Free Something More by Janet Dailey Page A

I?” His mouth slanted in a smile of half mockery. “Now that I think about it, it isn’t very far from where your grandfather’s body was found. Ironic, isn’t it?”
    The coincidence seemed somehow eerie. Rather than comment on it, she asked, “How far is ‘not very far’?” She smiled quickly, making a joke out of the question. “Something tells me the definition of ‘not very far’ in Wyoming isn’t the same as it would be back in Iowa.”
    An answering smile crinkled Luke’s eyes, lethal in its attraction. “Probably not,” he agreed. “As the crow flies, it’s probably less than a mile.”
    â€œI knew it would be different,” she declared. “In Iowa, we’d measure it in yards.”
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    â€œHere it is.” Ima Jane came out of the kitchen, carrying the framed newspaper accounts. On her way to Luke and Angie’s table, she snatched a bar towel off the counter and wiped the dust from the frame’s glass front.
    Before she could show it to Angie, the heavyset rancher intercepted it and ran a verifying glance over the trio of age-yellowed clippings, then nodded in confirmation. “This is what I was talking about.” Joe Gibbs offered it to Angie. “All the facts are right here in these newspaper stories. The conductor got killed during the robbery. Shot him in cold blood, they did.”
    Obligingly, Angie took it and skimmed the century-old articles mounted beneath the glass, then handed it back to Ima Jane. “Actually I have copies of these.”
    â€œYou do?” Ima Jane said in startled response.
    Angie laughed at her look of astonishment. “It’s really not so surprising. There aren’t many family trees that contain a genuine outlaw. I grew up hearing bits and pieces about him. And like any kid, I became fascinated by the story and always wanted to know more.” She paused to choose her next words. “Obtaining copies of articles from newspaper archives isn’t all that difficult. I have a family scrapbook filled with mementos and stories about various members, including ones that have been written over the years about the robbery.”
    â€œWell, isn’t that smart,” Ima Jane declared. “More people should make the effort to document their family history. I’ve been after Griff for years to do that for his. According to his grandmother, one of his ancestors served under Custer and died at the Battle of Little Big Horn. But do you think I can talk him into finding out if it’s true? Why, the way he digs in his heels in absolute refusal, you’d think I was asking him to open a can of spaghetti sauce and pass it off as homemade.”
    Her analogy elicited a round of good-natured laughter and glances of approval directed at the sour-faced man behind the bar. It confirmed what Griff Evans had long proclaimed: every dish out of his kitchen was made from scratch or it wasn’t served. He not only butchered his own meat, but he also personally rendered the lard that was used to make his incredibly tender and flaky pie crusts.
    Drawn by all the talk about the robbery and buried gold, Tobe West left the booth and joined the small group that had gathered around the attractive redhead. His sister, Dulcie, was right on his heels, as constant as a shadow.
    â€œCan I see that?” He reached for the framed clippings Ima Jane held.
    Without a moment’s hesitation, she passed it into his hands, then frowned absently as she searched the walls for an empty space among the numerous photos and memorabilia. “I need to find someplace to hang that up again.”
    Rising onto her toes, Dulcie tried to get a peek at the yellowed articles her brother studied with such interest, then gave up the effort as futile and snuck a glance at the woman seated at the table across from Luke. Used to being ignored by adults, she was suddenly flustered to see the