Jonis Agee - The Bones of Paradise

When he arrived, Graver was clean-shaven and wore a sky-blue shirt he’d bought from the peddler in July. The stiffness made him itch and he tugged on the cuffs of the too-short sleeves. It was the only shirt that fit his chest and shoulders once they filled to their former size with the extra food he’d eaten these past few months. The stiff collar creaked against his neck and he retied the dark-blue-and-black-figured scarf he wore underneath. He had half a mind to take the whole rig off and dump it in the water trough and start over, but he wanted to avoid shaming the boss. She was a handsome woman after all.

When Graver saw her standing with Drum Bennett without doing the old man any bodily harm, he grew uneasy, almost turned on his heel and left, then Drum saw him and lifted his chin and said something that made her turn.

What was she playing at? Graver nodded at Drum and waited until she’d concluded her conversation, then touched the old man’s arm with her fingertips. If Graver hadn’t seen the snakebit expression on her face when she turned her back to Drum, he would have suspected he was having the vapors. Drum gazed after them with the half smile of the snake that got the mouse.

“Ignore him,” Dulcinea hissed as they headed for the door.

She wore a black buckskin divided riding skirt trimmed in fringe and a matching black vest beaded with red and yellow flowers over a white silk blouse with full sleeves gathered at the wrists. On her head was a black flat-brimmed hat to match her boots. She didn’t wear her wedding band, he noticed, nor that wider one that had belonged to her husband on her thumb as she’d done since his death. As they walked toward the fairgrounds, he saw men turn to stare.

The entry parade at the rodeo was led by two trick riders dressed in white mounted on twin brown-and-white-spotted horses. Graver clapped enthusiastically and held his breath, but in the back of his mind the image of his own girls learning to sit the old horse dimmed the bright scene like a hand closing over a gold coin.

A group of seasoned cowboys came next, men who rode carelessly, shoulders rounded, legs stiff, rein hands raised as they clutched their hats and spurred their horses to a fast gallop past the crowd as if they had little time to waste. Graver could feel Dulcinea restless beside him on the splintered bench until three flag girls came trotting in, glancing anxiously at the snapping cloth over their heads and then at each other to keep their horses abreast and to not drop the flags. The crowd rose, placed their hands over their hearts, and the little band by the announcer’s stand broke into “America the Beautiful,” the tempo too slow and the piano off key.

After that it was a group of Sioux riders in full regalia. They pulled a travois and whole families walked alongside. The men were mounted on horses decorated with war paint and feathers. Some Horses and Rose walked in the middle of the group, with Lily leading Dulcinea’s dog painted with a circle around his eye and a feather tied to the rope around his neck. Graver hoped she wouldn’t notice, but she gave a sharp intake of breath and pointed her chin at the ring.

“That’s my dog.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Graver said.

“Looks happy, doesn’t he? And what horse is that?”

Graver squinted. “Must be their pony.” He was puzzled at Rose’s miserable expression. Some Horses beside her, determined and grim in his long war bonnet and the beaded outfit from his picture, led the horse.

“Hayward’s on my stallion,” Dulcinea murmured. “Sits him well.”

The rest of the parade was rodeo clowns pushing each other in wheelbarrows, a line of local cowboys in wooly chaps and bright scarves, and girls in flowered shirts and pants.

“I thought he was supposed to ride him in the race.” Dulcinea stared at him until he turned to face her.

“He’s warming him up?” Graver tried to still his face. She tightened her lips and frowned.

He was saved by a series of firecrackers set off by one of the town boys, which startled some horses to rear and buck and spin. Graver noted that Hayward sat forward, pushed his feet down in the stirrups and grabbed the horn while the stud stood on his hind legs and teetered, on the verge of going over backward, then came down again.

Dulcinea grabbed hard onto his arm but didn’t utter a word as her son spurred the horse into a gallop and guided it safely around the motley circus and out the gate.

“Boy has good instincts on a horse,” Graver said, and she nodded, face pale.

As soon as the ring cleared, the rodeo commenced with saddle bronc riding, followed by steer wrestling, then bareback riding. Willie Munday rode his saddle bronc to a standstill but scored low because it hadn’t bucked very hard. Larabee tried steer wrestling but jumped too late and missed the steer entirely, his horse coming to a stop and staring at him balefully. Then they worked the chutes and encouraged the other men. When the calf roping came, Jorge and Irish Jim tied for the fastest time and had a runoff that resulted in Jorge winning when Irish Jim’s pigging string came untied and the calf jumped up and trotted away. Jorge rode around the ring at a dead run, whirling his lariat over his head like a trick rider, while the crowd hooted and clapped. Dulcinea’s cheeks glowed pink and Graver was happy to see her laugh. When she sat down, she put her hand on his arm.

“That was wonderful, wasn’t it!”

Graver nodded and returned her smile, then a peculiar thing happened—their gaze held a moment too long and he felt the flush rise up his neck into his face, and he couldn’t drop his eyes. He wondered about the freckle below her eye, and the bump in her nose, did she always have them? When he put his hand over hers, he couldn’t have stopped himself if someone held him at gunpoint.

“Oh,” she said and tried to change the way her lips parted in a smile, but she couldn’t make them stop.

He watched her struggle to compose an expression and rubbed his fingers softly over hers, the way he’d gentle a startled horse.

There was a break in the action and Larabee came up the stands to collect them for the race. The scent of spit-roasting beef in preparation of the night’s supper made their mouths water, and Graver searched for something to feed her, settling on fried chicken sold by the piece. He had just enough for one each, and felt again the pangs of being a man without money to treat a woman right. Larabee hung around them, giving Graver the eye until Dulcinea waved them away.

As soon as the men were out of earshot, Larabee said, “You can’t put that stud in this race. He’s too old. I could outrun that horse on one leg.”

Graver nodded. “Where’s the boy?”

“Brushing it. Got him shined up like Fourth of July and Christmas both.”

Graver raised his hand. “I’ll take care of it.”

By the time they reached the horse preparation area to the west of the stands, Hayward was settling his saddle on the stallion, which pawed the ground and arched his neck in anticipation, already splotched with dark patches of sweat.

“Bring the chestnut.” Graver nodded to the horse tied to the rope stretched across the bare lot for the racers.

“Son.” Graver put his hand on the boy’s shoulder, who immediately dipped and twisted away. “You can’t ride this horse.”

Hayward’s eyes blazed and his body turned rigid. “Like hell! My mother wants her horse in this race.”

Graver patted the air between them. “It’s not that.”

Larabee stopped the chestnut beside them, careful to stay out of the stud’s reach. “That horse of your mother’s will still be trying to make it home come supper. Remember how much slower he is than Red here.” He spit to the side and gave a quick chew on the wad in his jaw. “Now this horse, your pa bought him for this race. You know that?” He grinned, exposing blackened teeth and brown juice that threatened to drip down his shirtfront.