“He came from here, Papa. And maybe he wants to stay.”
“What makes you say that?” He came out of his office, drink in hand and eyes narrowed.
“Because…because he’s in love.” She blurted the words, then turned away.
“Ha. From what I hear he can barely sit up. And everybody talks about how rude he is. Who’d love that fool?”
She stayed standing at the bottom of the staircase, her hand atop the newel post.
“Oh no, Callie. Don’t tell me…”
She spun on him, her blue eyes glinting in the warm glow of the oil lamps. “Would that be such a bad thing, then?”
“Yes, by God, it would.” He knocked back the last slug in his glass and stood shaking his head.
“And why is that?”
He stared at her and barked. “Because you’re my daughter!” He looked down again and said in a quieter voice, “No one is good enough for you.” He looked down at his hands, his mouth trembling. “Not even Rory’s son,” he said as he walked back to his office and pushed the door closed behind him.
Out in the hallway Callie stood with her hand over her mouth, her throat tight with laughing and crying. She was a fool to even think such things, she knew. But it shut her father up. She walked up the stairs and lay back on her bed, replaying this strange day over and over again in her mind. She wondered if Brian Middleton was doing the same.
Wilf stared out his library window into the dark of the night. He sipped his drink and said, “Callie and the missing MacMawe boy, eh? Well…I suppose that’s one way to get the Dancing M into Grindle hands.” He leaned back in his chair, a bitter smile on his face as he sipped a fresh glass of whiskey.
Chapter 43
Esperanza looked out the little window that faced the dooryard. “Sheriff Tucker,” she said.
Callie joined her at the window. “How do you suppose…?”
But both women knew that in a close-knit town such as Turnbull, it wouldn’t take much for word of a shooting to get around. The who didn’t matter so much as the fact that the sheriff could not be let in. Once he had proof that there was a shooting, he would insist on answers, and they had none to give him. For even though they were convinced that the boys didn’t do this to each other, it would be obvious to the sheriff that they had indeed savaged each other. Arrests would be made, and none of this would end well for any of them.
Espy came outside the door, pulling it nearly closed behind her. She pulled her shawl tighter about her shoulders.
“G’morning, Esperanza. I hope you are well on this fine spring day.”
“Thank you, Sheriff. And the same to you.”
“Brandon wouldn’t be around, would he?”
Esperanza looked briefly at the paunchy man standing before her. It was not like her not to offer a visitor—especially an old friend of her Rory’s—a cup of coffee. Maybe another time. “Brandon…is not here. He is out. I don’t know where he is or when he will be back.”
“Now, look, Esperanza. We’ve known each other a long time—ain’t that right?”
“Yes, Sheriff.”
“Haven’t I always looked out for that boy of yours, even when he’s filled himself to the gills with drink?”
“Yes, Sheriff.”
The paunchy man regarded her a moment, saw that he wasn’t getting anywhere at all, and pushed his fawn hat up high on his forehead. “Look, Esperanza. I’ve been told that a man’s been shot. Don’t that mean a thing to you? Hiding such a thing is a crime. Why, it’s wrong and…and unlawful not to report it. You understand me?”
“Yes, Sheriff.”
“Well, good. Then, can I come in?”
“No, not today, Sheriff.”
He dropped his hands to his side. “Well, why forever not?”
Esperanza stared at him, but said nothing. From behind her, Callie Grindle emerged in the doorway, pulled it partially closed behind herself.
“Why, Miss Callie. I didn’t know you were here.” He looked round the yard, half expecting to see her horse tied nearby.
“Hello, Sheriff Tucker. It’s good to see you.”
“Well, I suppose you’ve heard this entire long and frustrating conversation, eh?”
She smiled, nodded. “Yes, I have.”
“Well, then you know by now that I aim to come in, have myself a look around.”
“I’m sorry, Sheriff. But I’m afraid that won’t be possible today.”
“What?” He swung his ham fists at his sides, looked askance at the chickens picking at the grit of the yard. “Will you mind telling me why forever not? Don’t you think I wouldn’t get wind of such a thing as a shooting? I am, after all, the sheriff in these parts. And as I say, I have it on good authority that a man has been shot.”
“I don’t doubt you, Sheriff Tucker, but such hearsay doesn’t mean you can just barge in on people.”
“I ain’t bargin’ in anywhere. I’m the sheriff.”
Callie sighed and leaned against the doorframe. “Sheriff, if you must know…” She glanced behind herself, into the dark interior of the room. “We’re busy in here, Sheriff…with womanly things. I don’t think you really want to force me to say what that might be, do you?”
The sheriff’s eyes widened. For a moment, he felt as if he had just woken up to find he was in the midst of sleepwalking down Main Street Turnbull with nothing on but his hat and gun belt. He had no idea what she meant, but he did know he had no intention of finding out.
The sheriff found he could not speak, could only shake his head, his mouth working like a banked fish. He waved a hand, palms up, at her and backed to his horse. His face felt hot and he guessed it was redder than beet juice. He was nearly out of the yard when he remembered to doff his hat at the ladies, and then he rode hell-for-leather on out of there.
As they watched his dust cloud swirl apart in his wake, Esperanza turned to Callie. “What are these ‘womanly things’ we are up to, Callie?” Espy did a poor job of hiding the humor she found in the situation.
“I have no idea,” said Callie. “But we know that the sheriff has no idea either.”
The women shared a laugh. Something that had not happened at the little house on the Dancing M in a long, long time.
Chapter 44
Later that day, Esperanza closed the door to the little bedroom off the kitchen and prodded the coals in the stove’s firebox.
“Is Brandon better?”
“No, not better. Just sleeping.”
“Esperanza…I—”
She faced him. “Call me Espy.”
Brian Middleton stared at her a moment, then said, “Thank you, I will.” He cleared his throat and sat up straighter with a wince. She hurried over and held in place the bunched blanket she’d put there to help keep him sitting upright. “You know Miss Grindle well, I assume?”
“Yes, her whole life. She has always been my good friend.”
“She is exasperating.” He looked up at the smiling face of his hostess as she carried an oil lamp over to the small bedside table and lit the wick.
Espy nodded. “If that really means that you are fond of her, then that is true.”
His face flowered red, in strong contrast to his pale color. “Why, I…I’m not sure what you mean by that….”
“She feels the same as you.”
Brian Middleton frowned at the fireplace. “This is all quite vexing.”
She wiped her hands on her apron and opened a deep drawer in the sideboard. She pulled out a bundle of letters, bound with coarse brown twine. “You think too much about things you should feel instead.” She set the bundle of letters in his lap and nodded. “Take your mind off one kind of love and read about another.”
“What are these?”
“After you went away to the East, and when I was still just Rory’s cook and housekeeper, I also helped him to write letters to you. One letter each week. He never missed a week for years and years.”
“But I never received a single lette
r from him.”
“I know.” She nodded at the bundle. “Those are the letters, returned to your father unopened. Rory understood. It was your mother’s father. He hated Rory.”
Brian said nothing, but stared down at the top letter, the handsome script flowing, straight, and well rendered, though faded on the brown-tinged envelope. He noted that the tops of the envelopes were ragged, opened. So these were the letters Brandon had told him of.
“He also sent gifts to you on your birthdays.” She headed outside, but stopped in the doorway when Brian said, “At least he had Brandon.”
She said nothing, then left the house.
Brian sat for a long time looking at the thick bundle, and thinking of the various birthday gifts he’d received over the years, wondering if any of them had been sent from this very house. Certainly none of them ever bore a label with his father’s name.
Chapter 45
“Choctaw, that’s what I said.” Squirly Ross turned his back to the bar as if it offended him and rested his elbows there. Tom, the barkeep, raised his eyebrows and shook his head as he looked at the other drinker.
Mortimer Darturo sipped his beer, knowing he wouldn’t keep his own mouth shut for more than a few seconds. He would worry this like a terrier on a rat. And it would be fun. “Choctaw, you say….”
“Now, fella…,” said Tom the bartender, half smiling.
“No need to worry. I just want to get this straight.” Darturo scrunched up his face, bunching his cheeks until his eyes disappeared in a knot of crevices. Though Mort was still on the green side of forty, time had not been his best friend. He looked older than his thirty-four years. But he had to admit he looked better than this pudgy little town drunk with his hairy belly poking through holes in his red long-handles, and on through the rents in his buckskins.
The hair on Squirly’s head had long ago lost the battle with skin, but what little there was up there was gray-white and wispy, and it trailed down to a sparse fringe rimming his pink head, hairs squashed out like bug legs as if pressed by a hat.
“He is telling us that the reason he has been gone is that he’s been off in the Choctaw Nation, pillaging and ransacking and plundering and generally having himself a grand old time. For two whole days. Do I have that right, Mr. Ross?”
Squirly stared ahead at the far wall. The dartboard hung there, its projectiles bunched in the center. He had wanted to instigate a conversation, somehow try to trap the stranger into admitting his guilt in the death of Mitchell Farthing, but for the life of him he didn’t know how to go about it. Hell, if he was honest with himself, he wasn’t even sure the fellow was guilty. Just because he had a gut feeling didn’t mean the man was a killer. And yet something told him otherwise. Finally he turned his head and looked at the two men, then turned back to studying the dartboard.
“I’ll take that as a yes. Wouldn’t you, bartender?” said Darturo. “After all, it is your establishment and you should therefore be the arbiter of all civilized discourse. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Squirly Ross?”
Squirly glanced sidelong at his bar companion. “Might be that’s what I meant. As for your falootin’ talk, I wouldn’t know, bein’ so long with the tribe and all.” He shifted his chaw over to the right side of his mouth and continued working juice from it, like a cow with its cud.
The barkeep slipped a gray towel over his shoulder and said, “Squirly Ross, just because you ain’t been in my bar for a few days don’t mean you have to stand there and lie to us. Don’t you forget that I’ve tossed you out of here for everything but relieving yourself on the floor, though I am sure that day’s coming.” He shook his head and shifted bottles on the counter behind him. “And don’t think I ain’t counted the drinks you’ve poured. Unless the Ojibwa or whatever you claim to have lived with paid you in cash for listening to your lies, your purse is most likely hanging a bit limp right now.”
Squirly Ross turned with a smile and said, “I reckon you could use a swamper, Tom—”
The barkeep held up a meaty hand and said, “Nope, don’t need one. Any spittoons need emptying, I can do it myself. Saves me from having to listen to more stories about your crippling rheumatism.”
Squirly looked at the honey-color liquid in the nearly full bottle before him on the bar and licked his lips. He’d almost decided to raise his hands toward it, see what might happen, when the saloon door swung inward. Here was a fine distraction.
Squirly smiled wide. “Well, hello, young Mr. Grindle. Fancy meeting you here like this. Why, I was just about to tell the boys about that time I saved your father’s filly from having to be put down. He ever tell you about that? Prize horseflesh, she was, as I recall him telling me. And him nearly in tears. Oh, not that he’s a man given to womanly ways, not what I meant at all, Mr. Grindle. It’s just that—”
“Tom,” said Junior, weaving a bit. He licked his lips and leaned against the bar. “Why don’t we set up Mr. Ross here in that table over there in the corner with that bottle and that glass? How would that suit you, Mr. Ross?”
Squirly straightened and licked his lips again. “Right down to the ground, Mr. Grindle. But I’m more than willing to stay right here and tell you all about my recent exploits with the Cherokee tribe.”
Tom snorted and shook his head. Mort smiled into his nearly empty glass.
“Well, now, Mr. Ross, you may be willing, but I…well, I’m not willing to listen just now. It’s not that I’m not uninterested, but I have a feeling that, just like the story of you saving my father’s filly, I’ve heard it before. And what’s more, I’m afraid I have to tell you that it’s not true. Which I also think I told you before.” Junior smiled and leaned on the bar top. “My father has had many prize fillies over the years. Won’t handle one himself, though.”
Chuckles circled through the three men and chased Squirly to his seat at the table in the corner.
“Why is that?”
Junior looked Mort up and down. “How’s that?”
“I’m wondering why your father will not handle a filly. You just said—”
“Oh.” Junior played with the shot of rye Tom had set before him.
Tom looked at Mort from under heavy brows, shook his head once. “Something to do with my mother, I reckon. Long time ago anyway.” He knocked down the slug and poured another from the fresh bottle. Then nodded to Tom to set up the man next to him.
“I know you?”
The man shook his head. “I am new to your town. Perhaps you saw me a few nights ago. We did not converse much then—you were in your cups, as they say.”
Junior looked at the character beside him. Most men around here were punchers in rough garb and sweat-stained hats. But not this gent. This one looked clean and smooth, somehow. Gambler, maybe. And that accent? Wasn’t Mexican, that’s for certain. Junior shook his head and sipped his whiskey.
“The Dancing M,” said the man.
Junior looked at him, narrowed his eyes. “What about it?”
“I went out there just yesterday, looking for work. I assumed that since gathering time is coming…”
“Gathering is coming up quick.” Junior looked at his glass.
“I am Mort, by the way. Mortimer Darturo.” The men exchanged curt nods.
“To answer your unspoken question, Mr. Grindle,” said Mort, “when I got to the ranch, his Mexican housemaid told me that the owner, Mr. MacMawe, had died. And she said she did not need help.” Darturo shrugged. “She ran me off, eh?” He leaned toward Junior and spoke in a lowered voice. “The interesting thing, though, is that while I was talking to her, a young half-breed, by the looks of him, came around the side of the house, his head all bandaged up. He was tossing seed to the chickens.” Mort tapped his temple with a slender finger. “But he was not right, stumbling and falling over.” He leaned even closer. “From the look of him, he must have taken a nasty knock on the head, eh?”
Junior straightened and set his glass on the bar. “You mean Brandon?”
Dart
uro shrugged. “I never learned his name.”
So, Junior thought, Brandon is alive. Not good. Not good at all. What if he remembered seeing Junior from that night? What if he had seen Junior’s face? Could that be possible? Junior felt a sudden, gut-tightening urge to know. If Brandon was alive, well, that was one thing. But there could be no way on God’s green earth that the big city fool could be alive. He was a dead man, gut-shot as he’d been. Had to be dead….
Junior regarded the silent stranger a moment, then slid the bottle to the edge of the bar and lifted it by the neck. “What say you grab your glass and we’ll find us a table to sit at? Could be we have some openings at the Driving D for gathering time. No promises, but I’m what you might call the foreman, so we’ll see what we can do. All right?”
He wove his way to a table a few yards off. Mort leaned in toward the barkeep. “Before I dig in too much deeper here, who is this royal pup anyway?”
Tom laughed. “That’s a good name for him—he’s Wilfred Grindle, Junior, son of Wilf Grindle. But folks call him Junior.” He paused, expecting the man would comprehend. Nothing doing. “Of the Driving D.” He paused again. Still no response. “Biggest outfit around.”
Mort winked, then smiled. “I know all about it. I just wanted to hear how important it is—from the lips of a local.” He straightened and poked his brim back with a trigger finger as he watched Junior pour himself another drink. Under his breath he said, “It looks like I have found myself a new job.”
Junior caught his eye. “You comin’ over here or what, stranger?”
Mort smiled and crossed the room. He stood over the table and said, “Of course, now it all occurs to me, now I place you. You are Junior Grindle, son of Wilf Grindle, founder of the famous Driving D. I was headed out there in the morning to see if I could scare up some work.”
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