Jonis Agee - The Bones of Paradise

Dulcinea frowned and slipped the bit in the stallion’s mouth. “Seems a long way to come for a pleasure ride.”

They took the cow path to the southern pastures to run the horses, then paused to let them catch their breath at the top of a hill that offered a view of the vast hay marsh and grassland stretching into the distant horizon.

“You sit a horse well, Mrs. Bennett.” Percival Chance touched the brim of his hat as he pulled up alongside them. She ignored the comment.

“Our land stretches from the Dismal River almost to the Niobrara, Mr. Chance. What is it you’re looking for?” She squeezed the reins to maintain the stud’s attention. She realized with a growing unease that the lawyer’s keen eye missed nothing as he searched the hills. Rose followed some distance behind.

The lawyer peered across the land. From his good but worn clothing, his air of educated romance, it was clear that this was a man seeking a way home, but first he must procure his fortune—an old story in the West. The roads to the Black Hills gold were strewn with skeletons of horses and mules and oxen driven to death in the mad hurry to reach men’s destiny. Furniture discarded, empty barrels, crates of clothing and mementos, even toys left behind once the babe itself was gone. It was a hard land for those without patience. Time ruled this land, and in time everyone was wounded, and everything of value disappeared.

But in time, everything was born again, J.B. replied in her head, a man so in love with the Sand Hills and their vast silence that he allowed his father to take his oldest son to avoid an argument that would bring words into being that could not vanish, that hung in the air forever. In the hills grudges never died, they remained as they took place, as the words were uttered, since there was nowhere for them to go, nothing to break them apart, the soft edges of the hills offered nothing hard enough to smash the anger, nothing sharp enough to cut through the Gordian knot, so it lived fresh, undeniable as the first day. In the hills there were only first days, no history. Nothing was allowed to die. They marked time by the growing list of wrongs until its weight pulled them under and they vanished, smothered with the breath of sand in their mouths. “Don’t leave me here,” she had told J.B. before the birth of Hayward. “If I die, don’t put me in this ground. Build me a mausoleum, limestone or granite, something that will stand aboveground. Don’t consign me, J.B., don’t.”

He had smiled. “You don’t understand this place, dear.”

The contractions began in earnest then and soon enough the baby was born, in its own bloody sac, relentless and loved and given utterly to the destroying world. How could she leave him? That day she saw that nothing she did could stave off the future, the grinding of time that would yield him up to a fate already determined and inexorable; although she kept both boys as close as possible, they were already not hers. Drum made sure of that.

“You’re thoughtful today, Dulcinea,” Chance said, crowding her with his horse’s body. The stallion lifted his back, arched his neck, and blew softly out his nostrils, his shoulders breaking into a sweat, foam on the bit flecking her dark brown riding skirt.

“I’m wondering when you’re going to share the nature of your visit,” she said. “And if you don’t move that mare, you’re going to find yourself under my horse’s hooves.” She glanced behind to catch sight of Rose, who kept her distance. She could feel there was something wrong about the lawyer, but couldn’t quite put her finger on it yet. When she asked about his investigation into J.B.’s death, Chance made vague references to Indians who held a grudge against him and white people in general. When she asked, “Not my boys?” he smiled and shrugged, leaving her angry and uncomfortable.

They wove around patches of prickly pear cactus. She had it in mind to send the men out to dig it up and burn it, even though the fruit was palatable to man and beast alike. Eventually the grass would give way to the cactus.

“I hope my presence affords you some comfort, Mrs. Bennett. I know you to be a capable, intelligent woman, but out here—” He stretched his arm to include the undulating sea of green before them. The grass was alive with the buzzing and sawing of insects and birds, and the wind only a faint brush across the bridge of her nose, the lobes of her ears, not enough to even ruffle the horses’ manes. Above them, the sky was a soft, pleasant blue, despite the line of thick, dark clouds to the west. They got their weather from Wyoming and their trouble from Omaha, hills people said.

“You are alone, and there are forces arrayed against you.” He clasped his hands around the saddle horn and let his horse drop her head to graze, a freedom Dulcinea never allowed the stallion. He chomped the bit impatiently and shifted his weight from foot to foot. Dulcinea squeezed her calves, picked up the reins, and resettled him.

“And isn’t this a pleasant day,” she said with a toss of her head.

“If you will allow me to—”

“I wonder what Vera has planned for supper?” She turned and smiled brightly at him. He looked at his hands, sighed, and shook his head. Rose drew up a few yards behind them and watched.

“Okay.” He lifted his rein hand and dropped it back on the saddle horn with a dramatic sigh. “I’ve been retained to look at the oil and gas resources out here. On your land there’s a possibility.” He gazed at her, his eyes reluctant.

Holding up her hand, she said, “Surface rights only? Mineral rights too?” She looked at the crest of the stud’s neck and repositioned a handful of white mane that had flopped to the other side. “Or do they want the entire ranch?”

He shook his head again, and she touched her heels to the stud, eased down the slope of the small hill and up another. The lawyer was on her heels, choosing to be quiet for a change, a blessing, since she needed time to understand this new problem. She had no doubt he had found evidence that supported the purchase of her land. For a fleeting moment, she considered inviting her father for a visit to help, but truth be told, she wasn’t certain she could trust him not to cheat her when it came to making a fortune, especially now that he needed money after the stock market’s ups and downs. It would be worth it to see Drum and her father go head to head like bull elks. Very western. Very Shakespearean. Chance was an opportunist with a minor role, she decided. She’d have to meet the people behind him on top of her other problems.

When they came around the turtlebacked hill, the horses cantered eagerly to slake their thirst. Her two boys romped naked in the water tank, their horses grazing nearby, clothes in a heap beside saddles flung carelessly to the ground. Only their pistols and rifles were placed carefully within reach.

Their well-muscled bodies gleamed in the sunlight, Cullen the slighter of the two, wiry, while Hayward was taller, rangier, despite being younger. While they watched, Cullen jumped on Hayward’s back and pushed his head under water with all his weight on his brother’s shoulders. Hayward flailed while Cullen laughed but did not ease. Any moment he’ll let him up, she thought, and her chest squeezed so tight she could barely raise her arm to shout and wave while she spurred her horse toward the tank.

When he saw them, Cullen frowned and flung himself into the water, letting his legs float up as he laid back so only his head and toes were visible. Hayward jumped up, sputtering and thrashing, staggered to the rim of the tank and threw up over the side, then laid his cheek against the top of the tank with his eyes closed, breathing raggedly while Dulcinea drew her horse to a stop facing the two boys.