags. “The books are still here,” he reported after checking the contents. “Undisturbed.”
He had a speculative look in his potent blue eyes when he got to his feet. “What are you thinking?” she questioned him.
“That maybe Ernie Chacon’s motive is less innocent than it seems.”
“What does that mean?”
“Frank Costello is the director of the Western Museum, and if his son is willing to go to any lengths to win his approval…”
Samantha understood him. “The museum gets the Walking W if I fail to qualify for my grandfather’s estate. If I’m deliberately
made
to fail.”
“It would be quite a gift to present a director. Say, an ambitious director who’d be very grateful for it.”
It was an unpleasant thought, but a possibility that Samantha couldn’t ignore.
“No proof for any of this,” Roark said grimly, “but now more than ever, Ernie bears careful watching.”
T
HE SUN WAS STILL
a good hour away from setting when the drive stopped for the night. Samantha suspected that the other members of the outfit were as grateful as she was for Shep’s decision to call an early halt. The trail boss had pushed them hard that day, insisting they had to make up for lost time.
“Don’t know why he’s so worried,” Cappy had grumbled, his jaws working on his familiar tobacco chaw. “Alamo Junction can’t be more’n a couple of days away now. Plenty of time to make those stock cars.”
If only we could count on that, Samantha thought, sharing the trail boss’s tension. After all, she had a lot to lose if they failed to meet the deadline. And with all that had been happening, it was certainly possible. Shep’s concern, of course, could be explained by his responsibility for the progress of the drive. That and whatever private devil was riding him.
“I’m going to hug Shep for taking pity on us,” Samantha confided to Roark when they arrived at the site for that night’s camp.
Roark, chuckling, jerked his head in the direction of the nearby creek along whose banks the longhorns were already crowding. “I think his decision had more to do with the availability of water than any compassion for our backsides.”
“Well, this backside is so exhausted I don’t think it can take another minute in the saddle. On the other hand, I’m not sure I have enough strength left to get out of the saddle.”
Roark had already dismounted with maddening ease.
“Here, let me help.” He stood by her stirrup, offering his hand to her.
“I can manage,” she insisted.
But her body, unsteady with fatigue, betrayed her as she started to climb down, threatening to tumble her from the mare’s back. She would have collapsed on the ground if Roark hadn’t caught her as she slid from the saddle. The next thing she knew she had been dragged to her feet and was solidly in his arms.
Samantha instantly forgot how stiff and sore she was. Forgot everything but her traitorous senses clamoring for the man who held her. For his long, lean body pressed tightly, securely against hers, searing her flesh even with the barrier of their clothing between them. For the scent of him, all male in its mixture of horse, sweat and musk. And for his bold, sensual mouth that hovered promisingly just above hers.
“Tell me you want this as much as I do,” he said gruffly, his deep blue eyes pinned on her with the intensity of a hungry predator. “That nothing else matters.”
In this moment nothing else did matter. She didn’t care about the past or the future. All she knew was that she wanted more than the sight, scent and feel of him. She wanted his flavor as well. Wanted what she had missed since their night in the canyon. His mouth devouring hers.
It didn’t happen. The cell phone clipped to his belt trilled sharply, demanding his attention. With a muttered oath, Roark released her and reached for the phone. Samantha didn’t know whether to feel regret or relief. Both emotions were at war inside her, and had been from the start.
When he answered the call, she could hear an excited voice at the other end. “Wendell?” she asked, mouthing the name. Roark nodded and angled his head toward her, holding the instrument so that they could both listen. There was no risk of being overheard. Ramona was busy over at the cook truck getting supper underway. The rest of the
outfit was occupied with watering and settling the herd for the night.
“What have you got for me, Wendell?”
“Something you’re going to like,” the young trainee informed him triumphantly. “All my work in Purgatory finally paid off. See, I got to talking to this woman in one of the bars there. I swear there are more saloons in that town than gas stations. Anyway, it turns out she’s a friend of Ramona Chacon. Amazing how a few beers oiled her tongue. Guess what she told me about your Ernie?”
Wendell proceeded to gleefully tell them Ramona’s secret, how she’d had an affair years ago with the director of the Western Museum and that Ernie was his illegitimate son. There was a silence when he breathlessly finished his story.
“Hey, you still there?”
“Still here,” Roark assured him. “It’s just that, uh, we learned all this from Ramona herself this morning.”
“You already
know?
”
Samantha heard the disappointment in Wendell’s voice and felt sorry for him. Roark made an effort to soothe him.
“It’s all right, Wendell. It’s still good work. Did you get into those caves yet?”
“Yeah, I went out there this morning. Creepy places. No snakes, but I could feel the ghosts of all those Native American ancestors that were supposed to have lived in them. If they left anything behind, though, it’s long gone.”
“Any evidence of digging in them?”
“Not a sign. Hang on a minute. There’s another call coming in.”
Roark turned to Samantha while they waited. “I still say the answer is in that ravine. It must be there somewhere, and whatever it is, there’s a chance it’s connected with Ernie Chacon.”
“Why Ernie?”
“Have you forgotten that Shep told us your grandfather sent Ernie packing? What if Joe found him messing around
that ravine and ordered him to keep away from the ranch? And if Ernie did discover something, say in the caves there, it could be another reason for wanting the Walking W in his father’s control. Because if Frank Costello
was
grateful to his son for the property, there’s every likelihood he would permit him the freedom of—”
“I’m back,” Wendell said. “It was just a question on the billing for the Adams case last month. Oh, there is one more thing I got from this woman in the bar, but, heck, I suppose you already know that, too.”
“Let’s have it, Wendell.”
“I guess the lady gets around, because she claimed to also be a good friend of your trail boss’s wife.”
“And?”
“The wife told her she’s worried about her husband. It seems that the guy is in financial trouble. The serious kind.”
Samantha and Roark turned their heads to exchange glances of sudden, eager interest. She knew Roark must be thinking the same thing she was.
Shep Thomas.
Was it possible?
Chapter Ten
Roark urged his trainee to explain. “Just how serious, Wendell? Did you get any details?”
“Oh, yeah. The guy is a gambler, and now he owes the wrong people. The sort that don’t make idle threats.”
Shep Thomas a gambler? Samantha thought. She found the information hard to believe. It just didn’t belong with the straight-arrow image the trail boss had always projected. But then individuals seldom fitted the molds into which society was forever casting them.
“The wife told this friend,” Wendell continued, “that Shep had asked his boss for a loan before his death but that Joe Walker had turned him down. Said her husband didn’t know how he was going to cover his debt and that he’s been plenty worried about it since. You sure you didn’t hear this already?”
Roark assured him they hadn’t.
“Well, I’m sorry I saved it for last, but I didn’t see how it could be useful. I mean, it’s not like Shep Thomas benefits from Walker’s will if his granddaughter fails to inherit.”
“Is that everything, Wendell? What about the new batch of photos?”
“I took a lot of them like you asked, shot those ravine walls from end to end. As soon as they’re developed, I’ll send them on. The results should be waiting for you at
your next stop after this one. That would be Willow Creek, wouldn’t it? You have anything more you want me to look into?”