Jonis Agee - The Bones of Paradise

“What was that, Cullen?” she yelled.

He glared at her and picked up a handful of the thick spongy black-green algae they’d set loose from the sides of the tank and threw it at his brother’s head.

Hayward shook it off and opened his eyes, blushed when he remembered he was naked. “We was just horsing around, Ma,” he said.

The stallion pawed the ground and snorted at the boys in the water he badly wanted. “We have to water the horses, son. Can you step out?”

She ignored Cullen, who lay back and exhaled all the air in his lungs so he could sink to the bottom of the tank. The tips of his pink toes were the last she saw of him. Was he holding his breath? Three bubbles burst on the dark surface amid the islands of algae gathered there.

“I hope you boys checked that tank before you climbed in.” She sounded prim, motherly, and hoped Cullen could hear her underwater. “I wouldn’t want you getting sick from swimming with dead animals.”

Cullen burst to the surface, spit a stream of water that hit his brother in the face, and flung a handful of bottom muck writhing with pale pink worms. Hayward howled and lunged for him and the two thrashed until they tired of the game and leaned back in the water again.

“Boys, we need to water our horses.” Chance had moved his mare closer and she fidgeted with thirst.

Cullen stood and water streamed from his bare bronzed shoulders and head, as if he were Poseidon, angered enough to send their ship onto the rocks. The illusion was brief but lasting. In his streaming locks and enraged eyes she glimpsed an ancient, unforgiving god: the betrayed child.

“Would you mind closing your eyes?” Hayward asked. From the noise that ensued, she gathered they climbed out and drew on their clothing, so it was a shock when she opened her eyes and found Cullen sitting naked on a blanket, rolling a cigarette while Hayward finished buttoning his blue shirt.

She couldn’t tell if it was disappointment in Cullen’s eyes when she ignored him and urged the stud forward to drink. He focused his attention on striking the match off his saddle horn and touched the flame to his cigarette. Drawing deeply, he held the smoke in his lungs and eyed the glowing tip, then let it out gradually with a long exhaling breath. He could hold his breath longer than anyone she’d ever known. When did he learn to do that?

A dark shadow came over them as the clouds along the western horizon that earlier only threatened flooded the sky overhead, moving swift as water overflowing a dam. Dulcinea searched for Rose, but she must’ve already headed back.

“Storm coming!” she shouted. A gust of wind bearing the moist breath of rain pushed the grazing horses away from the boys, and they grabbed for the trailing reins. While Cullen quickly dressed, Hayward held the horses with one hand and tried to saddle his animal with the other, but they edged in a circle. Then lightning flashed down on the hill behind them, leaving the air tinged with sulfur, and the distant rumblings of thunder walking the hills suddenly cracked like cannon fire.

Cullen grabbed his horse, quickly saddled it, and then helped Hayward with the skittish gelding. The boys were careful to wrap their guns in the waterproof sheets of their bedrolls. Dulcinea wondered why they needed all those guns. Were they frightened of whoever killed their father? Then a horrible thought struck her: What if they were involved somehow? She could almost imagine Cullen . . .

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sudden cloudburst, a downpour so heavy they had to ride side by side to not lose sight of each other. None of the horses were savvy enough to find their way back to the ranch house, and they had to rely on their own senses. By the time they reached the stable, horses and humans alike were shaking with cold.

Some Horses appeared at Dulcinea’s side, quietly took her reins, and motioned toward the door with his chin. “Did Rose come back with you?” he asked.

“I, I don’t know—” She turned to go back out as Rose rode into the barn, ducking low through the doorway, water streaming off horse and rider. “I thought you were ahead of us,” Dulcinea said.

Rose shrugged and wouldn’t look at her as she unsaddled and rubbed down the horse, steaming in the close air of the barn. Some Horses threw hay into the stalls as the boys looked after their own horses. In the semidarkness of the stable Dulcinea became aware of Chance standing beside his shivering animal, waiting.

He caught her eye. “If your man is finished there . . .” He held out the reins as Graver led in his own soaked horse, followed by a stranger.

“A man takes care of his own animal in this part of the country,” Graver said with a hint of amusement in his voice. He unfastened the cinch of his saddle, lifted it off the horse’s back, and hung it over the rail with the others. Every motion was fluid and precise, nothing extra, and Dulcinea had to admit, it defined him in a not-unpleasant fashion. The wet shirt outlined his lean muscular torso and made her turn away. For ten years she’d been alone, a voice in her head intoned, wasn’t that long enough?

The lawyer unsaddled the mare while the stranger took his horse to an empty stall.

“When in Rome, Mr. Chance, when in Rome.” The stranger had a loud, clear voice just this side of booming.

“Judge Foote?” Chance turned and stared.

“In the flesh,” he said and flung the saddle over the rail as if it were a handkerchief rather than fifty pounds of soaked leather. He was a tall, broad man who had to duck his head slightly in the stall area with its low ceiling. Everything about the judge was large, even his full face and the thick gray-streaked blond hair he always forgot to cut so it hung well below his chin and he had to constantly tuck it behind his ears. His wide hazel eyes made a person feel scrutinized, catalogued, and shelved. She’d heard he was a man with an extraordinary education and an even better sense of recall for both spoken and written language. He was reputed to be careful and thorough with no tolerance for ignorance. His big solid jaw looked like it could break a fist, and his large mouth and formidable nose made for an arresting face. It was said that he still broke his own horses, and little wonder. She watched his big, capable hands wipe down his animal, straightening the mane and pulling burrs from the tail, all while patting and rubbing and talking in a low, reassuring voice until the animal sighed and commenced eating. Then he checked the water bucket, saw it was full, and left the stall.

“You run a tight ship, ma’am,” he said. His eyes were bright as a bird’s and when he smiled he had big horse teeth, stained like a horse’s, too. “Judge Clayton Foote. And you would be the redoubtable Mrs. J. B. Bennett.” He bowed slightly and when she offered her hand, he pressed it to his lips in a courtly fashion. “If I could trouble you for a place to dry off? I was riding out to see you when the storm broke. Fortunately, I ran into Mr. Graver here and he brought me in. Couldn’t see a damn . . . sorry . . . darn thing.”

“I’d be most happy if you’d stay the night, sir.” She turned to the lawyer. “You’re welcome to stay, too.”

She looked at Graver, who was searching for a burlap bag to dry his horse. “Perhaps Mr. Graver will join us for supper?” She didn’t know what possessed her, but it was worth it to note the irritation on Chance’s face.

“I’m not dressed for company, ma’am,” Graver said.

As they walked to the house under the clearing sky, Graver touched her shoulder and she paused to let the men pass.

“I mean I don’t have any business with those men,” he said with a pained expression on his face. Western men and their peculiarities.