Before We Leave (Chronicles of the Maca Book 3)

by Mari Collier

  Chapter 27: Panic

  Soon to be nineteen-years-old Kendall had dropped deep into thought reliving the quarrel he had heard between his father and mother. He and the older Rolfe brothers were in a gully guarded by an oak tree. They'd been waiting at least thirty minutes for Marty, and the five young men had pretty well exhausted the subject of what they would do should they ever acquire visiting rights to a woman. So far Marty was the only one to have found a willing female, but then Marty was one likeable cuss. When he'd bragged to them about going to a whorehouse in Arles, the older ones had approached their respective sires. Martin was outraged.

  “I never wasted money on a whore and I'll be damned if I give my boys money for that. Go find yourselves a gut wife when old enough du are.” His lapsing into German words and syntax told his sons just how angry he was.

  Kendall hadn't fared any better when he finally found the courage to approach his father. Lorenz's eyes glinted with amusement as he mulled the possibility.

  “I don't think it's a good idea. If y'all don't marry as young as I did, y'all are apt to give your woman a disease. Why do y'all think I didn't go?”

  “Because Grandma wouldn't allow it.”

  “So, y'all have talked with your grandfather when he was here.”

  “Uh, well, sorta.”

  “That wasn't the only reason, son. I was already in love with your mother. I knew it would be a betrayal and a sin against the good Lord. I won't take y'all there and I won't give y'all money for it. If y'all do go, stop by the drugstore first and buy some of those rubbers.”

  The discussion, Kendall knew, was closed. Right now he couldn't say how he felt. At first resentful, but part of that was because everything was changing. Both Melissa and Randall were away at schools. He had returned home after two months of higher mathematics and Latin. He chaffed at the confinement, the discipline, and to him, the tediousness of prolonged study, but it was the quarrel he'd overheard between his parents that held him deep in thought tonight, and he slipped deeper into his reverie.

  He had retired to his room after talking with his father about visiting a cathouse. It didn't take long to realize he was sulking like a ten-year-old. No wonder his paw had discouraged him. Hell, it must look like he couldn't accomplish anything: not school, not his work, not being able to go to a woman with money of his own. He should be outside right now working on something. Pawpaw had already chided him for working so much over at the Rolfe's ranch. If he was ever going to run the Rearing Bear, he needed to prove he was man enough; prove that he could work without someone pointing out what needed done. There were horses to break and a barn that needed cleaning and he should be outside, not in his bedroom.

  He wasn't sure if his mother was napping or in her sewing room. Since he didn't hear the whirr of the sewing machine, he was fairly certain she was napping. He had picked up his boots and carried them downstairs with the intention of putting them on in the kitchen.

  As he came down the stairs and passed his parent's bedroom door, he had heard his father. “I have to tell him.”

  “No, he's too young.”

  “He wants to go to a woman in Arles.”

  “That's just wild oats.”

  “Antoinette, he's almost nineteen. I should have told him years ago.”

  “No, he's mine. Randall and Melissa are yours and they needed to know.”

  “I was under the impression that we both are responsible for all three.”

  “Oh, for heaven's sake, Lorenz, y'all didn't tell me until I was twenty-three. Y'all can at least wait until he's an adult.”

  “I'll wait until his birthday and that's it. Y'all can be there when I do.”

  Kendall had fled for the kitchen on the chance his father was leaving the room. He drew out a chair and pulled his boots on thankful that the kitchen help was all outside. His mind was racing. Randall and Melissa knew something he didn't. What? Why was he his mother's and the other two his father's? Did that mean there was some credence to Randall's charge that Mama let him do things she wouldn't allow Randall to do? Somewhere in the back of his mind was the inkling that his siblings were different. He'd put it down to Randall being a bookworm and Melissa a girl. Still he knew instinctively there was something else. Something that meant he didn't measure up to the other two. He wasn't waiting for his birthday. He'd ask Pawpaw tomorrow and he would have his answer. That was what made a man. A man had the ability to stand his ground and demand to know. The decision brought him out of his dream world and he looked around. It seemed for a moment the night grew silent and he heard the sound of a horse walking slowly.

  “Did y'all hear something?” Kendall glanced around the group sitting in front of their horses. As usual it was him and the four middle Rolfe boys, August, Ernest, Kasper, and Frank. Fritz Rolfe had insisted everyone call him Frank when he was confirmed at fourteen.

  “Naw,” said August for his brothers. He knew Ernst was too wrapped up dreaming about doing the accounts at the bank. For some reason, Aunt Margareatha had taught Ernest the ins and outs of accounting when she recovered. Ernest didn't really listen to any sounds carried by the evening breeze, and the younger ones deferred to him if Marty wasn't present. “But it's time Marty's through with that Mex. I'm not waiting all night for him to screw somebody. Let's go pull him out of there and then go to Olivia's and have a drink. Half-an hour's long enough.” He really wanted a drink and Olivia would serve them when the new tavern at Schmidt's Corner wouldn't.

  Kendall couldn't help thinking that it was okay for Marty to be with a Mexican, but not Christina. Of course, for men it was different—or was it? He knew his father and Uncle Martin wouldn't, but they were old-fashioned. Randall? Naw, Randall would not consider anyone so beneath his intellectual standards. Melissa? Kendall figured Melissa, like Randall, would go her own way. Kendall held onto his stirrup for a moment, stunned at this revelation. That was what his father expected of him: someone choosing his own way and not relying on friends or parents to point out the proper direction.

  They mounted their horses and returned to the back of the shack where Julia lived with her maybe husband Miguel. Marty went to her whenever she was alone during the time Miguel worked at the Tillman ranch. Kendall marveled at Marty's ease of explaining how to be with a woman and a bottle of whiskey. He couldn't imagine drinking that much whiskey in such a short time.

  “It helps relax her and gives me a buzz.” And Marty would smile broadly at the thought.

  They were almost in position to swing down when the back door opened and a tooth-gleaming Marty came out accompanied by Julia. He slipped his arm around her waist, pulled her close, and kissed her soundly. Then he turned her around and slapped her on the buttocks. He grinned at them again and swaggered to his horse. At twenty-two Marty was a blocky, rock-hard, blue-eyed replica of his Grandfather Rolfe and equally adept with a knife or living off the land. He slipped his reins off the sagging porch rail and flung himself into the saddle. “Get impatient, did you all? Hell, these things take time. Let's go get a beer.”

  As one they turned their horses, each knowing full well their parents would give them holy hell for this escapade if ever discovered, but right now no one cared. Everyone looked up to Marty and followed his lead. Each secretly wished to be that type of man. Kendall sensed somehow his father's abilities were unattainable, but Marty, hell, he'd known him all his life. He knew that in two areas, he beat them all. Not one of the other young men could ride a horse or handle a gun like he did. He started to slow his mount for Marty to catch up.

  A rifle blast roared into the night. “Everybody hightail it,” Marty yelled. “We'll meet in town.”

  Another shot splintered the evening sounds and everyone bent lower and urged speed to their mounts with Kendall's horse surging to the lead. Miguel's horse was nothing but a rangy roan. He couldn't catch them. Within seconds they rounded the bend towards Schmidt's Corner. Kendall pulled up and looked around, his mouth dropping almost as far as his stomach. Where was
Marty?

  Without thinking he swung his horse around and rode back towards the Mex's cabin. A woman's screams mixed with the sound of another shot filling the night air, blotting out the sounds of katydids and night creatures. The others followed him.

  Kendall pulled up his horse when he realized what the words were that Julia was screaming in Spanish.

  “He's dead. They'll hang you. Run, run, run.”

  Marty lay face down on the ground, his right arm outstretched. Blood covered the wound in the back and slopped out of a blown away skull. Julia continued to scream, “Run, run.”

  Miguel raised his rifle and began shooting at the approaching young men, the bullets whizzing past their own heads and their horses' heads. This time the horses bolted.

  Kendall didn't know if a lucky shot had felled his friend or if Miguel had been waiting. Right now the bullets were too damn close and he kept his reins working. Marty had said to hightail it. Maybe that's what he ought to do. There was no way he could explain this to Pawpaw or Uncle Martin. He was a coward that ran at the first shot. He knew his father would have done something. Just what Pawpaw would have done, he didn't know, and that was the worst part.

  Kendall felt shame as he rode away, the knowledge deep inside his gut that he would never know what made a man like Pawpaw. The thing that his father was going to tell him would remain unknown. Home was forever closed to him.

  Chapter 28: 1892: The Rolfe's Anniversary

  Brigetta looked with satisfaction at the band playing on the stage built behind their house. She had recovered from her earlier shock when Martin had readily agreed to spend the money for building the stage, a dance floor, and paying real musicians. The band was playing a waltz with a recognizable tempo. The food tables were loaded and even people from Arles were here to celebrate her and Martin's twenty-fifth anniversary. She had directed August to place the specially tooled saddle she'd bought Martin in the pantry. She ran a hand over her aqua taffeta gown and smiled out at the dancers as Toni and Lorenz swirled by her.

  Antoinette was clad in a low cut, violet taffeta ball gown, a heavy, deep purple, amethyst pendant nestled against her skin and the low cut gown. Her figure was slightly heavier than a few years ago and her head was tilted upward at Lorenz as he gracefully whirled her in a circle. Lorenz was in a black, western cut suit with shiny new, black boots. Brigetta saw him smile down at Toni, his right hand confidently placed on the small of her back, his dark hair curling around his handsome face as he executed another twirl. It left Brigetta almost in a rage. How could Toni have that kind of love and devotion from such a handsome man?

  What did she have? The response leapt into her mind: a lonesome life in a wild society that had claimed her favorite son; a loveless life with a man that valued her a little less than his cows. She became dreamy eyed at the thought of what life would be like with her handsome neighbor. Why had she never realized before how handsome Lorenz was? She thought for a moment about how wonderful life would be if she were in his arms, whirling to the music instead of Toni. Her eyes blinked open, a red flush enveloped her cheeks.

  What am I thinking? Why is it suddenly so hot out here? Dear God, the man was incredibly graceful and handsome, and suddenly her lower region felt unlike it had ever felt in twenty-five years of marriage. She wanted to lie in bed with Lorenz and the hardness of him would take away all her sorrow and hurt over Marty while he cradled her….

  Brigetta turned and fled to the front of the house, gasping in air. She could not, would not think such horrible, sinful thoughts again. She had never done so in her life. What was wrong with her? Right now she wanted to tear open the tight, stuffy bodice and let the cooling, early evening air soothe the flames raging inside. Her fan moved back and forth with the rapidity of a humming bird hovering in midair. She clung to one of the posts of her front porch. Her body was enflamed and she wanted to die. She barely heard the quick steps behind her, but the voice was unmistakable.

  “Brigetta, are y'all all right? I saw y'all run out here, and it looked like y'all didn't feel well. Would y'all like a chair?”

  Brigetta slowly turned. Surely Toni must know what caused her to run. How could she face her friend? Brigetta's chest was heaving and she tried to apologize to Antoinette, but all she could say was, “I'm sorry, but I so varm got.”

  “Oh, dear, that's right. Y'all are at that age. Let me bring some water. I'll have someone get y'all a chair.” She disappeared, her skirts rustling in time with the music.

  Brigetta was left trying to keep her sobs to herself. Everything had turned topsy-turvy these last few years. Their Christina running away from the boarding school in Missouri to marry a dirt farmer; their Marty lying dead in some Mexican woman's yard; Kendall running away and not heard from by anyone; and Melissa, a teacher in another state engaged to some deputy. Most of her sons were out on the range for days and weeks with no chance of marrying. Ernest lived in town and spent more time at the bank than with human company. It was confusing. Who was her family? Toni was the only friend she'd made in all her years in this country, and Toni was so thoroughly Texan.

  Toni had always been the strong, beautiful one; the hard, cold one who ran from her family's home to marry Lorenz; who fought and killed Indians to save them and their children; the one who ran a beautiful house; the one with a son becoming a lawyer; the one who was unafraid when their husbands were gone for long months on a drive; the one who coolly gut shot a man with her derringer hidden under her embroidery when he threatened to take over the ranch while Lorenz and Martin were on a drive to Sedalia. Toni the perfect hostess who knew how to throw perfect parties and always, always made her feel so inadequate. Why had she ever left Germany for this agony?

  One of Toni's kitchen workers who had been hired to help with the party appeared with a chair as Toni returned carrying a glass of water.

  “Here, y'all are. It's not chilled, but it's cool. Now y'all sit down and drink every bit of it.”

  Brigetta was still blinking her eyes and incapable of talking. She obediently sat and gulped the water.

  “I, I don't know vhat happened. I just became so hot. I've spoiled things for everyvon.” Inadequate words seem to come out of her mouth.

  “Oh, nonsense, Brigetta, y'all haven't spoiled anything. Now then, we know what the matter is. Y'all will need to grit your teeth against that and hold your head high because Martin is about to give a speech, and he wants y'all there.”

  Brigetta closed her eyes and stood. She did not see Toni motion to someone to stay back. She let Toni guide her to where Martin and all the people waited. As they entered the back yard, Martin's voice boomed out.

  “There she is folks, my lovely bride of twenty-five years. Come on up here, Brigetta. I've got something to say.”

  Somehow one foot went in front of the other as she walked down between the clapping ranchers, their families, and the ranch hands. She knew her face was red and she prayed everyone thought it was from embarrassment and not from guilt. She fought an impulse to find Lorenz's face in the crowd. It seemed forever but finally she was on the stage with Martin. He was beaming at her, his blue eyes as guileless as the day she met him. He reached out, took her hand, and turned to face everyone.

  “Folks, y'all know the Lord has blessed us, and it got me to thinking.” He paused as some of the men hooted. “Not everyone gets a good wife like I got: a nice, good looking woman who gave me lots of sons.”

  The crowd laughed and clapped. All of them knew how hard Martin worked his sons on the ranch in lieu of hiring more hands.

  “We got the boys and one girl. Our girl's married now and she's given us a grandchild in Missouri. All this time Brigetta has kept the house, cooked the meals, and run the ranch when I was gone in the early days on the drives. Not once did she complain about never seeing Germany again. She never asked for anything, but gave a lot. So I tried to think of something I gave her other than that fancy pin she's wearing and lots of lonesome years. You all know what? It didn't seem
fair. I asked myself, what would someone from another country want the most out here in God's country?”

  Whistles and jeers greeted his statement. Some were drunk, but they were Texans in Texas. Who could want anything else?

  “Well I decided it was time to say thank y'all by surprising her with something she hasn't had since she left the old world: roses.” He paused. “Bring them up here.”

  Brigetta's head was clearing. She couldn't be hearing correctly. She turned to look towards the front and a Mexican man was carrying a huge bouquet of white roses towards them. Martin leaned over, scooped them up, and held them out to her.

  “Thank y'all, Brigetta, for all the years of not complaining.”

  Somehow her arms came up around the roses, the scent, the glorious scent filling her nostrils, and tears were rolling down her cheeks.

  “There's more, folks. Tomorrow, Jorge here,” he pointed down to the man standing awkwardly to the side, “is going to plant a bed of roses and then stay here to take care of them until they're doing fine. Brigetta will finally have her flowers that she had as a little girl.”

  The people in front were clapping, the women coming closer to catch the scent and to “ooh” and “ahh,” over the mass of flowers Brigetta was supporting.

  “Thank du,” she finally managed. She forced herself to take a deep breath. “Boys, go bring the present for your father.”

  August must have known what Martin had planned, for he appeared carrying the saddle. Since Marty's death he had taken on Marty's responsibilities. Like Marty, he resembled Martin. Perhaps it was fashion, perhaps it was vanity, but he cultivated a large, walrus mustache to show there was something about August that differed from Marty.

  “Hey, people, look at that. See what a wife she is.” Martin reached down and pulled the saddle up. “It's a fine, fine piece of workmanship.” He smiled at Brigetta and hefted the saddle upward for all to admire. “Okay, everyone, there's still plenty of food and drinks, and the boys here will be playing until everyone's too tired to move.”