Last Will (The Lockes)

by Ron Schwab

  “This is totally bizarre. Why, in heaven’s name, would Celeste ask you to find her a lawyer?” She observed that Locke seemed a bit discomfited by her query. Interesting.

  “I guess she trusts me. We’ve known each other for some time. We were . . . Close . . . at one time.”

  She noticed a faint blush on his cheeks. Of course. He’d slept with the woman. Well, at least, to his credit, it left him with a sense of obligation. It made no difference to Casey. “Can Celeste Wainwright, or whatever her name is, pay a reasonable fee?”

  “She goes by Wainwright. Yes, I would think she could pay your fees. She’s led me to believe she has modest assets of her own . . . including the Wainwright mansion. You would have to talk to her about that.”

  “Yes, but first she will have to decide if she wants to employ my services. She may not be all that delighted with the lawyer you’ve selected for her. She has to make the final decision.”

  “I take it you are interested in taking the case.”

  “Interested, yes. I’m willing to go to Borderview and talk to Mrs. Wainwright. At that time, we’ll determine if we are a suitable attorney-client match. I’ll see if I can catch a Friday train. That way I can stay the weekend, if necessary. Can you make arrangements for accommodations there?”

  “I’ll reserve a room at The Fremont. It’s the best hotel in town.”

  Emily smiled. “I should warn you, Casey. It’s the only hotel. But it’s not terrible.”

  Casey did not hear Emily. Her eyes were fastened on Locke’s. She had thought of him as a prospective psychological study, but as he returned her gaze with an annoying little smirk on his otherwise expressionless face, she wondered who was studying whom.

  12

  Ian

  I LEANED BACK in my seat and tugged the brim of my hat down to ward off the sun from my eyes. I figured I might as well attempt a nap, since the conversation with my traveling companion had dead-ended a few minutes out of Omaha. We had another four hours of potential silence before the train pulled into Borderview, and the father-daughter reunion wasn’t off to a very promising start. So far, Amanda Locke had not displayed a very impressive vocabulary. Since our departure from Omaha, her responses to my clumsy efforts at sparkling conversation had been confined pretty much to stony silences and an occasional “yes, sir’ or “no, sir.”

  I glanced at Mandy who sat next to me in the window seat gazing at the vast prairie that rolled by as the train rocked and chugged its way along the endless ribbon of steel that sliced through the crazy quilt of rolling hills and grasslands and flat, fertile river bottoms that were southeast Nebraska, home to farmer, rancher and shopkeeper. I suspected that it all seemed lonely and desolate to a city girl, especially one who felt she had been abandoned by her mother and given up to a father who in some ways was a comparative stranger.

  Still, we had shared a home once, and I had seen her weekly while I remained in Omaha, although never far from Nadine’s watchful eye. After I made the move to Borderview, I had been nearly obsessed with efforts to be a part of her life, but her mother insisted Mandy wanted nothing to do with me, and I felt impotent to squeeze my way back into her life. I never quit, but I did come to accept that at best I could only hope time would grant opportunities to forge new bonds. When I was a boy, the Judge always said I had more persistence than brains—more often he called it stubbornness—but he assured me that my inclination to stick to a task would serve me well. I had never given up on Mandy, no matter what she thought, and I would stay the course with her whatever storms came our way.

  Regardless, I did not desire to repeat the scene at the Omaha railroad station. Nadine had been a bit late, as was her habit, and had arrived with her coachman and Mandy in a buggy full of assorted bags about ten minutes before departure time. The conductor had not been pleased with the unexpected baggage, but saw to its loading while Mandy proceeded to throw a first class fit, screaming and sobbing and begging her mother not to leave her, insisting she would not go. Nadine, to her credit, remained firm in her resolve, and I could see the torment in her eyes when she told Mandy, “You have no choice in the matter, Amanda. I’m sorry. I love you more than life, but I have made this decision. You will go with your father. I will contact you when Victor and I return, and I will write every week.”

  She had given Mandy a desperate hug, and tears streamed down her cheeks as she whirled and rushed away to her waiting coach. I had done nothing that I knew of to create this unpleasant situation, but somehow at that moment I felt like the lowest kind of thief, and the angry glare I got from Mandy’s cobalt blue eyes when the conductor chanted the last boarding call gave me no reason to feel otherwise.

  I furtively studied my daughter’s profile while she deliberately averted any look in my direction—she could not have been that mesmerized by the passing flora and fauna. Even discounting a father’s pride, she would be a striking beauty someday. Her hair was the color of ripe wheat, and her skin, while fair, seemed to take well to the summer sun and assume more of an almond tint with the advance of the season. She had the long, gangly legs of a young colt, and she promised to be quite tall, as were most of the Lockes. But anyone who encountered her would most remember the haunting, penetrating eyes, the same eyes that had delivered her wrathful message before we boarded the train. With that thought I drifted into the first deep sleep I had experienced in days.

  An hour or so later I was awakened abruptly by Mandy’s voice. “It’s okay for you to call me ‘Mandy’ if you want.”

  I pushed my hat back and straightened up in my seat, trying to reorient myself. I turned to my daughter, who was looking at me intently now, but without the earlier rancor.

  “I know Mother doesn’t like for you to call me ‘Mandy,’ but lots of my friends do, and I prefer it, actually.”

  “Good, then ‘Mandy’ it is.” I decided to let her take the lead in our conversation, since my efforts at directing our dialogue had thus far been pretty much of a flop.

  “Is it true we’re going to live on a ranch?”

  “I guess you’d call it a ranch, but it’s a very small one.”

  “Do we sleep in a dugout?”

  I smiled and shook my head. “No. There aren’t but a few dugouts left in our part of the state. Our house is constructed mostly of native limestone. It’s one-story, fairly small, but you’ll have your own bedroom.”

  “Do you have a cook?”

  “Just me. I have a good cook stove, but I’m not exactly famous for my culinary skills.”

  “Culinary?”

  “A fancy word for cooking.”

  “I like words. How do you spell it?”

  I spelled the word.

  “Culinary. I always wanted to help the cook, but Mother would never allow me. Do you suppose I could learn some culinary skills at your house?”

  “Of course. And if I can’t teach you enough, we’ll find someone who can.”

  For the first time there was a glint of enthusiasm in her eyes. “Can I ride your horses? I’m a good rider. I love horses.”

  “I’ll borrow or buy a mare from my friend, George Washington. My gelding, Hemlock, is a little headstrong. My other two horses are broke for the buggy and aren’t that good for riding.”

  “George Washington. Hemlock. Those are strange names.”

  “Hemlock’s a kind of poison. Hemlock’s a handsome Appaloosa, but he’s always had a nasty temperament, even as a colt, and somehow I just thought the name suited him. George Washington is a neighbor and my best friend. I’ll tell you more about him later. He’s got a daughter your age . . . Rosemary. I think the two of you might hit it off.”

  Her mood darkened again, and she spoke in a near whisper. “I have lots of friends in Omaha.”

  I was silent for some moments before I replied. “Mandy, I understand that you don’t want to go to Borderview, but your mother decided it was best, and I know she has good reasons. I could see that it broke her heart to let you go. Selfishly, I’m da
rn glad you came with me. We haven’t seen much of each other, and I want to know you, and I want you to know me. Nobody could love you more than I do, and I’ll take care of you. I hope you’ll come to think of this as a great adventure, and that eventually, no matter how long you stay, my home will always be your home.”

  Tears began to roll down her cheeks, and suddenly she clutched me tightly and pressed her head against my chest. She began to sob softly, and I put my arms around her and held her closely while she let out her pain. This young lady was hurting, and it wasn’t just the ordeal of visiting her father. The reasons for Nadine’s sudden change of heart about my suitability as a parent were shrouded with mystery, but I could see no point in trying to search out the story. In due time I would know if Nadine’s motives were important. For the first time in years I felt like a father again, and I was damned well going to savor this moment.

  13

  Ian

  GEORGE WASHINGTON AND his daughter, Rosemary, were waiting when Mandy and I stepped off the passenger car. George shook my hand with his iron grip and grinned broadly, his store-bought teeth gleaming like pearls against mahogany skin. “Welcome home, friend. Who’s the pretty lady?”

  “George, this is my daughter, Mandy, as if you didn’t already know. And, Mandy, these are my neighbors, George Washington and Rosemary. I told you George had a daughter your age, but I didn’t expect you’d meet her this soon.”

  Rosemary smiled shyly, her dark eyes friendly but uncertain.

  “Hi,” Mandy said, “my dad said you love horses, too.”

  Rosemary nodded agreement, and Mandy stepped forward and took her hand and led her away from the clueless fathers. In a matter of moments, the eleven-year-olds were engaged in animated girl talk of some kind.

  George chuckled in amusement as we gathered up the bags. “That little gal of yours doesn’t know strangers, does she? Rosemary was scared to come with me. She’s so timid, I was afraid I’d have a helluva time getting her to talk, but Mandy didn’t take any time at all drawing her out. I surely hope they continue to get on with each other. Rosemary just don’t make friends easy—spends too much time alone. Mandy could be good for her.”

  “Hopefully, they’ll be good for each other, but only time will tell. You and I won’t have any more to say about their friendship. In the end it’s up to them.”

  I followed George to the buckboard he’d driven into town and saw that Hemlock was tethered to the rear, TJ was dozing in the wagon bed. “How’d you know when I’d be in and that Rosemary’s presence would be welcome?”

  The stocky Pawnee tossed the bags on the wagon and lifted the girls up to the wagon bed just as effortlessly. George’s strength was legend, and the flannel shirt could not hide the muscles that rippled in his arms and shoulders. The coal-black hair that dropped a bit over the ears and covered the back of his neck further belied a man who had recently eased past his sixtieth birthday. “I was in your office this morning to sign the papers for the McDowell land, and Will told me he’d got a telegram that you were coming back this afternoon and you were bringing company with you. I told him I’d pick you up at the station. God knows you work that man like a slave and he doesn’t need to be your coachman, too.”

  “Well, I’m obliged. Things have happened so fast, I haven’t had time to make any arrangements or figure out how I’m going to handle my new responsibilities, welcome as they are.”

  The girls continued to chatter like a couple of magpies, and TJ nestled into Mandy’s lap as George and I climbed into the wagon seat, and he headed his team down the road.

  “I’ve presumed to make a few arrangements on your behalf,” George said. “Subject to your approval, of course. Martha sent some fresh-baked bread over to your place with me. And some smoked ham with pinto beans . . . and a cherry cobbler. Mandy needs to start off with a decent meal. They may be few and far between if you’re doing the cooking. Tomorrow, you bring her back into town and show her around . . . treat her to lunch at Reuben’s. Rosemary and I will come by your office early afternoon and take her out to our place till you see fit to show up again. She can spend a lot of time at our teepee if she wants.”

  George’s “teepee” was a massive two-story limestone structure that included wings for housing the families of his married children and their families, more dormitory than house. George did nothing in a small way.

  “I don’t have any better ideas at the moment, George. I don’t know what I’d do without you to run my life. I do need one more favor. I’ve got to find a horse for Mandy.”

  “You’ll see a strawberry roan mare in the corral when we get to your Lazy Key. She’s gentle, but strong and fast. If your girl likes her, we can trade for the legal work you and Will did on the McDowell deal.”

  “Without even seeing the mare, I’ll bet I’m getting the best of the trade.”

  “I want to keep my lawyer happy. I’ve got some plans that take more brains than I’ve got to carry out.”

  “Yeah, you’re dumb like a damn fox.”

  “Well, I’m just smart enough to know when to hire men smarter than me from time to time.”

  I studied the sky. We should be home in half an hour, well before sundown. No signs of a storm cloud. The drought lingered. It promised to be a long summer in more ways than one. My thoughts drifted to my work. The law is too much of what I am, and I cannot ever quite escape it. “George,” I said. “Anything I should know about the Wainwright case.”

  “Probably.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “You might want to talk to Greta Kleine. No, you ought to have Will talk to her.”

  “Why Will?”

  “He’s more her age. And he’s kind of an innocent. He might be too kindhearted for his own good sometimes, but women sense his gentleness and tell him things they wouldn’t confess to a priest. Greta would likely tell him some things you need to know. All due respect, Ian, you can be kind of intimidating to somebody who doesn’t know you. Downright scary, sometimes.”

  I bristled a bit, but knew George spoke the truth on all counts. “You obviously have some information. Why not save me some time and tell me what you know?”

  “I don’t know anything, but my boys married into the German community, and one of the women heard something. That’s all I’ll say. Damn it, Ian, I ain’t going to do all of your work for you.”

  “I’ll put Will on it in the morning. Thanks. Anything else I should know?”

  “Ralph's son has been hanging around Borderview better than two weeks. Don’t know why, but he’s been bunking in the old line shack in Coyote Canyon. I bought the canyon pasture from Ralph a few years back. Karl probably doesn’t know his old man sold the place. Anyway, I saw smoke when I rode out that way to check some first-calf heifers I’d put there, and there was an unsaddled horse outside the shack. I waited and watched a spell, and eventually old Karl popped out of the shack to take a piss. I left him be. Figured with a snake like him I’d just as soon know where he’s sleeping.”

  “So he was in the county at least ten days before Ralph was killed?”

  “By my count. I don’t know how long he was here before I saw him.”

  “Did you tell Ike Bell about this?”

  “He didn’t ask.”

  George didn’t have much use for Sheriff Ike Bell. And Ike Bell didn’t have much use for Indians and didn’t make any bones about it. He worked overtime trying to catch George stepping on the wrong side of the law and resented my Pawnee friend’s success in what Ike thought should be the white man’s world.

  I wanted to pump George for some more information, but the wagon pulled to a stop at the gate of the Lazy Key. Mandy stopped her chatter and came to the front of the wagon. “What’s that mean?” she asked, pointing to the sign on the gate.

  “That’s supposed to be the outline of a key lying on its back. It’s our brand. The Lazy Key. That’s what I call this little spread.”

  Her eyes lit with understanding, and she wrinkl
ed her nose in a grin. “Oh, I get it. Key. Locke.” She rested her hand on my shoulder. “It doesn’t make that much sense, but I guess it doesn’t matter what you call it, as long as it’s home.”

  “Yes, Princess, it’s home.”

  14

  Ian

  I SAT AT my desk thumbing through some hornbooks in search of any obscure principle of law that might support the contention that I should be appointed special administrator for Ralph's estate. Statehood had come to Nebraska less than twenty years earlier, and there was no significant body of State Supreme Court precedent yet upon which lawyers could rely. Thus, a decision rendered by a Massachusetts court some hundred years ago might be persuasive to a Nebraska judge, although it was doubtful Judge Helvey would give undue weight to the opinions of some judge he had never heard of and whose highfalutin words were beyond understanding. On the other hand, Reuben carried more common sense into a courtroom than most Harvard-educated lawyers. I hasten to add that I am a Yale man myself.

  It was past closing time Monday, more than a week now since Ralph met his maker. The hearing on our petition for my appointment as special administrator was set for ten o’clock the next morning, and I had elected to stay over at the Fremont this night. Mandy and TJ were sleeping over at George’s, to hers and Rosemary’s mutual delight. They had become inseparable in the few days since Mandy’s arrival in Cottonwood County, and TJ had been sticking to Mandy like glue, treating me with some disdain unless it was feeding time. I had been pleasantly surprised, though, to find Mandy adapting quickly to the flow of life here. In some ways, this seemingly smooth transition baffled and worried me. It was inconsistent with the drama that had unfolded at the Omaha railroad station, and I had a sense that things were not quite as they appeared to be. My brother, Cam, though, always chides me for borrowing trouble and says I spend too much time looking for something to worry about. I reply, “Expect the worst; then you won’t be disappointed.” I have to work at being optimistic and have to plan to be spontaneous.