by Jonis Agee
“You are alone, and there are forces arrayed against you.” He clasped his hands around the saddle horn and let his horse drop her head to graze, a freedom Dulcinea never allowed the stallion. He chomped the bit impatiently and shifted his weight from foot to foot. Dulcinea squeezed her calves, picked up the reins, and resettled him.
“And isn’t this a pleasant day,” she said with a toss of her head.
“If you will allow me to—”
“I wonder what Vera has planned for supper?” She turned and smiled brightly at him. He looked at his hands, sighed, and shook his head. Rose drew up a few yards behind them and watched.
“Okay.” He lifted his rein hand and dropped it back on the saddle horn with a dramatic sigh. “I’ve been retained to look at the oil and gas resources out here. On your land there’s a possibility.” He gazed at her, his eyes reluctant.
Holding up her hand, she said, “Surface rights only? Mineral rights too?” She looked at the crest of the stud’s neck and repositioned a handful of white mane that had flopped to the other side. “Or do they want the entire ranch?”
He shook his head again, and she touched her heels to the stud, eased down the slope of the small hill and up another. The lawyer was on her heels, choosing to be quiet for a change, a blessing, since she needed time to understand this new problem. She had no doubt he had found evidence that supported the purchase of her land. For a fleeting moment, she considered inviting her father for a visit to help, but truth be told, she wasn’t certain she could trust him not to cheat her when it came to making a fortune, especially now that he needed money after the stock market’s ups and downs. It would be worth it to see Drum and her father go head to head like bull elks. Very western. Very Shakespearean. Chance was an opportunist with a minor role, she decided. She’d have to meet the people behind him on top of her other problems.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
When they came around the turtlebacked hill, the horses cantered eagerly to slake their thirst. Her two boys romped naked in the water tank, their horses grazing nearby, clothes in a heap beside saddles flung carelessly to the ground. Only their pistols and rifles were placed carefully within reach.
Their well-muscled bodies gleamed in the sunlight, Cullen the slighter of the two, wiry, while Hayward was taller, rangier, despite being younger. While they watched, Cullen jumped on Hayward’s back and pushed his head under water with all his weight on his brother’s shoulders. Hayward flailed while Cullen laughed but did not ease. Any moment he’ll let him up, she thought, and her chest squeezed so tight she could barely raise her arm to shout and wave while she spurred her horse toward the tank.
When he saw them, Cullen frowned and flung himself into the water, letting his legs float up as he laid back so only his head and toes were visible. Hayward jumped up, sputtering and thrashing, staggered to the rim of the tank and threw up over the side, then laid his cheek against the top of the tank with his eyes closed, breathing raggedly while Dulcinea drew her horse to a stop facing the two boys.
“What was that, Cullen?” she yelled.
He glared at her and picked up a handful of the thick spongy black-green algae they’d set loose from the sides of the tank and threw it at his brother’s head.
Hayward shook it off and opened his eyes, blushed when he remembered he was naked. “We was just horsing around, Ma,” he said.
The stallion pawed the ground and snorted at the boys in the water he badly wanted. “We have to water the horses, son. Can you step out?”
She ignored Cullen, who lay back and exhaled all the air in his lungs so he could sink to the bottom of the tank. The tips of his pink toes were the last she saw of him. Was he holding his breath? Three bubbles burst on the dark surface amid the islands of algae gathered there.
“I hope you boys checked that tank before you climbed in.” She sounded prim, motherly, and hoped Cullen could hear her underwater. “I wouldn’t want you getting sick from swimming with dead animals.”
Cullen burst to the surface, spit a stream of water that hit his brother in the face, and flung a handful of bottom muck writhing with pale pink worms. Hayward howled and lunged for him and the two thrashed until they tired of the game and leaned back in the water again.
“Boys, we need to water our horses.” Chance had moved his mare closer and she fidgeted with thirst.
Cullen stood and water streamed from his bare bronzed shoulders and head, as if he were Poseidon, angered enough to send their ship onto the rocks. The illusion was brief but lasting. In his streaming locks and enraged eyes she glimpsed an ancient, unforgiving god: the betrayed child.
“Would you mind closing your eyes?” Hayward asked. From the noise that ensued, she gathered they climbed out and drew on their clothing, so it was a shock when she opened her eyes and found Cullen sitting naked on a blanket, rolling a cigarette while Hayward finished buttoning his blue shirt.
She couldn’t tell if it was disappointment in Cullen’s eyes when she ignored him and urged the stud forward to drink. He focused his attention on striking the match off his saddle horn and touched the flame to his cigarette. Drawing deeply, he held the smoke in his lungs and eyed the glowing tip, then let it out gradually with a long exhaling breath. He could hold his breath longer than anyone she’d ever known. When did he learn to do that?
A dark shadow came over them as the clouds along the western horizon that earlier only threatened flooded the sky overhead, moving swift as water overflowing a dam. Dulcinea searched for Rose, but she must’ve already headed back.
“Storm coming!” she shouted. A gust of wind bearing the moist breath of rain pushed the grazing horses away from the boys, and they grabbed for the trailing reins. While Cullen quickly dressed, Hayward held the horses with one hand and tried to saddle his animal with the other, but they edged in a circle. Then lightning flashed down on the hill behind them, leaving the air tinged with sulfur, and the distant rumblings of thunder walking the hills suddenly cracked like cannon fire.
Cullen grabbed his horse, quickly saddled it, and then helped Hayward with the skittish gelding. The boys were careful to wrap their guns in the waterproof sheets of their bedrolls. Dulcinea wondered why they needed all those guns. Were they frightened of whoever killed their father? Then a horrible thought struck her: What if they were involved somehow? She could almost imagine Cullen . . .
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sudden cloudburst, a downpour so heavy they had to ride side by side to not lose sight of each other. None of the horses were savvy enough to find their way back to the ranch house, and they had to rely on their own senses. By the time they reached the stable, horses and humans alike were shaking with cold.
Some Horses appeared at Dulcinea’s side, quietly took her reins, and motioned toward the door with his chin. “Did Rose come back with you?” he asked.
“I, I don’t know—” She turned to go back out as Rose rode into the barn, ducking low through the doorway, water streaming off horse and rider. “I thought you were ahead of us,” Dulcinea said.
Rose shrugged and wouldn’t look at her as she unsaddled and rubbed down the horse, steaming in the close air of the barn. Some Horses threw hay into the stalls as the boys looked after their own horses. In the semidarkness of the stable Dulcinea became aware of Chance standing beside his shivering animal, waiting.
He caught her eye. “If your man is finished there . . .” He held out the reins as Graver led in his own soaked horse, followed by a stranger.
“A man takes care of his own animal in this part of the country,” Graver said with a hint of amusement in his voice. He unfastened the cinch of his saddle, lifted it off the horse’s back, and hung it over the rail with the others. Every motion was fluid and precise, nothing extra, and Dulcinea had to admit, it defined him in a not-unpleasant fashion. The wet shirt outlined his lean muscular torso and made her turn away. For ten years she’d been alone, a voice in her head intoned, wasn’t that long enough?
The lawyer
unsaddled the mare while the stranger took his horse to an empty stall.
“When in Rome, Mr. Chance, when in Rome.” The stranger had a loud, clear voice just this side of booming.
“Judge Foote?” Chance turned and stared.
“In the flesh,” he said and flung the saddle over the rail as if it were a handkerchief rather than fifty pounds of soaked leather. He was a tall, broad man who had to duck his head slightly in the stall area with its low ceiling. Everything about the judge was large, even his full face and the thick gray-streaked blond hair he always forgot to cut so it hung well below his chin and he had to constantly tuck it behind his ears. His wide hazel eyes made a person feel scrutinized, catalogued, and shelved. She’d heard he was a man with an extraordinary education and an even better sense of recall for both spoken and written language. He was reputed to be careful and thorough with no tolerance for ignorance. His big solid jaw looked like it could break a fist, and his large mouth and formidable nose made for an arresting face. It was said that he still broke his own horses, and little wonder. She watched his big, capable hands wipe down his animal, straightening the mane and pulling burrs from the tail, all while patting and rubbing and talking in a low, reassuring voice until the animal sighed and commenced eating. Then he checked the water bucket, saw it was full, and left the stall.
“You run a tight ship, ma’am,” he said. His eyes were bright as a bird’s and when he smiled he had big horse teeth, stained like a horse’s, too. “Judge Clayton Foote. And you would be the redoubtable Mrs. J. B. Bennett.” He bowed slightly and when she offered her hand, he pressed it to his lips in a courtly fashion. “If I could trouble you for a place to dry off? I was riding out to see you when the storm broke. Fortunately, I ran into Mr. Graver here and he brought me in. Couldn’t see a damn . . . sorry . . . darn thing.”
“I’d be most happy if you’d stay the night, sir.” She turned to the lawyer. “You’re welcome to stay, too.”
She looked at Graver, who was searching for a burlap bag to dry his horse. “Perhaps Mr. Graver will join us for supper?” She didn’t know what possessed her, but it was worth it to note the irritation on Chance’s face.
“I’m not dressed for company, ma’am,” Graver said.
As they walked to the house under the clearing sky, Graver touched her shoulder and she paused to let the men pass.
“I mean I don’t have any business with those men,” he said with a pained expression on his face. Western men and their peculiarities.
“I would appreciate you being there tonight, Mr. Graver. These men want something I’m not prepared to give.”
His face darkened. “Well, I . . .”
“No, I mean they have plans for the ranch apparently. I need you to stand with me. You’re the only one I trust.” She hadn’t realized she felt this way until she uttered the words, and now she felt them deep in her chest, gathering with an odd force under her ribs. “Something might slip out about my husband’s killing, too. I need another set of eyes and ears.”
“Ma’am, I think they’ve come courting.” Graver pushed his hat back on his head with a forefinger and smiled.
She waved the idea aside. “That kind of nonsense won’t get them what they want. No, they’re after much more than a middle-aged widow with two unruly half-grown boys.” She hadn’t heard those two since they returned. Had they already snuck off to the bunkhouse? She must work harder to tame them. In the meantime, she had to convince Graver.
“I’ll go change into dry clothes.”
Turning to leave, she heard him mutter, “Sooner haul a wagonload of skunks.”
Dinner progressed about as expected: The hands had already eaten, and her sons acted brutish and sullen the entire meal because they’d had to wait. Frank Higgs didn’t help when he insisted on questioning their whereabouts this afternoon when someone took a shot at him and put a hole in his favorite hat. The boys looked guilty, heads down as they sawed at their meat, pretending to have manners for a change. Dulcinea said they were at the stock tank and that turned the discussion for the time being.
When the meal was over, and seven bottles of wine later, the men were in fine spirits. Vera and Dulcinea had a glass apiece, the boys half a glass and they made much of how terrible it tasted, like children given a privilege they hadn’t earned. The men retired to J.B.’s study to smoke and drink his brandy, and Rose and Dulcinea cleared the dishes, since Vera disappeared as soon as the men stood.
“Having suitors is a lot of work,” Rose said in a deadpan voice.
“Suitors?” She stopped, accidently tilting the platter of congealed steak grease, blood, and bones that she was about to throw out to the dogs whining outside the door.
Rose looked over her shoulder and smiled.
“I think they’re here on business.”
“Yeah, the business of a handsome woman with enough land to make a man feel good about himself.” Rose took the platter from her hands and carried it to the door. She opened it and kneed the dogs away.
“That lawyer is the one to watch,” Rose whispered and slid back inside. They stood there for a moment, listening to the Sand Hills night, the call of a barn owl into the darkness, looking for a mate perhaps, or simply announcing itself to the world, the breeze rattling the cottonwood leaves, the occasional whoop from the perennial card game at the bunkhouse, and the low laughter of the men in J.B.’s study as they imagined how to divide what was not theirs. It would not surprise Dulcinea to hear buying and selling in a minute, as if she were a blooded mare. It occurred to her that only Graver seemed to want nothing from her.
“Have you seen Chance doing something suspicious? What about Graver?” Dulcinea kept her voice low.
Rose shrugged.
“I think Graver’s all right, don’t you? The lawyer though, what was that business in town about the girl Chance took home?” Dulcinea asked.
Rose paused, her hands deep in the soapy dish water, and she seemed to think over her answer before saying, “She ended up another place.”
Dulcinea stared at her. “What do you mean?”
Rose turned to face her. “He took the girl to his room.”
Dulcinea’s mind flooded with unwanted images, and she shook her head to rid it of them.
When the dishes were done, the two women sat at the table with cups of tea.
“Have to butcher another cow, these men stay much longer. We’ve run through the spare chickens. They sure eat.” Rose raised the cup to her lips, blew at the surface, and sipped.
Dulcinea shook her head. “They’ll drink the cellar dry at this rate. I don’t know what’s gotten into them. Drum’s not objecting either. That makes me nervous.”
“We’ll need more help they stay on. You decided where they’re all sleeping?”
“They’ll have to double up, and that might convince them to go home. Drum too.” They laughed and were so relaxed in the moment that the sudden bang on the door caused them to jump and spill their tea.
Dulcinea stood and yanked open the door, thinking it was one of the hands with some injury from horseplay. Instead, it was Larson Dye, owner of the Box LR, hat in hand, hair oiled back, and freshly shaved since there was a white line halfway up his face like a high-water mark on a post. The rest of his skin was burned dark red, his fox-brown eyes permanently bloodshot; he looked like he had weathered a sandstorm. He was dressed in a brown suit and a yellowed white shirt. He rubbed the toe of each boot against the back of his legs, as if they wouldn’t notice. His hands were the same beaten red-brown as his face, and he was missing the little finger on his left hand, and the tip of the ring finger on his right.
“Larson Dye, ma’am,” he introduced himself, although Dulcinea used to know him and his wife, who died in the diphtheria epidemic years before.
“Yes, I remember, Mr. Dye. Please come in.”
He nodded at Rose, and she ducked her head shyly.
“We were just discussing whether we could purchase some chickens from you tom
orrow. If you have any to spare?” Dulcinea said.
Larson Dye appeared surprised, his head startling to the side as if she had slapped him. He struggled to form the words, and she remembered he had a slight stutter when nervous. He must have practiced his greeting on the way over.
“See, that’s just it!” he managed to say. “I brought you a whole crate! I, I didn’t figure, since J.B, and you come back, and all.”
“Why thank you.” Dulcinea offered her hand, which he stared at as if he had no idea what to do with it. Then he daintily held the tips of her fingers, moved them up and down two inches, and let go.
The men in J.B.’s study burst out laughing, and Larson Dye’s head swiveled in their direction, confusion on his face.
“I’m sure you know the other men. Care to join them?” She gestured for him to give her his hat and he handed it over reluctantly, nodded once to Rose and once to her, and ambled through the parlor to the men.
“At least that one brought something. Crate of chickens won’t last long, though.” Rose was interrupted by the sudden wild squawking of the chickens and the cracking of wood.
“The dogs!” The crate, chickens, and dogs were rammed against the door, and by the time they opened it, the crate was reduced to splinters, chickens running blindly into the dark, and the black-and-white dog stood with a dead bird hanging half out of his mouth. Since they were better trained, the other dogs simply whined and barked at him.
They closed the door and leaned against it, shoulders shaking with laughter they didn’t want the dog to hear.
“Guess there’ll be a hunting party tomorrow. Fresh deer or antelope. Turkey if they can get close, or grouse.” Rose stretched and yawned. “I should leave you to your suitors.” The merry expression returned to her eyes and a smile tugged at her lips.