Sylvie's Cowboy Read online

  Sylvie’s Cowboy

  by Iris Chacon

  copyright 2014 by Delia L. Stewart

  Smashwords Edition

  Please note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  CHAPTER ONE - THE RANCH

  Rural Florida, outside Clewiston

  Two Days Before the Explosion

  A dove gray Mercedes Benz limousine bumped along a winding, rutted dirt road through palmetto bushes, spindly pines, and scrub oaks to stop at an open gate with a rusty cattle gap. On a plank above the gate someone had burned “McGurk Ranch” in simple block letters.

  Harry Pace, lean, tanned, and dark-haired with silvering temples, slid out of the limo’s back seat. He gestured to the driver to stay put and walked over the cattle gap, through the gate.

  Harry had walked farther than any sane person would care to in the sticky Florida heat when at last he soundlessly approached the front door of the ranch’s modest house. He gripped the doorknob. It was locked. He sidled to his left and peered in a window. Nobody inside. From behind the house, he heard someone whistling “Your Cheatin’ Heart.” Harry smiled to himself and moved in the direction of the music.

  In the second-story loft of a hay barn, Walter McGurk was forking hay out the open second-story door and into the bed of a battered red pickup truck parked below. The truck’s doors were inexplicably yellow. Walt whistled as he worked.

  Walt made a heavy job look easy with his strong, athletic build. Sweaty shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows revealed ropes of muscle undulating in his sun-darkened forearms as he lifted and tossed the hay. His worn jeans were tight and faded from many washings. His tooled leather belt held a large hunting knife in a weathered cowhide sheath. He wore battered, scuffed cowboy boots.

  Harry approached the barn, shielding himself from view beneath a huge avocado tree. When he eased around the tree, a big, ugly dog growled from beneath the red-and-yellow pickup. In the loft overhead, Walt jerked toward the sound and spotted Harry instantly.

  “What do you want?” Walt growled, echoing the dog.

  “What does any man want when his partners are stealing him blind?” asked Harry, stepping out from beneath the avocado shade.

  Walt spun and hurled his pitchfork like a javelin. It thwacked into the ground a hair’s breadth from Harry’s boots. Only Harry’s eyes moved.

  “You ain’t stupid enough to be talkin’ about me,” said Walt. “I ain’t a thief. Fact, I’m the only half of this partnership that ever does an honest day’s work. So, what do you want?”

  Walt used the hayloft’s rope and pulley to swing Tarzan-like to the ground. He paced to the truck, drying his face and wiping perspiration out of his hat with a bandana from his pocket. Walt opened the truck’s passenger door and helped himself to water from an Igloo cooler.

  Harry walked around the grounded pitchfork to join Walt at the truck. Walt filled a paper cup with water from the Igloo, but when Harry reached for it, Walt offered it instead to the ill-tempered dog lying under the truck. Unperturbed, Harry got his own cup of water. Then he turned his back on Walt and toyed with a heavy avocado drooping from a low branch.

  “Spit it out, will ya?” said Walt, helping himself to water from the paper cup he had shared with the dog. “Butch and me got things to do.”

  Harry didn’t turn around. “I was gonna ask you to help me when I make my play to get back what they stole,” Harry said to the avocado. “But it occurs to me you’re probably gettin’ too old and too slow.”

  Behind Harry, Walt bent to reach beneath his jeans and pull a pistol out of an ankle holster.

  “I’m twenty years younger than you, old timer, and I can still chop my own guacamole,” said Walt.

  Harry snapped the avocado from the tree. The branch recoiled, bucking and swinging. Harry feinted one way, then reversed direction, turned, and threw the avocado high. It soared like a miniature green football far over Walt’s head.

  Walt fired three quick shots, each one chopping a piece off the airborne avocado.

  Avocado chunks rained down and littered the grass. Harry walked through them, turning them over with the toe of his shoe. Walt slid the pistol back into his boot. Harry gave him a satisfied nod.

  “I want you to take care of Sylvie,” Harry said.

  Walt shook his head. “I ain’t up to spoiling your daughter for ya. You done too well already on that, if ya ask me.”

  Harry gave him a hard look. “Don’t spoil her,” he said. “Take care of her.”

  “You take care of her. Ain’t seen her in nearly ten years. You and I both know she’d be happy if she never saw me again.”

  “I’ll be busy,” said Harry. “Gonna give some big city thieves a dose of their own medicine.”

  “And if they don’t want to swallow it?”

  Harry turned to leave, speaking almost to himself as he retraced the route to the limo. “Then we’ll find out whether I’m gettin’ too old and too slow.”

  Butch rose from beneath the truck, and Walt absently rubbed the dog’s ears as he watched Harry go. Walt’s brow furrowed, and there was both anger and worry in his voice when he shouted, “I got a good life here, Harry. Don’t you mess it up for me, y’hear? Harry? I mean it, now.”

  Harry kept walking. He never looked back.

  “Shoot!” said Walt in disgust. He splattered a hunk of avocado with a kick and snatched up the pitchfork to return to work. Harry was gone. Whatever would happen, would happen.

  A cellular phone rang inside the truck. Walt walked over, leaned in, and plucked the phone from its holster on the dashboard.

  “McGurk,” he said into the phone. He listened, then responded, “Was that tonight? ... No, no problem. I just forgot is all. ... Clarice, people forget. It don’t mean they don’t love people. They just forget. I’ll pick you up at seven. ... Fine. ‘Bye.”

  He slammed the phone back into its holster and gave Butch an exasperated look. “I think what we need is one more fancy-planning, crazy-talkin’, lipstick-wearin’ tower of estrogen in our lives right now, don’t you?”

  “Whuff!” said Butch.

  CHAPTER TWO - THE OFFICE

  Downtown Miami

  One Day Before the Explosion

  Leslye Larrimore was a 50-ish, elegantly coiffed woman who sported designer business attire and balanced effortlessly on five-inch stiletto heels. Leslye’s office at Pace-Larrimore, Incorporated, was an expansive, opulent room with a stunning city view. Mahogany and brass shone everywhere around her as she read her mail at a desk the size of an aircraft carrier.

  Harry Pace entered without knocking and sprawled in one of the elegant, upholstered guest chairs across from the desk. Leslye set her mail aside.

  “Missed you at Sylvie’s last Saturday,” she said.

  “I doubt if my daughter would agree with you,” said Harry. “Surely Dan Stern was there to fill the void.”

  “Jealous? Harry, really.”

  “I’m not jealous, Les. I’m her father.”

  “And he’s your business partner,” said Leslye. “I should think you’d be p
leased that they like each other. She’s not Daddy’s little girl any longer, Harry. She’s going to have other men in her life.”

  “Fine. Let her have other men. Les, can’t you get Stern to lay off?”

  “You want him to lay off, you tell him. Why are you so against Danny all of a sudden?”

  Harry pursed his lips and clenched his fists. He bounced one fist on his knee. “He’ll get his tail in a crack someday and do something desperate to get himself out of it. Heck, he may have done it already. I don’t want Sylvie to be caught in a crossfire.”

  Leslye smiled and used her most soothing tones. “I really think you’re overreacting,” she said. “I don’t see any of that happening. Really I don’t.”

  Harry pushed himself up from the chair like a much older man. “I’ll pass on dinner tonight, Les, if you don’t mind,” he told her. “Think I’ll go out to the boat and spend the weekend alone. Try to get my perspective back. Chill out. Okay?”

  Leslye couldn’t quite hide her disappointment, but she tried. “Sure, Harry,” she said. “You take care of yourself. It’ll all look better Monday morning. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Yeah, maybe not,” said Harry. He left her office, closing the door behind him.

  Immediately, Leslye dialed a number on her desk phone. She was irritated when she reached an electronic device instead of a human.

  “Stupid machine,” she said beneath her breath. Then, into the phone, she said, “Yeah, it’s me. Call me at home when you get in, no matter how late.”

  Then she hung up the phone and chewed at the edges of her expensive manicure.

  …

  It was 2:45 a.m. by the digital bedside clock when Leslye’s cell phone vibrated with a loud clatter on the nightstand and she writhed across silk sheets to answer it.

  “Hello,” she said, and looked at the clock while listening to the caller. “Well, it’s about time. Listen, I think we’d better pay Harry a visit first thing in the morning. This thing could blow up in our faces if we’re not careful. Meet me at the marina at nine thirty.”

  Without giving the other party a chance to argue, Leslye hung up and went back to sleep.

  …

  Dinner Key Marina, Coconut Grove, Florida

  The Day of the Explosion

  A silver Bentley pulled in and parked beside a black Jaguar sedan in the yacht basin parking lot. The Jaguar disgorged Leslye Larrimore, who immediately approached a younger man, in Ostrich-skin boots, who angled out of the Bentley.

  Attorney Larrimore slung her Louis Vuitton briefcase over her shoulder and extended her hand to the man. He shook her hand perfunctorily before shoving his soft, manicured hands into his pockets, ruining the perfect drape of his linen Euro-style slacks. “Where’s Pace? It’s hot out here,” he said.

  Leslye focused her practiced charm at him and assured, “It’ll be cooler on the boat.”

  “It would be cooler in the office,” he muttered. “This is what I get for kowtowing to Harry Pace. I know you like him, Leslye, but let’s face it, Harry is a certifiable kook.”

  Leslye touched the man’s elbow and steered him toward the nearby pier.

  “Where are we meeting him?” he asked, scanning the yachts lining both sides of the long, floating pier.

  “Out there,” Leslye pointed to a sailing vessel moored a hundred yards out into the bay.

  “Of course we are,” the man sighed.

  Together they walked to the end of the central pier, where Leslye flagged down a marina employee in a Zodiac pontoon runabout. In moments the Zodiac had pulled up directly before the couple, and it’s pilot helped them board the twelve-foot inflatable.

  Leslye negotiated the pier-to-craft transfer with amazing poise even in a pencil skirt and high heels. The man in Ostrich boots removed his suit jacket and loosened his collar; he produced a monogrammed handkerchief and wiped perspiration from his head and face.

  “Can we hurry this along, please,” he said, commanding rather than asking.

  Leslye’s smile never faltered. She gestured to the pilot, and the Zodiac putt-putted away from the pier.

  Minutes later the runabout, with its company of three, was about halfway between the shore and an out-moored sailing yacht with “Helen” in florid gold lettering on the stern. Leslye delved into her briefcase and lifted her cell phone.

  “I’ll just let Harry know we’re here,” she said.

  Seconds later, the faint ring of a telephone could be heard coming from the Helen—and a deafening blast vaporized the yacht in a cloud of fire and debris.

  Concussion from the explosion rocked the Zodiac. Leslye, her companion, and the marina employee hid their faces from the heat and flames and covered their heads against falling debris. The marina employee shouted “Mister Pace!” and moved as if to dive overboard and attempt a rescue.

  Leslye stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, a look, and a wag of her head. Harry Pace, master of the good ship Helen, was no more. Nothing remained but a burning oil slick, black smoke, and floating shards of teak decking.

  “You absolutely sure Harry was on that boat?” said the man in Ostrich boots. His voice held amazingly little emotion.

  Leslye kept her eyes on the burning, sinking, unrecognizable mass of wood and Fiberglas. She nodded.

  The man looked back toward his parked car then glanced at his diamond-studded Rolex watch. “Okay. We’re done here, then. I need to get back to work.”

  CHAPTER THREE - THE MORTUARY

  Miami –Tuesday evening—Four Days After the Explosion

  Lithgow Funeral Home was an elegant building with white marble columns facing a hedge-bordered circular driveway. The front entrance mimicked the Academy Awards as wealthy mourners arrived in their chauffeur-driven gas guzzlers. Everyone who was anyone simply must be seen at the viewing of the late Harry Pace, and they must be seen at their best. The jewelry had come out of the safe deposit boxes for this one. The glittering ladies and their silk-penguin escorts craved the flash of the cameras, and the local media did not disappoint.

  Inside a crowded reception room lined with ostentatious floral arrangements (sizes large, huge, and mammoth), spiraling sterling candelabra flanked a closed casket. An exquisite oil painting of Harry Pace rested on an easel at one end of the casket. A few of the attendees amused themselves speculating as to how many inches, or ounces, of Harry were actually inside the casket, which must have cost as much as a Space Shuttle.

  Sylvie Pace, young, blonde and beautiful (in a cover-of-Vogue sort of way) in a thousand-dollar simple black dress, graciously shook the hands of whatever mourners stopped by her chair to pay respects.

  Dan Stern sat attentively on Sylvie’s right. He was a little older, a lot taller and darker, and a little less beautiful than Sylvie. But Dan always cut a fine figure in his expensive suits and hand-made Ostrich-skin boots.

  Together Sylvie and Dan were the South Florida equivalent of royalty on glorious display.

  Leslye Larrimore, looking strained despite her professionally applied makeup, caught Dan’s eye from somewhere in the crowd. He gave her a “come hither” gesture. After a few moments of careful maneuvering, Les arrived at Dan’s chair. He rose to whisper to her.

  “Stay with Sylvie a minute, will you?” said Dan. “I’ve gotta go outside for a smoke.”

  “Nasty habit,” Leslye told him before taking her seat in the chair he had vacated.

  “Yeah, so’s Valium,” was his snarky reply.

  Leslye sent him an overly sweet smile, and Dan headed for the nearest exit.

  Walt McGurk’s red pickup with yellow doors rolled into the funeral home parking lot just as Dan emerged with an unlit cigarette in his mouth. Dan must have recognized the truck, because Walt stepped out of the driver’s side door to find his path blocked by Dan Stern, casually lighting a cigarette.

  “Thought you had quit,” Walt said. “Smart folks have.”

  Dan scowled at Walt’s black western shirt, black jea
ns, black Stetson hat, and black boots. “You’ve got no business here, Dogpatch,” said Dan. “Why don’t you save Sylvie and the rest of us some embarrassment and just mosey on back to the ranch.” He blew a smoke ring directly into Walt’s face.

  Walt dismissed Dan with a look and walked past him toward the funeral home entrance.

  Dan tossed his freshly lit cigarette to the ground and followed. At the door, Dan grabbed Walt’s shoulder and pulled him aside. “What are you trying to do?”

  “Just tryin’ to pay my respects,” said Walt.

  “Respect! You and Harry fought like alley cats. Neither one of you ever showed any ‘respect’ to the other one.”

  “I didn’t come to see Harry. I came to see Sylvie.”

  Walt shook off Dan’s grip and entered the building. Once inside, he worked his way through the throng toward Sylvie’s chair. The high-society, glammed-to-the-max crowd scorned his horse-ranch attire with looks and whispered comments. Walt ignored them and presented himself before Sylvie’s chair. He removed his hat, took her hand, and pulled her up to walk with him to the closed casket.

  They gave no greetings to one another but stood together in silence beside the easel displaying Harry’s portrait. Sylvie unconsciously leaned against Walt. When she sniffled, he folded her against him in a brotherly hug.

  Gently, Walt told her, “Whatever’s in that box, it ain’t Harry. Y’hear me? Harry ain’t here. You need to remember that.”

  “I know,” replied Sylvie between weepy hiccups. “The preacher said the same thing. I guess Daddy’s with Mama now. In heaven.”

  Walt smiled to himself. “Well, I don’t know if I’d give Harry quite that much credit.”

  Across the room, Dan Stern joined Les Larrimore in watching Walt comfort Sylvie over the casket. Leslye whispered, “I thought you said she hated him.”

  Dan shrugged. “That’s what she says. Avoids him and his place like the plague.”