Roan

By Liz Baker

Philadelphia born and bred, Mattie McCoy, was sassy, cool, confident and sexy. Her former career of repossessing autos kept her mentally and physically in shape for sleuthing in an early twentieth-century, Victorian mansion. She didn't need anyone, nor did she want anyone, to keep her from her search for her grandfather's fortune.

But then, there was that one obstacle; that Texas tin star and his two deputies. Well, that cowboy was just like any other man. He could easily be seduced and lied to. He had his tiny brain in his Levis, but Mattie knew she had what was needed to melt those cold, ice-blue slits on his bronzed face.

And that dark, foreboding, dreary mansion was just plain evil. It held too many mysteries, too many secret passageways and the aroma of impending death. What clues could be found prowling around in there? And what did that sheriff know that he wasn't telling?

All Mattie and her friends wanted was a little adventure. They got that and a whole lot more.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 5, 2009
• ISBN: 9781467055529

Liz Baker

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Liz Baker has lived in Nevada and now in New Mexico and enjoys reading and writing about the West, its development during the late 1800’s and early 1900’s, the native people, the wildlife and the vast and natural, timeless, almost theatrical beauty.  Her poetry displays a vivid palette of her profound love of nature and the urgency for us to realize the importance of other living things to humans.  In some of her writing, she expresses not only the beauty of nature, but the need for human development of a fundamental understanding, appreciation and passion to preserve what we can only visualize and wonder about.  Her fiction novel, ROAN, set in a little West Texas town, will appeal to anyone who enjoys curling up in an overstuffed chair, to savor a good story about the lives of everyday people today, entwined with a little mystery, and a hint of pendulous romance. Ms Baker is an avid equestrian, defender of wildlife and conservationist and now has returned to her beloved West to retire and embrace her writing career.

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© 2009 Liz Baker. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 10/26/2016

ISBN: 978-1-4389-2677-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4670-5552-9 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

For more information about the written work of Liz Baker, please visit: www.lizbakerbooks.com

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER ONE

It wasn’t that the house had been labeled haunted by the locals, it was just that folks would rather not speak about it at all, especially to an outsider. And if wheedled under pressure, for instance, by some prying, snotty female with a nose for news, that always seemed to favor the strange, or out-of-sorts, someone that went by the name of Mattie McCoy, well, some people in this dusty excuse for a town could get downright ugly.

As it was, Mattie’s reputation always preceded her. No one seemed to know exactly where she hailed from, or otherwise really cared to know. But everyone knew who she was, or at least thought they did. She was nicknamed The Ghost Rider, by some, because for some unknown reason, like a phantom, she seemed to appear and disappear with no apparent warning, but always her visits had a sure-fire link to the McCord mansion.

Talk in Roan usually incubated at Gent’s Barber Shop, the only male dominated hair joint in town, passed down for three generations, considered a pillar, and nothing short of a fire would remove it from the main drag. The original shop opened in 1882 by Thomas Gent, when Roan was about the size of a chestnut fleck on the rear end of a red roan mustang, and was just about as wild. Thomas Gent moved himself there from Illinois. It was his intention to raise a few cows and a family, and eek out a living of modest existence. Well, that pipe dream went quickly south, when his meager two hundred prized heifers and bulls were easily rustled out from under his nose one night, while he was sleeping off one too many shots of rot gut, at one of the two local flop houses. Lucky for him, he’d chosen to stay in town, because if he’d headed back out to his spread, he’d have ended up dead or otherwise minimized in some manner. Being a gent of sorts, as his name implied, he embarked on a less risky career, and since Roan had no place for the dim-wit cowpokes to regularly clean up, and he had a knack for hair trimming, well, things just fell into place.

In the early 1900’s, Tom Gent married. He raised three sons and two daughters. Eventually in 1935, the youngest son, Bernard Thomas, took over the business and ran it until 1985, when his youngest son, Roger Thomas, took the reins. In the family tradition, RT, as he was nicknamed, trimmed the fur off most of Roan’s male population, which to date consisted of around 1700 men and boys. The only time you would ever see a woman in the shop, was when one was allowed to bring in an especially young bean sprout, that still favored his mama, and there weren’t too many of them around. Roan men were brought up to be tough, even though there was less call for grit now, than there was back a few years, when Roan was settling.

It’s always been claimed, that women are known breeders and spreaders of that ever sweet pastime of gossiping. However, truth be known, Roan men could spin a yarn in a barber chair in fifteen minutes, that would silence the shop and prick the ears of Gent’s oldest patron, Henry Shoe. Though Henry claimed to be deaf as a petrified fence post, he could re-tell the tales he heard in the shop, same as if he’d been there personal and yesterday.

So at 10:00a.m. on Friday morning, Brian Sweetwater, still steaming, bent RT’s ear with a brief version of the grilling he’d received, about two hours prior, from Mattie McCoy about the old McCord mansion. All three pairs of scissors stilled. One chair did an about face, much to the dismay of Curtis Bremer, RT’s third chair razor master, who came real close to slicing off the tip of Henry’s nose in the process.

Apparently, Ms McCoy drifted into town around 8:00 a.m. that same morning, after word leaked out late the night before about some strange goings-on up at the McCord house. Someone had called the Abilene Sun, and a story printed out bottom left on the front page, early morning edition. It wasn’t much of a story, but newsworthy enough to grace the front page, and already the news was buzzing the wires and radio waves of Roan, Texas.

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The McCord house was built around the turn of the century, by Malan Reeb McCord. It was by all measures, one of the finest examples of Victorian architecture of its day, and no expense was spared on house or grounds. At that time, Roan was a bedroom community to Abilene, although of course, not considered as such. Basically, Roan was a dusty cow town; a layover for drovers on the way up from southern Texas, or across from New Mexico, on their way to the rail yards in Abilene. The railroad tracks were going down fast, but sometimes driving cattle a few hundred miles was still the only alternative.

As rowdy as Roan was in that day, it was a far cry quieter than Abilene, and a few degrees cooler. A few of the town’s founders, bless their souls, took it upon themselves to plant some deciduous trees; the kind that could tolerate hell, if need be, and painstakingly kept them watered, until they deep-rooted themselves right down to the one known aquifer that ran north to south, straight under the center of town. Several springs bubbled up a clear gold-colored brew, that when sprinkled on a dead lizard, could bring him back to life, or so it was claimed anyway. One stream about six feet wide ran just west of town, and rights and fights over this water sent many a man to boot hill. With these precious amenities, a chosen few wealthy bankers, lawyers, cattle and rail men, built their lairs in Roan and hid out there, when the going got rough in Abilene.

The mansion sat at the west end of the main street. Seven other abodes lined both sides of the street, with four on the south side and three on the north side. This was definitely the high rent district, and was sectioned off from the other end of the street by a park like median, which made the street three times the width of the east end. This part of the street was paved with bricks, and gated, to keep curiosity seekers at bay.

Looking out the parlor window of the McCord house, with all the trees and bushes on the grounds, it was virtually impossible to see the other seven houses. On the right, the first home belonged to Max (Dude) Slater, a gambler, with a silk fetish, who preferred to keep his ladies of the night, at his home away from Abilene. It was said that he kept up to three tarts at a time, until he tired of them. Then he’d replace them with a fresh shipment, as long as the cards kept singing his praises. The next house on the right belonged to a banker in Abilene, who kept his tart in Abilene, and his wife in Roan. The next one was owned by a wealthy single mercantile owner, and the far house belonged to Joe Nix, a man rarely if ever seen, and virtually unknown, as to his trade. The three houses on the north side of the street were owned by a shyster lawyer, another banker, and a railroad head. Everyone on the block pretty much kept to themselves, and socializing consisted of polite hellos, if that.

This area of the street today was grotesquely run down and only the McCord house remained intact. The others had either burned down or were torn down, with only three newer houses, each fifty to sixty years old built in their place.

The McCord house was built of a red-orange clay brick, with decorative white stone entwined in the brick, cresting the tall windows, and lacing the double front doors. Many years prior, someone had a metal roof put on the structure, and it had rusted and turned the now gray stone, orange to brown. Most of the tall ground level windows had been boarded up. Some of the boards now weathered and cracked, had come partially un-nailed and hung askew. A couple windows in the back were missing the boards altogether; most likely the work of vandals or kids.

Although the townspeople took great precaution to keep their kids from venturing anywhere near the McCord house. Too many questions and too few answers surrounded the mansion’s mysteries, aside from the fact that for a number of reasons, it just plain wasn’t safe.

A high iron fence, with spiked finials topping each rod, surrounded the one acre yard, and the once carefully tended gracious gardens now entangled the fence, with a sort of creeping desperate attempt to reach a ray of sunshine. Cottonwoods and oaks snarled at one another, and groped their knurled limbs upward for that same illusive ray. Tender grasses now gone, were replaced with a maze of tangled briars and stickers, native to Texas soil and climate, and also competing for sun.

Old man McCord moved into the house in 1938. His wife had passed on two months before, but no one really knew how she had died. The older of his two sons, who had been living there, found her body out on the lawn in back, on a cold January night. She appeared to have frozen to death, but the Doc couldn’t say for sure, and a lot of things just didn’t add up.

When Malan moved in, the older son, not being a real fan of his father’s, moved out. He was twenty years old and already a skilled thief. With his father’s money, he had always managed to evade the long arm of Texas law. The younger of the two boys had gone off to college back east to study to be a doctor, and there he got the news of his mother’s strange and sudden death.

Malan McCord lived alone in the mansion until his death in 1948. He was sixty-eight years old at the time and was found hanging from a rope one night, when some kids saw a light on in the tower, and decided to take a closer look; one they soon regretted. It wasn’t determined how long he’d been swinging there, but by the look and smell, it had been awhile. A hand-written will, signed by Malan McCord, was stuck in his belt. It stated that the house was to be sold at public auction. The monies from the sale were to go to his younger son, now a doctor practicing in Philadelphia. The money was never seen by Dr. Patrick Reeb McCord, nor did he know any money had been left to him. He hadn’t had any contact with his father or brother for over ten years.

When the house went on the auction block, about one year after Malan’s death, and any suspicions about his death had been buried with him, a few townsfolk and a few outsiders showed up. It sold in 1949 to a stranger for $32,000. He quickly moved in the next day.

What old man McCord did with all of his money is still the main topic at Gent’s today. Some say he gambled it all away; others say he spent it all on women, trips abroad and material things. But then, most people didn’t really know Malan Reeb McCord.

The new owner remained in the mansion for two months. No one ever saw him anywhere around town. It was said that he came and went in the night. Then, one night he was gone. No one in Roan knew he’d left, but the bank found out about three months later, when they sent the sheriff to investigate. He hadn’t made a single payment and the letters the bank kept sending out, came back unopened. The house immediately went into foreclosure and went on the auction block again. This time it was purchased through a power-of-attorney, but no one in town ever knew who’d bought it, and no one ever moved in. So there it remained, unkempt, foreboding, decaying and vacant, or was it?

Last night shortly around midnight, a light had been seen in the uppermost part of the house; same tower where Malan McCord was found in a noose. The tower had been built as a look-out tower and was adorned on all four sides with tall windows. It was a small cupola and only about five feet square. It was rumored that old man McCord had it added so he could keep watch for anyone who might be tempted to do him harm. Since ghost stories pretty much had been whispered around town for many years, this light brought it all back. Someone had shot night photos. One showed a figure appearing to be hanging there in the tower. This photo, with a small article, is what showed up on the bottom corner of the front page of the Sun. This all restarted a lot of ducks quacking and a few outsiders drove in to town to see if they could get a closer peek. Something had to draw people to Roan. Other than the annual Chili Fest and Rodeo, there wasn’t much else to see.

Malan Reeb McCord by trade was a real estate snipe and spent most of his life brokering high stakes land and ranch deals, that generally had a foul smell to them. He could take a piece of sand and make it sound like an island in the Pacific, complete with naked hula dancers. Poor unsuspecting investors and westward bounders believed him to be as honest as the day was long. They happily sent their funds on ahead to secure their piece of the pie. Of course upon arrival, the one hundred plus acres of lush grasslands that they had paid for had a brown sandy look, with Texas scrub for pine trees. Water was something you’d see if you’d been out in the heat too long and were hallucinating. But the deal was done, Malan was no where to be found and you were relieved of your life savings, with not even a dime to return to civilization on. Consequently, the man was hated, but he was also feared. Contrary to the honest up-standing citizen that he claimed to be in his brochures and letters, a more ruthless business man couldn’t be found west of the Colorado.

Not that this was a rarity in those days. As the West developed, many species of worms crawled out of the woodwork to get rich quick however they could. It was just a matter of, do we cheat um, and how, or how much? And it was all done in a legal fashion. Too many crooked bankers and even some sheriffs had their fingers in the pies. The honest lawmen had their hands full trying to differentiate between the good and bad.

Malan did manage to find himself a lady to marry him, but she was just in from the east, and was also swayed by the smooth talking dandy. Many folks, who didn’t know him and that was a good number, thought he must be a gambler. The fine clothes, the Clark Gable look, silver handled Colts and expensive toilet water said it all. Matilda Shelly Kensington McCord lived happily ever after, until her death. She never quite knew exactly what her husband did or how he did it, but she lived and raised two boys in Roan. Malan worked and lived, well, wherever, and came home a couple of times a month, if that. She accepted this good life as she was living the life-style of her mother, and knew no other.

Well, that tower was where they found old McCord swinging, and now after fifty-nine years, a light appeared for no apparent reason, at least none that anyone knew of. But at Gent’s a whole kettle of conjuring-ups was brewing.

CHAPTER TWO

Brian Sweetwater first ran into Mattie McCoy four years prior in Roan at an auction, of personal items donated by town’s people, to raise money for one of the local charities. The advertisement read; some items donated are from the old McCord mansion, and the Gilby House, the estate of the late Richard Gilby, Santa Fe Railroad kingpin. She was going over a table chocked full of musty old books, boxes of real estate brochures, old photos, and magazines from the early 1900’s. Brian watched her plow through a couple of boxes of books, and wondered what anyone would want with musty, yellowed, old books, and what a woman with her appearance did for a living. And where the hell did she blow in from? She looked out of place compared to the local gals. Being the sheriff, it was his job to know everybody, even if they were from out-of-town and strangely attractive, in some uppity sort of way. He strolled on over with his usual Texas greeting to a woman.

Howdy, ma’am, as he touched the brow of his brown leather outback-styled cowboy hat complete with braided band, and one inch genuine silver Concho centered in front.

As she was deeply involved in the crusty old books, she hesitated, what he thought was far too long before acknowledging him. Her head came around slowly, angled way down, then deep hazel eyes started at the tips of his Justin’s and moseyed up slowly over all six feet two inches and fixated on the silver Concho for about three long seconds. They dropped back down to the two ice-blue slits on his bronzed face and stared at them briefly. Then, the hazels re-visited the plaid western style shirt and dropped on down to the leather belt buckle, with Harley Davidson chiseled on it, and remained there way longer that he felt necessary. She then went back to the box of books before uttering a crisp reply.

Good morning, Sheriff. It reminded him of a belch, after a good sized slug of Budweiser. You didn’t really want it to come out in public, but it had to. She obviously had a bigger need for beat up, smelly, old pieces of literature, than any service he might be able to provide. Never-the-less, and true to his style, he decided to truck on.

I noticed you showed a great deal of interest in those useless old papers and books there. Without even batting an eye or bothering to look his way, she replied.

Well Sheriff, you’re just a regular Sherlock Holmes there, aren’t you?

Well ma’am, I just was wonderin’ what was so all-fired interestin’ and it seems that you’re the only one lookin’ at um. She let out a slow bored sigh and brought the deep hazels up and deposited them hard on the ice-blue slits, hesitated, as if carefully planning her response, then asked a question.

Sheriff, when was the last time you fell off of your horse? The corners of his mouth started to crinkle, because now he figured she was coming ‘round to his side. He thought a moment before he replied.

I s’ppose, when I was a kid, not rightly sure.

Did you get back on and ride off?

Yes ma’am, I’m sure I did. He grinned.

Well, would you go find your horse, get back on and ride off?

It barely penetrated him.

Ma’am, I was just trying to be friendly. It’s my job to be friendly.

That’s an admirable trait and I’m very impressed, but right now I need to look through these boxes, so if you don’t mind, I’d like to do that.

Well, I don’t mind at all, but if you need any help, I’ll be around.

Thank-you, Sherlock. I’ll keep that in mind. The hazels dropped back down to the boxes and she tuned him out. He started to casually stroll off, then stopped.

Ma’am?

I detest being called ma’am. It is one of the most degrading things you people say.

By people, you mean Texas lawmen?

By people, I mean men, in general!

Well ma’am, if I knew your name, I’d––—

It’s Mattie. Mattie McCoy. Drop the ma’am, Wyatt! Got it?

Well, yes ma’am, I believe I do. He strolled off grinning to himself. Mattie muttered to herself as he walked away, not really caring if he overheard.

That’s all I need in this hick Texas town is the hick sheriff on my ass!

That was four years ago and he’d had a few more run-ins with her since. He’d seen her twice at the old McCord house. Once at the front gate, just standing there looking through the fence rods, and once taking pictures with a telephoto lens, from all different angles around the grounds, until he ran her off cussing. The last time was a few months ago. Some under-aged boys got caught drinking whiskey in the back yard late one night, and he had to haul them in. The next day word got out that one of them had found a gold coin dating back to the late 1800’s on the grounds, and that somehow brought out Mattie McCoy. She wanted to talk to the boys and see the coin. Neither of which Sheriff Sweetwater allowed her to do. This sent her off in a sizzling huff. He knew she despised him and that was ok with him As long as she was on some kind of take that he couldn’t figure, he wasn’t about to give.

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Brian stormed through the front door of Gents sending the double swinging doors banging hard against the walls, and making even old Henry Shoe jump in his chair. Scott Bandy sitting in the second chair, while Curtis Bremer tied an apron around his neck asked,

Sweet, what crawled up your shorts and bit you on your head?

Aw some women, you just can’t figure um. Brian replied as he tossed his hat on a peg.

What are you about forty-two now, and just now coming to that conclusion? asked Scott. The other five men all laughed and Shorty Bailey, in RT’s chair said,

Well, you otta know better ‘an messin’ around in unchartered water. You ain’t never got wet enough. At that, old Henry Shoe piped up.

Yeah, Brian, when and if you ever do tie the knot, you’ll find out what drownin’ is really like. Then Curtis commented on that.

Well you otta know Henry; you been drownin’ for about fifty some years now, ain’t it? After that roar of laughter, Scott Bandy chimed in.

Hey Henry, I been meanin’ to ask you how that works after all those years.

Henry just looked at him and answered dryly.

Well, it don’t work anymore. That’s how it works, you young pip squeak!

At this, they all roared and Brian lowered his long frame down into a captain’s chair to wait for RT to finish up with Shorty. He preferred RT to trim his hair, as he’d been cutting it for so long, it was part of his ritual. Besides, RT never said too much. He would always just listen and if necessary, make small two word comments. He had a quiet way about him that Brian preferred, as he himself was usually an easy-going, quiet, thinker type, more that a talker. Men seemed to always bring out the best in him.

Women always seemed to bring out the worst in a man. He wasn’t easily riled, and few women, if any, were able to rile him, but Mattie McCoy was one that lately, had not only been able to work him up, but she was starting to creep into the cracks and crevices of his brain more than he’d care to admit. He just couldn’t figure out what she was up to and he always liked to size people up and know their game. Something easily done with a man, but just impossible with women, since they liked to play games. He could never quite get the rules straight and never won if he did.

Why couldn’t they all be like his Aunt Pauli who raised him up? She was always straight with him. She never played any games and taught him how to be a man and be tough. His father left before he was born, and his mama died when he was just four. When he was ten, his uncle passed on and he was always glad to be there to help his aunt get through it all. They leaned on each other, and he always felt like that was his turning point. Though only ten, he became a man and vowed he would take care of Aunt Pauli, and protect her for the rest of her life.

The one thing Uncle Gene did for him, when he was around, which wasn’t much of the time, was teach him how to shoot a gun. He practiced diligently on tin cans and later, when he was old enough, at the gun range. He was fast and accurate and it gave him a good feeling to be good at something he liked. It certainly wasn’t school where he did well, but Aunt Pauli pushed him through it. As soon as he graduated from high school, he went to school to learn how to be a cop. It came easy for him. He had the brains, the nerve, the easy going manor, the accuracy, and most of all, he believed in justice. He liked people but he knew that not all people were good, and not everyone knew the difference between right and wrong. Some just plain had no respect for the law. Brian Sweetwater had no tolerance for those kind.

Mattie McCoy had been showing her face in Roan quite a bit lately and