nostrils flared as she inhaled and exhaled loudly. She spat her words. “You. Are. Sadly. Mistaken.”
“I’ll show you who’s wrong.” Charlene lunged.
Ben caught the small woman by her waist, lifted her off her feet, carried her a few paces and dropped her. “Stop it,” he growled. “Both of you.”
Other residents of the house had responded to the shrieks. The gardener and chauffeur peeked around a hedge. On the landing, a man in a chef hat hovered behind another maid with eyes round as silver dollars. Rachel Frakes glared disapprovingly. When her gaze hit Liz, she remembered the lecture on decorum and reached up to adjust the starched white maid’s cap that hung precariously from one bobby pin.
Ben strode toward his sister. “Give me the damn horse.”
“It’s mine.” She stuck out her chin. “Besides, you’re supposed to be on my side.”
“Give it to me. Now.” His eyes—which were an incredible shade of teal—narrowed. An aura of command and determination emanated from him, and Liz recognized the strong charisma of a born leader. It would take a stronger woman than Patrice to stand up to Ben.
His right hand closed around the neck of the rearing bronco, and he gave a tug. Reluctantly, his sister released her grip.
Quickly, he passed the sculpture to Liz. “Would you take this inside, please.”
“Sure.” She remembered her earlier conversation with Rachel about proper responses and amended, “I mean, yes.”
The burnished bronze was still warm from being cradled against Patrice’s body. Liz held it gingerly. She wasn’t a big fan of Western art, even if it had belonged to the legendary Western writer Zane Grey, but this lump of metal must be worth a lot.
Ben turned back to Patrice and Charlene. “Shake hands and make up, ladies.”
“No way,” Charlene responded. “I’m not going to touch that skinny witch.”
“This feud has gone far enough.” His baritone took on an ominous rumble. “Like it or not, we’re family. We stick together.”
Liz edged around the three of them on her way toward the front door. This squabble—though plenty juicy and perversely entertaining—really wasn’t her concern. Her job as a private investigator meant finding evidence proving that Ben was an unfit father—a task that had taken on a layer of complication. She’d expected him to be an addict or a crazed playboy or an irresponsible adventurer. None of those identities fit. He seemed family oriented and rational…even admirable.
Before Liz could step inside, a well-tanned man—dressed in the male version of Patrice’s black suit—appeared in the doorway and struck a pose as if waiting for a GQ photographer. Though his blond hair was thinning on top, he’d compensated with a long ponytail. He squinted at Liz’s face, then his gaze caught on the sculpture. “What do you think you’re doing with that horse?”
“I was planning to saddle up and ride in the Kentucky Derby.”
“It’s mine.” He gestured toward Patrice. “Ours.”
“And who are you?” Liz inquired. “The great-grandson of Zane Grey? A Rider of the Purple Sage?”
“Monte. Monte Welles.” Like Bond. James Bond. “Patrice’s husband.”
When he made the mistake of reaching for the statue that had been entrusted to her care by Ben, her reaction came from pure instinct. With both arms busy holding the bronze horse, Liz relied on her feet. Two quick, light kicks tapped on his ankle, then the toe of his left foot.
He gave a yelp and backed off. “You’re fired.”
“The hell she is,” Ben said. “Monte, get your butt over here and talk some sense into your wife. She and Charlene need to kiss and make up.”
“Hah!” Patrice tossed her head again. “I’d rather kiss a toad.”
“I’ll bet,” Charlene countered. “That’s why you married Monte.”
Liz stifled a chuckle. Though she wasn’t taking sides, she gave a point to Charlene for her nifty insult.
Patrice planted her fists on her nonexistent hips. “Leave my husband out of this.”
“Gladly.”
“And I want an apology. I wasn’t stealing. Just reclaiming something that belongs to me.”
“Wrong,” Charlene said. “This is my house. Everything in it belongs to me.”
“Not for long—prenup. Remember the prenup,” Patrice said smugly. “When Jerod dies, you get a payoff and nothing more. Not a stick of furniture. Not one square foot of property. And certainly not my Remington sculpture.”
A sly grin curved Charlene’s glossy lips. “What would you say if I told you that Jerod has decided to change his will?”
Patrice looked like she might faint. Her complexion went ghostly pale. Her arms fell limply to her sides. “How could you say such a thing?”
“Maybe because it’s true.” Charlene preened. “You can check with the family attorney. He’ll be at dinner.”
“Grandpa wouldn’t do that,” she mumbled. “He couldn’t. Not on his deathbed.”
“He’s not going to die,” Charlene said with vehement conviction. “He’s going to get better.”
“Damn straight, honey. You tell ’em.”
Those few words, spoken in a Texan drawl, riveted everyone’s attention to the doorway. A white-haired man in a wheelchair was pushed onto the landing by a nurse in scrubs. Dark sunglasses perched on his beaklike nose. A plaid wool bathrobe hung from the frame of his shoulders. Though debilitated by illness, he was clearly the patriarch. Jerod Crawford, age seventy-six, took immediate, unquestioned control of the situation. “You girls quit your squabbling. And I mean now.”
A laugh bubbled from Charlene’s lips as she bounced toward her husband, leaned down and planted a quick kiss on his forehead. “You look good today. Excited about our party?”
“I’m waiting to see what you’ll wear. I like you all gussied up and smelling like roses.”
“I know you do.” She checked her wristwatch. “I need to run into town and pick up my dress from the seamstress. Don’t get yourself too tired before our guests arrive.”
“Ain’t much strain sitting in this here chair.”
She held both of his gnarled hands and squeezed. “Take care, lover boy. You’re my bumblebee.”
“And you’re my honey.”
Even though Charlene was probably a gold digger, Liz thought her fondness for Jerod rang true. Likewise for Ben, who stepped behind his grandpa’s wheelchair and pushed him along the driveway toward a narrow asphalt path leading toward the lake.
Rachel
