A Father's Stake. Mary Anne Wilson

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СКАЧАТЬ key lock with a dead bolt above it had been installed there. Going to the nearest window, he cupped his hands around his eyes and peered through the streaked glass into the great room. Nothing had changed. Dust covers were in place, and as far he could tell, nothing had been moved. He went back to the door and pounded on it. “Hello! Hello? Anyone here?”

      When there was no response, he stopped, suddenly feeling like the trespasser he was on the land he loved. He stood at the top of the step, unsure what to do. Someone had been here to make sure the property was secured. Possibly Charles Michaels. Or had he hired someone to come out and check on things, then change the locks?

      At least something was happening. Jack headed for his horse, then rode off down the driveway and turned back to the family ranch. He needed wheels. “This could be very good,” he thought as he pulled out his cell phone and put in a call to John Longbow at the police station.

      * * *

      AS SOON AS Santa Fe was in the rearview mirror, Grace felt the gnaw of hunger, but didn’t want to take the time to have a sit-down meal. She couldn’t remember when she’d eaten last, not even peanuts on the flight, but right then the hunger was starting to be tinged with nausea. She needed food. Not sure how long it would take to get to Wolf Lake, she started looking for signs for take-out food. One proclaimed Willie G’s, The Best Food Around, Eat-in/Take-out, just two exits ahead.

      A few minutes later she found the off ramp, drove onto it and down a narrow road. She could see a grouping of buildings back under the highway overpass and headed toward them. The cluster comprised little more than a gas station, a teepee-shaped souvenir shop with a heavy emphasis on Indian and Western collectibles, and a group of trailers beside a broad parking lot that serviced an old adobe building with a huge sign proclaiming Willie G’s Diner.

      She pulled into a space in front of the dark wooden entry doors, shadowed by a heavy beamed overhang. A flat roof, trimmed in overlapping half pipe tiles, and plastered pink walls that were chipped to show spots of adobe brick gave the place an old Southwestern style. Only a few vehicles were parked in front—an old blue pickup truck and a very big motorcycle, painted patriotically in red, white and blue with an eagle decoration on one side. An eighteen-wheeler was parked off to the side.

      Grace slid out into the blanketing warmth of the afternoon, thankful she’d worn a short-sleeved white shirt and denim shorts with sandals. As soon as she stepped inside she was greeted with cool air. The space was larger than it had looked from the exterior, with low-beamed ceilings and worn Salito tiles underfoot. Western music hummed in the background.

      “Help you?” someone asked, and she looked toward a set of swinging doors to the kitchen. An older man, dressed in stained cook’s whites, smiled at her as he stepped into the room. He came to the counter and wiped his hands on a white rag. Lines fanned the edges of his eyes, and his gray hair was pulled back from a center part in a long braid.

      “I need some food to go,” she said, crossing to the counter and slipping onto the nearest stool.

      “Just name your poison,” he said as he passed her a single sheet menu protected by plastic.

      She realized it was about the same as the menus in most of the diners she’d worked in—sandwiches, burgers and fries, chili, even some pizza. “I’ll take a turkey sandwich on wheat, not toasted, with steak fries and the largest cola you have with lots of ice, please.”

      He nodded and crossed to a soda machine, packing ice in a large take-out cup before filling it with soda. He brought it back and set it down in front of her. “Thought you could use this first,” he said, and reached for a straw from under the counter.

      “Thanks.”

      He didn’t move to put in her food order. “Where you heading to?”

      “Wolf Lake.”

      “You’re too early if you’re looking for the casino or hotels that way,” he said. “Not even up yet, but they will be.” He shook his head. “So, what you got left is picking up some native art, or souvenirs, or maybe taking in one of the tours near the Rez.”

      She undid the straw and pushed it through the lid. “None of that,” she said, then took a sip of the chilled drink.

      Thankfully, he turned, saying, “Gonna get your food,” before heading through the swinging doors. Next thing she knew, he was pulling on a cook’s cap over his gray hair. He winked, then got busy with her order.

      She took another drink and glanced around. No waitress was in sight, and only five customers were at the tables near the front windows. The cook looked as if he was doing everything by himself, moving quickly around the kitchen. He came out with two plates of food for one of the tables, then hurried back into the kitchen, reappearing almost immediately with a large white bag. “There you go, Ma’am. Napkins and ketchup in the bag.”

      She paid, then grabbed the bag.

      “Drop by on your way out of town if you’re going this way,” he said. “I’ll get you some real food when you’ve got the time to sit and enjoy.”

      “If I come this way again, I’ll do that,” she said, slipping off the stool. “You know Wolf Lake very well?”

      He chuckled. “Heck, yeah, born and bred on the Rez, then slipped on down into town when I was, oh, around twelve. Been there ever since, except when I’m down here running this place. If you need a place to stay, my niece runs a bed-and-breakfast in town. Nice place, too, and reasonable.”

      “Thanks, but I have a place,” she said, hoping the house was livable.

      “Where’s that?” he asked, reaching for the white rag and starting to clean the counter.

      “On a ranch on the other side of town, from what I was told.”

      “What ranch?”

      “Wolf Ranch.”

      His hand stilled and his dark eyes looked right at her. “Wolf Ranch,” he echoed. “You sure you have that right?”

      “Yes, sir, I do,” she said.

      “You’re a friend or something with the new owner?”

      She had a feeling the man was upset for some reason, but his voice stayed even. “I am the new owner,” she said, and loved the words as they came out of her. The new owner. That sounded so great, but the cook didn’t look pleased at all.

      “I knew that whole mess with the Carsons was crazy, but sure never expected old Jackson Wolf’s property to be bought by a tiny thing like you.”

      She’d been called a lot of sexist things by men over the years, and she hated it, but she barely reacted anymore. Now this man was calling her a “tiny thing,” and she knew it wasn’t a sexist thing to him. He just couldn’t believe she had the land—a woman, on her own, coming in to take it over. “I didn’t buy it,” she said by way of clarification. “But it’s mine.”

      “Yeah, I heard,” he said in a low voice, “I guess you didn’t buy it.”

      “Sir, I need to get going,” she said.

      He came around the counter toward her. “First of all, I’m Willie G., not ‘sir’ to anyone, and secondly, I was a friend of Jackson Wolf, the original СКАЧАТЬ