Perfect Touch (2 page)

I
NSIDE THE WOOD-PANELED
hearing room, Jay Vermilion stretched against his borrowed jacket, trying to loosen the leather across his shoulders.

Never thought anything of JD's would be small on me.

But it was.

Henry Pederson said under his breath, “Quit twitching, boy. Remember what JD said and never show anyone fear.”

Their attorney, sitting next to Henry, bit back a smile as he made last-minute notes.

Jay gave his shaggy ranch foreman a sideways look. “I learned about fear and stillness in places you've never seen.”

“Yeah. When you reupped for ‘Trashcanistan' I figured you'd never come back to the ranch.”

“So did I. Then I got tired of unreal politics and real bullets.”

“Good thing. Liza about bled the ranch dry,” Henry said. He started to spit, remembered where he was, and swallowed instead. “Hope the judge doesn't finish the job.”

“We'll survive without the paintings.”

“Thought you wanted to meet Ms. Sara Medina,” Henry said, rubbing his mustache. “She sounds like a pistol.”

Jay hid the warmth that slid through him at her name, but he didn't bother to hide his grin. “Yes, she does. A lot of fire and intelligence, too. If we get the Custers, we'll owe her.”

“Damned painter. Never was worth much but trouble. Ranch was better off without him.”

But we'd be better off
with
his paintings,
Jay thought.
There's so much the ranch needs
.
I finally could fix all the little things that were let go until it became a big, expensive, run-down mess.

He didn't say anything aloud about the condition of the ranch. Henry was seventy-four and thin as a fence post. As tough, too. He had done the best he could to hold things together while Jay was gone and JD went into his long, slow decline.

With a glance at his watch, Jay settled back. “No matter what the judge finally decides, fence wire still needs tightening in the south pasture, mineral licks need to be put out, irrigation trenches kept up, and cattle moved to greener pastures. That's real. The rest is just dogs barking at the moon.”

Henry rubbed his long, uneven mustache, more silver than black now, and nodded. “Your daddy taught you good.”

“He must have. I'm alive.”

The foreman smiled crookedly. “Chip off the old stubborn block.”

“JD met his match with Liza Neumann.”

A grunt was Henry's only answer. He had never thought much of JD's second wife and had seen no particular reason to hide it.

While the second hand crawled around the old hearing room clock, Jay thought of all the things he could be doing at the ranch. He wanted to grab his town Stetson off the table in front of him, walk out of the court, and get back to work. Then tonight, Sara Medina would call with a question, or he would call her, and they'd talk. He'd tell her about the hearing room and the judge and the verdict. She'd tell him about the sophisticated, pricey items she searched out and bought for wealthy, demanding clients.

Give me an ornery cow any day,
he thought.

He looked over to the plaintiff's side of the courtroom. Liza's pair of attorneys waited as quiet as owls hunting for their next meal. He knew exactly what her lawyers were being paid, since the Vermilion estate had been footing their legal bill for the past six years.

Just like everything else in Liza's life,
Jay thought wearily.
She spends. Vermilion Ranch pays and pays and pays.

Not for the first time, Jay hoped the screwing his father got was worth the screwing he got.

The hall door opened with a hollow sound that bounced around the bare hearing room. Liza Neumann, formerly Vermilion, made her entrance on high heels that stretched her five feet, five inches to five feet ten. Her strawberry blond hair had turned to platinum, a finishing touch on the ice-queen sheen. JD's diamonds hung from her ears and glittered on her hands. Unlike the Custer paintings, the jewelry JD had showered on his then-young wife was an uncontested gift.

“Ma'am,” Jay said, standing when she passed around the side of his table.

Henry didn't move.

Liza paused as she reached her seat. “Thank you, Jay,” she said in a husky, smoky voice. “Whatever JD's many faults, he raised you polite.”

Henry waited until she was seated at the plaintiff's table before he said to Jay, “Wish JD was here.”

“Even if he was still alive, he wouldn't be here in any way but physical.” As Jay sat back down, he gave the buckskin across his shoulders one last stretch. “He used to be okay most of the day. Then he started fading before sundown. Then it was the afternoon. Then . . .”

“Hell of a way for a strong man to die,” Henry said, shaking his shaggy gray head. “I get like that, just shoot me and leave me for the bears.”

The hall door opened again. Jay didn't have to turn around to recognize the quick sounds of his much younger half brother's leather shoes making an expensive tattoo down the aisle.

“That kid will be late to his own funeral,” Henry muttered. “Ain't much of JD in him. A mama's boy through and through.”

“JD didn't get much of a chance to raise him.”
And I left for West Point long before Barton could shave.

What's done is done. Now we have to live with it.

Barton paused near the end of the aisle separating the plaintiff's and defendant's tables. His delicate features and pale skin were blotchy and flushed, as if he'd just run all the way there. He took off his black overcoat, showing a lightweight cream suit beneath. Like everything else about him, his clothes had an expensive eastern cut. In this case, New York via Miami, where he had been trying to finalize a big real estate deal.

Or so people said.

Jay didn't much care for gossip, but he could see that something was eating on his brother from the inside out. Beneath the pink flush of exertion, his skin was white and his shoulders hunched like a man hefting a heavy load. His rust-red hair was barely tamed by the expensive razor cut. At twenty-four, his light blue eyes had a look of permanent anxiety in them.

When Barton's eyes darted toward the defendant's table, Jay used his boot to shove out a chair in silent invitation.

Barton looked toward Liza just as she turned to him and raised her eyebrows. With an apologetic glance at Jay, the younger man went to the plaintiff's table. He reached to pull out a chair, discovered it was heavy, solid wood, and had to put his back into the effort. A few moments later he flopped down next to Liza.

She didn't even look at him.

Jay shook his head slightly.
A winter wind is kinder than that woman, and JD was old enough to be Barton's grandfather. Lousy way to raise a kid.

Money only fixed the things that money could. Barton's childhood wasn't one of them.

“Give it up,” Henry said. “The boy knows which side his bread is buttered on.”

“If he did, he'd be sitting next to me. I keep trying to give him a chance, to teach him about the ranch.”

“Can't teach what a kid don't want to learn.”

Jay didn't argue with the truth. “In one way, Barton is exactly like I was at his age. I wanted to be hell and gone from the ranch.”

Henry's gnarled fingers fiddled with the brim of his going-to-town Stetson, started to put it on, then remembered why it was on the table. “You sure got what you wanted.”

“I sure did,” Jay said, and then turned his mind from the distant place that had been dubbed the Meatgrinder by the troops who survived. “I guess lawyers are more civilized than bullets. But being sued to death one inch at a time gets tiresome. Thank God Sara—Ms. Medina—helped us fight for JD's claim to the paintings. Don't know what we would have done without her. And you, of course, helping to find those receipts.”

“Foolishness, sneezing through boxes of old stuff when the ranch needed tending.”

“It was what JD wanted.”

Henry sighed. “He was set on keeping those paintings. Never knew why. Pure cussedness, likely.”

“It was the last thing he ever asked of me. If I can keep the Custers out of Liza's hands, I will,” Jay said simply.

It was the same vow he'd made every night to JD, a vow his father had to hear before he slept. Then he would curl around the reassurance like a big diamond as he slept.

Some diamond. It felt like an unsheathed blade to me, a cut that he mistook for comfort.

Or maybe he liked pain.

It sure would explain Liza.

“The man loved what he loved,” Henry said. “Wasn't real smart about it, though.”

Jay hissed out a breath. “I'm not sure that love had much to do with it. Liza and JD fought to the death over these paintings. But custody of the child? Settled in an hour. When I got old enough and left, Barton was stuck with two parents who were too busy fighting to raise him.”

“Don't feel bad for him,” Henry said drily. “Either way, he can go with the winning side.”

Jay looked at his brother in his pale Miami suit and knew that Vermilion Ranch wasn't ever going to be home for him. But it was home for Jay and all the hands who worked there. Now more than ever, it was his job to make the place thrive.

In seven years, Barton gets a chunk of the ranch or I buy him out. If I have the money.

A stir went through the room as Judge Flink was announced. Everyone
rose while the judge entered from the side and took her seat on the bench. When people were seated again, she smacked the gavel sharply and began summarizing the high points of the long case.

Good thing the military taught me patience,
Jay thought, settling in to listen to the facts he had long ago memorized.

T
HE ECHO OF
Sara's footsteps faded inside the courthouse as she stopped in surprise. A small crowd loitered in front of the door to hearing room 3, where she'd been told the final words on the Vermilion case would be spoken. Most of the people who were waiting seemed to know one another. They were chatting in knots of two and three.

And everyone kept glancing toward the hearing room, waiting.

Friends of either side? Reporters? Bill collectors?

Nothing happened to answer Sara's silent questions.

Two men stood near the door to the hearing room. One was a bailiff in a sharply pressed khaki uniform with a thick brown jacket on top of that. His bronze badge gleamed in the hall's fluorescent lights. Sara recognized the second man, who was tall, gaunt, and dressed in a blue seersucker suit that bunched at his joints. Though his back was turned to her, she knew he would be wearing his trademark fuchsia bow tie.

Guy Beck. How did that pompous con artist find out about the Custers?

“Sorry, sir,” the bailiff said clearly. “The defendant requested and received a closed hearing to avoid a media circus. You may wait with the others. Please clear the doorway.”

Beck hesitated for a second, then turned and sauntered toward the knots of conversation.

Didn't see me, thank God,
Sara thought.
Hope it stays that way.

A uniformed man came down the hallway from the other side, had a quick, low-voiced conversation with the bailiff, then turned to the people waiting for the hearing room doors to open.

The new man was tall, tanned beneath his hat brim, thick through the body but not slack. His dark, keen eyes took in everyone with a quick sweep. There was some belly beneath his uniform, but he made no effort to hide it behind his open jacket.

Sara decided that he was a confident man, in or out of uniform.

“Excuse me,” he said clearly, “is Sara Anne Medina here?”

From the corner of her eye she saw Beck's head snap in her direction. She ignored him and walked forward.

“I'm Sara Medina.”

“Sheriff Cooke, ma'am.” He nodded slightly.

“Look who's in trouble with the authorities,” Beck said, and laughed.

The sheriff flicked him a glance. “God bless bystanders.” His tone said the opposite. Then he said to her, “This way, please. It shouldn't take long.”

Grateful that Beck wouldn't be able to overhear, Sara followed the sheriff about twenty feet farther down the hall, into the interior of the building.

“I understand that you're here on Vermilion Ranch business?” he said.

That's half true,
she thought wryly.
Wonder which half he's most interested in.

“I submitted testimony on the ranch's behalf,” she said, indicating the closed hearing room down the hall. “But this isn't an official visit. I was hoping to see the case concluded.”

He nodded. “When I was informed about the break-in and your connection to Jay, I figured that I had a moment or two to spare for this incident.”

Someone sure has friends in high places,
Sara thought.
Must be nice.

“Mind telling me about your morning?” he asked.

Quickly, Sara ticked off the events of the morning, finishing with, “Can you tell me anything about the robbery? I was thinking that it might have been someone with a master key, since the door wasn't marked up.”

The sheriff rolled his head just a little. “I doubt that there was much planning in this one. Feels more like a crime of opportunity. You probably didn't pull the door shut all the way when you hurried out for coffee. Good luck for them and bad luck for you.”

“That's not reassuring.”

The sheriff smiled slightly. “Crime didn't give Jackson a pass just because we aren't a big city. There are restaurants here that won't leave the good hot sauce out on the tables because it's too easy to pocket.”

“Really? Why would petty thieves bother with hot sauce?”

“I've learned that the only real petty thieves are kids looking for a thrill. The rest of them are just plain thieves.”

“Well, whoever trashed my room wasn't much good. He, she, or they missed the jewelry case in my luggage.”

“Good news. Careless thieves can be caught. The careful ones rarely see the inside of jails.”

Sara managed not to roll her eyes. “I know my computer and coat are pretty small in the big scheme.”

“They are,” he agreed. “But we fill out forms anyway.” Without looking away from her, he pulled out his phone and swiped out the passcode with his thumb. “Any other details you can add?”

She gave him the model and year of the computer, described her black coat, and knew it was a waste of breath. Briskly she added, “I have my computer backed up to the cloud. The security on it will baffle an ordinary hacker, if it matters.”

For the first time, the sheriff looked interested. “Had trouble before?”

“No. I live in San Francisco, so I'm careful about security of all kinds. I'm really angry about having to replace and restore a tool I use daily—and nightly—in my business. And I won't sleep in that room again. But that's not the kind of detail that will help you.”

“Have you got another room?”

“Not yet.”

“It will be tough,” the sheriff said matter-of-factly. “The Norwegians are in town.”

“The who?”

“Norwegians. They're late this year. Big group of them comes every year and takes over the town. Svarstad.”

“Svarstad?” Sara asked, feeling like she had stumbled into someone else's play.

Nodding, he jotted out some notes on the phone while he talked. “Some generations back, a whole bunch of their kids ended up here. It's a big, multifamily reunion. Like I said, late this year. Add to that the regular tourist traffic and you've got a lot of No Vacancy signs.” He looked at her with a smile in his eyes. “And don't try to buy any cod or salmon at the local stores.”

“No cod, no salmon, no rooms. So I'm stuck at that motel?”

“You could try out of town, but there's not a whole lot to choose from.”

Sara thought about having to rent a car and wondered if they were all snapped up, too. And she still had to order a new computer. And buy a coat. And find a place to sleep tonight. And break Guy Beck's kneecaps so he couldn't swoop in on the Custers. And meet Jay Vermilion in the flesh.

So much to do, so little time.

“If you think of anything else that might help, please call the sheriff's office.” He flipped the cover on his phone and pocketed it once more. “When you see Jay, tell him I said hello.”

“He mentioned knowing you,” Sara remembered from a late-night conversation.

“I've known him for some time, worked for his dad. I might still be, but JD said that I was cut out for bigger things. Helped put me on this road.”

“The Vermilions seem to be everywhere out here,” she said. “He has some buildings downtown, right? I remember seeing that name on at least one from the taxi.”

Cooke nodded and pulled up the zipper on his uniform jacket. “They're not the Kennedys, but they get by. Good to know that someone's taking a strong hand back at that ranch after JD's illness. Place was getting way too run-down. Henry did what he could, but he's no spring chicken.”

Sara nodded. Jay had talked about that, too. A lot. “Well, thanks for your time, Sheriff. Good luck catching those guys.”

He tipped his hat and nodded just as the hearing room door flew open and cracked sharply against the doorstop. A woman who looked like an aging showgirl stormed out.

A hard, sharp heart of mean wrapped in cashmere and diamonds,
Sara thought.

Long platinum hair framed a face made rigid by anger. Rage boiled out of her as she brushed past the bailiff. Then she turned her head and growled.

“Barty, come along.” Her heels clicked down the hallway with an irritable sound.

A short, redheaded man in a cream suit with a black overcoat over one shoulder slouched along after her. He was four steps behind and obviously not in any hurry to catch up.

“Well,” the sheriff drawled as the woman vanished into the street, “looks like the Wicked Bitch of the West lost. Bless her.”

“Who?”

“Liza Neumann, once Vermilion.”