LITMIR.BIZ

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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 artist nodded. “There are only twenty of us in the OWAC.” Seeing Laramie’s quizzical expression, he elaborated. “The Old West Artists Coalition.”

      Laramie considered that. “Only twenty? That sounds like a pretty elite—and competitive—group.”

      “We’re all friends. We encourage and support each other. The only competition is with ourselves to get better.”

      “But some of you must make more money than others,” he prodded. “Who is the best paid of this group of cowboy artists?”

      West met his gaze with an arrogant one. “I am, but there are several others who do quite well.”

      “And you’re telling me there is no jealousy?” Laramie scoffed at that. He knew too well, being one of five brothers, that competition was in male DNA. “So who are the others who are doing ‘quite well’?”

      “Cody Kent and Hank Ramsey, in that order. Rock Jackson quite a ways behind those two.”

      Laramie couldn’t help but laugh. Just the fact that West knew that proved he at least had a competitive spirit. “So what exactly does this group do?”

      “I told you. We support each other. We came together because of a desire to keep this art form alive in memory of the greats like the late Frederic Remington and Charles M. Russell. But also to ensure the work is an authentic representation of Western life. Without standards of quality and a respect for each other and the work...” He sounded as if he was quoting the group’s bylaws.

      “And you belong to this group?”

      “I’m one of its founders along with Rock, Hank and Cody Kent,” he said proudly.

      Laramie had heard something in the man’s tone. “What does it take to be a member?”

      “You have to apply. The members decide if your work and your character meet our standards.”

      “Your standards?”

      “Originally, you had to have cowboy experience as well as talent. That’s changed some. Why are you asking me all this?” West demanded.

      Laramie wasn’t sure. “So it’s an exclusive...club.”

      “None of my fellow artists would have any reason to rip me off by duplicating my work, if that’s what you’re getting at,” West said. “Not to mention, most of them don’t have the talent to copy my work.”

      Laramie tried not to smile. No competition here.

      “Look,” West said as if he knew he’d said too much. “There aren’t that many of us. We’re a dying breed of artists who care about our work. The satisfaction comes from painting and selling our own work—not copying someone else’s and passing it off for money.”

      “Even if they needed money badly?” Laramie asked.

      He saw something change in West’s expression as if the question had made him think of someone. Laramie knew money could be the most obvious reason for making forgeries of Taylor West’s work. Or maybe to rub West’s arrogant face in it.

      West picked up the painting, frowning harder as he studied it again. “This is definitely the original,” he said, but he seemed to lack conviction.

      “If no one in your group is talented enough to make you question if this painting is yours or not...”

      “I’m telling you,” West snapped, “there’s no one alive who could have copied my work well enough to fool an expert, let alone me.”

      Laramie thought that was a ridiculous statement given that someone obviously had, and he said as much.

      West suddenly looked even more upset. “There is one man,” the artist said after a moment. He’d paled. “H. F. Powell.”

      “Where would I find him?”

      West didn’t seem to hear him for a moment. He shook his head as if clearing away cobwebs from his brain. “Find him?” His laugh was more of a grunt. “Six feet under, last I checked.”

      * * *

      TEXAS? SO THAT was Laramie Cardwell’s accent, Sid thought. The barbecue restaurant had opened in Big Sky Meadows just last year. She’d heard it was owned by five brothers from Houston. Since she didn’t get out much—at least during the day—that had been all Sid knew about the place.

      Good sense told her to go into the store, buy some food and take it back to the cabin. The sooner she got home, the sooner she could get ready for tonight. Last night’s close call was a good reminder that she needed to finish this and move on.

      But barbecue sounded good. More than anything, she was curious. She quickly shopped for what groceries she needed, telling herself she would get a barbecue sandwich to go. She knew she was taking a risk, but then again, she’d been taking risks for some time now. Putting the groceries into the back of her SUV, she walked quickly up the hill to Texas Boys Barbecue on the recently plowed sidewalk. The sun glistening off the snow was almost blinding. It was one of those clear, cold winter days in Big Sky when she could see her breath as she walked. She looked up at Lone Mountain, momentarily stunned by how beautiful it was this morning.

      Sometimes she got so busy she forgot to notice what an amazing place this was. Once she was done with all of this, maybe she would take a few weeks off and snowboard up on the mountain. She deserved it after this.

      A bell jangled over the door as she entered the restaurant. It was early so the place was busy but not packed, and there were enough people that she didn’t think she would stand out. Not that she believed Laramie Cardwell could recognize her.

      The aroma of smoked meat filled the air, making her stomach growl again. Slipping into a booth, she pulled out a menu from behind an array of barbecue sauces with names like Hot in Houston and Sweet and Spicy San Antonio.

      She’d just opened it when she heard a male voice with a distinct Southern accent coming from the kitchen. Looking up she saw a head of dark hair. The man was talking to another man with the same accent. As the first man turned, she realized he wasn’t the one from last night, but the resemblance gave her a start even before she laid eyes on the second man.

      It was him!

      Suddenly, as if sensing her staring at him, he glanced in her direction. Sid quickly ducked behind her menu as a young waitress approached her booth.

      “What can I get you?” asked a teenaged girl with a ponytail and an order pad.

      “I’ll try the pulled pork sandwich with beans and coleslaw,” Sid said from behind her menu. “Can I get that to go?”

      “Great choice. What would you like to drink?” the girl asked.

      Sid peeked out from behind the menu. Through the window into the kitchen she could no longer see the two men—nor could she hear them. Maybe they’d left.

      “And a beer.”

      The girl nodded, then shyly asked if she could see her ID. “I’m sorry, but I have to ask.”

      Sid

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