The Scent of Rain and Lightning

by Nancy Pickard

  Her stomach clenched as she thought of Valentine alone with her boy while the sheriff’s deputies searched through their home. She wished there had been a way to warn Val to take the boy to a friend’s house before the sheriff arrived.

  Poor little guy, she thought, looking down to hide tears in her eyes.

  Collin Crosby’s childhood was just the kind that produced the sort of boy that she and Hugh Senior tried to help. Boys like his father and Red Bosch. She hoped that one day they wouldn’t feel a need to put Collin Crosby to work to keep him out of trouble, or that if they did, they’d have more success with him than they’d had with his father.

  Annabelle felt a painful sense of failure with Billy Crosby.

  One by one her sons sidled up to her as she stood there.

  “Mom,” Hugh-Jay said so quietly that nobody else could hear him. “Dad’s wrong about Billy. He did it and I’ve got the proof. I’ve tried to tell Dad but he won’t listen to me. Can you talk to him?”

  “What kind of proof?”

  He told her about the truck mileage.

  Annabelle grabbed one of his hands and squeezed it.

  “Let your father handle this,” she said.

  Hugh-Jay frowned, as if to say there were things that weren’t making sense to him, but he didn’t ask about them, and Annabelle didn’t volunteer to explain anything more.

  Next it was Chase who came over and stood in front of her, blocking their conversation from anyone’s view.

  “I don’t know why Dad thinks Billy didn’t do it.”

  Again she said, “Let him handle this, sweetheart.”

  “But—”

  “Trust me, Chase.”

  He nodded, looking doubtful but willing to believe she knew best. “Okay, Mom.”

  And finally Bobby came over. “I don’t care if he didn’t do it. I can’t stand to even be in the same pasture with the son of a bitch.”

  “Is that how your friends talked at K-State?”

  He made the same kind of exasperated face at her that she had made several times that day at him, but he walked away without further argument.

  Annabelle hoped that whatever was going to happen would happen soon.

  Her sons were now bunched together at a distance from the other men, and all three of them looked as if they were just about ready to explode at somebody, and Annabelle knew who that somebody would be with even the slightest provocation. Seeming to sense the tension in the air, Billy Crosby was keeping his own distance from everyone.

  Come on, she urged the sheriff in her thoughts.

  But still he didn’t come.

  The cowboys gathered around the truck with the refreshments, making appreciative sounds. Annabelle forced herself to walk around to each of them, inquiring about their wives and children, or parents and siblings. She was picking up the remains of the cinnamon rolls just as her husband pushed his arms into a black slicker and called out, “One more fence in this pasture, and then we can move on. Hugh-Jay, Chase, you take care of it.”

  “Yessir.” Hugh-Jay licked his fingers and dropped his empty cup into a plastic trash bag. “Come on, Chase.”

  “Wait a minute.” Chase pulled out a cigarette and then patted his jeans pockets, as if looking for something in them. “I gotta have a smoke first.” It was the first break any of them had taken since starting work.

  “Quit those nasty things,” his father said, looking disgusted.

  Chase grinned. “Gotta have some vices, Dad.”

  The other men laughed, as if they suspected Chase of more vices than he was laying claim to.

  “Here.” Hugh-Jay pulled a rectangle of silver out of his own pocket and tossed it to his middle brother.

  Chase caught it with the hand that wasn’t holding the cigarette. When he saw what it was, his face brightened and he looked over at his brother. “Hey, it’s my lighter! Where’d I drop it?”

  “On my kitchen floor.”

  Chase’s grin turned devilish. “Darn, you caught us!”

  “You went back there this morning?” Hugh-Jay asked him.

  “Yeah.”

  Their father said, “I thought I sent you to the bank this morning.”

  “You did, Dad, and I went,” Chase said, with an air of humoring both of them. He paused to light the cigarette, cupping his hands over it and the flame to keep the weather from defeating him. When he looked up, after taking a long drag, he blew out the smoke and said, “Then I stopped to bum a cup of coffee off Laurie.”

  “Hey, Chase,” one of the other men joked, “maybe you ought to get yourself your own wife to fix your coffee, instead of messin’ around with Hugh-Jay’s.”

  Chase laughed out loud at that, and the neighbors and the hired men grinned.

  Hugh-Jay, who didn’t laugh, walked off to pick up one end of a brand-new roll of barbed wire. With his cigarette in a corner of his mouth, Chase sauntered over to take up the other side of the spindle on which the wire was rolled. Together they moved toward the broken fence line, while the other men watched them.

  The brothers set the roll down on the grass next to the broken fence.

  With a gloved finger, Hugh-Jay lifted a strand of wire and pressed the clippers.

  Instantly, the high-tensile barbed wire sprang free.

  Released from its tight coil, it lunged like a vicious snake toward his brother’s legs.

  Chase let out a shout and jumped back.

  From a safe distance, he gave his brother an astounded look.

  “Jesus, Hugh-Jay, watch it! You damn near took my balls off.”

  Unapologetically, Hugh-Jay said, “Might do the women of Henderson County a favor.”

  “This family,” Chase said, with a shake of his head, “is in one hell of a bad mood today.” He took a last drag off his smoke, dropped it to the ground and ground it out with the heel of a boot. Pointing to the dangerous roll of wire, he said, “Let’s try this again. A little more carefully this time, all right?”

  Annabelle, witnessing the burst of ill-temper between her sons, felt her heart sink.

  Cut fences and murdered cows weren’t the only problems this family had, she admitted to herself. It was time, she realized, for a visit she didn’t want to make to her daughter-in-law. She hoped it wasn’t past time to fix something before it got more dangerous than Billy Crosby or barbed wire. And she hoped she wasn’t using it just as an excuse to avoid being there when the sheriff came to arrest Billy. Deep in worried thought, she started carrying things back across the muddy grass to her Caddy, with Red Bosch helpfully following her with a full trash bag in one hand and her iced tea container in the other.

  She was halfway to town before she recalled that she hadn’t even said goodbye to her husband or her sons.

  HUGH SENIOR WATCHED his wife drive off, and he wondered what took her away in such a hurry that she didn’t even say goodbye. He licked icing off his lips and then said, “All right, everybody. We sure do appreciate your help today. Now let’s saddle up and get this over with, so you can get back to your own work.”

  “You call the sheriff about this, Hugh?” a neighbor inquired.

  Hugh Senior nodded. “He’s coming.”

  “Dad,” Chase interrupted, looking toward the sky. “So is the rain.”

  That got the men, and Red, moving toward their horses again.

  “Not you, Billy,” Hugh Senior called out to his back. “You ride in the truck with me. I’ve got a special job for you.”

  Billy Crosby turned around to stare at him.

  “What job?” To the ears of the other men who heard it, there was an edge to the question. Some would later remember it as disrespectful, others said it sounded nervous, but every man who was there that day agreed that the statement that followed it was downright cocky.

  “I’m better on horseback than them other boys.”

  “Well, I’ve got a job just cut out for you.”

  Hugh Senior’s voice sounded hard.

  “I’d rather work c
attle.”

  “Oh, you will, Billy.”

  The neighbors and the other hired cowboys listened to the tense exchange while trying to appear not to. Some of them exchanged covert glances. All of them remembered yesterday and the ugly scene at the cattle pens.

  Hugh Senior pointed at his son Bobby and then at Hugh-Jay. “You two get on your horses.” Then he pointed at Chase. “You stay here, so if your mother sends the sheriff out here you can tell him where we’ve gone.”

  “Where are you going, Dad?”

  “To separate the calves from their mothers again.”

  When Hugh Senior drove into the next pasture with Billy, he pulled up beside the dead cow. “This job’s for you, Billy. Use the heavy-duty winch in back and haul her into this truck.”

  From the driver’s seat, Hugh Senior could smell his passenger.

  Billy’s sweat and breath smelled like beer, a sure sign of being an alcoholic—just like his parents, Hugh thought.

  Billy pulled his cap brim over his eyes and obeyed without objection.

  That, of itself, was suspicious, the rancher thought.

  Billy didn’t ask “Why me?” he didn’t whine for help, and he didn’t complain. He just trudged off to do as he was told, with a strange, nervous grin playing around his lips.

  To Hugh Senior all those facts indicted him.

  Maybe jail would straighten him out.

  The rancher sat in his truck long enough to watch Billy scratch his head over the already rotting carcass. It looked to Hugh Senior as if Billy wanted mightily to kick it in a fury of resentment and frustration but knew he didn’t dare while he was being watched. Hugh got out of his truck and called the boy Red Bosch over to help with the dragging and lifting. Cheerful as always, the teenager took his place behind the wheel of the truck and maneuvered it backward to winch up the dead cow. When he saw they might be able to manage it by themselves, Hugh Senior walked off to supervise the other work.

  A little later he waved his eldest son over and told him, “We’ve got enough hands for this. You get going to Colorado.”

  “Billy rode out here with me,” Hugh-Jay reminded him.

  “You won’t need to give him a ride back today.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he already has a ride.” Hugh Senior pointed to the road where the sheriff’s sedan was coming up, followed by two deputies’ cars, all of them raising long trails of dust.

  AFTER IT WAS DONE, and Billy was carted off and all the cattle were settled in their proper pastures, and everybody else had departed for home, Hugh Senior stood alone in the pasture and looked west and up toward the storm clouds. They were bringing dramatically cooler temperatures, which meant that when the cold front hit the very hot temperatures ahead of it, violent weather was likely.

  There could be torrential rain, hail, high wind, tornadoes.

  They’d finished up their work just in time to escape being out in that.

  “Get a move on,” Hugh Senior ordered himself, with another glance at the storm that looked like a dark gray wall moving toward him. He saw telltale vertical streaks of rain in the distance, heard rumbles of thunder, saw flashes of lightning still a few miles away. The rain they’d had earlier was only a preamble. Now the real thing was coming, and it looked as if it meant business.

  He worried for the sake of local farmers whose crop fields were so hardened by drought that rain of the sort that was coming would make things worse, not better. What they needed were days of light, steady rain that gave the rock-hard ground a chance to soften and absorb it.

  That’s what Billy is: rock-hard ground.

  What they were going to get instead was runoff, erosion, and flooding.

  If he hurried, he could get Hugh-Jay’s lame horse to town before the veterinarian closed up for the day and before the rain hit Rose, though he might have to drive back through the storm to the ranch. Their vet made house calls, and night calls, and came on holidays and any other time they needed him, but the Linders didn’t like to ask him to make the long trip out to the ranch for just one animal, not if they could take the animal into the veterinary clinic on the outskirts of Rose.

  The ranch seemed still and silent, as if it were waiting for the relief of rain.

  Hugh Senior felt almost nothing but relief himself.

  The culprit was in custody. Billy had gone in handcuffs, protesting, “I ain’t done nothin’!” But he had gone, nevertheless, without getting himself into more trouble by resisting arrest. The other men had watched wide-eyed, but without any real surprise. They accepted as reasonable Hugh’s explanation of keeping it a secret so Billy wouldn’t know it was coming. The sheriff had confided to Hugh Senior that they hadn’t found any evidence at Billy’s house, “But that doesn’t mean there isn’t any. Don’t you worry, Hugh. We’ll get the little bastard to tell us what he’s done.”

  That promise gave Hugh the feeling his world was turning right-side-up again.

  The worst was over now.

  There had been a satisfying irony in watching Billy Crosby mend the fence lines he’d gone to so much trouble to cut, and even more satisfaction in making him pick up the cow he’d killed. Revenge was a vicious cycle, Hugh Senior mused as he stood in the field with the rain falling a little harder by the minute. The cycle never stopped turning unless somebody made the decision to stop. But then he assured himself that his own words and actions weren’t about revenge. He was taking sensible, businesslike precautions by moving quickly to excise a cancer from his ranch.

  He got into his truck and headed for the barn to pick up the lame horse. Doing anything less would have made him a hypocrite in his own eyes. He couldn’t condemn Billy Crosby for mistreating animals if he didn’t care enough about a horse he owned to relieve its pain.

  My oldest boy is a better man than I am, he thought, not for the first time.

  He felt his heart swell with love for the boy, even if that was a sentiment he might never speak aloud.

  “Going on five o’clock,” he said to himself.

  If he was going to get that horse in to the vet, he’d better get going.

  It had been a bad day, but it was already better, or it was if you weren’t trying to grow corn.

  ON HER DRIVE into Rose to try to salvage her son’s marriage, Annabelle realized she might need to slide in sideways rather than launch a frontal attack. She needed to dangle a lure in front of her daughter-in-law in the same way she offered apples to her horse to get him to come to her from far out in a pasture. As she drove through the flat landscape, for some reason it made her think of mountains, which gave her an idea, an expensive one that she thought might work with Laurie—especially with luxury-loving Laurie.

  Feeling hopeful of her bright idea, she stopped first at Belle’s museum in the former bank to use the phone to call ahead. As she stood in front of the nineteenth-century limestone building and glanced up at the corner gargoyles, she realized she might use this opportunity to mend fences with her grumpy daughter while the men mended fences at the ranch. The gargoyles looked no more welcoming than Belle was likely to be, but she loved them, just as she loved her most difficult child—just as she loved all of her currently difficult children.

  She raised an eyebrow at a stone gargoyle that glared back.

  “Oh, come on,” she said to it, “look on the bright side.”

  Since the ugly old thing presided over a failed bank, that seemed unlikely.

  She pushed open the elegant front door, with its huge brass knob and murky leaded glass panes.

  A brass bell rang over her head, announcing her arrival.

  “Who’s that?” her daughter’s voice called from the back.

  “Your mother! Are you in the vault?”

  “Yes,” came the unwelcoming response.

  She walked past the line of filigreed teller cages that lined one wall, wonderful remnants of bank transactions of old, now waiting for Belle to figure out how to use them in her museum. She inhaled, imagining
she could smell old money, hear the bustle of commerce, the voices, the clink of coins, the slap of cash on marble.

  On her way toward the cavernous bank vault that Belle used as her office, she glanced at black-and-white photos of sod houses, cattle drives, oil wells, stone fence posts, the pictures all lying on tables until Belle could frame and hang them. Despite her own and Hugh’s skepticism about the enterprise, she found herself drawn to the photos. When she stopped to look more closely at one, she found herself wanting to look at the next one, leading her to wonder if maybe, just maybe, other people would find them fascinating, too. She looked up at the molded tin ceiling. It really was a wonderful old building.

  Tell her so, Annabelle reminded herself.

  She hoped she wouldn’t have to ooh and ahh over a long-dead, flea-bitten buffalo, but she was willing to do it, willing to murmur, “Oh, what a handsome buffalo,” if there was any chance it would please her daughter.

  Maybe she and Hugh were too critical; maybe more praise and interest would oil the squeaky hinges of their relationship with their only daughter. If that didn’t work, Annabelle knew what would, though she was a little ashamed of herself every time she did it. There was one subject on which she and Belle completely agreed and that was about the young woman who was daughter-in-law to one of them and sister-in-law to the other. Laurie—bless her heart, she thought wryly—had a bonding affect on her female in-laws.

  She walked into the vault and the sound of typing.

  Belle sat at an ancient rolltop desk that she’d scooped up from a farm sale, clattering away on an old typewriter. She wrote articles about local history, geology, and archaeology and shot them off to dozens of different magazines hoping to be published. Now and then she got an acceptance and earned a little money.

  “Can you stop for a minute, honey?”

  Belle typed a bit more and then halted, making a show out of slowing and then stopping one reluctant key at a time.

  She turned in her old leather and wood swivel chair.

  “I’m pretty busy, Mom.”

  “You look good sitting there, Belle. You look like a real writer.”

  “I am a real writer.”