Jonis Agee - The Bones of Paradise

“You know J.B. loved the Sand Hills.” The men nodded eagerly, as if anything she said now would sound perfect to their ears. “I’ve grown to love them, too. Yet I know how terribly difficult it is to live here. I’ve lost my husband and son, and now Drum—” They murmured their condolences, and it sent a small tremble through her clenched jaw because truth be told, she had lost something with his passing.

She picked up the contract, pretended to read, then dropped it on the table and stood. “I’m not signing anything. J.B. wouldn’t want this, and before he died Drum told me he no longer agreed with it.”

“We’ll sue!” Rivers said, and Stillhart swore under his breath.

“Oh, I think my father still has enough connections to stop you in court, don’t you? Besides, I’m a widow and I’ve lost a son and two husbands. You’re going to steal my land, too?”

As she left, she patted each man on the shoulder to reassure him of her continued goodwill.

Dulcinea didn’t allow the tears until after dark, halfway to the ranch with Rose, who was waiting for her in the stable when she left the hotel. The soft thudding rhythm of the loping horses muffled her sobs and Rose kept her eyes on the road in front of them. In her heart, she knew she could only give in to the overwhelming sadness this one time. The ranch and her son required too much from her now. As they approached the valley, the two women halted on the last hill as they had four months before when she had rushed home following J.B.’s death. She shook her head at how ignorant she’d been. She’d had no idea how great her losses could become. She turned to Rose.

“You know why I married Drum?” she asked.

Rose patted her horse and gave it rein to graze. “Figured it was to hold the land in your name.”

Dulcinea felt a pang at her words. What could she do, give it back to the Sioux? She and J.B. had talked about who owned the hills, and they’d never solved it either.

“We aren’t any closer to finding the murderer,” she said. The stallion pulled at the reins and tried to grab a mouthful of grass. She let out more slack.

“Maybe he’s already dead.”

Dulcinea glanced at her friend. Did she mean Drum or Cullen? “Percival Chance?”

Rose shrugged.

Nearly a month had passed since the rodeo and Drum’s death. During that time, Dulcinea gave Hayward the running of his grandfather’s ranch and Graver the running of J.B.’s. Late September was the first time the cattle would run together without splitting them afterward. With such a huge herd, it meant dark-to-dark days for everyone on the two ranches as they collected and pastured them for winter near the two houses.

Dulcinea fed the branding fires for late calves and yearlings they’d missed and handled the chuck wagon and water. She was bone tired and relieved it was the last day. They only had ten head to go, but the hands had to change horses and eat. The break would help settle the herd, though. Right now, they were dangerously close to stampeding, and any little thing could set them off. The men withdrew carefully, skirting the edges, avoiding those cows searching for their calves. Dulcinea admired the natural rhythm between Rose and Some Horses as they worked the cattle.

She watched Graver, too, a man whose body moved with the horse as he roped a yearling and dragged it unwillingly to the cowboys waiting by the fire with hot branding irons. The stench of burning hide rode the dust churned under hooves and drifted to the chuck wagon. Dulcinea tried to breathe through her mouth, but it sat on her tongue, so she gave up and let it soak her clothes, hair, and skin. If she was to stay here, she’d better get used to every inconvenience. A horse loped by with an empty saddle, stirrups banging wildly at its sides. She shaded her eyes with her hand and squinted in search of its rider. Sure enough, a figure trudged toward the camp. She felt relief at recognizing Hayward, still so angry he barely spoke, and God only knew when he’d forgive her. But she did it for him, she protested during the daily argument in her head. It was all for her son. She never questioned the rationale, though she felt the hairline cracks in it.

When Hayward caught the dun gelding that had once been Cullen’s, Graver and the other hands clapped and cheered him on. Hayward bowed and shook his head. She wanted to join them, but thought he would misinterpret her intentions. She turned her back and stirred the beans and beef in the big pot on the fire.

“Some damn prospector spooked him,” Hayward said as she handed him a plate.

“Prospector?” Her hands stilled. She gazed at the top of his head as he sat on the ground and tucked into his food.

He looked up and nodded behind her. “That’s him.”

The stranger wore khaki-colored trousers and shirt, and a wide-brimmed plantation hat over a nondescript face. Dismounting, he gazed at the camp and loosened the saddle girth. A pick and shovel and metal sample box hung from his saddle. He slipped a halter and rope over the bridle and let the horse drop its head to graze.

“Ma’am.” He touched his hat brim and eyed the hot food.

Dulcinea wanted to drive him off her land, but knew the hospitality laws of the West demanded she offer him a meal first.

After he’d eaten two platefuls, he pushed back his hat and gazed at her. “You’d be Dulcinea Bennett.” Without waiting for a reply, he continued, “Name’s Pittcairn, from Western Oil and Gas.”

“I know who you are, and the answer is still no,” she said. Folding her arms across her chest, she pushed back her shoulders and lifted her chin.

“You sure? Last opportunity. All this sand, usually find something. Can’t say there’s oil for sure, but what do you have to lose? Get money for exploration, much more if we find something.” He paused and watched a calf struggle against the branding iron, then it kicked a cowboy’s thigh so hard the man fell down. “Beats this.” He spread his hand to include the roiling cattle and distant hills.

“My mother said no. As co-owner, I back her.” Hayward stood over him. “You’ve had your fill, now ride.” He stepped back. “Don’t let me catch you here again.” He hooked his thumbs on the twin holsters he still wore.

The man shrugged. “Missing an opportunity. Were me, I’d much rather see derricks pumping black gold than cattle slopping up the place with green crap. You folks will die poor. What about your children? Don’t you owe them something?”

Hayward shook his head. “Ride three hours north, you’ll get to a railroad.” He moved to Dulcinea’s side and put his arm around her. She nearly broke down with relief, but knew better and stood straight, biting her lip to keep the tears from springing to her eyes. It didn’t matter that he dropped his arm the moment the man was out of sight.

“Have to keep them off the land. More coming and we can’t tolerate it. I’ll march them off at gunpoint if I have to.” He sounded so grown, she smiled.

“That’s good, son,” she said and bent to stir the beans and beef again as the cowhands drifted in for their meal.

Without Chance to advise her, Dulcinea realized she wasn’t sure of her legal rights to deny the exploration of her land. She hoped the other ranchers would lend their support. Tookie would. They had spoken briefly at Drum’s burial in the graveyard next to J.B. and Cullen. No one had much to say about the old man, and most were too embarrassed by the quickie wedding to stick around and talk to Dulcinea or Hayward. Tookie did mention the lawyer’s face was so battered by the runaway horses that he had to be identified by his clothes and the papers in his pocket.