Jonis Agee - The Bones of Paradise

“She was fourteen. Tiny slip of a thing . . .” Drum grinned, as ugly as he knew how, like he’d just made her stick her hand in a gunnysack full of rattlesnakes. “What do you think of that, sister?” He rubbed the thigh of his good leg and chuckled. She closed her eyes and turned her face from his. That kind of meanness needed a witness to really be enjoyed. Cullen squeezed the back of her neck with his hand and remained silent.

A part of her knew J.B. deserved more happiness than their miserable meetings offered, but a child? J.B.? Rose said her sister was a good girl. Why would Drum lie, unless he was responsible.

Drum glanced at Cullen. “He’s not coming to live with you, you know that, don’t you?” Drum’s mood and tone changed abruptly and Cullen began to prowl the room again. “Don’t bother pretending, sister. I know why you’re here. That boy is mine, that’s all I have to say on the subject. You’d have him ruint in a month. Turn him weak and mewly like J.B. was until you left. Took him a while, but he grew a pair and managed to keep this place going. More than I predicted.” He paused and looked out the window at the ranch yard, where the hands were gathering for supper.

“What have you done to find his killer? Anything? Or have you been sitting here planning on how you’re going to take over everything J.B. and I built?”

Drum almost flinched, his face reddened. Cullen stopped at the end of the sofa and watched her, the drink halfway to his mouth.

“I sent men out to look.” Drum stared at his hands, his mouth a grim line.

She stood and paced between the kitchen and living room, hands clutched in front of her as if she were going to be sick. Her mind flooded with protest and argument, but it did no good. Not now. Not then when Drum arrived that morning for his “legacy,” as he called it. Family curse was how she’d always referred to it, as if the vampire of Bram Stoker’s novel had come to life in the Sand Hills of Nebraska, a place so remote the rest of the state rode out of its way to avoid it. There was no justice here. They were all merely blooded creatures waiting for the fatal bite. Even J.B., the man who loved her more than she loved herself, could not change his father’s mind. And so she was forced to leave without him ever knowing she paid for his safekeeping, and the price became her burden, the forfeiture of their future together.

She stopped behind the chair she had sat in and clutched the back. Cullen had returned to his father’s office for another brandy and stood in the doorway drinking and watching them.

“I will find out who murdered my husband. You don’t need to concern yourself. He would want it that way. He never trusted you, Drum. Not for a minute. I wouldn’t be surprised if you were the one pulled the trigger. If you did, I’ll hang you out there myself.” She pointed to the cottonwoods behind the barn.

“Just because you’re the cow standing in the pigsty don’t mean you’re not dirty, missy.” Drum used both hands to lift the splinted leg, pivot, and ease it to the floor, grimacing at the effort that brought sweat to his pale cheeks and the backs of his hands.

“Here, Cullen. Put that glass down and help me. I got to visit the outhouse,” he yelled, then glanced toward the homemade crutches at the end of the sofa. He wouldn’t ask. He studied the table blocking his access. His only choice was to hobble around it. Somehow he pushed himself upright, swaying with the bad leg propped out in front of him, balancing with his arms outstretched, on one foot, like a man on a wire in the circus. The first hop on the good foot brought his toe under the braided rug and he crashed to the floor, crying out as he tried to twist away from the broken ankle, resulting in a loud snap as his arm broke beneath the weight. Cullen drained his glass, set it down, and hurried over to help.

Dulcinea was on her feet before she could stop herself. Shifting him to lie on his back, she accidentally grabbed the hand of the injured arm, and moved the bone with a grating sound. He moaned through gritted teeth.

“Lie still!”

“Help me, boy,” Drum groaned.

Cullen rocked back on his heels and looked at his mother, the amusement again in his eyes as he raised his brows. She nodded and together they tried to raise the old man to a seated position. When that failed, she rose and went to the door to call for men to help. Rose was still at the gate, holding the horses. Both looked played out from the long, fast ride, their heads down, coats rough with dried sweat. She watched as the hands started for the house and then paused at the door to peek at the scene inside, uncertain what was expected of them.

“What happened?” Vera asked as soon as she pushed her way through the crowded doorway, followed by her husband, who stepped forward and knelt beside the old man.

“Frank Higgs, ma’am. We met in town couple years ago?” The foreman tipped his hat to Dulcinea.

“Still have to go out back,” the old man muttered as Higgs directed the men to lift him. “That damn woman did this to me! Keep her away from me!”

“I told you to use the night jar,” Vera scolded.

“He needs to go home,” Dulcinea said. “I don’t want him in my house.”

Her words were greeted with expressions ranging from surprise on Frank and Vera’s faces, to bemusement on Cullen’s, and finally to fleeting triumph on Drum’s, before he fainted in their arms.

She blew in like a hard west wind, the kind that dropped a man’s bones to zero, froze his hair to his skull, and clogged his eyes with ice. Graver shook his head at the scene. The old man on the floor, pee darkening his trousers and the braided rug beneath him, Vera and Frank Higgs standing helpless while the widow paced, her small black kid button boots thudding firmly on the parlor rug, her arms folded, as if Drum Bennett’s every ragged breath caused her affront. In a plain gray bodice and full skirt, Dulcinea Bennett was a handsome woman with only a few small lines at the edges of her light brown eyes. There was a rich glow to the strands of auburn hair falling out of her chignon. She possessed a slender build that spoke of inner force, more than equal to her father-in-law, Graver suspected. She appeared cool despite the heat that put a moist sheen on everyone’s face. He wondered what made her leave her family.

Higgs called Larabee and Willie Munday to move Drum upstairs. Cullen followed.

“I don’t see why he can’t stay on the sofa,” Mrs. Bennett muttered to their retreating backs.

“Hard to keep that arm right,” Graver said, intending to elaborate from his own experience until she caught him in a gaze that would freeze a man on a hot stove. She was definitely Drum Bennett’s equal, and certainly more than Graver could handle.

“And who are you?” She stopped behind the rocker, her hands gripping the black lacquer. He noticed they were the kind of hands that had seen work, the nails short and irregular despite the small thin fingers. On her left hand, she still wore her wedding band. Well, Graver thought, that was something.

“Sir?” She tapped her fingers against the back of the chair. She was like an overbred mare, likely to bolt at any moment, not reliable enough to work except maybe as a fancy horse some lazy owner could step out for show. She opened her mouth to address him again, but he interrupted with a wave of his hat.

“Ryland Graver, ma’am, Ry.” She closed her eyes and nodded.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. Shall I fetch you a glass of water?” He moved toward her with the intention to catch her if she fainted, but she waved him away.

“Please. Get yourself some water.” She opened her eyes and tried to smile. It came out a tired grimace. “I just need to know who my employees are and what jobs they perform.” She inspected him, dressed in J.B.’s clothes, from the tall boots to the black shirt to the new black hat that Graver worked hard to keep the dust from settling into. “Judging from your attire, I’d say you have some elevation above the other men. So I repeat my request, what do you do here, on J.B.’s, our, ranch?”