All the Old Lions (A Thea Barlow Mystery, Book One)

by Carol Caverly

  He laughed. “Prostitutes don’t count, I guess. Besides, she’s an outsider. How are you two getting along? I’ve an idea Minnie can be as difficult as my father in her own way. How did you get to know her?”

  “I bought a couple articles from her. I’ve been editing Western True Adventures. Are you familiar with the magazine?”

  “Sure. I have to admit I don’t read that kind of thing myself, but a lot of people in this part of the country do.”

  His answer didn’t surprise me. Nostalgia wasn’t Jim’s thing. He was obviously a man of today, not yesterday. “Anyway,” I went on, “in the process of buying articles and exchanging ideas for more to come, we corresponded and spoke occasionally on the phone.”

  “And got to know her pretty well, huh? Were you as surprised as we were when she decided to move out here? She ever tell you why she decided to do such a thing after so many years? Seems kind of strange to me.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. People frequently start searching for their roots as they get older. I’m sure she didn’t think of herself as an outsider; she just wanted to make some kind of connection with her past. Find her home and family.”

  “Yes, I suppose so,” he said with cold austerity, and again I caught a resemblance to his father, some subtle flash of cattle baron inheritance that bespoke little tolerance for the peons of the world. But it was just a flash. Then his eyes softened and he smiled.

  “You have a lot more tolerance for old people than I do,” he said. “You even had Potts blushing like a school boy.”

  So, he had noticed, too. It wasn’t just my imagination.

  I started to answer, but couldn’t compete with the Rhythm Boys who were struggling through the opening of a morose country ballad. Jim held out his arms to me and I turned to step into them, but Max was there.

  “This one’s mine,” he said. “I can’t compete with Enright—Helby, that is—but I’ll do my best.”

  I smiled a quick smile of apology to Jim as I was whirled away again. He smiled back, and if he’d heard Max’s dig, it didn’t seem to bother him.

  I looked up at the dark face, amazed to find myself a bit self-conscious about being in his arms. I couldn’t remember what it was I wanted to tell him. He misread my scrutiny.

  “I’m not much of a dancer. You looked pretty good out there with Helby.”

  “He makes it seem easy,” I said, glad for something to talk about. “He’s very imperial, isn’t he? So…so mildly furious at being old.”

  “It’s the mildness, not the fury, that’s unusual. Nothing happened around Hijax, good, bad, or indifferent, that Enright didn’t have a hand in. He commanded a lot of respect. Still does. I guess the mellowing had to come.”

  We danced silently a minute, then Max said, “Mildly furious. You’re pretty observant, or is it sensitive?”

  “Observant sounds more flattering.”

  Jim danced past us, his arms wrapped around Kim Kavenaugh. We exchanged the customary arch smiles before we drifted apart once more in the crowd of dancers.

  I wondered if Max minded his partner being appropriated by Jim, and saw him grimly follow their progress down the floor.

  “And that,” he said, “is probably part of his fury.”

  “What? What do you mean?” I asked, trying to reel in the threads of our conversation.

  “Nothing.” He pulled me closer.

  But I was curious. “You mean Helby’s fury? And Jim? Jim’s part of his problem?”

  He shrugged. “I get the impression that Helby doesn’t like Jim much.”

  “What a terrible thing to say.” I said it even while remembering the chilling exchange I’d witnessed a few minutes ago between the two of them. “Differences between father and son are pretty common, especially when there’s such a difference in age.”

  “Generation gap and all that, huh?”

  The condescension roused me. “I think it’s more that you don’t like Jim. Why not?”

  He laughed and I could feel his hand tighten on my back, but I resisted.

  “No, please. I’d really like to know.”

  He gave me that long considering look of his before he responded. “Sour grapes, I guess.”

  “What do you have to be sour about?”

  He laughed again. “You’re a nosy female.”

  I was, and didn’t care, nor did I expect him to answer me. I gave in to the pressure on my back and relaxed against his chest, vibrantly aware of all the places where our bodies touched. He began to speak softly into my ear.

  “All the usual reasons. The age-old conflicts between the haves and the have-nots. I was the poor boy with my nose pressed against the candy store window.”

  The music’s dirge-like pace allowed minimal movement on our part, a slow sensuous swaying. It felt wonderful. So did the soft breath of his voice on my ear as he spoke between frequent pauses.

  “I was an over-achiever, but no matter what I accomplished, I never got what I wanted most: to be a rich rancher’s kid with a flashy pickup and a thousand dollar horse to haul around to rodeos. Instead, I waited tables and washed dishes at the Stirrup Cafe for my mother. When I finished school I lit out of here with a bad taste in my mouth and a determination not to come back until I could buy up a bigger parcel of land than Jim Enright could ever lay a hand to.”

  After an interminable pause I said, “Where did you go?”

  “Denver. College. I had a scholarship to the School of Mines.”

  I tried to look at him, but his hand cupped the back of my head and with gentle pressure, he kept it where it was, tucked under his chin.

  After another lengthy pause, I prodded, “And?”

  “I started as an oil field geologist. When things were booming a buddy of mine and I formed our own company. We’ve been pretty lucky.”

  This time I resisted the pressure; I wanted to see his face.

  “So now you’ve returned to the old hometown with a bundle and plan to buy up the county.”

  He relaxed his hold, and let me lean back against his arm.

  “Not quite.” he said. “That was a long time ago. I’ve grown up some since then.”

  For once I let myself bask in his smile, not worrying if he had an ulterior motive, or was trying to manipulate me. I just wanted to enjoy its warmth and give him some of mine. My feelings must have shown on my face. With a small, rough sound deep in his throat, he drew me back in his arms and executed a couple of whirls that didn’t match any music the Rhythm Boys could come up with.

  “No,” he said, slowing his exuberance to a statelier pace, “believe it or not, I was working legitimately in the area, checking out some prospective oil leases at the courthouse in Hijax when I discovered the Darrow property might be up for grabs. I’m ashamed to admit that the thought of being an irritant in the middle of Enright’s property had its attractions. Brought back all those old feelings I thought I’d gotten rid of a long time ago.”

  But I could tell he wasn’t ashamed at all; he was delighted with the prospect of being a thorn in the Enright’s side.

  Nine

  When the music stopped we were caught in an impenetrable crush of bodies. Max turned me in the direction of the flow, guiding me from behind with his hands on my shoulders. We began to inch our way through the crowd.

  “As we were saying,” I tossed the words over my shoulder, congenitally unable to let anything die on the vine, “what if Minnie doesn’t sell, decides to stay here herself?”

  “She won’t—”

  “Here you are.” Jim materialized in front of me. “I thought you’d skipped out on me.”

  “Heavens no,” I said, denying a twinge of guilt. It seemed like ages since I’d last seen him. He maneuvered me out of Max’s hands, and I caught an exchanged glance between the two men that left me chilled and silent; a primitive wave of communication that unhappily brought to mind Jim’s earlier comment: “I’d hate to see the results if Max Holman gets crossed.”

  Max disappeare
d into the crowd and I felt suddenly tired and claustrophobic.

  Jim put his arm around my shoulders. “You look like you’re wilting. Had enough of the Wild West?”

  I gave him a weak smile and nodded. He brushed strands of hair away from my damp forehead.

  “What you need is something to drink.” We were standing just to one side of the milling crowd that headed down the stairs toward fresh air. “There isn’t a bar here, but they always have a cooler of pop and beer downstairs.”

  Private bottles passed freely among the adults, too, I noted. Everyone on the sidelines seemed to have a plastic glass in hand. “Beer would be fine.” I needed a thirst-quencher.

  Parson Potts ambled by and nodded to Jim. “Hi there, Parson,” Jim said, and took his arm. “Why don’t you keep Thea company while I get her something cold to drink? And how about a beer for you, too?” He took off down the stairs, and left Potts to stand awkwardly by my side. I didn’t feel the least inclined to make things easy for him.

  “How’s Minnie?” he finally asked. His eyes slid away from direct contact.

  “Fine.”

  “I…You know, I never thought I’d see that young’un again. That Minnie sure was a cute little thing. Everybody thought that worthless old woman would birth an idiot; never took care of nothing in her life, not even herself. If it hadn’t been for Lil, don’t know what would have become of Minnie.” He ducked his head, then after a moment said, “It’s good to see her.”

  I suspected there were limits to his friendship with Minnie, so I said, “Why didn’t you bring her here tonight? She would have loved it.”

  When he turned his malevolent beady eyes on me, I wished he hadn’t. With an abrupt movement, startling for its quickness, he left and disappeared down the stairs.

  I was angry with myself for letting him bother me, and wished I’d told him that Minnie had come to town to report a break-in. I spied some empty chairs across the hall and made for them.

  “How about a dance, Thea Barlow?”

  It took me a moment to recognize the sheriff out of uniform. “Yes, of course. I’d be delighted, Sheriff.”

  “Hank.” He guided me out on the dance floor.

  “Hank. So you’re off duty tonight,” I said, making conversation.

  “Yep, can’t work all the time. But I’m always on call, particularly at these events. Things can get pretty rowdy now and then. How is Minnie? Everything all right out at her place?”

  “Just fine.” Not a lie, I told myself, more a social nicety. However, when it’s the law you’re talking to, it puts a different color on things. I hoped I didn’t look as guilty as I felt. “Why do you ask?”

  “No particular reason. There’s been a lot of foolish talk going around about her. I don’t want it to get out of hand.”

  He was a good dancer, light on his feet, with some tricky moves that kept me alert. He managed to keep his eye on the crowd and greet people while still being attentive to me and the music. I debated whether to tell him about Minnie’s problems. She had been so adamant about both Max and I staying out of her affairs that I hated to go behind her back. She had promised to talk to the sheriff herself. Noninvolvement won out, at least for now. Which didn’t mean I couldn’t question him about other things I wanted to know.

  “I understand your family has lived in Hijax for a long time.”

  “Now who told you that? Don’t tell me I’m going to end up in Minnie’s book, too.”

  “I doubt it. Unless,” I said, teasing, “you had a bunch of nefarious relatives.”

  He laughed. “Relatives I’ve got. A slew of them, but not a horse thief in the lot, as far as I know. But then there was Great-uncle Dewey on my mom’s side, a fast man with a branding iron, they say.”

  We bantered back and forth, thoroughly enjoying ourselves, but I got no useful information.

  On one of our turns, I saw Cora Croderman dance by with her husband, Lamar. She seemed exuberant, full of herself, waving and throwing comments to all of her acquaintances. Lamar looked hot and uncomfortable, his usual lugubrious self. I doubted she got him out very often.

  When the song ended, a couple of men hailed the sheriff, obviously wanting to talk. He kept his hand on my arm, but I shooed him off to tend to his flock with a promise of another dance later on. Again, I headed for the chairs. I felt rather inelegantly sweaty by this time.

  It felt good to sit down, and I was content to watch the incredible mix of people swirling about. All ages, infant to elderly, hell-bent on a good time Saturday night.

  Cora stood by the door now, alone and sipping from a plastic glass. Lamar must have made his escape. She wore a stylishly soft black skirt with a flower border along the hem, and a loose matching top. Her dark hair was meticulously combed into precise curls and whorls that framed her rather plain face, and looked as hard as cement. Still, she was an attractive older woman, and who was I to talk? I could feel my unruly hair springing away from the confines of the French braid that hung down my back.

  Cora peered through the mass of dancers intently, as if she were hunting for someone. If she had glanced my way, I would have motioned her to join me, but she didn’t, and soon drifted over to a group of friends. One of the men refreshed their glasses from a flask he took from his pocket. Cora took over the conversation with a lot of animation, but continued to scan the crowd. I wondered idly if she had something going on the side. Lamar wasn’t my idea of a dreamboat.

  Jim appeared with three bottles of beer and handed me one.

  “Where’s Potts?”

  “Over there with your father,” I said. “Jim, do you think anybody would mind if I took some pictures?” This would be my best chance to get shots of Helby and Potts.

  “What for?” His glance swept the dance floor and the surging mass of kids running wild during the band’s intermission.

  “Local color.”

  He shook his head in disbelief. “Where’s the camera? In the car?”

  “Yes. I left it on the front seat. Thanks.” I gave him my dishiest smile, and then went back to people-watching. I didn’t see Max anywhere, but the sheriff was working his way around the edge of the floor. He stopped by Cora’s group, spoke to them briefly, then went on.

  A line began to form by the food tables and all the chairs were filling up. Except for the seats by me, of course, the pariah from Chicago. Solace came from an unexpected source when Kim Kavenaugh sauntered in my direction and sat down in the chair beside me, though I was amazed her jeans allowed that much action.

  “Hi,” she said. “Are you having a good time? These dances are crazy.”

  “Yes, they are. And yes, I’m having a good time.”

  “You were smart to wear a skirt. It’s so damn hot in here, I think I’m getting crotch rash.” Her laugh was infectious.

  “Denim will do it to you,” I agreed, welcoming her friendliness. She was totally unaffected, with an earthy frankness wildly incongruous with her cover girl looks.

  It seemed incredible that anyone so gorgeous would bury herself in this place. “What on earth do you do in this town?”

  “Shit, not much, let me tell you. But I’m only here summers now.”

  “College?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “Brown.”

  “Brown!” To my shame, I couldn’t hide my surprise.

  She threw back her head with another outrageous laugh. “Right. And you better believe I suffered one hell of a culture shock that first year. But I like it now.”

  And I was willing to bet she gave the Eastern seaboard a run for its money as well. “Brown’s a wonderful school.”

  She shrugged away the implied compliment. “Are the folks around here still giving you a hard time? I liked the way you handled yourself at the cafe yesterday. Guess we deserved it.”

  “It’s not me that I care about, Kim. It’s Minnie. Hers is a rather bitter example of the old Wolffian saw: You can’t go home again. Minnie said goodbye to
everything she knew to chase some dream of finding the family she never had. Now she’s lonely, and more than a little frightened, I’d guess, though she’ll never admit it. She gets hate mail, her fences are cut, her house broken into, and all she wants are a few friends.”

  “I didn’t realize it was that bad.” We both had our eyes on the white-haired group hemmed into the bay area. The sheriff had made his way there, and stood talking to Helby with what appeared to be a great deal of deference.

  “Just look at them sitting over there,” Kim said. “All tame and toothless. I hate to say it, but those old farts will never forget that Minnie is Lil Darrow’s sister, even if she’s lived in a convent the last fifty years.

  “That’s Tessa MacLean in the wheelchair. Years ago her husband died in the middle of winter. Left her with two little kids and pregnant with a third. She had to bury her husband, deliver her own baby, and get food for the table until the snows melted and she could get to town. And all of that before she was as old as I am. She’s close to ninety now.”

  The bit of feminine fluff Kim referred to sat daintily on the edge of her chair, as if she were going to rise any moment. Prim and proper with her white hair and navy silk dress, she looked as if she’d done nothing more exciting in her life than tat an edge on a handkerchief.

  “They’re tough people,” Kim went on. “Set in their ways. What seems like history to us is real close to them; their emotions are still invested.”

  Jim approached with my camera slung over his shoulder.

  “Hi, Kim,” he said. “Glad you’re here. Join us for some food?”

  “Sure, but don’t get any for me. I’ve got some coming.”

  He slipped the camera into his hand and held it out to me. “Here you go. I’ll fill some plates.”

  “Wait a minute, Jim. Kim’s been telling me some wonderful stories about—what’s her name? Tessa? Tessa MacLean. Could you get a picture of her for me?” I asked, feeling suddenly shy about barging in on these people. “They know you. I’d love to have some of your father and Potts, too.” I didn’t mean to be devious, truly. Something else was at work. I was beginning to see these people as something other than stereotypes, or black and white photos.