“Miss Rose Landro?” He had a curiously formal way of speaking, as if he’d practiced the lines before a mirror. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Garn Prescott. My father asked me to give you this note and to wait for your answer.”
Prescott.
Rose had been about to invite him in, but the name gave her pause. Could this unlikely looking fellow be Ferg’s son? Deciding to err on the side of caution, she stepped out onto the porch and closed the door behind her. Only then did she take the envelope from his hand.
“Please have a seat.” She gestured toward one of the two rocking chairs on the porch and sat down in the other one. “I’d offer you a drink, but this isn’t my house. Who did you say your father was?”
“I didn’t say.” He sat on the edge of the chair. “My father is Ferguson Prescott.”
“So I see.” She glanced at the letterhead on the envelope before lifting the flap and reading the message inside.
Dear Miss Landro,
I’ve been told that you’re the owner of a vintage Buick. As a collector of rare autos, I would like to discuss buying it from you for a fair price. If you’re interested, please follow my son home in your car. If your vehicle turns out to be what I’m looking for, I can offer you cash on the spot.
Sincerely,
Ferguson Prescott
Garn Prescott appeared to have read the message before giving it to Rose. “My father collects old cars,” he said. “He’s building a special barn for them.” He glanced at the Buick, which was parked next to his shiny Porsche. “I can promise you he’ll be interested in this one.”
Was it a trap? Rose hesitated, weighing the offer. It seemed almost too good to be true. But she did need to trade the Buick for something more serviceable, like a pickup with a camper on it. The trouble was, without a title or registration, she had no idea how to get rid of the old Buick, especially for a decent price. Ferg Prescott’s offer, if legitimate, could be a lifesaver. But she knew enough about Ferg to be cautious.
“The car is a dirty mess,” she hedged. “Besides, there’s no paperwork. I took the car after the owner died.”
“My father can handle the paperwork, and he’ll have one of the boys wash your car before he gives it his final okay.” Garn unfolded his lanky frame from the chair. “Come on. What’ve you got to lose?”
Plenty, Rose thought. But if she meant to settle on her land, sooner or later she would have to deal with Ferg. So why not now, especially if his offer to buy her car was genuine?
“Fine,” Rose said, rising. “Lead the way. I’ll be right behind you.”
For an instant, she weighed the idea of telling Bernice where she was going, then decided against it. The good woman would only worry, or worse send someone to rescue her if she was late getting back. It was an easy decision. But as she climbed into the car and fished the key out of her pocket, she remembered her tools in the trunk and the pistol she’d left under the front seat.
Garn was pulling away, but he stopped when she jumped out of the car and waved him down. “Stay here,” she told him. “I need to unload the car before we go.”
Without waiting for his response, she drove around behind the duplex, hauled the tools out of her trunk, and piled them against the back wall. The question of the gun gave her some pause. She would feel more secure going to the Prescott ranch with a weapon. But there was no way to hide the heavy pistol on her body, and she’d never get away with wearing it openly. The .44 would have to stay here.
After wrapping the gun in her serape, she carried it into her side of the duplex and stuffed it under the bed. Feeling vulnerable and more than a little nervous, she went back to her car and followed the Porsche along the back road to the Prescott Ranch.
She’d seen the two-story frame house before, from a distance. It looked the same as she remembered, impressive with its white exterior and gingerbread trim above the broad, shaded porch. As Garn escorted her up the front steps, she noticed that the paint around the door was peeling.
“Step into my parlor,” Garn joked, recalling the old poem about the spider and the fly. It expressed Rose’s feelings exactly, but she wasn’t about to say so. How much did this unsettling young man know about her past? What had she been thinking, letting herself be lured here with no way to protect herself?
The living room, with its heavy walnut cabinets, massive leather furniture, and mounted trophy heads—bison, cougars, coyotes, javelinas, bobcats, and a hideous black bear with its mouth open in a snarl—was overpowering in its masculinity. It wasn’t hard to imagine her own head, stuffed and mounted on the wall.
“This way.” Garn’s hand, settling on the small of her back, sent a jolt of alarm through her body. His touch lingered as he guided her down the hall toward an open doorway and nudged her through ahead of him. Only then did he drop his hand and take a step back.
Ferg Prescott rose from behind the desk, his features arranged in a smiling mask. He had aged in the past twelve years, his presence taking on a weight that was more than physical. Ponderous . . . That was the word that sprang into her mind. He was far from old. But it was as if the flesh of his face and body had been sucked downward by some invisible force. The pricey-looking wool shirt and leather vest he wore were as spotless as his hands, as if they’d never been exposed to a lick of outdoor work.
How much did he know about her part in his father’s death? How did he plan to use it?
“Thank you for coming, Miss Landro,” he said. “Let’s have a look at your car.”
Nerves quivering, she let him escort her back outside.
Garn walked behind her, so close that she imagined she could hear him breathing.
When they stepped out onto the porch, Rose saw that one of the ranch hands, who must have been given the order ahead of time, was already hosing down her car. She stood next to Ferg, watching the dirty water flow off the chassis of the old Buick.