B00DVWSNZ8 EBOK

by Jeffrey, Anna

  "I know you're not," Daddy said. "I didn't raise you to be afraid of anything. But it makes an awful awkward situation having you out there with the hands. They feel like they need to look out for you and protect you. I don't want you putting yourself or one of them in harm's way."

  The sentiment touched Jude, as it always did. She could even see his point. No ranch had ever had a better manager than J. D. Strayhorn and no daughter had ever had a kinder, better father. And because she was certain of that, she would go far out of her way never to hurt him. Giving up, she sighed. "Okay. I get the point."

  A soft rap sounded on the door. "Come in," Daddy said.

  The door opened and Windy's kitchen helper announced supper.

  Daddy stood, and his thick, solid arm hooked around Jude's shoulders, a symbol of the protected life he had provided her. "Let's go eat, punkin. I've had a long day. I'm tired."

  She didn't doubt it. He got up at four a.m. every day, seven days a week. They walked side by side through the wide tiled hallway to the dining room, his shielding arm still around her shoulders.

  The dining room was a large, open room, with a high ceiling, a tile floor and rough-finished white plaster walls decorated with original watercolors and oil paintings. The collector of Western art was Jude's father. He owned originals from many of the better-known Western artists. Some of the canvases had been painted on this ranch as well as other well-known Texas ranches. A few of the artists had dined in this room.

  A long oak table with a dozen leather chairs sat in the center of the room. Above it, a custom-made wrought-iron chandelier gave off a soft golden light and warm ambience.

  Supper at the Circle C was often a surprise—not the menu, but the company. Daddy and Grandpa were always present, but half the time, one of them invited one or several of the hands or someone from town. Or some old friend would stop by just in time for supper.

  Jude believed both Grandpa and Daddy invited people in for supper because they were lonely men. Nowadays, they were lonely old men. They were both in great shape physically, but Daddy was sixty and Grandpa was eighty-five.

  They heard footsteps and Grandpa came into the room alone. Tonight it appeared only the three of them would be eating. Jude walked over and kissed her grandfather's crinkled weathered cheek. "Hey, Grandpa."

  The patriarch slid an arm around her waist. "Judith Ann. Have you had a busy day? I noticed your truck was gone all day long."

  Not much got past Grandpa. She smiled. "Yes, sir," she answered. She had always addressed him as "sir." Most people did. She straightened his bolo tie, a gold horseshoe design. "I was visiting friends in town."

  They took their seats. Grandpa sat at the head of the table. She usually sat on his left and Daddy sat on his right, unless one of the hands dined with them. In that case, she gave up her seat to the hand.

  Behind Grandpa hung an enlarged blurry and grainy photograph of Jude's great-great-great-grandfather, Jefferson Davis Campbell, standing shoulder to shoulder with the legendary Comanche chief Quanah Parker. Her ancestor wore a three-piece suit, a tie and a big hat. The Comanche chief wore Native American clothing typical of the day and a long braid.

  Her ancestor had done something the U.S. government had only minor success at—negotiating in good faith and ultimately doing business with the fierce Comanche. Jude had looked upon the photograph every day she had spent in this ranch house and seeing it never failed to give her a few seconds' pause.

  The three of them bowed their heads and closed their eyes, and Grandpa gave thanks in his gravelly drawl. At the end, he asked the Lord to provide rain. None of them were regular churchgoers, but that didn't mean they were ungrateful for the bounty that had been bestowed upon them. Long ago, Jude's great-great-grandfather, Roslyn Shaffer Campbell, and his siblings had built the first church building in Lockett.

  After the prayer, Windy and Irene brought out hot platters of sizzling sliced beef, grilled vegetables and condiments, including hot peppers and sliced jalapenos and they started filling their plates. Grandpa might be old, but he hadn't lost his taste for spicy food.

  "I heard you hired a new man," Grandpa said to Daddy as they dug in to the meal.

  Jude was constantly amazed that even at his age, Grandpa continued to concern himself with the ranch hands Daddy hired. She was equally amazed that Daddy didn't allow the wagon boss to hire the help. Strayhorn Corp had all sorts of management types doing different things— a wagon boss in charge of the ranch work and the cattle, a wrangler in charge of the remuda, an accountant in charge of the money, a chuck wagon boss in charge of food and stores and a vet with a sophisticated clinic and lab to oversee the care and treatment of sick livestock and insemination of horses. Yet for some reason, Daddy and Grandpa involved themselves in the hiring of every individual who worked at the ranch. She couldn't fault the policy. Many cowhands stayed with the Circle C for years, even lifetimes.

  "Where'd you find him?" Grandpa asked, using his knife to arrange his meal in different sections instead of rolling it into a tortilla the way most people ate fajitas. Ever fascinating to Jude, Grandpa ate with his knife.

  "Margie Wallace's nephew," Daddy answered.

  Jude's stomach lurched and she dropped her fork. It clattered against her plate and fell to the floor. She quickly scooted her chair back and picked it up.

  Daddy held his fajita halfway between his plate and his mouth. "You okay, sweetheart?"

  She got to her feet. "Yes, uh, I'm fine. I'll just go to the kitchen and get another fork."

  Her heartbeat had kicked up, and she was glad to leave the table. In the kitchen, Irene handed her a clean fork and she drew a quick deep breath before returning to the dining room. Typically, Jude listened only casually to the conversational back-and-forth between Daddy and Grandpa about the ranch's employees. Suddenly supper had become more interesting than usual. Tonight, she intended to take note of every word.

  "He isn't going to work her place?" Grandpa was asking as Jude reclaimed her seat, the image of Brady Fallon's smile and perfect teeth vivid in her memory. Her earlier conversation in town with Jake jumped into her mind.

  "Says he is," Daddy said. "Don't know how it's gonna work out. He's strapped for cash."

  "He wouldn't be the one who was around here as a boy, always with Ike's boy—"

  "Uh, yessir," Daddy said, laying his fajita on his plate and looking intently at Grandpa. "I didn't know if you'd remember him."

  A loud silence at the table followed. A squiggle slipped through Jude’s stomach. She waited, almost holding her breath, her gaze darting between Daddy and Grandpa. She couldn't recall ever hearing her father say his younger brother's name. She had rarely heard Grandpa say it. She had never heard a discussion of Ike Strayhorn and his family or of Daddy's second wife, Karen. Other than the scant information gleaned from Grammy Pen, Jude had no idea what kind of relationship Daddy and his brother might have had before the fatal accident that had altered life at the Circle C.

  "We want to be sure to keep an eye on what happens there," Grandpa said at last and Jude drew a breath. "Margie damn near let that place go to brush,” he continued” It'll take some doin' to clean it up."

  Daddy nodded and picked up his fajita again, prepared to go on with his meal.

  Jude had the same opinion of the 6-0 pastures. Fighting back the insidious juniper and mesquite was a job the Circle C's brush-removal crew worked at year-round. But obviously Margie Wallace hadn't been able to stay on top of it.

  "The old house ought to be torn down," Grandpa said.

  "He's gonna live in it," Daddy replied.

  "Is he a family man?"

  "No, sir. Says he's divorced."

  "Then why isn't he moving into the bunkhouse? It's more convenient, Jasper, if the unmarried hands live in the bunkhouse."

  "I offered that option to him," Daddy said, "but he says he'll drive over every day."

  Grandpa shook his head, his eyes hard. Jude had seen the look many times when something
displeased him. "Jasper, those hands get their breakfast, pick their mounts and are horseback before daylight. It'll be a bad situation if they have to wait for somebody to come to work."

  Her grandfather's attitude struck Jude as odd and even more narrow-minded than usual. Most of the hands were married, with families. They didn't live in the bunkhouse. They either lived in one of the ranch's many houses or drove to work from some other home every day. Some even lived in town. Though breakfast was served at 4:45 a.m., she had rarely heard a complaint about someone being late and holding things up.

  "Dad, I'm on top of it, okay? her father said, putting together another fajita. “Just let me handle it. If it becomes a problem, I'll simply tell Fallon he has to move on. But I think he'll make a good hand. He's been doing some cowboying off and on for a couple of years over in Stephenville, so he's not afraid of the work. And he's a college man. Graduated from Tarleton with a BBA. Got some smarts between his ears. He asked me for an opportunity and I gave him one." Daddy bit into his fajita.

  "Just remember this, Jasper," Grandpa said. "If he decides to sell, we want to be the buyer. I've already alerted Bob Anderson at the bank in Lubbock.That fifteen sections would square up our line on that south side. I tried to buy it from Margie after Harry died, but the cantankerous old woman wouldn't sell it to me."

  A light came on in Jude's mind. The land was the root of Grandpa's displeasure with Daddy's not insisting that Brady Fallon live in the bunkhouse, where Grandpa might be able to keep tabs on what he was doing. Land acquisition was so much a part of the Circle C's history, Jude supposed it had become almost like a gene. She felt the corner of her mouth quirk at Grandpa calling Margie Wallace an old woman. At her death, she was younger than Grandpa.

  "I know, Dad," Daddy said.

  "You keep on top of the situation, you hear, Jasper?" Grandpa tapped his forefinger on the table as he talked.

  Good grief! Jude’s offer for the 6-0would have been a million dollars, a substantial chunk of her trust fund. It was a fair offer for neglected rangeland in Willard County. If shehad been the one to acquire it, a much bigger family explosion than she had imagined would have ensued. Nuclear, even. A part of her was glad the transaction had fallen on its face.

  "I will, Dad. I understand," Daddy said.

  And what did that mean? Exactly what did Daddy understand? Did Grandpa want the 6-0's new owner to fail so he could get the land? The notion wasn't far-fetched. Time and again, Jude had seen him prove his pragmatism. For all of his reputation for doing good works, contributing to the community and being a caring employer, she had seen him be downright ruthless when it came to something that affected the Circle C's holdings.

  Daddy's assurance to Grandpa was unclear, but one thing Jude knew was that he and Grandpa were like-minded. She believed her father was a fair man, but if Grandpa wished it, Daddy did it, sometimes even before Grandpa made his wishes known verbally. She also knew that Grandpa and Daddy, though they might appear to be low-key, were both powerful and influential men, with tentacles crawling into unlikely nooks and crannies. And not just in Texas.

  What did her grandfather's attitude really mean? She felt an inexplicable concern for Brady Fallon. Anyone could see he had his hands full trying to put the old 6-0 ranch back together. But now he was facing another harsh reality without even knowing it and an adversary not of his own making.

  Jude had lost her appetite. She picked at her food.

  “What’s the matter, punkin,” Daddy asked. “You’re not feeling well?”

  “I—I’m fine. I guess I’m just not as hungry as I thought I was.”

  “You shouldn’t waste food, Judith Ann,” Grandpa said.

  Chapter 5

  At the end of supper, Daddy followed his routine by retiring to his suite for some reading, then an early bedtime.

  Grandpa invited Jude to accompany him on his evening stroll around the barns and the barn lots. She usually liked walking with him. Often they walked with long but comfortable silences between them. But sometimes Grandpa would be in a talkative mood and their evening strolls would be rife with information. She traded her sandals for boots, he put on his Stetson and away they went.

  He walked with his wrists crossed behind his back, his step slow and careful. She had noticed lately that he had become smaller in his old age. Once she had thought him as tall as a giant, but now his shoulders slumped and he was the same height as she. She plucked a tall blade of summer grass and adjusted her own step to his, as together they ambled across the wide caliche driveway and on toward the barns.

  The sinking sun had lost some of its heat and light. It painted the sky in slashes of purple and gold and cast the landscape in soft amber. A bank of deep blue clouds bloomed in great billows in the west. "Cloud's got a bellyful of rain," Grandpa said. "Looks like it's coming our way."

  Spring and early summer often brought violent storms, but along with them came the precious rain that plains ranchers and farmers prayed for and cherished. Grandpa never relied on TV or radio for the weather forecast. He simply looked at the sky and smelled the air.

  "I see that," Jude said, hoping to someday be able to look at the sky and sense the oncoming weather.

  Beneath the clouds and off in the distance, long twin mesas rose from the flat plain, a deep gray silhouette at this time of day. Grandpa had told her many times that those tablelands had been sacred sites for the Comanche. Willard County was located well within what the Spanish explorers had called Comancheria and had been the home turf of the Quahadi, Quanah Parker's band.

  Though the legend of Quanah Parker's Anglo mother, Cynthia Ann Parker, and his Comanche chief father, Peta Nocona, was a tragic one, Jude loved it. She thought it a true love story that had produced a mighty leader. She might teach high school science rather than history, but if her students hadn't heard how Cynthia Ann Parker had been kidnapped as a child by the Comanche, then later fallen deeply in love with Peta Nocona, and how she had starved herself to death after the army's rescue separated her from him and their son Quanah, Jude always told them the story. People should know and respect those who had lived here before them.

  The storm cloud chased a cool breeze toward them that brushed Jude's cheeks, ruffling her skirt and swirling her hair across her face. It carried the scent of summer grass and unsullied air and the hoped-for rain. With a pop and a screech, the windmill fan shifted, catching the wind. The fan began to race, driving the well's sucker rod rapidly up and down, pumping a gush of water from deep within the earth.

  A fierce love of all that surrounded her filled Jude's chest, like nothing else ever had. She drew a deep breath, as if she could take every sight, sound and smell into her body and brain and save them forever.

  "It's a good time of year," Grandpa said, a dramatic pronouncement from a man of few words.

  The love of the land was in Jude’s blood. It had come from her grandfather and all of the Scots-Irish ancestors preceding him. She looked over at him, realizing he would soon leave them and she felt bereft.

  As they neared the fenced pasture behind the barn, the longhorn cows he kept as pets stood near the fence. The waning sunlight showed the wide spans of their horns as golden. Two of the cows thrust their noses through the fence rails in curiosity. Grandpa walked over and talked to them in a low voice as he gave their faces a good rub with his gnarled fingers, his affection for them palpable. "Cattle like these were the beginning of everything, Judith Ann."

  "I know, Grandpa." Jude, too, rubbed their faces. The cows and their three-and four-foot racks of horns looked frightening, but these were gentler than pet dogs.

  "Without their strength and toughness, there might've been no such thing as a cattle industry and our family wouldn't be blessed with all that we have."

  Jude had heard him say this many times. "I know, Grandpa."

  But longhorn cattle and their contribution to the cattle industry and the Strayhorn coffers were of little interest to Jude this evening. After visiting Jake in
town earlier and hearing the exchange between her grandfather and father at the supper table, Jude had Brady Fallon on her mind, and Jake and her cousin Cable and the days of their childhood. The urge to say what she was thinking overcame her. usual reticence in her grandfather’s presence. "Grandpa, did you not want Daddy to hire Brady Fallon?"

  "Jasper has been hiring our hands for years, Judith Ann. He can hire anyone he wants to. Why do you ask?"

  "I just got the impression at supper that you were unhappy that Daddy hired Mrs. Wallace's nephew."

  "No. I have nothing against young Fallon."

  "But you said you wanted the 6-0 land to square up the Circle C. Were you mad because he got the land?"

  "No. The 6-0 was Margie's to do with as she saw fit. But not selling it to me at the market price when she had the chance was poor judgment on her part. It’s so rundown her young nephew would've been better off inheriting the money we would have paid her. He can't do what he's set out to do with that old ranch. No man without resources could."

  Resources. Code word for money. Grandpa thought in terms of dollars most of the time. The million dollars she would have paid for the 6-0 was probably too much. And after the sale, after she had depleted her trust fund, Daddy and Grandpa would have been so mad at her they would have offered her no help. She would have been in the same position as Brady Fallon—no resources.

  "But no matter," Grandpa said. "He'll figure out he has to sell. We'll be ready to buy him out when the time comes. Strike while the iron is hot, Judith Ann. I learned that from my father, who was a brilliant businessman."

  Jude angled a startled look at her grandfather, thinking of what she had heard of his father, her great-grandfather, from people outside the family. Many in Willard County viewed Franklin Bennett Strayhorn as something less than a brilliant businessman. Greedy ruthless shyster was the more common opinion. A few said his early demise from heart failure had been a blessing. "I thought Grandpa Frank was a lawyer."