The Last Ranch

by Michael McGarrity

  “Me too.” Matt finished his coffee and pushed back his chair. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Be careful on the ranch road—it’s rough in spots.”

  Miguel offered his hand. “Mañana, mi amigo. Adios.”

  “Adios.” Matt thanked Bernadette for her hospitality and left the casa. Across the pasture, under a thick canopy of old cottonwood trees stood the sprawling Chávez hacienda. The sight of it brought pleasant memories of Teresa Magdalena Armijo-Chávez, Miguel’s mother and Matt’s surrogate aunt, and of the fiesta they threw at the ranch for his mother, Emma, days before she died.

  It brought a smile to his lips. He desperately needed pleasant times to remember. The killing of Fred Tyler had opened up a slew of unhappy reminiscences about his younger years, most painfully the death of Beth Merton, a girl he’d truly loved. It still hurt when he thought of the loss of her.

  On the state road, he left the shade of the village and drove into the glaring hot desert scrublands, now awash from the recent storm with blooming cactus flowers and occasional patches of silky green native grasses. No matter how many times he drove across the Tularosa, it was always different and new.

  He turned his thoughts to work. The ranch road needed grading, leaks in the stock tank needed patching, a windmill needed fixing, and of course there were the ponies. It was time to get cracking. He had a week to get all the maintenance work done before he went to see Dr. Beckmann to get his new eye.

  ***

  The week passed quickly for Matt, and he left the 7-Bar-K feeling good about the work he’d accomplished with Miguel’s assistance. Miguel’s easygoing nature, his willingness to work hard, and his pleasant companionship had helped Matt get his thinking about past heartaches and recent calamities squared away. He drove straight to Mountain Park to check on Patrick, Anna Lynn, and Ginny, and found the threesome in high spirits, about to sit down to a noon meal. Over homemade soup and fresh corn bread, they caught up and made small talk. Patrick complained a mite about his slow recovery, Anna Lynn reported he was mostly being a good patient with only an occasional lapse, and Ginny proudly displayed new reading skills honed by many hours of schooling by Patrick, who obviously enjoyed all the attention he got from Anna Lynn and Ginny. The gruff, mean-spirited man Matt had loathed for so many years seemed to have completely vanished.

  Matt described the work at the ranch he’d done with Miguel’s help, which included sanding away the bloodstain and refinishing the entire kitchen floor. He’d thought Anna Lynn would be pleased by the effort, but she seemed barely appreciative and not at all interested in doings at the ranch.

  With a promise to return promptly from Fort Bliss to show off his new eye, Matt continued on to Alamogordo, where he stood on the train station platform surrounded by a contingent of high-spirited flyboys from the airfield on seventy-two-hour passes who were impatiently awaiting the southbound train that would carry them to El Paso. When they arrived in the border city, the boisterous GIs, most of them kids not old enough to vote, piled into taxis for the short drive to Juárez, where sins and pleasures of the flesh abounded. He marveled at their innocence and exuberance, knowing for those who survived, combat would quickly wash it all away.

  At Fort Bliss, as an authorized civilian on post, he secured a billet at the BOQ, which came with a pass to the Officer’s Club. Never having been allowed in officer country before, he couldn’t resist the temptation to take a look. He showed up with happy hour in full swing, found an empty stool at the far end of the bar, and with a cold beer in hand watched a swarm of junior officers barraging a trio of pretty army nurses, one of whom was Lt. Raine Hartman.

  She turned in Matt’s direction, smiled in recognition, and approached, followed by a slightly drunk, persistent captain, who wasn’t about to cut off his pursuit.

  Matt raised his glass in greeting.

  Raine settled on an empty stool. “What a nice surprise. I didn’t expect to see you until your appointment tomorrow morning.”

  “I’m here on my own this time, Lieutenant,” Matt replied. “I see you haven’t lost your allure.”

  Raine shrugged a shoulder. “They’re just a bunch of eager Boy Scouts with dishonorable intentions. I’m holding out for a true gentleman.”

  “Good for you,” Matt said.

  The relentless young captain, who had carrot-red hair and a freckled nose, butted in between them and eyed Matt suspiciously. “What have we here?” he rudely demanded.

  “This is Lt. Colonel Matthew Kerney,” Raine lied, straight-faced.

  Color drained from the young captain’s face as he erased his insolent sneer and straightened up. “Colonel, sir.”

  “At ease, Captain,” Matt said, enjoying the moment and his sudden unexpected promotion. “If you’ll allow me to have a private conversation with Lieutenant Hartman, I’ll return her to your custody shortly.”

  “As you wish, sir,” the captain replied, discreetly retreating.

  “You’re a bold gal,” Matt said with a grin when the young man had departed.

  “So my father says.” Raine giggled. “Are you really married?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Neither you or your wife wear wedding rings.”

  “That’s very observant.”

  “Well?”

  From Raine’s tone and expression Matt gathered it was a serious question deserving a truthful answer. “In spite of my best attempts to change her mind, Anna Lynn doesn’t believe in the institution of marriage.”

  Raine grinned and clapped her hands. “Goody. I knew it.”

  “You approve?”

  “Completely. If I have to marry, I plan to do it five times.”

  “Five times?”

  Raine nodded in strenuous agreement. “I get bored easily.”

  Matt laughed, drained his beer, and stood. “In that case, I want an invitation to each of your weddings.”

  “I promise,” Raine said, reaching for Matt’s hand. “You don’t have to release me from your custody tonight.”

  Her tempting suggestion made Matt hesitate. “I think I’d better,” he finally said.

  Raine leaned close and kissed him. “I’ll see you tomorrow. But if I forget, tell Anna Lynn that she might want to reel you in permanently, otherwise I could decide to give her some serious competition.”

  “Knowing her, I can guarantee she’d applaud your best efforts.”

  ***

  In the morning, Raine Hartman assisted Dr. Beckmann, and when the glass eye was installed, the three of them took a good look at it.

  “The lab did a nice job,” Susan Beckmann said approvingly. “It’s a perfect fit.”

  “You’re now more handsome than ever,” Raine added, flashing him a brilliant smile.

  “I just might get used to it,” Matt allowed, looking in the mirror. The skin around his left eye, so long hidden by the patch, was pale white in contrast to his suntanned face. “Once I stop looking like a circus clown,” he added.

  “I’ll loan you some of my makeup,” Raine offered.

  “No thanks.”

  Dr. Beckmann smiled and glanced at her watch. “Raine, please check to make sure my next patient has been prepped for surgery. I don’t want to keep him waiting.”

  As Beckmann turned back to Matt, Raine gave him a big wink on her way out the door.

  “Now I’m going to teach you how to remove and insert your eye,” she said, scooting her stool closer. “We’ll practice together until you’re comfortable.”

  After ten minutes, Matt had it down. “Do you really need to keep me over another day?” he asked. The enticing and dangerous prospect of once again encountering Raine at the Officer’s Club during happy hour made him determined to go home.

  “I should, but I think you’re going to adjust nicely.” From her desktop, she handed him a typewritten paper. “Care instructions for you a
nd the eye. Follow them and you’ll do just fine. Goodbye, Matt. Have a good life.”

  “Thanks, Captain Beckmann. I appreciate all that you’ve done.”

  In the reception area, nurses and orderlies clustered around a radio. The allies had invaded Europe and troops were on the beaches of Normandy. It was June 6, 1944.

  5

  Anna Lynn Crawford’s uneasiness about returning to the 7-Bar-K proved impossible to overcome. Her best efforts to conquer it met with no success, nor did the passage of time. Knowing she’d done the right thing to protect Ginny and herself made little difference. Eventually, she stopped making excuses about her continued absence from the ranch, and simply ignored the subject when it was broached by Matt. He, in turn, soon gave up trying to change her mind, rarely visited, and no longer stayed overnight. She knew full well she was the architect of the growing breach, but did nothing to repair it.

  Since killing Fred Tyler, she’d retreated from the notion of establishing a more permanent relationship with Matt. She’d always believed no man was completely trustworthy. It had been one of the linchpins in her desire to remain independent and free. Although it took a month for her to realize it, that one irreversible moment of putting a bullet in Tyler’s head had wiped away all ideas of having an enduring connection with any man, Matt included. She’d killed another person because of him, and that would always cloud their relationship. She doubted that she would ever be able to be completely comfortable with him again.

  Unwilling to hurt him, she’d begun to think how much better it would be if he found someone else. And due to his almost complete disappearing act, Anna Lynn thought it quite possible another woman had already turned his head. She’d considered flat-out asking him about it, but had put it off. Given enough time, she would know.

  Patrick, on the other hand, visited often, frequently staying overnight, bunking on the couch. The grandfatherly pull of his relationship with Ginny was irresistible and he was perfectly comfortable with Anna Lynn’s strong reluctance to revisit the “scene of the crime” at the ranch as he crudely but jokingly called it. In an attempt to make her feel better, he told her the story of getting attacked in the barn by a hired hand named Vernon Clagett and busting his head open with a hammer. Intended as an object lesson to help her overcome any lingering doubts about killing Fred Tyler, it only stiffened her resolve to completely shun the ranch.

  After the astonishment of what happened had worn off, Patrick’s cavalier outlook and Matt’s equally blasé mind-set about the killing bewildered her. It didn’t make any sense until she realized that war had made both men either immune or tone deaf to human violence and brutality. She wondered if they were even aware of how combat had affected them. If so, they certainly never talked about it.

  To entertain Ginny, Patrick had trucked her pony, Peaches, to the farm, along with his gelding, Ribbon, to ride. They went out often, much to Ginny’s delight. When Patrick wasn’t at the farm, Ginny stayed happily occupied after her homeschooling, caring for Peaches and Ribbon. Occasionally, in the cool of the evening, Anna Lynn and Ginny would ride down the narrow canyon after supper. It was just about the most perfect time imaginable for the two of them.

  For the time being, having Patrick in Ginny’s life and Matt absent from her own served Anna Lynn well. Aside from the anguish, bad dreams, and the constant recurring memory of what she’d done, killing Fred Tyler had taken an unexpected physical toll on her. She’d lost her appetite, suffered from persistent bloating and cramps, had become disinterested in sex, and for the first time ever her menstrual cycle had gone completely off kilter. She considered it nothing more than a temporary aftershock. Time might never completely erase the mental distress of killing another human being, no matter how justified, but she was certain her body would rebound. It always had in the past.

  ***

  The 7-Bar-K stayed afloat because of wartime government beef purchases, Matt’s military disability pension, and Patrick’s pension from the Spanish-American War. The loss of any one source of income would put Matt in the hole if he continued to keep breeding and training cow ponies and cutting horses, which was the part of ranching he loved best.

  For the moment, cattle were the moneymakers, and the ponies were eating into the profits. Ranch ponies had mostly been replaced by trucks, the war had forced the rodeo operators to either fold up shop or scale way back, and the small outfits that still relied on horseflesh weren’t interested in high-priced ponies. Maybe after the war the demand for cow ponies and cutting horses would improve, but for now it was time to reduce the herd and concentrate on beef production.

  In the silence of the living room at dusk, Matt sat at his desk by lamplight, made a note to hire a trucker to take most of his ponies to market in Fort Worth, and wrote a letter to a livestock broker there authorizing him to handle the sale and setting a fair minimum price for each animal. He put it on a small pile of letters to be mailed in the morning, leaned back in his chair, and listened to the breeze whispering through the cottonwoods off the veranda.

  Six weeks had passed since Miguel Chávez drew his pay and returned to his family in Tularosa, and the day before Patrick had left on one of his frequent visits to Mountain Park. Matt usually enjoyed his solitude but in the growing darkness he felt lonely and restless. The ranch had been a happy place before Fred Tyler arrived to get himself killed. These days, not so much.

  He shrugged off a wistful thought floating through his mind about Anna Lynn. Maddeningly, she’d turned stone-silent on him, and he wasn’t about to try to cajole her out of it. To clear his thoughts of her, he paged through the plans for the ranch he’d prepared before he’d enlisted in the army. In retrospect, the list was laughable, a testimonial to unbridled optimism and wishful thinking. He’d hoped electricity would come to the ranch, maybe even telephone service, but as far as he could tell both were still years away. He’d wanted to build some new ranch roads to get around the spread more easily, but it hadn’t gotten done. A garage, automotive tools, and a gasoline storage tank were also on the list, as was a new hay barn. Again, nada. Even more outrageous had been his wild-hair notion to get indoor plumbing and an honest-to-God bathroom installed in the house.

  Matt pushed the list aside. In the middle of a modern world he was still living in the nineteenth century. It felt ass backward and ridiculous. He decided the hell with it; he’d spend the money on plumbing and a bathroom when the ponies sold. Patrick might pooh-pooh such an extravagance, but to Matt it would be worth it.

  Patrick had slowed down some since surviving his ruptured appendix. Matt figured he’d probably never pull his full weight again. But that was okay; nearing seventy, the man had given a lifetime of bone-crunching, backbreaking work to the ranch and had earned the right to ease off if he so desired. If it played out that way, as Matt expected it would, best to let it be an unspoken arrangement. Patrick’s pride would never allow him to admit to giving less than a hundred percent to the homestead.

  In a desk drawer where Matt kept the ranch ledger was a pile of unopened mail Patrick had fetched and failed to mention. In among the bills, stud bull auction notices, and correspondence from the Stockman’s Association was a letter addressed to Matt in flowery penmanship postmarked from El Paso, Texas. It read:

  Dear Matt,

  Remember me? I was your nurse at William Beaumont. I’ll be starting leave soon with another nurse (we’re both from San Diego) and we’ve decided to visit nearby places like the White Sands National Monument, Inscription Rock, and some of the mountain villages. We’d love to get some ideas from you of the best places to explore. We’ll be starting our adventure at the Park Hotel in Las Cruces next Saturday. If you’re in town, we’ll buy you a drink and dinner for your trouble. I hope to see you again soon!

  Yours Truly,

  Raine Hartman

  Matt crumpled the letter and discarded it in the wastebasket. The next day was Saturday and he had no busine
ss leaving the ranch and his livestock unattended to drive to Las Cruces to play tour guide for two army nurses on leave. It would be plain foolishness. Still, the invitation intrigued him and Nurse Hartman was a looker.

  He retrieved Raine’s letter, smoothed it out, and read it again. On the other hand, why not go? In spite of his best efforts to become one, he wasn’t a married man, and Anna Lynn seemed even more disinterested in the subject of matrimony than ever before. She’d never once pledged faithfulness to him, so the only thing holding him in check was his own notion of loyalty to her.

  What could be more fun than squiring two pretty nurses to a nice dinner in town while they picked up the tab? Hell yes, he’d do it. He just might act like a true gentleman and for the pleasure of their company pay for dinner himself. If he got off his duff and did the next day’s chores that night, he could leave in the morning with the livestock in good shape, the barn and corral mucked clean, and new salt licks put out. He’d have a night on the town with the gals and be back home by Sunday afternoon.

  Matt pushed back from the desk and headed for the barn with a smile on his face, all listlessness and loneliness washed away.

  ***

  Las Cruces was no longer the sleepy town of Matt’s childhood. An agricultural boom fostered by the war economy had turned the town into a center for crop storage and distribution. There were factories to grade and sort onions, compress and bale cotton, tag and bag seed stock, sort and bag pecans, and package chili. Along the railroad tracks, new warehouses stored commodities awaiting shipment, and a big livestock shipping pen had recently been thrown up.

  Spreading out east and west, downtown Main Street bustled with commerce. Outside the J.C. Penney store, a war-bond booth festooned with stars and bracketed by American flags was staffed by ladies handing out flyers to passing pedestrians. With no new cars being built, used car lots had proliferated on street corners at the edges of town near mom-and-pop motels, garages, and gas stations. Most citizens were either on foot or in vehicles, but an occasional horse-drawn wagon clip-clopped down paved Main Street while two saddle horses languidly waited, hitched to a light pole outside a popular dry-goods store.