The Bones of Paradise (9 page)

She turned away from the happy reunion, unable to stop the tears that filled her eyes. This was the cost of her bargain, and she wondered if it was only the scene outside that caused her unease. She surveyed the empty room one last time. Would she return next fall? She stuffed her pencil case and protractor, blackboard chalk and eraser, books and ruled paper, sketchbook and watercolors, scissors and colored paper in her flowered brocade satchel and pushed the chair against her desk. As she started down the row of student desks, she paused at one that bore the freshly carved outline of an elk with huge antlers and body and tiny legs. She knew whose it was, and she was glad to see him finally take the challenge she'd given them to draw what matters most. Little Elk had steadfastly refused to use the charcoal or pencils she gave him for anything except scribbling across the paper until all the white was extinguished. She might as well have given him the cheap lined graph paper he could buy at the trading post, instead of the quality drawing pads she'd ordered from Omaha. Next year, if she was still teaching, she'd offer him wood-carving tools, yet even as she thought it, she knew it probably wouldn't happen.

“Mrs. Bennett? Dulcinea?” Rose stood in the doorway, arms hugging her chest as if it were February, not May.

“Rose.” Dulcinea peered into the hallway for Lily. The child was nowhere to be seen. Must be with her father, Some Horses. As she drew closer, Rose wouldn't meet her eye. Her face seemed swollen and chalky.

“What is it?” Dulcinea reached out, but her friend dipped away.
Dulcinea took a half step back, swung her satchel in front of her body, and held it with both hands while she waited.

“No one's talked to you yet?” Rose lifted her head and searched Dulcinea's face. Without waiting for an answer, she said, “They're dead. Both of them.” Her tone was harsh. Dulcinea didn't understand.

“What are you saying? Who's dead? Where?” She was seized by the image of Rose's daughter and husband lying in a pool of blood, but no, it was only a minute ago—

Rose tried to take a deep breath, but it seemed she couldn't. She brushed the tear from her cheek with the back of her hand and straightened her shoulders. Without looking at the other woman, she said, “My sister, Star, and your husband.”

Dulcinea felt the silence settle into her, as if everything in her body had stopped moving, and every sound in the room and outside ground to emptiness. If she did not take another breath, the stillness would make this bearable.

“They've been looking for you.”

“What?” Dulcinea couldn't understand what Rose was saying and didn't want her there anymore.

“Your people, the men at the ranch, they don't know where you are. My cousin heard about it in town yesterday and remembered you were up here. They buried him ten days ago. My sister was left out there—”

Dulcinea stared at Rose, and the other woman seemed older, dark circles under her eyes, her hair matted with grass and pine needles. She recognized that she should feel sympathy for her but couldn't move to express it or even open her mouth. Her chest was full, tight, and the noise rose up her throat, which tried to close against it, until a sound burst from her that was half howl, half sob, and still the tears would not come.

F
or ten days Drum ran them ragged, countering the orders Higgs gave the men at meals, directing Vera, too, though that didn't go well. Higgs smiled at the thought of Vera's stiff back and quick hands as she chopped potatoes for frying while Drum harangued, wheedled, flirted, and finally gave up trying to convince her to make him more doughnuts while he was laid up on the sofa with a broken ankle.

The boys were pushing at each other again, playing slap tag among the horses shifting nervously from leg to leg, tied to the corral, while the hands got ready to ride out for the day's work. Drum tried to send Cullen back to his ranch, but he refused. As Higgs watched, the boys swung up on their horses and spun them at the same time. Hayward took after J.B., tall, rangy, developing powerful shoulders and a broad back. He'd be grown in another couple of years, but what kind of man would he become without his father? What kind of man would either of J.B.'s sons become?

The boys glanced at each other, sat deep in their saddles, and put their spurs to their horses' sides, holding the reins tight so the animals
had nowhere to go but into the explosive bucking and rearing that followed.

“Damn it,” Higgs yelled. “I told you boys to leave those youngsters alone. You're wrecking perfectly good cow ponies with that nonsense!” He sent his horse loping toward theirs. The young horses stood, legs planted stiffly, heads thrown up, eyes rolling, bits foaming. “You think this is a goldarn game?”

The boys glanced at each other and grinned, then shook their heads and shrugged, more alike than anyone would have guessed despite being raised apart. The sun was coming up over the hills, a red-orange ball in clear blue light, promising a day of searing heat.

“You two are riding fence.” Higgs made an instant decision. “Go pack your gear, load Molly Mule.”

“Not her,” Hayward said. “It'll take forever.”

Higgs nodded. “Just what I was thinking. And those horses you're on better come back rode right and broke to death. Now get going.”

Head bowed, shoulders slumped, Cullen stepped off his horse and tied it to the rail. Maybe there was such a thing as breaking an animal too hard, Higgs thought. Hayward slid off the back end of his young horse, spooking it to kick, but the boy merely laughed, swatted it with his hat, and held on to the reins as the horse plunged and reared away from its tormentor. There was definitely such a thing as not being hard enough on a boy.

“Make quite a pair a hands, don't they?” Larabee stopped his horse beside Higgs and began to build a smoke.

“Week riding fence with that mule should take some stuffing outta them.” Higgs glanced at Larabee. “I been thinking we should take Graver with us today.”

“I'll get ole Sandy saddled up for him.” Larabee put the cigarette in his mouth, struck a wood match on his saddle horn, lit it, pulled a smooth lungful of smoke, and let it trail out slowly as they watched the boys try to lead, then push Molly Mule out of the corral.

“Them boys got a task ahead of 'em.” Larabee chuckled as the mule bit Hayward's shoulder and tore his shirt after he punched her nose. The boys stood off then, more respectful as the mule eyed them, teeth bared, ears flat. Then she dropped her head to snatch hungrily at the sparse weeds and grass.

“That Cullen thinks he's man enough to run this place, he has some to learn. I'm barely holding him back as it is. Less said about Hayward, the better.” Higgs heard the kitchen door shut and turned as Graver came walking out the yard gate, stopped, and stared across the ranch, taking in the big barn, stable, corral and dry lots, winter pastures, bunkhouse, toolshed, chicken coop, foreman's house, all nestled in the small valley between the grass-covered hills, sheltered from the worst of the winter wind and snow. Graver finally turned his gaze to the boys struggling to settle the pack frame on the mule. Without a word, he walked across the dusty barnyard and took the halter rope from Hayward, who was using the end to battle Molly's slashing head and teeth while Cullen tried in vain to snatch the cinch strap and draw it under her belly. Graver put out his hand to stop the boy. Cullen hesitated, and then stepped back with a shrug.

The mule went motionless, watched warily out of the corner of her eye as Graver reached out and rubbed her withers, working his fingers up her neck, pausing at the poll behind the ears to lift the leather halter so it wasn't cutting into her head, then sliding his fingers down her jaw, scratching his way under her chin and up her nose. She blew hard and sighed, and her left hip relaxed. Graver fashioned a quick rope halter that passed behind her ears and looped over her nose, rubbing and talking to her the whole time. Then standing by her head, facing her hind end, holding the halter under her chin, he flicked the rope end toward her haunch. She lurched, kicked out, and finally took a step forward, which he rewarded by rubbing her neck and head before asking for another step. This time she swung her hind end, fought to free her head, and bucked before she came forward. The command-praise ritual
was then repeated for a good half hour, until the mule complied and trudged forward whenever asked. The two boys watched until they grew bored and went to the bunkhouse for their bedrolls. By the time they returned, Graver had the pack frame secured and was attempting to lift the spool of barbed wire onto the mule's back with his one good arm.

Even from their distance, Higgs and Larabee could see the oily sheen on his pale face.

“You two take that wire and get that mule loaded,” Higgs yelled. Hayward opened his mouth to talk back, but Cullen elbowed him and together they lifted the wire spool and tied it on while Graver held the lead rope.

“Ungrateful little bastards didn't even thank him,” Larabee said.

“Saddle J.B.'s horse. Graver'll do fine,” Higgs said.

Larabee raised a brow. With a slight shrug, he lifted the reins and loped across the ranch yard to the dry lot where the red horse had stood since they brought back J.B.'s body two weeks ago.

As soon as the boys mounted and rode out, Molly Mule trotting behind them, her rolled eye showing white and head held out stiffly in front of her, Higgs walked to where Graver leaned against the side of the barn, head back, eyes closed.

“Ready for a ride?” Higgs asked.

“I reckon,” Graver answered without opening his eyes. “Got a hat I can borrow? Heat's already eating into my skull pretty good.”

“Did all right with that mule.”

Graver shrugged.

“Thought we'd go out there again, where you and J.B. ran into that trouble.”

Graver folded his arms and opened his eyes enough to see the foreman. “Why's that?”

“Something might come to you.”

“I didn't kill anybody.” Graver's voice was soft but firm.

“Black hat on the hook right inside the kitchen door. We'll meet you at the house with a horse.”

As soon as Graver started walking, Higgs noticed that he wore flat-heeled farmer's brogans. “Ask Vera, Mrs. Higgs, to fetch you a pair of boots, too.” No use in having a man dragged to death or worse if a horse shied and his foot went through the stirrup when he fell off.

B
efore he rapped on the door, Graver could hear the old man yelling and the sweet-voiced woman laughing. They'd been going at it since the day Drum Bennett was deposited on the overstuffed parlor sofa. Sometimes Vera's sweet tone took on a knife's edge and she'd cut the old man off at the knees; this was usually followed by a few hours of blessed quiet, during which Graver would be able to sleep.

“What does
he
want?” Drum yelled.

“Hush,” Vera hissed. Pushing the strand of damp hair off her forehead, she gave Graver a quick smile and tilted her head. Her eyes had a touch of green like the water in the hay meadows. Sometimes, when she was angry, a dark cast appeared like the morning sky before rain. She was a handsome woman with light tortoiseshell skin that shone in the new summer light. When he told her about the hat and boots, she hesitated, and then reached for a hat, quickly brushing the brim and crown and holding it up to glance inside. Before he put it on, Graver saw J.B.'s initials stamped in the leather sweatband, and paused. The hat fit perfectly.

As soon as she left to find him boots, Drum Bennett started in.

“You may have the rest of these farmers fooled, but I know you. I
know what you did. Don't think I'm not gonna do something about you soon as I'm on my feet again. Now take off my son's hat!” The old man's face had lost color, as well as some of its tautness, beginning to sag into wrinkles that made his threats seem more bluster than warning. Graver removed the hat and held it in both hands.

“Sir, I'm sorry you lost your son. It's a hard row to hoe. But I did not kill him, and I intend to find out who did. Same man shot me, a thing I cannot tolerate.”

The old man stared at him, as surprised at the length of the speech as anything he'd said.

“I just knew you'd grow to liking one another.” Vera bustled in clutching a pair of high black boots with long mule tabs. Almost new, they had a waxy shine and barely scuffed soles.

“Ma'am, I can't take those.” Graver started to back out the door.

“I don't have time to go looking again, Mr. Graver. I'm in the middle of making doughnuts, so you'll oblige me to take these boots and let me get back to my cooking.” She held the boots out with one hand and rested the other on her hip.

“Take the damn boots,” the old man growled. “Man's dead.”

Graver shook his head and took the boots. They fit just about as perfect as they could without being made for his feet. When he stood and stamped, driving his heel home, he straightened his back and shoulders, despite the twinge from the healing wound, and felt something new settle in his mind.

The chestnut kicked out behind as soon as it was asked to lope, and tried to put its head down to buck, but Graver was ready for it and sat light in the saddle, not giving the horse its head until it settled down to work. He felt the deep satisfaction that came from riding a good horse again, one with powerful hindquarters that reached under the body and a good sloping shoulder that grabbed at the distance. J.B. hadn't spoilt the horse's mouth either. The animal responded to the lightest touch on the reins, and Graver was careful
to sit back when he asked for a walk or a halt, the response was so immediate. He smiled in appreciation. For all he'd sacrificed to become a husband and father and farmer, this was probably the only thing he truly missed, but he rarely allowed himself to dwell on the series of choices and mistakes that had brought him to this desolate land.

The recent loss of his family overpowered any kind of regret and seemed petty compared to the lives he had seen finished. In the end, his wife hadn't asked anything of him, no terrible return to her hometown for burial, no message to her unforgiving family. How quickly we are taken, he remembered musing, and was then brought back by the wails of his small children as they passed. His wife had simply slipped under the dark waters of her death without a sound. They never had a chance. Their lives fluttered away like milkweed seed on the wind. He couldn't catch and hold a single one. Now, as then and the whole time afterward when he was digging their graves and burying them in the sand, and laying the rusty iron bed frame over them so the animals couldn't dig them up, he hadn't allowed the luxury of tears, of self-pity as it were, because he was alive, and he couldn't do a damn thing about it.

Graver couldn't help feeling that no matter what he did, he kept traveling the same circular road as they topped the hill and looked down at the windmill and water tank. The red horse snorted, tossed its head and reached its nose around to stare at his boot. Wrong man, it seemed to say. Graver felt an unnatural apprehension in his gut, as if he was about to hear gunshots echo in the still morning air and feel the bullet rip into his body again.

The grass was especially green here because of the water, and cropped by the cattle that came to drink and stood swatting flies. The herd was elsewhere this morning, though, and the men had the area to themselves. Other than that, it was the same as the day he was shot. What did Higgs want? Graver didn't have any answers, at least any he wanted to share, and he noticed that Higgs and Larabee had drawn up on either side of him as if to block an escape.

A meadowlark on one of the windmill struts puffed its chest and sang its courting song, then glared defiantly in case any other suitors showed. Graver thought of his wife's passion for drawing the creatures in the world around her, how heartbroken and brave she had been when the two oldest children had taken her box of pastels and scrubbed them on the table until there was nothing left. There was no money to replace them. After that she had drawn with pencils until they wore out, too. He watched her hands toward the end, anxiously sketching with her fingernail in the packed dirt by the fireplace, staring into the fire. While the fever was on her, she drew on the mattress ticking and the dirt floor, until her nails wore down, and her fingertips bled from the scraping. Even after he bound her hands, the motion continued, sometimes scrawling the air between them, sometimes the front of her nightgown, or the bed again. He was glad to burn the bedding when it was all over, afraid he might recognize the portraits.

He shook himself. Why had he never asked her if it was worth it, what she gave up for him? He knew he didn't want the answer, and was glad she never offered. The truth couldn't be known until the end of a person's life, and then what's the use. He should never have taken her love, like a gift that was out of proportion for the occasion. But it was a young man's mistake, one he'd never repeat. He wiped his face with his hand and wasn't surprised to find it sweaty. Ever since he was shot, he felt chills and twisting cramps in his gut like his body fought to rid itself of the poison. His mind wandered, too, right when he needed to pay attention to things at hand, like it was trying to trick him.

“Can you think of anything else about that day?” Higgs asked Graver while Larabee smoked and watched. Graver shook his head. A breeze drove the windmill blades, producing a high, persistent squeal, and then quit and they slowed to a stop. “Larabee, you got any grease on you?” Higgs asked. “Might as well fix that son of a bitch while we're here.”

The man sighed, finished his cigarette, and rubbed it out on the toe of his boot before climbing down and searching his saddlebag for an old tobacco tin.

“What's that?” Higgs asked with a frown.

“Hair grease, hand healer, leather protector, waterproofer, bag balm, wound dressing. Want some?” Larabee grinned.

Higgs waved his hand. “Get going.” He shifted his eyes to Graver. “You get down and show us how it happened. Every inch of it.”

“Thing is, my knee's been giving me fits lately, and climbing's . . .” Larabee stood next to his horse and glanced at the windmill as if it were a Wyoming mountain peak. Higgs snorted and shook his head.

“I'll do it,” Graver said.

“You up to a climb?” Higgs asked.

Graver maneuvered his horse to Larabee's side, took the can of grease, and headed for the windmill on the far side of the tank. Anything was better than acting out the shooting again. Maybe they were going to finish him here, the thought had occurred to him several times throughout the ride.

“Can't fault a man for wanting to work,” Larabee said as he stepped into the stirrup and settled back into the saddle.

“Hope that arm's healed enough. Hate to have you haul him back on your horse, you walking the whole way,” Higgs said.

“Looks like he's doing fine.” Larabee lifted his chin to the windmill, where Graver was straddling the crossarm and digging into the grease tin.

“You need to get back down there and start looking for clues,” Higgs said.

Graver slowly worked his way around the scaffolding of the windmill, pretending to examine the machine while he memorized the way the small hills folded into the larger ones that were actually sand dunes underneath a thin layer of soil and grass. To the east a
series of shallow hills like steps cut into the front of a tall hill. The killer must have waited there, Graver thought, where the grass was cropped short by his horse. He tried to remember the voice from that morning. At the time, he'd thought it was a young man, but maybe it was a woman? Or perhaps the shooter had been lying in an uncomfortable position, say on his back, where the soapweed took over the hillside. Person'd have to be cautious of rattlers sleeping in the shade of those wide stiff leaves. And the prickly pear cactus, the yellow blooms peeking out of the spiny ears, he'd have been careful not to roll or kneel in those.

Graver's fingers felt the gears, the drive shaft of the windmill, dry as a bone. He didn't remember that noise, but it must've been there. He peered closely at the housing for the drive shaft and saw that a stray shot had pierced the metal, allowing the grease to clog and dry. He stuck his finger in the hole and felt the bullet. Have to come back and dig it out, see which gun it came from. Had they saved the bullets from J.B.'s shoulder or checked his guns to see if he'd fired back? He quickly glanced over his shoulder. Higgs was focused on Larabee. Graver circled the windmill struts one more time, examining the murder site from every angle. The puzzle wasn't only J.B.'s shooting, it was the Indian girl's death as well. Why was she there? Where was her body now? And why had the shooter left him alive? For days, he was haunted, thought the killer might change his mind and come back for him. Another reason to figure this out, to be ready when the shooter realized his mistake. Then Graver had another thought—what if he tried to draw the killer toward him instead? First rule he'd learned in his past life: trust no one. Second rule: have a fast horse nearby. Always. He glanced at the chestnut gelding as it restively stamped and tossed its head against the no-see-ums chewing bloody clots in its ears. Third rule: stay out of family problems. Well, he'd blown that one to hell, hadn't he.

He tested the blades and was rewarded with a nearly noiseless
spin. He threw the grease tin to the ground and began his one-armed descent, pausing halfway to rest. His shoulder throbbed wildly. Dizziness came through his head in a wave and ate up the day around him. He closed his eyes and leaned his cheek against one of the main wooden supports. Be lucky not to end up with a face full of splinters like his hand. He should have asked for gloves, but he was so used to doing without that the thought hadn't occurred to him. He wished to hell he were someplace else. Wished he'd kept going that morning, hadn't been drawn into another man's fight. But now it was his fight, and no matter how he felt about the Bennetts, he had to help set things right. A vivid image of his wife and children suddenly swept over him, and he closed his eyes against the sudden moisture. When he reopened them a cloud of dust was rising to the top of the hill. He quickly jumped down and ran to his horse.

“Damn those boys!” Higgs stood in the stirrups. Graver sent his horse up the small rise behind him to see more clearly as cows and calves spilled down the hill and crowded the water tank.

Higgs removed his hat, bounced it against his thigh to clear the dust from the brim, put it back on, and gave the front a final tug to guarantee it was tight. “Nothing to see here now those cattle come through. Let's get back.”

“I need a job,” Graver said.

Higgs squinted at him and gave a short nod. “'Less you got a better offer, you can bunk here. Thirty a month and found to start.”

Graver glanced at Larabee's patched saddle and bridle, and the worn pants and shirt he wore. “I'm grateful for the offer, but . . .”

“Just stay until we get this killing sorted out, then.”

Graver nodded. He stared at the place he'd found the girl and the man that morning.

Larabee spoke up, “Wonder what J.B. was doing up here with that girl.” He glanced at Graver.

“Probably saw something, same as me.” Graver returned the look. “Where's the girl buried now?”

Larabee ducked his head and glanced at Higgs.

“We don't rightly know. Came back to get her and she was gone.” Higgs lifted his hat. “Can't put the rain back.”

Graver surveyed the little meadow one more time and wondered how it was the girl was gone. Did animals drag her off? Or did the shooter come back for her?