It ends up taking me almost thirty-five minutes because of a minor traffic jam caused by rubbernecking tourists. Dozens of cars pulled haphazardly off the road, some with their ass ends still in the lane of travel. People jumping out of their cars without a care that there’s still traffic on this two-lane rural road that will flatten their asses.
But that’s part of living in Wyoming, and I slow to a crawl as I navigate my way past travelers who are standing on the side of the road in a large group. I recognize a park ranger’s truck and while we’re technically outside of the Teton National Forest, they’ll respond to dangerous wildlife calls. And I see immediately as I creep by what the hubbub is about. About two hundred yards into a pasture covered with sagebrush and dried grass, a grizzly bear is lying on top of what is probably an antelope carcass. He’s massive and appears to be gnawing on the neck of his kill. It’s the park ranger’s duty to keep the tourists at a safe distance because there’s always one moron in the group who wants to sidle closer for a better picture opportunity. Once I make my way past the minor traffic jam, I fight the temptation to speed to make up the lost time. It’s not worth the cost of a ticket or the extra time that would be lost if I’m stopped.
When I pull up to the Double J office, I park in between Bridger’s red Corvette and Woolf’s black Range Rover. Grabbing my phone off the seat beside me, I get out of my truck without locking it up. Nothing of value in there to steal and no one would anyway. That’s not the way we do things in Wyoming.
I trot up the steps and push open the door to the ranch office, which is actually an old homestead on the ranch. I think it might have even belonged to Woolf’s grandpa or something.
The sounds of Bridger and Woolf’s voices pull me down the hall, and I find them both in Woolf’s office. Woolf is sitting in his chair behind his desk, booted feet propped up on the scarred, wooden top. Bridger sits in a large chair done in cowhide on the opposite side and sips on a container of coffee.
“Morning, sunshine,” Woolf says with a big grin on his face.
“Good to see you, man,” I say with a laugh as I take an identical chair next to Bridger. He tips his chin up at me and grumbles, “What’s so important you needed to see me first thing this morning?”
I know Bridger and Woolf’s time is valuable—far more than mine is, as all I have to do today is run a tattoo shop—so I don’t beat around the bush. “Cat’s in trouble and I need some advice. Maybe some direction.”
“Who the fuck is Cat?” Bridger says with his eyebrows furrowing in.
“Sorry,” I say quickly. “Catherine.”
“Vaughn?” Bridger asks for clarification.
“Lyons,” I say automatically, and his eyebrows draw inward again.
“Who?”
Shaking my head, I hold up a hand for him to let me speak and start again. “She goes by Cat, her maiden name is Lyons, and she prefers to be known as that. I found her sleeping in her car in the parking lot of The Wicked Horse two nights ago and found out she’s homeless.”
“What the fu—?”
I cut him off because again… time valuable and all. “Local attorney showed up at the house in Jackson and told her she had to vacate. That the will left her nothing and his son was demanding she leave. She was allowed to leave with nothing but her clothes, jewelry, and a little cash. All credit cards shut down.”
“You’re fucking kidding me?” Bridger growls as he sits up straight in his chair. I quickly see he’s taken as much offense to this notion as I have. While Cat is but a member of The Silo, Bridger takes care of his own. I also know he has a soft spot for her and worries about her at times.
“She went and got a copy of the will, but here’s the kicker… it’s not signed. The attorney insists the signed copy is in Vegas. Cat’s thinking about calling one of the sons and asking for a copy with the supposed signatures, but she’ll probably get the run around.”
“Who’s the attorney?” Woolf asks.
“Harlan Grables,” I tell him. “Know him?”
“Yeah,” Woolf says. “Small-town lawyer, does a variety of stuff. Mostly speeding tickets and stuff. Kind of sleazy actually.”
“Which means there’s no way in hell he drafted the legitimate will of a billionaire hotelier from Vegas,” Bridger concludes.
“You think the attorney’s lying?” I ask incredulously. “But why?”
“Could be the son paid him to draft the bogus document to get her out of the house,” Bridger says with a careless shrug to his shoulders. “Could be Samuel’s real attorney drafted it, the signed one is in Vegas, and the son had a copy here. He asked the attorney to enforce it, and the lawyer did so moronically without seeing the signed copy.”
“I’m betting there’s not a signed copy,” Woolf chimes in. “The mere fact she’s been given the run around… I bet they’re just hoping she gets tired of waiting for an answer and will go away.”