by Ron Schwab
Uncle El, with white, short-cropped hair and sun and wind burned skin, looked a bit older than his age, but barrel-chested and thick-shouldered, he was still a fit and vital man. The crow’s feet at his eyes dug deeper when he smiled, which was often. He and Aunt Nancy were a team in harness. They stood firm together when they were raising Hannah and Thad, he remembered—no sense trying to play them off of each other. They were best friends first, lovers second, Uncle El once told him. “That’s the recipe for a good marriage and a good life, Thad.” He hoped to have that someday, but it didn’t look like it was coming anytime soon.
“You’re up to something, Thad,” Aunt Nancy said, “Why don’t you just tell us?”
Thad told them about the Rickers land, leaving out the part about Kirsten’s involvement in the deal. He doubted if Uncle El would have approved of the little side agreement, and he likely would have shot some holes in it. Thad didn’t feel right about the subterfuge, but he owed confidentiality to Kirsten. He admitted to himself this could be part excuse.
From the way he was looking at Thad it was evident that Uncle El thought he wasn’t getting the whole story, but he wasn’t the snooping kind. He certainly must have wondered where his nephew had come up with the cash for half of the purchase price.
“It’s a big chunk of land to take on,” Uncle El said, “but you’ve got nice equity to start with. The price is probably top of market, but by the time you’re my age the value will triple or more. And when it comes to land, they don’t make any more of it and it’s always there . . . not going to run away from you.” He looked at Aunt Nancy, and there was some silent communication between them.
She nodded and said, “It would be fine with me, El.”
El said, “We’d loan you a thousand, if you’d let us.”
“I couldn’t—“
“Nan and I had talked about this a week ago. Times have been good and we’ve set aside some money. I’m done buying land, and we agreed that if you came up with a use for it at the right place we’d offer a loan. I think this is the right place. We’d charge you one percent interest and take a second mortgage on the land . . . after the bank’s lien.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Yes and thank you,” Nancy teased. She was sitting beside Thad and reached over and gave him a hug.
“Yes and thank you. I’ll only need a third from the bank. I don’t see how they’d turn me down for a loan on the balance.”
17
THAD STAYED FOR lunch with his aunt and uncle and then rode in to town to talk with a loan officer at the bank. When he got to the bank and entered the small lobby, he was pleased to see that both of the loan officers were available. He preferred to deal with Corbett Avery, one of the Manhattan Bank’s junior vice-presidents. Avery had been with the institution only a little over a year but had always been congenial to work with. Nigel Baker, the other junior vice-president, a slight man with slicked-back black hair and a thin mustache, had a slightly longer tenure with the bank, but Thad had always found him a bit standoffish, if not unfriendly, although he had never tried to do serious business with the man. Baker nodded at him, though, as Thad walked past him toward Avery’s desk, and he returned the nod.
Avery got up to greet Thad as he stood in front of his desk. He had a round, cherubic face with a ruddy complexion and was a man of average height who packed extra pounds about his mid-section, but he was not obese. He was a man who could quickly put a stranger at ease and he reached out his hand and gave Thad’s a firm grip. “Good afternoon, Thaddeus,” he said, “sit down. You look a bit grim. I hope I can help with that.”
Thad supposed he did look a little grim. He had procured a number of loans, several from Corbett Avery, who was only a few years older than himself, but borrowing money was never a casual occasion from his standpoint. He knew loaning money was the bank’s business and that the directors were always looking for good loans, but he still hated asking for money and had not yet become comfortable with debt. He doubted he ever would. “I’d like to speak with you about a real estate loan,” he said.
Once again, Thad selectively told his story. Kirsten’s money was some he’d saved up. He didn’t have to lie about the money he was getting from Uncle El and Aunt Nancy, but he felt like something of a criminal. Of course, as long as the bank held a first mortgage to secure its loan, the source of the remaining funds was none of the lender’s concern.
“You could have paid off your other real estate loan with the money you’d set aside,” the banker observed. “Would have saved some interest.”
“Yes, I suppose I could have.”
“You know, Clem Rickers banks here, too.”
“Uh, no.”
“Yes. He spoke with Nigel the other day . . . said he was working on a deal with Kirsten Cavelle or Brannon or whatever her name is.”
Shit. “Yeah, well, she’s had something come up.” He realized that must have sounded mighty stupid.
“Yes, I hear your brother, Cameron, is representing her.”
“I can’t say.” Thad could feel the perspiration gathering on his forehead.
Corbett Avery smiled broadly, “I understand. Well, I have to get board approval, but I don’t see any problem with the loan. Come back in when you’ve got a signed contract with Rickers.”
They shook hands, and when Thad started to leave he realized Nigel Baker was staring at him. When their eyes met, he quickly turned away.
18
THE NEMESIS ENTERED the three-room clapboard house he rented from the next door neighbor, a craftsman who had built the structure himself. Dusk was dying and easing into nightfall, but he did not light the oil lamp. Instead he tossed his coat on the flowered settee and sat down in the oak rocker that had been his father’s and began to rock rhythmically, first very slowly and then faster and faster.
His mother immediately sent him running to the sheriff of their sparsely populated, rural Missouri county. They resided less than a mile from the county seat, and the boy returned soon with the sheriff and a deputy. By this time she had covered her obscene nakedness, but without hesitation she bared her neck and back and even the cleavage or her ample breasts to display the evidence of her punishment. The sheriff was a kindly old man, who was beguiled by the young, bitch woman, and he quietly set aside further investigation and declared that Father was killed in self-defense. Father was buried on a barren knoll in the town cemetery with only the boy, his mother, the undertaker, and a babbling preacher at the graveside.
His mother settled quickly into a life without Father, but life was hell for the boy. He did not suffer for want of food or the necessities of life, but he missed Father terribly. And the pain heightened when he came to understand how his mother was providing for their livelihood.
He despised his mother, and he nearly vomited when her gentlemen callers visited and stayed the night. He listened to the creaking of the bed and the sighing and groaning of its occupants. Eventually, he punched a tiny hole between his and his mother’s room that he might witness for himself the perversions that took place in her room, which smelled of fornication, reeked of it. And when the visitors joined her, never more than one a night and sometimes the same man for as long as a week, his eye could not resist the summons from the hole in the wall, and he would watch, mesmerized, with his hand gripping and pumping his erect phallus as they coupled in raw nakedness and did other unspeakable things with each other.
And, finally, hours into the night, when he was exhausted and sated, he would collapse on his own bed, sick and consumed by his mother’s wickedness in giving so freely of those pleasures to other men that she denied to her own husband.
He slowed the rocking of the chair, as he smelled the approach of Father.
“Father, are you here? I feel your presence.”
“I am here, son. Rest easy. I am always nearby.”
He looked over at Father’s special place on the near end of the settee and knew he was seated there. “Father,
they have not arrested the woman. She is still free, flaunting her disobedience, secure in the thought there will be no retribution.”
“Patience, son. Have you received any confirmation that the authorities are not going to act?”
“No. The sheriff and county prosecutor are being very secretive. Speculation is rampant in Riley County. Some have talked of bringing the bitch to justice on their own if officials fail to act. Most believe she is guilty, but a few, mostly women, insist no charges should be filed. The county is divided, more against her than in favor, but politics make this treacherous ground. I am ready to act.”
“It has only been three days. You should be patient. One week. You must wait one more week. Then, if she is not arrested, you may avenge your friend. In the meantime, watch her when you can. Learn her ways, where she goes and when. Can you do that?”
“I will try.”
19
IT WAS A Saturday morning in the Flint Hills, although for ranchers, Saturday was no different than any other day—especially in the spring. Calves didn’t hold off being born over weekends, stock still had to be tended to; fence needed fixing and folks had to be fed. Some farmers and ranchers went to town for supplies and social life on Saturdays, and merchants in the scattered small towns like Riley and Leonardville focused on Saturday trade for profit, probably more so than the county seat of Manhattan.
Kirsten, attired in her boots and denim britches, sat on a bench on the wide and spacious front porch of Cameron Locke’s home, gazing off into the horizon, hypnotized by the waving stalks of the tallgrass prairie and the puffy white clouds breaking up the azure sky. Such scenes had enraptured her when she first came to the Flint Hills and hooked her like a catfish on a line. They just wouldn’t let her go.
It had been a week since what she had taken to calling the ‘incident’ had occurred. Her wounds were healing nicely, and Doc had promised to stop by today or tomorrow to remove stitches. He had been a regular visitor at the ranch, ostensibly to check up on her physical condition, but they had spent some time firming up their business arrangements for the land purchase he had finalized with Clem Rickers. The deal was scheduled to close at the bank in ten days. She had been surprised to find that the good doctor was actually a very organized and methodical businessman. She liked that he listened to what she had to say and that he was neither insistent on his own view nor intimidated by hers. They had worked the details out quite nicely. Cam Locke still did not like the arrangement and was concerned that rumors would get out, but his younger brother, while respectful, would not be bullied by Cam, either.
She had cabin fever and planned to get in the saddle today and ride up to her place. On the way she thought she might swing by Thad Locke’s, and if he was home, see if he might take care of the stitches. Now she waited for Pilar to join her, since at breakfast she had asked if they might talk a spell before Kirsten left the ranch. She had come to like and admire Pilar immensely and she trusted her totally. She could not recall ever having a woman friend before, and she did not know quite what to make of the alliance they had formed, but it gave her great comfort.
Kirsten had not told Pilar much about herself. She had always been guarded about her personal life and uneasy about letting anyone get too near, but she knew she could confide in Pilar if she chose. The house door opened and Pilar came out, wearing baggy denims and her artist’s smock—and still looking beautiful and elegant, Kirsten thought.
Pilar sat down beside her, and followed her gaze. “You see something,” she commented.
“That far ridge, north of the big tree.”
“I see something. I can’t say what it is . . . a horse, perhaps?”
“A horse and rider. He’s been there ever since I came out. Hasn’t moved. Like a statue. So he’s not likely a cowboy.”
“You think he’s watching the place?”
“I do.”
“I wonder why?”
“I’d guess the reason’s sitting on this bench. And it’s not you.”
“A sheriff’s deputy?”
“Could be. Keeping an eye on me, maybe.”
“Bastardo.” Pilar swore on occasion, but she invariably used the Spanish version of the expletive.
“Could I borrow a Winchester when I take my ride?”
Pilar hesitated. “Yes.”
“I’m not planning to kill anyone.”
“I know. You’re not a killer.”
“But I killed.”
“You’re not supposed to admit that to me.”
“Any fool can see I shot Max between the eyes. Who else could have done it? Henry? This pretense seems to be so damn silly.”
“It’s not like you planned it. If any man did what he did to you to me, he wouldn’t live to brag about it.”
“I loved him once . . . or thought I did. I didn’t have much experience with men before I met Max . . . actually none at all in a romantic way. He was my first and only, if you know what I mean.”
“I understand.”
“I was raised the youngest of seven kids. My mother died when I was three. I had six older brothers, whose devilment assured Paps couldn’t hold on to a housekeeper more than a year. I didn’t have any lasting female influence when I was growing up. I suppose that’s why I probably seem a little rough-cut sometimes, lacking in the social graces so to speak.”
“You’re being too hard on yourself.”
“Paps was a big cattleman in southwest Missouri, and he dabbled in a lot of businesses . . . banking, grain brokerage, you name it. If there was a dollar to be made, Ben Cavelle wanted in on it, and he taught me a lot about managing money. I tagged along with him everyplace he went, and he spoiled me rotten. Some of my brothers resented it, and that may be one reason we’re not close.”
“But you must have liked the cattle business best.”
“Oh, yes. Paps sold me my first heifer when I was six. I actually had to sign a note and pay him back when I sold calves over the years. I didn’t understand at first, but then I came to realize he was teaching me the ways of business and the pride of doing for myself. He saw that all the kids got a good education. When I said I wanted to go to college and study agriculture, he never hesitated. He told me to find the best school and he’d help me all he was able. I picked the Kansas State Agricultural College, which was just starting to get some attention at the time.”
“So that’s how you ended up in the Flint Hills?”
“Yes. Paps came out to check the school, and all this prime grass made him drool. He said he wished he was starting over. While I was going to the college, he’d search out land bargains while he was here. He ended up with a section of land, and when I got out of school, I told him I wanted to stay in the Flint Hills, so he sold me a quarter section for the home place. I’d studied about the different cattle breeds in husbandry classes at the college and got interested in Red Angus. I sold my mixed cow herd in Missouri to my oldest brother, Arnold, and started building a new herd.”
“It seems you’ve done very well with it.”
“I won’t pretend to have done it all on my own. Paps died two years ago and left me all his Kansas land and a small amount of cash. My brothers got good inheritances, too, but some thought Paps had favored me and they aren’t speaking to me these days.”
“The Judge . . . Cam’s father . . . always says inheritance is not a right; it’s a bonus some folks get in life, and the receivers have a responsibility to be good custodians of it. I think your father would be very proud of what you’ve done with your inheritance.”
“I hope so. That’s when things really went south for Max and me, though . . . when I got the land from Paps. He started fussing about changing title to the quarter section a month after we were married, and then when I got the rest of the land, he really went loco . . . harped on it day and night. I knew Paps wouldn’t have wanted me to make the change, because he expressed concern about Max’s drinking soon after we married. We weren’t a family of drinkers, but I thought I
could change him. I wonder how many foolish women think they can do that . . . change a man? Any problems always get worse after the knot’s tied.”
“I gather you met Max at the ag college?”
“Yes. He wasn’t much of a student and a little lazy, but, as I said, I’d never had much to do with romance, and he courted with determination. It didn’t take all that much frankly. He was the class stallion, and he turned me into a filly in heat. I started thinking with my muffin, I’m afraid. Looking back, I can see that Pap’s money didn’t hurt Max’s enthusiasm. He started pushing for marriage right away.”
She turned to Pilar and smiled wryly. “Hell, he didn’t have to marry me. By that time I’d have spread my legs without a ring.”
Pilar smiled back and leaned over and gave Kirsten a hug. “I do understand. I felt that way about a man. I just got lucky and it all worked out.”
Kirsten suddenly knew with certainty she could speak honestly to this new friend. “I’m frightened,” she said. “It took several days for me to see the reality of where the incident has left me. It really struck last night when Cam said the county attorney is going to announce his decision Monday. He will file charges. There’s nothing vindictive about it. He just has to do it.”
“Even if Frank Fuller files, it doesn’t mean you’ll be convicted. Let me tell you a few things about the Cameron Locke I married. Under his rather brusque façade is a kind man who cares deeply about his clients. He is persistent above all else . . . it’s a Locke family trait. These people never quit. He will fight like a wildcat for you. Trust him. Put your fate in his hands. And . . . Kirsten?”
Kirsten began to sob uncontrollably. “Yes?”