A Father's Stake. Mary Anne Wilson

three hundred acres of land could be payment for a gambling debt. But that was all her father had known about making money. Find a game, get the upper hand and know when to fold.

      Her world had always felt a bit unstable, ready to tip upside down in a second. And she’d been holding on for dear life. But now, she had the means to let go and have a life, a stable life. A real life.

      * * *

      JACK GOT HIS horse out of his parents’ stable around dawn and rode off before he saw anyone stirring. He’d spoken with his mother on the phone only once since the confrontation with his father, hearing determination in her voice to make the best of what had happened. He’d hated it when she’d apologized to him for the land being lost to them, as if it was her fault.

      He hadn’t had any contact with his father over the past six weeks, and that was fine with him. He didn’t want words and promises. They were too easy to speak and impossible to back up.

      He spent most of the day up in the high country, visiting a few friends on the Rez, then headed back down in the middle of the September afternoon. The heat was at its peak, but more mellow than it had been for a while, and the day was bright and clear. When he approached his parents’ land, he hesitated, then road past, farther east, and a short time later cut between the worn stone pillars that marked the drive to the old ranch.

      He slowly headed up the incline of the packed dirt trail to a smaller rise that hid the old house from view. He wound around, past the stables, and the house appeared. He was trespassing again, he knew it, but he had to come. Just one last time until he could be here legally again.

      He drew up by the hitching post, dismounted and secured his horse. Instead of going inside the house, he sat down on the stone step where he’d waited for his brothers back in July when he’d felt as if his world was going to end. It had come darned close, but it hadn’t ended. His determination to get this land back one way or the other kept him going,

      Now frustration was driving him. The problem was, he’d found out plenty about Charles Luther Michaels, except the most important things—where he was and how to reach him. They knew he was basically a drifter and a professional gambler, moving constantly from place to place. The papers he’d sent to the address listed on the legal documents with an offer for the property had been returned. By the time a private investigator checked out the address, a boarding house in a small city near the Jersey shore, Charles Luther Michaels had been gone for two weeks.

      Adam had found a criminal record for the man, a few DUIs, public disorder, minor confidence charges, vagrancy, misdemeanor assault on a casino bouncer, all scattered around the country, one in Canada. But all of them had been more than five years old. Jack and his brothers knew he’d been in Las Vegas in June, but that led nowhere. The game had been “private,” which meant big spenders in a private suite in one of the hotels and unreported to any gambling authority. They couldn’t find anyone who would admit to him being there. Privacy for big spenders was everything in that city. But it meant the man had enough stake money to get in the door, and he’d walked out with whatever cash he’d won along with the deed their father had thrown into the pot.

      Michaels was out there somewhere, they knew that, but the man left no tracks. That frustrated Jack to no end. Somewhere along the way he’d come to believe that healing the tear in the Wolf family heritage by regaining the lost land would mean he could heal his own wounds. But unless their luck improved and they found Michaels, he didn’t know what would happen with the land and with him.

      He flexed the tension in his shoulders as he glanced at his horse, then over to the stables. He frowned and looked back to his horse. Something was different than the last time he’d come here, but he couldn’t figure out what. Then he knew. The dead weeds in the gravel edging the drive had been cleared, but only in front of the house. He went down to take a closer look, and found lugged tire tracks. Glancing around first, he followed them down the slope to the end of the abandoned stables.

      Booted foot prints in the dust led to the hay doors, and he followed them along the side of the stables to the doors to the stalls. A new lock glistened in the sun. Jack stared at it then spun around and broke into a run, heading across the dry weeds and packed earth and up the shallow hill to the drive. He took the stone step in one stride and stopped in front of the door to the house.

      A new 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