Hard Rustler

“Baby Doll? I like that,” she’d said, coming off older than she was. She hadn’t been more than seventeen. Jailbait. Like that had stopped him. He had a reputation for going after whatever he wanted—and getting it. But then, so did Baby Doll as it turned out.

Opening the scissors, he began to slice the paper around her mug shot. Bernie couldn’t stand sloppiness. He liked things done a certain way. It had saved his life more than once and kept him from being behind bars.

Now he found himself looking into her eyes, remembering. This was her. There was no doubt about it. He’d thought he found her before, but this time... He wished he had been able to find a photograph of her when she was younger but there was nothing on the internet. Francesca Marie Clementine had kept a low profile. Another reason he was convinced that this woman was his Baby Doll.

Oh, those blue eyes. The memories of her in his arms. Just being with her had felt like living on the edge, she’d been that kind of woman. She kept his blood revved up. He’d known he could never get enough of her. He’d asked her to marry him more times than he liked to remember. He shook his head. While he’d only known her a short while, he’d thought he could trust her with his life, his secrets—and his loot. His first mistake.

That was the problem, wasn’t it? he thought as he clipped the photo free from the newspaper. He’d trusted a woman who hadn’t even trusted him enough to tell him her real name.

“Come on, Baby Doll, tell me your name,” he used to tease her. “We can’t get married until I know exactly who you are.”

“Oh, you know who I am.” She’d smiled that coy smile of hers and said, “I’m Bernie McDougal’s Baby Doll. That’s enough. For now.” Her look had been a promise of a lot more to come and he’d been a goner. Oh, the swanky parties they’d attended, the fur coats and fancy dresses he’d clothed her in, the expensive champagne they’d guzzled, the money they’d burned through. Nothing was too good for his Baby Doll.

His stomach roiled at the memory. She’d blindsided him from the beginning, he thought, able to admit it now, more than fifty years later. He’d thought she was young and naïve. He’d never seen it coming.

The obit was short, but it did provide some useful information, such as where she’d been all these years—and that she was survived by her three granddaughters, Annabelle Clementine, Tessa Jane Clementine (TJ St. Clair) and Chloe Clementine. No husband. That didn’t surprise him.

He’d had to look up the town on the internet. Whitehorse, Montana. It surprised him that she’d disappeared to some wide spot out West. He’d always thought of her living it up in Paris or London, or even New York City where it had all begun. It was why he’d looked for her in the faces of every woman he’d passed all these years.

But Baby Doll had always been full of surprises, hadn’t she? He still couldn’t believe that she’d evaded him. He’d had his men looking for her as well as his associates. He’d put a price on her pretty head. And still nothing. It was as if she’d stepped off the face of the earth.

But he’d finally found her. The problem was, it seemed too late. She was dead. Which meant that she’d probably taken their secret to the grave. It filled him with regret. He would have loved to look into her eyes one last time before he killed her.

He took her photo, stuck a pin between her eyes and put it up on the bulletin board next to his desk. As he started to throw the rest of the newspaper away, his gaze lit on the name Clementine again.

It appeared to be a real estate ad. Moving the paper where he could see the ad, he saw that it read Clementine Place. His breath came out on a laugh. Of course. She’d owned a house and now it was for sale. A house where she’d kept her secrets. He told himself not to get his hopes up, and yet he was reaching for his phone since it was still early out in Montana.

Francesca’s house was for sale? Why hadn’t he thought of that? There were some things she wouldn’t have been able to take with her. That is, if she’d still had them when she’d died. She could have gone through everything a long time ago. Probably had. But there was only one way to find out.

He dialed the number of the Realtor who was selling the house. The newspaper was a week old. The house could have sold by now.

A woman named Mary Sue Linton answered on the third ring.

“I’m calling about a house you have for sale,” he said. “I believe it’s called Clementine Place?”

“That’s right. It just went on the market. What can I tell you about it?”

He had the photo of the house in front of him. But he couldn’t imagine Baby Doll living somewhere like that. It was too common after the penthouse they’d shared. It all came down to that one question that had niggled at him all these years. Why? Why take off like she had—let alone end up where she had? Which led to his second big question. What had she done with what she’d stolen from him?

“I’d like to send someone to look at it in the next few days,” he said. “Is that possible?”

“It’s not quite ready to show.”

Really? “I don’t care what kind of shape it’s in.”

“One of the relatives is in the process of cleaning everything out. I’m afraid Frannie was a...collector.” Yes, she’d collected a few things from him before she’d left. “But the house will be pristine in a few weeks if you’d like to see it then.”

Frannie? “You say a relative is cleaning it out?”

“Her granddaughter, Annabelle.”

His old heart thumped hard against his ribs. What if she’d already thrown it out? She had to be stopped. “Then I’ll check back with you.”

“That would be ideal.”

He hung up and made a call. “I need to see you. Now.”

Oh, Baby Doll, he said to himself as he disconnected. The woman had thought she’d outfoxed him. Soon she would be turning over in her grave. As for her granddaughter, she could be joining Frannie very soon.

Chapter Three

Dawson hadn’t driven by the old Clementine place in years. After he’d cleaned up, he’d driven into town since there was still some daylight left in the winter day and his brother had called wanting to hear about his hunting trip. He’d told himself he wasn’t going near Annabelle’s grandmother’s house, but it was as if his pickup had a mind of its own.

There was a time that this neighborhood had been his second home. That was back when his best friend lived two doors down from Frannie Clementine’s house. Back when he and his best friend had built a tree house only to find five-year-old Annabelle in it and unable to get down.

With a bark of a laugh, he reminded himself that she hadn’t been filled with gratitude that time he’d saved her, either.

He slowed his pickup, surprised how long it had been since he’d driven through this neighborhood. His best friend had moved away years ago and once Annabelle left...

The house, on so-called Millionaire’s Row on the west side of town, sat on a huge lot surrounded by massive trees. Behind it, the water of the Milk River curved slowly past. An old single-car garage stood off to the side, looking like it needed to be torn down.

He pulled up on the opposite side of the street. There was a For Sale sign in the yard, which shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Mystery solved. Of course that was what had brought Annabelle back. She was planning to get rid of the house—the only thing still tethering her to Whitehorse now that her grandmother was gone.

Pulling under the protective boughs of a huge evergreen, he left the engine running and took in the home. He was wondering what Annabelle could get for the place when he saw a woman in a bandanna, a gaudy sweatshirt and a pair of baggy jeans come out. She carried a large box out the front door to the side of the porch closest to the driveway. Even from a distance, he could tell that the woman was covered in dust and dirt. So Annabelle had hired help. That, too, shouldn’t have surprised him, although he didn’t recognize the woman.

As she set the box at the open end of the porch, she stood to stretch, as if her back bothered her. A lock of blond hair escaped from beneath the bandanna. With a shock, he realized what he was seeing. Annabelle?

The sight of the supermodel looking like a janitor made him laugh and shake his head in disbelief. He was tempted to take a photo with his cell phone. But he could just imagine how horrified she would be if he did. He had barely recognized her, and not just because he suspected Annabelle had never done a day’s manual labor in her life. Surely she wasn’t packing up the entire house by herself.

But as he looked around, he saw that the only vehicle near the place was the silver sports car. Nor did anyone else emerge from the house carrying boxes as he sat watching, truck engine running. Why hadn’t she hired help? It was so unlike her.

A thought struck him like a swift kick to the shin. She’d said she’d forgotten to get gas, but what if... The idea was so preposterous that he laughed out loud as he put his pickup into gear to drive away. Whatever Annabelle was up to, it had nothin’ to do with him. He didn’t even know why he’d driven by.

His cell phone rang, making him jump. He really wasn’t good at this cloak-and-dagger stuff. He hit the brakes and quickly answered as he watched Annabelle put down another box, stretch and go back inside. As she glanced in his direction, he slowly let out the clutch and eased the pickup down the street, making sure he kept his head turned. The last thing he wanted was for her to think that he had any interest in her.

“You on your way?” his brother asked without preamble.

He’d lost track of time. “I am. Be right there.” He disconnected, hoping his brother’s invitation was only about having a beer. The way news traveled around this county, by now everyone could know that Annabelle Clementine was back in town—his brother Luke included. And that was a subject he didn’t want to discuss.

Luke was already sitting on a bar stool at the Mint when he walked in. Seeing him coming, Luke ordered him a Moose Drool and patted the stool next to him. “Some pretty nice weather for November, huh?”

“Uh-huh,” Dawson said, groaning inside. Luke was grinning like a jackass and it had nothing to do with the weather.

“Annabelle Clementine is back in town,” his brother blurted, as if unable to hold it in a second longer.

“Who?” Dawson asked innocently and took a sip of the beer the bartender set in front of him. Luke was as subtle as a horseshoe to the head. At least he’d been smart enough to know that Dawson would need a beer.

“Who?” Luke echoed. “Annabelle Clementine, or as you used to call her...Annie. You aren’t going to tell me that you’ve forgotten about the woman who—” His brother stopped and gave him a you-had-me-there-for-a-minute grin. “So, you already heard?” He sounded disappointed.

“Actually, I saw her.”

“No kiddin’? She still gorgeous? She say why she’s back?”

Dawson ran his thumb around the top of his beer bottle for a moment. Something stopped him from telling his brother about siphoning gas out of his pickup to practically fill her fancy sports car. “Saw her packing up at her grandmother’s house. She’s got the place for sale.” He took a sip of his beer.

“You just happened to be in that neighborhood, did you?” Luke couldn’t seem to get that goofy grin off his face. “She say how long she’s staying?”

“I said I saw her. Didn’t say I made a point of talking to her. So I wouldn’t know, but I think it’s a pretty good assumption that she’ll be hightailing it out of town just as quickly as she can,” he said without looking at his brother.

“Why didn’t you talk to her?” Luke asked.

“Why would I?”

“After all these years, I would think you’d be curious. Maybe it isn’t just her grandmother’s house that brought her back. Maybe—”

“It’s just her grandmother’s house.”

“You can’t know that. Maybe—”

“So, what’s the plan for tomorrow?” Dawson asked, hoping to change the subject. Thinking about Annabelle gave him a headache. Talking about her was even worse. It had been years since he’d called her Annie, let alone allowed himself to even say the word. Annie was the woman he fell in love with. Annabelle was...well, she was a supermodel he didn’t know, didn’t want to know.

“Tomorrow?” Luke asked, as if confused by the quick change of subject.

“Thanksgiving Day.”

“Don’t remind me.” Luke took a drink of his beer, clearly upset that this was all he was going to get. He sighed. “I haven’t gotten my deer yet. But you know Mom. Said not to be late. She’s invited some of the neighbors.”

Dawson nodded, smiling to himself at the thought of their mother. There was no one quite like Wilhelmina “Willie” Rogers. She’d managed to raise both of her sons on her own after their father died when they were boys—and run the ranch, as well. When it came to anyone who needed a hot meal, Willie was always ready to rustle something up. His mother equated love with food. She spent half her time making casseroles for anyone who’d fallen on hard times or families who’d had an illness. Anyone in town die? The family would have a dish on their doorstep within the hour.

“Mom said we both better be there,” Luke said. “She already read me the riot act about going deer hunting beforehand. Speaking of hunting, how’d you do down in the Breaks? Get anything worth bringing home and stringin’ up?”

Dawson shook his head. “I saw one big buck, but didn’t get a shot.” The truth was, he loved hiking around looking for deer and elk, but when he still had plenty of meat in the freezer, he wasn’t much for killing anything. He wasn’t a trophy hunter.

Two weeks in hunting camp with some buddies, though, was a tradition he wasn’t apt to miss. He liked sleeping out under the stars, working his way through rugged country during the day, eating food cooked over a camp stove and sitting around the fire later, listening to his friends’ outrageous stories before climbing into his bedroll. He always slept like the dead at hunting camp.

Not that he wasn’t glad to get home to a hot shower and his own bed.

“Any idea how much the old Clementine place might go for?” Luke asked.

“Haven’t given it any thought.”

“Still, you have to admit it’s strange that Annabelle wouldn’t let Mary Sue handle it so she didn’t have to come back here,” Luke said. His brother was dating Mary Sue’s younger sister, Sally. “Unless the house wasn’t the only reason she’s back,” he said, clearly baiting him. “Kinda makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

“What makes me wonder is what your interest in all this is,” Dawson said and looked over at his brother.

“Actually, I find your apparent so-called lack of interest more fascinating. You don’t think I didn’t know how you felt about her? Now she’s back. You aren’t even going to stop by her place and talk to her?” Luke shook his head. “My big brother, as it turns out, is a coward.”

“It’s not going to work,” Dawson said and drained the rest of his beer.

“The brother I knew would have given his left arm for that woman,” Luke said. “He wouldn’t pass up a possible second chance to be with her. You telling me you don’t still feel somethin’?”

Dawson shook his head as he stood. “I’m not tellin’ you anything. I’ll let my walkin’ out of here speak for itself. Thanks for the beer.”

Luke sighed. “Fine, have it your way, you stubborn jackass. But you’re going to be sorry.”

“I’ve been sorry before. Tell Mom I’ll stop by early tomorrow to see if she needs any help.”

“You always have to be the good son, don’t you? I’m going deer huntin’. Save me a place at the table just in case I get something and run late.” The door closed on his last words.

Even as Dawson started his pickup, he knew he was going to do it. And it made him madder than hell. He turned down the street. It wasn’t late, but it was already dark this time of year. Deep shadows hunkered in the trees. The temperature had dropped.

As he drove by her house, he saw that the light was on. There were more boxes stacked up under the porch roof. He turned out his headlights as he stopped across the street again. Several large pines blocked most of the house, but he would get glimpses of her inside working.

There was still no sign of anyone helping her. “What’s going on, Annie?” he asked in the dark cab of his truck. If she didn’t get out of town before the next snowstorm, she probably wouldn’t be able to in that impractical car of hers. He doubted she had snow tires on it since she’d been living in California. Not that they would help much. A car like that would get high-centered on the first snowdrift across the highway. Hell, she’d be lucky if she could get out of her driveway.

Dawson reminded himself that it wasn’t his problem. And yet he couldn’t help thinking about what his brother had said back at the bar. Unfortunately, he’d already been a fool when it came to her. He liked to think he was too smart to do it again as he watched her pass in front of the large picture window. She looked exhausted. How many hours had she been packing up her grandmother’s things by herself?

But even from this distance, he could see the determination in her expression, in the way she moved. There had never been a more stubborn woman, he thought, as he turned on his headlights again and headed for the ranch.

* * *

ANNABELLE HURT ALL OVER. She closed another box on more of her grandmother’s chipped and cracked knickknacks, but realized she was too tired to take it out to the porch. For hours, she’d been boxing up her grandmother’s junk. Now she looked around the room with growing discouragement. She’d thought she was making progress, but she hadn’t even made a dent in all this...stuff.

Earlier she’d removed what she could from the front bedroom. Her grandmother had been using the one in the back of the house opposite the shared bathroom. Apparently, she’d turned the bedroom Annabelle had chosen into an extra wardrobe. An array of ugly, gaudy sweatshirts was hanging in the closet. Each was bedazzled with anything shiny you could tack onto it. Where did the woman find these horrific things? A lot of them were seasonal, with Santas, elves, Christmas lights, overdecorated wreaths, even an Easter egg one that was so bright it could put an eye out.

Not wanting to ruin the last of the good clothes that she hadn’t sold to pay for the trip north, she’d changed into one of the less garish ones, a sweatshirt with a bejeweled clown face, along with a pair of her grandmother’s pull-on jeans that she had to tie around her waist so they’d stay up, a pair of sneakers and socks with lacy tops. They’d do to work in.

After she’d decluttered the bedroom, she cleaned. She’d discovered some laundered sheets and made the bed so it would be ready for tonight. Then she’d gone down to the recycling building in town and loaded as many boxes as she could into her car by putting smaller ones into larger ones and holding some out the window as she drove.

Back at the house, she’d started dumping the worst of the junk into boxes and carrying them out to the porch.

Now she just wanted to sit down. You were so right, Mary Sue. I really could have used some help. But not at thirty dollars an hour. And no one was going to work for her with only the promise of getting paid after the house sold.

She wandered into the kitchen, one of the only rooms that had chairs that weren’t covered with junk. As full as the place was, she couldn’t help but be thankful to her grandmother. Frannie had never had a lot of money, but in the will she’d made sure that the taxes and utilities were paid six months in advance.

Clearly, she’d known what a job it was going to be to clean out this house and sell it.

Brushing an errant lock of hair back from her dirty face, Annabelle wondered if her grandmother had also somehow figured that she was going to need financial help. Six months was generous. Frannie had to have known that Annabelle wouldn’t be staying that long. But it definitely allowed her time to get the house sold.

She glanced around the kitchen, tempted to fill another box with the ceramic knickknacks that crowded the windowsill. Her grandmother had saved everything. Was it an old lady thing? Or had her grandmother lost her mind before the end? She couldn’t understand how the woman had been able to live here with junk piled waist high throughout the house. It seemed at odds with the woman who’d raised Annabelle most of her life.

But it was also odd that her grandmother had willed the house to her and not her sisters. It still bothered her. “Why, Grandma Frannie? Why leave the house to just me?” she asked the knickknacks. Several frogs looked back at her with big, dusty eyes. Maybe TJ was right. Frannie had left the house to the granddaughter she thought would need the most help.

At the time, Annabelle had been furious at such an insinuation. Now she wondered if her grandmother hadn’t been the only one who’d expected her to fail. Maybe everyone had seen it coming but Annabelle herself.

For whatever the reason, this house was now hers and unless she got it sold and soon... She shook her head, stood and reached for the ceramic bric-a-brac.

Her stomach rumbled. She hadn’t even thought about food—until this moment. For years she’d had to watch her weight. She still wasn’t used to being able to eat anything she wanted. Now she could give in to her hunger. It was a new feeling. One that signaled more than anything that she would never be modeling again. Too bad she couldn’t afford to eat.

She pushed that thought away. Looking down at the hideous clothes she was wearing, she told herself that she couldn’t go to the grocery store, even in Whitehorse, in this outfit—even if she had any cash. She stood for a moment, feeling lost and close to tears. As she put one of the ceramic creatures into the box she was loading, she spied a container that her grandmother had used for her grocery money.

She was reminded of the time Grandma Frannie had caught her red-handed with her fingers in it and felt a stab of remorse for even having thought about taking the money, let alone getting caught. But mostly what she felt was regret that she hadn’t come back to see the grandmother who’d loved her so much.

That day, her hand literally in the cookie jar, Annabelle had fished around for an excuse. Her grandmother had stopped her and said, “If you’re going to steal, then own it. Same with getting caught,” her grandmother had said. “Lying and sniveling makes you look weak.”

With a sigh, she now lifted the lid of the container, telling herself it would be empty. Reaching inside, her fingers brushed something. She pulled out a handful of crinkled-up twenties and began to cry.

“Grandma,” she said, her voice breaking. She swallowed the lump in her throat and wiped at her tears. Frannie had known she was going to need money. She was the one her grandmother had known would fail. As much as that hurt, her heart filled to bursting with love for her grandmother, who was still looking out for her after all these years. Because someone needed to, that was for sure.

There were enough bills to keep her from going hungry for a while. She said a whispered thank-you to her grandmother and glanced at her watch. Did she really have the energy to shower and change to go to the grocery store to get something to eat?

The answer was a resounding no. If she sneaked in and out of the only grocery store in town quickly, hopefully she wouldn’t see anyone she knew.

* * *

ROBERT “ROB” MCDOUGAL saw that it was his uncle calling and ignored the call. The old mobster probably just wanted to bitch about the way-too-expensive assisted-living facility where he’d been the past four years.

Since Rob was paying almost twenty grand a month to keep him in the resort-like place, he didn’t have much sympathy. It was a deal his old man had made with the “family.”