Jonis Agee - The Bones of Paradise

She always wanted to come home, always meant to explain her bargain with his father and listen to him explain his, waiting all the while for Drum Bennett to die. The old man drove them apart. It was his fault. They had both made a pact with a devil who knew them better than they knew themselves.

“Dear God,” she whispered. “I hate him.”

When her fingers pushed into the familiar grooves of the brush handle, she felt a light pressure back, and wondered if the long journey remained in the nerves of her body, and made her arms tingle as if someone stroked the fine hairs beneath her sleeves.

“You’re giving yourself the frights,” she scolded and rubbed at the tarnished silver back of the brush. She couldn’t remember why she’d left the set. She’d been so surprised when J.B. gave it to her in the middle of summer, the package arriving with canned foods and tools and barbed wire and barrels of kerosene from Babylon. He was not a man given to surprises, so she was moved beyond words when she opened the pale blue velvet half-moon box that contained the brush, comb, and mirror fitted in their watered-silk-lined berths.

The pressure on her fingers grew. She used her other hand to pry away the handle, and dropped the brush. Then the oversweet scent of iris rose from the table. She glanced in the mirror, then at the cut-glass perfume vials. Some were empty, others reduced or dried, as if the tops had been left off for days on end. Did he spoil them on purpose?

The scent of iris grew stronger, like the flowers were in the room. She leapt to her feet and rushed to the window to scan the ground outside: nothing but weeds in her old gardens. Then she remembered, she’d left when the dark purple iris heads had started to break open, the air heavy with their syrupy-sweet scent. The memory was like a blow to her back. She bent double and wept as she had when Rose first told her of J.B.’s death.

For two weeks, Dulcinea waited for word of her surprise to arrive. When Hayward burst into the house that morning with a message from the train station about the horses from Kentucky, gifts she’d bought for her husband and sons, she pushed aside her chores and ordered the runabout readied. She was sick to death of the constant thumping of Drum’s cane on the floor above with one damned demand or another, an hourly reminder that she had done nothing to remove his presence from her home and worse, to find her husband’s killer. The sheriff hadn’t made an appearance at the ranch either, and she intended to see him. She had interviewed the men and made Graver take her to the site of the killings, yet still had no clues, no place to start, while Drum’s lewd assertion about J.B. and the Indian girl sat like a jagged rock in her chest. Rose said ignore him and that he was a crazy old one, not worth the piss in his pants. But Rose wasn’t getting anywhere with her spying either. Apparently, no one on the ranch knew a thing. With spring roundup under way, the men had little time to devote to a mystery. Cow work always came first. That was going to change, the two women vowed. Rose had sent for her husband and daughter to meet them in Babylon, and Dulcinea had plans of her own.

The boys jumped at the chance to go to town, and with Graver along to bring back the wagon, she would arrive with her sons at her side to answer all the questions in the eyes of those who knew her story. She was home now. She was a mother again. She ignored the nagging reminder that the boys still showed no interest in her. Today at least, she could pretend. She glanced at the boys riding on either side of the runabout, their heads up, necks and shoulders stiff as they imitated the solidity of grown men—and her heart pumped wildly for a moment. They would be lovely, strong men like their father, she thought with a smile. He would have been proud.

As the horses trotted smartly under his hands on the reins, Graver pointed out items of interest as if Dulcinea and Rose hadn’t spent years riding these hills. Eventually the land flattened and houses staked out the road as they turned north down the main street, where the mercantile center was framed by a raised plank sidewalk on either side. Driven cattle herds had left the road splashed with sloppy green manure. Dulcinea glanced at Graver’s grim face. Did he expect her to raise a lavender-scented silk handkerchief to her nose, as her sisters or mother would? Instead she took a deep breath, shook her shoulders and head, and declared, “It’s a lovely day, is it not?”

He raised his brow and, in that moment, reminded her of J.B.—it was like a punch to her stomach. It happened that way. In the midst of a pleasant scene, she would be tossed back into a pool of grief. She breathed deeply and kept her eyes on Cullen, who was a small, wiry version of his father, but quicker, more agile. She had to get to know him better. Anything to keep her mind off the way Graver’s long fingers contained a certain beauty as they handled the reins with confidence. He was considerate of every creature, she observed, as she let her gaze drift to the profile of his sun-browned face framed by thick gray-streaked hair that hung unevenly below his black hat. His quick brown eyes caught every detail, and she saw the muscles in his neck and shoulders shift in response. A wheel of the runabout sank into a hole and briefly tilted her against him. She felt his arm tense to hold her upright as he whistled for the horses to pull harder. She leaned the other way and he let out a breath, and she knew right then that despite everything a time was coming for the two of them.

The livery stable and rail yard were a block west, then north again, but she had to visit the Cherry County Emporium first and pointed toward the massive storefront. Two ladies stopped and stared as they pulled up to tie the horses. Dulcinea glanced around; they were the only runabout or conveyance of any stature other than the ranch or farm wagons along the street. Single horses were in plenitude, ridden by men who appeared in striking similarity regardless of whether they were ranch hands or bosses, attired in worn pants and high-heeled boots, ranging from those with soles held to the foot with twine or wire or strips of rawhide to those whose scuffed appearance indicated they’d never made the acquaintance of polish. Graver’s tall, shiny boots were an exception.

Graver climbed down, unhooked the check reins, and tied the team to the railing. With a pat to each wide neck, he turned, and seemed uncertain whether to help her down. She solved the crisis by opening the knee-high door, unfolding the three steps with a shove of her boot toe, and descending with her skirts held above her feet the required six inches. Her mother would be proud that all the money spent on private tutoring had produced a lady able to exit a carriage on her own, even though she then stepped squarely into a cow patty with both feet, breaking through the dried crust to the green slop beneath. Only by the grace of God was she able to maintain her balance. When she laughed, Graver visibly relaxed and held out his hand, which she gratefully accepted.

She turned to her sons, who still sat on their horses watching the activity. They were half-grown children, she thought, what harm could find them here? “Boys, be back here in two hours. I’ll need your help then.”

Hayward nodded nervously and glanced at his brother. Cullen shrugged and dismounted.

“Take care of the horses,” she said to Graver, who rolled his lips and nodded. “I have a few errands.”

Graver stared at his boots an infuriatingly long time, then nodded again and turned toward the store.

“Where are you going?” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she knew the tone was all wrong.

“Vera gave me a list.” He smiled unexpectedly and her mouth responded before she could control it. He wasn’t afraid of her. He wasn’t even interested in keeping a job with her. Maybe Drum was right. Maybe he was the killer. Dulcinea noticed that Rose watched him closely from the back of the runabout, where she still sat, posed like a visiting dignitary.