Jonis Agee - The Bones of Paradise

“Marry the murderer of my husband?” She clenched the edge of the table, ready to leap at him. For his part, Drum’s head snapped up and he stared at her in shock.

“No,” he groaned, “I never—”

She leaned back in her chair, watching him.

Stillhart finally filled the awkward silence. “We’re aware of your financial situation, Mrs. Bennett. J.B. was trying to ride out the poor markets like everyone else, and he would’ve made it if, well, if he hadn’t been sending you such a generous allowance.” Here the banker’s eyes slid toward Drum and back, a move as quick as a lizard’s tongue. “He wound up selling off that piece on the other side of the Dismal River, and I know for a fact he was facing having to sell a thousand-acre parcel this fall if he couldn’t ship again.” He held up his hand, and then let it slap the table to quiet Drum. “You need to sign the contract, Mrs. Bennett. It just doesn’t make sense that you won’t.”

He had a kind face, one that was interested in the experiences of others, but his mouth was thin and set, and his eyes stared at her blank as a grasshopper’s. Was she food or was she food? He reminded her of the traveling dentist who visited the ranch years ago, who sat each of them in a straight chair and tapped each tooth with a metal pick, asking, does that hurt, does that hurt? The dentist had some kind of sweet scent on his breath, a combination of licorice and clove, and when his tap produced a howling nerve, the smell made her want to vomit. She wanted to vomit now.

She gave J.B.’s ring a vicious turn on her thumb and felt her finger grow slick. “To tell you the truth, I guess I need to think about it.” She gazed at the mannequin faces. “Just a day or two.”

She pushed back her chair. This time Chance didn’t attempt to stop her as she crossed the small distance to the door. She paused with a hand on the knob, glanced at the men, and left. They had her and they knew it. She wanted to sign, she wanted to, but something stronger told her no. Maybe it was Graver, who had reminded her that they would tear this land apart, J.B.’s land, their land, the fragile Sand Hills she loved as much as she hated for what they had cost her.

And Drum’s offer was monstrous. Even if he didn’t kill his son, he didn’t protect him as he’d promised.

Underneath all of her protests, though, remained her desperation, pinching, gathering her corners and pulling them in so tight she could barely move or breathe, as if she would die of suffocation. What could she sell? The stallion and mares wouldn’t bring money out here—people would laugh at her. Jewels? She never cared for jewelry. How did J.B. have the cash to buy that telescope? She could sell that, except the image of Hayward fascinated by the possibility of the night sky intruded. Her parents? Never. She hadn’t asked them for money since she left home to marry. She was a grown woman. Besides, her father had to borrow most of her money over the past few years. Then she remembered the men who worked for her, trusted that if she used their backs, she would uphold her end of the bargain and pay them. Graver said he would work without pay, he was used to starving, but she had seen the condition he was in when shot and she couldn’t push him back to that. She’d have to sell a parcel of land, as J.B. had done, but the idea brought the memory she worked so hard to forget: the day she learned about the contract. No, she couldn’t sell the land piece by piece, she couldn’t even sell the ranch . . . then it would all mean nothing, her son’s life, her husband’s, her sacrifice, nothing.

Graver found her standing in front of the bank, arm clutched around her stomach, face damp and pale. Was she fevered? He placed a hand under her elbow and led her down the street to the café, took a table against the back wall, where he could observe anyone who entered the otherwise empty room. He ordered tea, which he thought she’d appreciate, but she shook her head and asked for a glass of water. When the girl brought it, Dulcinea nodded to the counter where the headache powders and stomach relief medicines sat in a dusty glass case, and pressed her fingers to the side of her head and closed her eyes. The girl quickly brought the powders, which Dulcinea dissolved in her glass and drank with a grimace.

Graver kept his eyes on the front window, watched Drum Bennett limp past in more of a hurry than he should be, followed by the judge and Harney Rivers. Now what were they at? As he considered the possibilities, he noted that dust coated several tables along with the corners of the room, where the mop pushed the dark, greasy dirt. Not enough business these days with the stock market up and down. Took longer for things to recover out here. Folks couldn’t afford to spend their dimes and dollars on extras like a meal or even a cup of coffee they didn’t prepare themselves, especially during the fair and rodeo. That brought him back to Dulcinea and the ranch. He’d shouldered the burden of running the place, but how the hell was he supposed to do that with no money? He glanced at Dulcinea, who watched him with a slight smile on her face, and he felt the heat rise up his chest.

“I’m better now,” she said.

He considered his next words, then decided to go for broke. “I was thinking we might could go to the festivities. Rodeo starting soon.” He cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders. “I gave the men the day off. They’re wanting to rodeo and, well, it sort of makes up for our being late with their wages.” He paused and stared into the cold tea, the film forming in the cup he held between both hands. He’d paid their entry fees with the very last of his money but didn’t tell her that.

“They’re wanting to know about entering the horse race. They won’t go through with it if, if it seems wrong to you.” He watched her carefully as she pressed a trembling hand to her forehead.

She poured herself a cup of tea from the flowered pot in front of them. After a sip, she shook her head and pushed her tongue between her teeth as if to dislodge the taste.

“What does Hayward want to do?” she asked, listless.

Graver raised his brows, glanced out the window, and caught sight of Rose carrying Mrs. Bennett’s satchel, followed at some distance by Percival Chance.

He shrugged. “Far as I know, he’s entered. Don’t know what he intends to ride, he and his brother—” There, he’d done it. He swallowed and picked up his cup and put it down again.

As if she’d been waiting for the words, she immediately announced, “He will ride my stallion.” Her face hardened with decision.

Graver shook his head. “No, ma’am.”

She tried to stiffen, and couldn’t. Graver hated seeing her this way.

“He’s at the livery stable.” She gathered her string bag and prepared to rise. He put a hand on her arm. She looked down at it, and her expression softened.

He stumbled on the words. “If I may, I might could accompany you to the rodeo, Mrs. Bennett.” He felt his face redden and tried to steady his hand, but something about her made him jumpy as a green colt.

She stared at him a moment. “Of course.”

He removed his hand and picked up his hat. “I took the liberty of asking Rose to bring you more suitable clothes.” He glanced at her dress. She always appeared so darn, what, he didn’t know, but he liked it. He chastised himself, the woman was in mourning.

She picked up the skirt of her black dress and let it drop, then brushed at the front. “I suppose this would be a bit dampening on the festivities.” She shrugged then as if she understood that wearing black couldn’t do a damn thing to change the fates of her husband and son. She looked out the window. “I’ll see if there’s a room I can use at the hotel. They usually keep one for the Bennetts.” She tilted her head and glanced at him with the slightest hint of flirtation in her eyes. “I can see myself to the hotel, if you’ll come for me in half an hour?”