Jonis Agee - The Bones of Paradise

Cullen waved Rose off and gave the banker’s young friend a glass of whiskey. He smiled, took the book from her, and opened it casually as if thoroughly acquainted with its contents. He stopped at a page and read lines to her, his eyes overly bright, until she retrieved it and placed it on the table. He leaned close, said something, then weaved his way toward J.B.’s study, and the young woman followed without a backward glance.

“Now what do you make of that?” Tookie asked between pieces of fry bread. She chewed with her mouth slightly open, then drained the glass of sherry.

Dulcinea shook her head. “Did you catch her name?”

Tookie shrugged. “You know I ain’t good at this social business, Dulcie. Evan might’ve. He has an eye on her, too. Young Cullen’s getting to be quite a ladies’ man, though. Have to give him that. Just like J.B.” She glanced at Dulcinea’s face and reddened. “Didn’t mean—”

Dulcinea lifted her chin and smiled. “That’s okay. I know J.B. could be very charming.”

Tookie’s eyes widened with sympathy and she awkwardly patted the other woman’s arm with a hand as big as a draft horse hoof. “You’re a good woman, Dulcinea, no matter what anyone around here thinks. I always liked you. J.B., he, well, he missed you every day of his life, well, you know.”

Dulcie covered her hand with her own. Her arm was growing numb from the attentive patting, and she murmured, “Thank you,” when what she wanted to do was yell at the top of her lungs, Then why didn’t he stop me from leaving? Why didn’t he go get our son? As if on cue, Drum limped over, his eyes bright with contention, the heated oak of whiskey rolling off him, which surprised her. He’d always been a man who could hold his liquor. Perhaps his recent injuries had caught up with him. When he spoke, his voice was the same old Drum with not a splinter of weakness.

“Miss Edson.” He wiped his hand across the front of his worn but clean gray chambray shirt. “Mind if I have a word with my daughter-in-law? She’s spending so much time entertaining her men guests these days, we don’t get much opportunity to discuss the ranches.”

Tookie glanced at her and went to join her brother, who was talking to Chance and Stillhart, the banker. Rose thrust the tray of drinks among them and they each took one, Tookie choosing whiskey instead of sherry and Chance choosing sherry instead of whiskey.

Drum cleared his throat to capture her attention again.

“What is it?” she asked. He continued to massage his chest as if his undershirt was too tight.

“You would, would you?” He kept his voice so low she could barely hear him above the din of the other conversations and whiskey-loosened laughter.

“Would what?”

He glared at her, digging his fingers into his chest. “Make this deal without even talking to me!” He stared as venomous as a snake in the blind. “After all this family has done for you, too!”

“Stop right there!” She kept her voice to a whisper. “I haven’t any idea what you’re talking about. And I don’t need to hear any sanctimonious nonsense either, from you of all people!”

Apparently her anger got through to him because he stopped his chest kneading and rocked back on his boot heels and peered at her, cagey eyes half-squinted. “You swear?”

She started to turn, but he grabbed her upper arm and squeezed so hard she winced.

“You swear they haven’t gotten to you yet?”

“I swear if you don’t let go of my arm I’m going to punch you in the nose, Drum Bennett!” When he released her, she added, “And no, no one has spoken to me about anything other than the pleasantries of the day. What are you talking about?” It was no secret the old man was growing more suspicious with age, and for a person who started out that way, he didn’t have far before plain crazy. Of course, Chance mentioned the oil business, but she wasn’t about to share that. Again, she wondered if Drum had killed his own son in a fit of suspicious rage.

Cullen interrupted them, striding in from the study with the young woman behind him, waving his arms and raising his voice. “It’s all settled! This ranch is going to be the site of the first drilling in the Sand Hills, thanks to Western Oil and Gas.” He looked toward them and grinned as if he’d won the prize money at the ranch rodeo. “Let’s raise a toast to Markie Eastman and her father, who can’t be here!” His voice rose and cracked at the end, but he was drunk enough not to care as he grabbed a tumbler from Rose’s tray and hoisted it above his head, slopping whiskey onto his coat sleeve.

“No, damn you.” Drum clenched his fists. Cullen grinned, his eyes dancing wildly at his grandfather. “I’ll fix you, you little shit,” Drum cursed under his breath.

The company stared at Cullen and a few hesitantly lifted their glasses, until Hayward interrupted the celebration from the doorway.

“That’s all fine and dandy, Cullen”—Hayward paused and looked at Drum and his mother—“but you don’t own this ranch. Mother does. And even if she doesn’t, I do, and I won’t have anything to do with Western Oil and Gas.” He paused again and tilted his head as he stared at his brother. “But you knew that, didn’t you? That’s why you snuck off to town today.”

Cullen grinned, slugged the whiskey and let the glass drop from his hand to the floor, where it rolled without breaking. “Little brother.” He shook his head. “Little brother.” His jaw tightened.

“Cullen, we have guests. Stop making a spectacle of yourself.” Dulcinea kept her voice low and full of the motherly authority they both knew she lacked.

“Son . . .” Rivers stepped forward and placed a hand on Cullen’s shoulder. The boy shrugged it off, and his face went from red to white, which meant he would explode any minute. The young woman grabbed his wrist and spoke into his ear, and that finally stopped him.

As he pushed his way through the guests, shouldering Drum aside as if he were a wisp of straw, Cullen gave his mother a look so filled with loathing it punched her breath away. She clutched her stomach and forced herself to breathe as he stormed out the door, cracking the glass when he slammed it. The sound would stay with her forever, so clearly did it mark the end of one part of her life and the beginning of another.

Drum was suddenly the congenial one, murmuring apologies to one and all, coaxing them to the supper table while she stood alone watching, not quite able to grasp what had happened.

Finally Hayward offered her his arm and led her to the head of the table opposite Drum, who wouldn’t look at her. The old man was always a surprise. In the years she’d known him, she never suspected he had a social bone in his body. Watching him tell a story to Rachel Rivers, she realized he had known about the deal Cullen made. He was probably most upset that she would authorize it without his say-so. Who else knew besides Rivers, Drum, Cullen—ah, yes, Judge Foote.

The dinner progressed with small talk and food she couldn’t taste.

Hayward, seated on her right, leaned over and repeated his promise of that afternoon. “It’ll be fine, Mother. Don’t worry.”

She dipped her head and peered at her son and managed a smile. “Of course it will, dear.” What she couldn’t say was that she would never rely on another man to take care of her.

He reached for the wine bottle and poured her glass too full, but she didn’t correct him. She had to raise it with both hands to keep from spilling. As she drank, she caught Judge Foote’s eyes on her. She did nothing to acknowledge him and he turned to speak to Markie Eastman at his side, who seemed to have a way of flattering men without simpering or flirting, and the judge straightened and beamed at her remarks—becoming more of a man, just as Cullen had for that brief, jubilant moment.