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...
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
