The Bones of Paradise (30 page)

“He's so beautiful,” she breathed, and Graver lifted his rifle in a fluid motion and fired. The deer raised up as if to leap, took a step, then collapsed.

“Oh,” she sighed.

Immediately the suitors complained that they should have been given the shot. Graver ignored them and rode ahead to check on the deer. It was clean through the head. A good kill. After they dressed the deer and loaded it on the packhorse, the hunters pushed toward the wash.

All their shooting probably drove away every critter in the valley, but the buck was there, so maybe not. The judge and Larson Dye muttered complaints to one another, and Hayward smiled at the idea that they were finally getting together on something. Larson at least should have known better, but he wanted in on the thing, so he didn't much care how he cast his vote. At least that's what J.B. had always said about him. Another pang of regret made his stomach ache. Why didn't he pay more attention to his father? He should've been learning everything there was to know about running a ranch, getting the men to listen. Instead, his father treated him like an expensive hunting dog he let loose to roam and come to nothing. Why didn't he send him to live with his mother if he didn't want to raise him? Hayward didn't know who to be madder at, him or her. Or maybe himself.

He looked ahead at the wash, cut so deep they couldn't see what was in there until they were on top of it. Sweetgrass had to grow there since game was always hunkered down eating, resting. Last spring the boys found a couple of cows holed up with some deer after a late blizzard, all packed in safe and sound; they looked at the boys like they were ruining the party.

Suddenly Larson Dye's horse squealed and there was some general thrashing behind them, but when Hayward looked back, Dye was settling his hat and smiling. He suspected there was more to that man than they knew. He must have been a hand when he was younger. Maybe J.B. underestimated him. Maybe he used that when he talked J.B. into the deal for the road between their two ranches. Turned out they had the maintenance while he only had to build it, a loose term since all he did was drive his cattle up and down a path and then put in some old fence posts to mark it. That road had been a curse on them ever since. They were out there filling and scraping and no end of things since it was only two ruts of sand and weeds.

Hayward's mind was so taken with the injustice it took a moment to register the movement when a bullet thudded into the hill over his mother's head. Then a gun fired right behind them. They stopped and turned to see Larson Dye grinning happily.

“Got him,” he announced. Dye pursed his mouth, glanced at the hill to his right, and shrugged. “Whoever it was, I think I got him.” He smiled with less certainty.

Dulcinea stared at the hill the shot came from while Graver shook his head. The judge and Dye stood in their stirrups and scanned the grass. It was quiet. She started to speak, but Graver held up his hand. He was pretty coolheaded in light of being shot at a second time in the past two months. The boy's mouth was dry, and he wondered if it was Cullen wanting to add to his trophies after he shot up Higgs's hat. Graver held his rifle at his waist, finger on the trigger, ready to shoot as he moved behind them, stopping to whisper, “Stay here and protect your mother,” and set off for the
lowest hill, followed by the judge and Larson Dye. In a moment they were gone. It was like the shot had cleared the air and then it got busy again with birds swooping and arguing. Little goldfinches, swallows, and a killdeer complaining as usual.

“A silly prank,” his mother said, hesitant.

His stomach sank at the idea of Cullen hurt out there. Maybe Graver would finish him like a broke-legged steer, or worse yet, drive away his horse and leave him to die. He lifted his reins to go find his brother.

“I'd feel better if you stayed with me.” She kept her eyes down and it occurred to him that she was frightened.

“Guess we better head back,” Hayward said. He couldn't imagine what Cullen was thinking. Who was he going to shoot? He was so mad at the world, maybe anyone would do. The realization made his hands shake and his bones feel light. Kill Drum, Hayward wanted to tell him, end your misery, but he noticed that most of the time a person looked away from what really bit hard on their mind. Animals were different, you bite them, they bite you, or they run away. His mother flashed in his head, her teary face the day she climbed into the buggy, arms empty of him, because he was hanging on to her skirt, legs, feet, anything he could grab. He ripped off the little watch on the chain around her neck, and tore the collar of her traveling coat, but it did no good. He ran after that buggy for a mile until his legs gave out and he lay there in the dirt, unable to find the breath to cry anymore. He wrapped her gold chain around his wrist so tight his hand turned purple and ached something fierce. It took Frank and his father both to hold him down and unwrap it. Damn her. His father told a different version of the story the time he asked about that day. Seemed like old people couldn't keep their memories straight.

They were half a mile from the ranch house when they came upon Cullen riding out to meet them. Hayward looked at his shoulder, but he didn't seem to be favoring it. He wore a fresh white shirt,
was clean-shaven and bathed. Cullen glanced at the deer on the packhorse, smiled at his brother, and refused to look at or speak to their mother. “We got more company,” he said.

“Someone shot at Mother!”

Cullen stared at him a long moment. “Why would anyone do that?”

“When did you get back?” Hayward asked.

“Hour ago. Had to check on things at our ranch. Without Drum around, the men think it's a holiday. Only half listen to Stubs, and Carter and Sergei the Russian gone missing again.” He combed his horse's mane with his fingers. “Almost had to pistol-whip Faro Jack and Dance Smith to get them off their behinds to feed the stock. Drum will have some work to do when he gets back.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “Old man's holding court in your parlor right now though, wait till you see it! I'm heading right back to get a front row seat. You better light a fire under you, don't want to miss this fun!” Cullen spurred his horse into a dead run, leaving them to eat his dust.

His mother's face was pale when Hayward glanced over, and it hit him: she was afraid of Cullen. His heart pounded. What if he lost her again? What if she got shot like J.B. and he didn't have anyone left? He felt the surge of fear and helplessness that made him cry himself to sleep as a child. He looked at her.

“You know I'll take care of you, don't you?”

She smiled gratefully, and that was enough.

D
idn't know whether you'd remember me, Dulcie.”

Tookie Edson extended her thick, muscular arm and Dulcinea gazed up into the sunburned face that looked preserved rather than aged by ranch work. At six feet, Tookie towered over the other two women and most of the men crowding the parlor. She and her twin brother, Evan, bought their place twenty years ago and built the Crooked Post 8 into a ranch equal to the Bennett holdings. Tookie, as usual, came dressed in identical attire to her brother's: tan gabardine western trousers and jacket, white shirt, except where he wore a bolo tie with a silver slide, she tied a green silk kerchief around her thick, red, roughened neck. Her broad, honest face and watery-brown eyes peered so earnestly Dulcinea laughed and gave her a quick hug instead of shaking her hand. Her stout body pressed briefly, but long enough to experience the hard muscle-packed flesh as solid as a fence post except for the loose pillow of her breasts.

Dulcinea caught a glimpse of Evan, holding a glass of whiskey, deep in discussion with Drum seated beside him on the sofa. She was clearly at a disadvantage here. Tookie sensed her discomfort and said, “Drum invited us to supper. We was just coming back
from town, ran into Rivers and his wife, Rachel, on the way here, riding in that big brougham with Stillhart from the bank. I think that other one is his niece or daughter or something. She was in the carriage behind them—” She raised her eyebrows and smiled mischievously. They glanced at the young woman, dressed in a brown velvet gown with a scoop neckline trimmed in seed pearls, which also lined the sleeve cuffs. The dress hung on her skinny figure as if it were made for a larger woman. She stood alone in the far corner and pondered the book of Keats's poetry Hayward had read from earlier.

“Looks like a dry cow in spring,” Tookie drawled, crossing her arms across her broad chest and tugging on her earlobe.

Vera had enlisted Rose to serve drinks as she hurriedly prepared enough food for the additional guests, banging pot lids and slamming pans on the stove to let them know how she felt about it. Rose kept her head down as she brought the drinks. Following her, Lily carried a platter of fry bread cut into small pieces that she offered each guest.

“First time some of them have had Indian fry bread, I bet,” Tookie said when Rose brought her a glass of sherry and Lily stepped from behind her mother's skirts to offer up the morsels. Tookie picked pieces one by one and placed them in the cup of her hand until she'd emptied half the plate. The little girl's eyes grew round until she couldn't stop from giggling and chancing a look at the giant woman. Tookie gave her a theatrical wink and Lily laughed out loud. Rose glanced between the two and smiled.

Cullen waved Rose off and gave the banker's young friend a glass of whiskey. He smiled, took the book from her, and opened it casually as if thoroughly acquainted with its contents. He stopped at a page and read lines to her, his eyes overly bright, until she retrieved it and placed it on the table. He leaned close, said something, then weaved his way toward J.B.'s study, and the young woman followed without a backward glance.

“Now what do you make of that?” Tookie asked between pieces
of fry bread. She chewed with her mouth slightly open, then drained the glass of sherry.

Dulcinea shook her head. “Did you catch her name?”

Tookie shrugged. “You know I ain't good at this social business, Dulcie. Evan might've. He has an eye on her, too. Young Cullen's getting to be quite a ladies' man, though. Have to give him that. Just like J.B.” She glanced at Dulcinea's face and reddened. “Didn't mean—”

Dulcinea lifted her chin and smiled. “That's okay. I know J.B. could be very charming.”

Tookie's eyes widened with sympathy and she awkwardly patted the other woman's arm with a hand as big as a draft horse hoof. “You're a good woman, Dulcinea, no matter what anyone around here thinks. I always liked you. J.B., he, well, he missed you every day of his life, well, you know.”

Dulcie covered her hand with her own. Her arm was growing numb from the attentive patting, and she murmured, “Thank you,” when what she wanted to do was yell at the top of her lungs, Then why didn't he stop me from leaving? Why didn't he go get our son? As if on cue, Drum limped over, his eyes bright with contention, the heated oak of whiskey rolling off him, which surprised her. He'd always been a man who could hold his liquor. Perhaps his recent injuries had caught up with him. When he spoke, his voice was the same old Drum with not a splinter of weakness.

“Miss Edson.” He wiped his hand across the front of his worn but clean gray chambray shirt. “Mind if I have a word with my daughter-in-law? She's spending so much time entertaining her men guests these days, we don't get much opportunity to discuss the ranches.”

Tookie glanced at her and went to join her brother, who was talking to Chance and Stillhart, the banker. Rose thrust the tray of drinks among them and they each took one, Tookie choosing whiskey instead of sherry and Chance choosing sherry instead of whiskey.

Drum cleared his throat to capture her attention again.

“What is it?” she asked. He continued to massage his chest as if his undershirt was too tight.

“You would, would you?” He kept his voice so low she could barely hear him above the din of the other conversations and whiskey-loosened laughter.

“Would what?”

He glared at her, digging his fingers into his chest. “Make this deal without even talking to me!” He stared as venomous as a snake in the blind. “After all this family has done for you, too!”

“Stop right there!” She kept her voice to a whisper. “I haven't any idea what you're talking about. And I don't need to hear any sanctimonious nonsense either, from you of all people!”

Apparently her anger got through to him because he stopped his chest kneading and rocked back on his boot heels and peered at her, cagey eyes half-squinted. “You swear?”

She started to turn, but he grabbed her upper arm and squeezed so hard she winced.

“You swear they haven't gotten to you yet?”

“I swear if you don't let go of my arm I'm going to punch you in the nose, Drum Bennett!” When he released her, she added, “And no, no one has spoken to me about anything other than the pleasantries of the day. What are you talking about?” It was no secret the old man was growing more suspicious with age, and for a person who started out that way, he didn't have far before plain crazy. Of course, Chance mentioned the oil business, but she wasn't about to share that. Again, she wondered if Drum had killed his own son in a fit of suspicious rage.

Cullen interrupted them, striding in from the study with the young woman behind him, waving his arms and raising his voice. “It's all settled! This ranch is going to be the site of the first drilling in the Sand Hills, thanks to Western Oil and Gas.” He looked toward them and grinned as if he'd won the prize money at the ranch rodeo. “Let's raise a toast to Markie Eastman and her father,
who can't be here!” His voice rose and cracked at the end, but he was drunk enough not to care as he grabbed a tumbler from Rose's tray and hoisted it above his head, slopping whiskey onto his coat sleeve.

“No, damn you.” Drum clenched his fists. Cullen grinned, his eyes dancing wildly at his grandfather. “I'll fix you, you little shit,” Drum cursed under his breath.

The company stared at Cullen and a few hesitantly lifted their glasses, until Hayward interrupted the celebration from the doorway.

“That's all fine and dandy, Cullen”—Hayward paused and looked at Drum and his mother—“but you don't own this ranch. Mother does. And even if she doesn't, I do, and I won't have anything to do with Western Oil and Gas.” He paused again and tilted his head as he stared at his brother. “But you knew that, didn't you? That's why you snuck off to town today.”

Cullen grinned, slugged the whiskey and let the glass drop from his hand to the floor, where it rolled without breaking. “Little brother.” He shook his head. “Little brother.” His jaw tightened.

“Cullen, we have guests. Stop making a spectacle of yourself.” Dulcinea kept her voice low and full of the motherly authority they both knew she lacked.

“Son . . .” Rivers stepped forward and placed a hand on Cullen's shoulder. The boy shrugged it off, and his face went from red to white, which meant he would explode any minute. The young woman grabbed his wrist and spoke into his ear, and that finally stopped him.

As he pushed his way through the guests, shouldering Drum aside as if he were a wisp of straw, Cullen gave his mother a look so filled with loathing it punched her breath away. She clutched her stomach and forced herself to breathe as he stormed out the door, cracking the glass when he slammed it. The sound would stay with her forever, so clearly did it mark the end of one part of her life and the beginning of another.

Drum was suddenly the congenial one, murmuring apologies to one and all, coaxing them to the supper table while she stood alone watching, not quite able to grasp what had happened.

Finally Hayward offered her his arm and led her to the head of the table opposite Drum, who wouldn't look at her. The old man was always a surprise. In the years she'd known him, she never suspected he had a social bone in his body. Watching him tell a story to Rachel Rivers, she realized he had known about the deal Cullen made. He was probably most upset that she would authorize it without his say-so. Who else knew besides Rivers, Drum, Cullen—ah, yes, Judge Foote.

The dinner progressed with small talk and food she couldn't taste.

Hayward, seated on her right, leaned over and repeated his promise of that afternoon. “It'll be fine, Mother. Don't worry.”

She dipped her head and peered at her son and managed a smile. “Of course it will, dear.” What she couldn't say was that she would never rely on another man to take care of her.

He reached for the wine bottle and poured her glass too full, but she didn't correct him. She had to raise it with both hands to keep from spilling. As she drank, she caught Judge Foote's eyes on her. She did nothing to acknowledge him and he turned to speak to Markie Eastman at his side, who seemed to have a way of flattering men without simpering or flirting, and the judge straightened and beamed at her remarks—becoming more of a man, just as Cullen had for that brief, jubilant moment.

While the men went outside to smoke and drink brandy, the women retired to the parlor. It was Dulcinea's first opportunity to speak with Rivers's wife, who appeared flustered by the economies of ranch life, or perhaps life in general. Rachel Rivers was a small woman with a big bosom who seemed to keep her shoulders back to avoid toppling over. Even as she sat on the sofa, she held her head
high so her small brown eyes looked down at the world. She had the little round face, tiny upturned nose, and pointed chin of a pixie in a child's storybook, complete with plump little Cupid's bow lips that seemed on the verge of either kissing or spitting. When she spoke, her voice was higher than one might expect, and slightly singsong, as if she followed along with a melody in her head.

Tookie watched her with an astonished expression, almost slack jawed. Markie Eastman paid little court, wearing a smile that could also be called a grimace if one looked closely. Markie herself was unremarkable, except for the extreme pallor and the features so regular and purposeful they lacked feeling. Mahogany-brown hair in soft waves caught with a bow at the back of her neck, unblinking brown eyes, perfectly straight nose, and well-formed mouth, the only defect being the slightly large ears she hid under her hair. Her lips and brows appeared painted. Dulcinea wondered that her son was so easily caught by this girl. As she examined her more closely, she realized the woman was older than she appeared, closer to thirty than the twenty she conveyed at first glance. She caught Dulcinea's stare and raised a glass of brandy to her lips, sipping while she returned the look, unblinking, as expressionless as a lizard.

“Tell me what you proposed to my son, Miss Eastman,” Dulcinea said. In the background, Vera clattered pans for all she was worth, angry to be relegated to hired help in the presence of company. Dulcinea didn't blame her.

“Why, Miz Dulcinea—is it all right if I call you Dulcinea?” the other woman drawled in a Deep Southern accent.

“Mrs. Bennett will be fine,” Dulcinea said. Markie glanced at Rachel Rivers, who fluttered nervously.

“My son?”

“‘God handles the large actions, but the small he leaves to Fortune,' as the ancient Greeks used to say. Don't you agree? I've always found it so.” Markie Eastman sipped the brandy she insisted on, though excluded from the men and their talk. Tookie and Dulcinea joined her.

“Ah.” Dulcinea smiled and decided to play her game. “They also said, ‘Fortune took the dearest thing I have as fee, and made me wise.'” She noted Tookie shaking her head while Rachel Rivers gazed about the room.

“I see.” Markie stared into her brandy for a moment, then held up the snifter and sighted through it. Aside from sharing a classical education, Markie Eastman and Dulcinea were at opposite ends of the world. “There's money to be made out here, Mrs. Bennett. You, your neighbors”—she nodded toward Tookie—“or someone else, it doesn't matter. Your son was the first to come forward when he heard I was in town. Apparently he has an eye for the future.” She raised her brow slightly as if she paid her a compliment, then lifted the glass and drank like a man, deep and long.

“He can't sell rights he doesn't own.”

“I've always found that men have a better sense of business than women.” She smiled at Rachel Rivers, who gave a tiny, obligatory nod. The harlequin dog plopped next to Markie's chair; she reached down and fingered its ears.