“Yes, give me a minute.”
Matt held back a sigh of relief. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. Go set the table for me.”
Matt hesitated. She sounded okay, but should he ask again? Sometimes Ma said things just to keep him from fretting.
“Go on, now,” Emma said from behind the closed door.
“Okay.”
Emma smiled at herself in the mirror as Matthew’s footsteps receded. She’d prettied herself up, brushed her hair, and changed into a fresh blouse for dinner. It was going to be a wonderful evening meal with Matthew, and not just because she was feeling so much better and so lively. The mail had brought an astonishing surprise that would surely delight him as it had her.
She glanced again in the mirror, pleased with the results. Ever since her divorce, CJ and Matt had been the only men in her life, although it wasn’t for a lack of flattering attention from the likes of Henry Bowman and a few other married men about town she knew. If she’d lived elsewhere—in a big city such as New York—it might have been different and she could have taken a lover. That was impossible to do in Las Cruces without inviting harsh criticism. Still, even with that disadvantage, she had what most women lacked: the freedom to live independently, answerable to no man. So she’d schooled herself to be virtuous. Given her lusty nature, it had been no easy task.
Matthew had eaten his snack and set the table for dinner. She found him sprawled on his stomach across his bed, nose in a book.
“It’s about the French and Indian Wars,” he explained as she sat beside him, “for a book report.”
“I’ll want to know all about it once you finish.”
Matt nodded as he looked up at her. “You look pretty.”
“Thank you. Now will you stop worrying about me?”
“Maybe.”
“Hungry?”
“Yep.”
“Then let’s eat. After dinner I have a surprise to show you.”
“What is it?”
“You’ll see.”
***
Matthew devoured his dinner, topped off by two slices of the peach pie, which he praised with each bite, and left to tend to Patches. Emma busied herself with the dishes, impatiently waiting for his return. Finished, she took the magazine, letter, and book that had arrived in the mail, sat at the table, and reread the letter from Gene Rhodes.
Dear Emma:
This is not a letter—it’s an apology. It took this old yarn spinner more years than he’d like to admit to whip “Emma Makes a Hand” into a good enough story to get published. But here it is, wrapped inside this issue of Sunset magazine with a drawing to go with it of a young gal on horseback twirling a lasso by my friend Maynard Dixon that I swear looks just like you.
My New Mexico friends—thugs, gunmen, and outlaws that they are—tell me you’ve been sickly and I am grieved to hear of it. I hope “Emma Makes a Hand” lifts your spirits. I’ll surely always remember that trail drive on the Tularosa when you showed me and all those other boys what a heck of a fine hand you were.
I’ve also been told that you’ve got a son named Matt who likes to read, so I’m sending along a copy of my book, West Is West, that I inscribed to him. Tell him to read everything.
Yours truly,
Gene Rhodes
She thumbed through the magazine to the story and read the opening paragraph:
Thomas Wheeler Van Eaton, known to all on the basin as Van, drew rein in front of the Double K ranch house and gazed at the prettiest gal he’d seen in a long, long time. Freshly beautiful she was; sparkling and fair, hair curly, eyes bewilderingly blue, slight as a desert willow. He had heard of Emma Kerney, her frank and friendly manner, her warmth and sweetness, but seeing her under a cloudless sky, with a soft wind at his back and the sun touching Rainbow Ridge, rendered him speechless.
She thought back to the day Gene had showed up at the ranch with a badly swollen eye and puffy lips after a fistfight in a mining camp, asking for a place to hide out in case the law came after him. Over supper he told her he had written a short story about her that had been turned down by a magazine editor. He promised to send her a copy if it ever got published.
Not long after, he moved back east to live with his wife and her family. Over time he became a highly popular writer of Western books and one of the best-loved cowboy storytellers of the Old West. Tall tales still circulated on the Tularosa about Gene’s connections to infamous New Mexico outlaws and cattle thieves of the territorial years. To many folks, that made him an intriguing character with a somewhat shady background, which only served to build his reputation as a writer who truly knew the ways of cowboys and desperadoes.
To Emma, Gene was a good man who kept his word, stood by his friends, was more honorable than most of his trail-riding companions, and had always been a gentleman with the ladies. She’d read all his books and many of his short stories, often wondering what had happened to the yarn he’d written about her. Finally, here it was in her hands for everyone in the country to read. Good memories of living on the Double K flooded her mind and brought happy tears to her eyes.
She closed the magazine and put it with the book and letter. What a day it had been! For months she’d felt her life slipping away, and now it was back, vibrant and exciting. She was beginning to wonder if it was possible for a body to heal itself, for a heart to mend on its own. Nothing seemed impossible.
The back door slammed shut.
“What is that surprise you promised to tell me?” Matt asked as he stomped snow off his boots and hung up his coat.
“Come in here and I’ll tell you a story,” Emma replied.
2
The days following the arrival of “Emma Makes a Hand” were the most exciting in Matthew Kerney’s young life. The Sunset magazine story about his ma had sold out all over town, as had a second batch of copies sent down by train from Albuquerque. Mr. Duncan at the drugstore said folks were clamoring for more and the magazine was sold out in El Paso as well. At the library on Water Street, run by the Women’s Improvement Association, five dog-eared copies of the magazine were available for people to read, but you had to sign up and read it right there on the spot when your time came. The lady at the desk told Matt the waiting list ran to the end of the month, with folks who didn’t normally come to the library putting down their names. She’d never seen so many people through the door in a week. The recent arrival of the latest Zane Grey novel didn’t even rival it in popularity. She also told Matt that the story contained exactly forty-six hundred and twenty-seven words, not including the title. She’d counted every one of them.
One afternoon, the editor of one of the local newspapers interviewed Ma for an article about the veracity of the story while Matt sat quietly in a corner of the room and listened. Later, Ma told him that veracity meant truth. Matt filed the word away for future use.
The article came out with a portion of the letter Gene Rhodes had sent Ma included, except for the part about her having been sickly, left out at her request. The editor quoted Ma as saying the story about her “making a hand” was pretty much accurate as Gene Rhodes wrote it. That it was fact and not storytelling caused quite a stir among some folks in the community, who were still arguing about the suffrage movement and the recent ratification of the Nineteenth Amendment giving women the right to vote. Letters to the editor either praised Ma as an example of a modern woman or chastised her for unladylike behavior.
After school, when his chores were done, Matt sat at the kitchen table and read the letters in the paper. He couldn’t quite figure out why folks were in such a huff about whether Ma was right or wrong to do a man’s job on a roundup, until Ma pointed out that the town womenfolk, who made up the majority of her letter-writing detractors, came from back East and had never worked outside their own houses, while the ranch and farm wives, who made up the majority of her supporters, worked sid
e by side with their men and knew for certain a woman’s place wasn’t just in the home.
“It’s all about what kind of life a person lives,” she explained.
Matt looked puzzled.
“And whether they think they know what’s best for others,” Ma added.
Matt nodded knowingly. “I know kids like that. Stuck-up and bossy is what I call them.”
On the way to school one morning, Joe Pete told Matt that the magazine story had been the subject of the sermon at Sunday Mass, but he couldn’t remember what exactly the priest had said except that it wasn’t chaste for Matt’s ma to have been out on a roundup and trail drive with men night and day for weeks.
“Edgar told me chaste means virginal,” Joe Pete explained with a know-it-all air, referring to his oldest brother. “That means a girl hasn’t started making babies yet.”
“I bet the priest also said it’s not a woman’s place to work with men,” Matt suggested, recalling Ma’s comments on the letters in the newspapers.
“Yeah, he said that too,” Joe Pete replied. “What do you think?”
Matt shrugged. “Doesn’t matter to me what people say. She’s the best ma in the world, except when I get one of those looks she gives me for doing something terrible wrong. That’s scary.”
“My ma can do that to me too,” Joe Pete said, shaking his carrot-top head to ward off the thought of an impending spine-chilling look from his mother, or any other mother for that matter.
Later in the week, another newspaper, the most popular one in town, printed a longer article about Ma and Gene Rhodes’s short story along with a reprint of their original news report of CJ’s heroic death during his gallant action in the Great War. After that, more people took to stopping by the house, including some townsfolk who’d never even said as much as howdy to Matt or his ma before.
For several days, Matt came home from school to find every seat in the front room occupied by folks clutching copies of the magazine and the newspapers, treating Ma like she was a motion picture star and getting her to sign her name on the first page of the story or above the newspaper headline. Even several of his teachers showed up at the house and asked to see the inscribed, signed copy of West Is West Gene Rhodes had sent to him. Although they didn’t say so exactly, they seemed mighty envious of Matt’s good fortune to have such a treasure from a famous writer, and they repeatedly cautioned him to take good care of it.
As the brother of a dead war hero and the son of a woman made famous by Eugene Manlove Rhodes, Matt became the most popular kid in Las Cruces for a time—at least at his school and around the neighborhood. Even the older neighborhood bullies gave up on taunting, teasing, and chasing Matt and his pals for a spell, which was a welcome break from the daily nuisance they usually caused the trio.
Ma herself was doing fine and pretty much back to being like she used to be before she got sick, easing Matt’s worry about her considerably. In fact, he was starting to believe Ma wasn’t gonna die after all and he wouldn’t have to get sent off to the ranch to live with his pa.
He liked the ranch a lot but didn’t care for Pa all that much. He had a stern manner and never said much, even when he tried hard to be nice. About the only times Matt felt easy around Pa was when he was showing him how to do stuff, especially when they worked with the ponies Pa sold to other ranchers around the state.
Ma said people like Pa, who’d stopped drinking, had to be hard on themselves just to stay on the straight and narrow, and that made him seem gruff. But the way Matt saw it, he didn’t think Ma liked Pa all that much either. When they were at the ranch, everybody worked real hard trying to get along, but it wasn’t any fun and made no sense. Besides, Matt had been raised just fine by Ma on her own, and he didn’t need another parent to ride herd on him or boss him around.
Winter gave way to spring, and during the weeks of Ma’s sudden fame, she had all her energy and high spirits back, which freed Matt from having to do any extra chores around the house. After school, when the folks who showed up to visit with Ma had departed and Matt had tended to his chores, she shooed him outside to find his pals or go riding down to the river, where he’d take Patches on a good long gallop through the cottonwood trees.
Back home, dinner waited, with Ma serving up great meals, including delicious homemade soups with warm bread fresh from the oven, which Matt loved. Afterward, he’d rush through his homework and settle in to read another chapter in West Is West. It was such a good story, he decided to do his book report on it, rather than the one about the French and Indian Wars he’d originally selected. He’d already written out the introduction with Ma’s help. The first sentence read: “Eugene Manlove Rhodes, the famous Tularosa cowboy and writer, tells stories filled with veracity.” He thought it was a humdinger of a sentence.
One night, Ma got down CJ’s army letters from the Apache basket and they took turns reading them aloud. Ma got teary eyed some, and Matt had to pause his reading once or twice from being choked up, but he never broke down. Neither did Ma.
Although Matt didn’t say it, he figured being a sergeant in the army was about the best job a fella could have, starting out. If CJ had done it, someday so would he.
Before he went to bed, Ma told him to meet her at the bank after school and warned him not to forget or dawdle with Joe Pete and Jimmy along the way.
“Why do I have to go to the bank?” he asked.
“Because I want you to meet two men who are going to help us,” Ma said. “Mr. Hale and Mr. Bowman.”
“Are we broke?” Matt asked, thinking about Joe Pete, who had a lot of older brothers and sisters and lived poor in a crowded, run-down adobe that backed up to the scrub-grass foothills that ran to the mountains.
Ma laughed. “No. These men will help us make sure that doesn’t happen.”
Still not convinced it was something he really needed to do, Matt shrugged. “Okay.”
***
At the bank the following day, a clerk showed Matt to a private office, where he got a steely look from Ma for being late because he’d poked along with Joe Pete and Jimmy Potter. With a frosty smile, she introduced him to Mr. Bowman and Mr. Hale. Both men smiled warmly and gave Matt hearty hellos as they shook his hand.
“Your mother wanted us to meet you,” said Mr. Bowman, who looked a bit like Humpty-Dumpty behind his huge desk, “so you’d know who to turn to if need be.”
“I’ve got Ma to turn to,” Matt replied dubiously, glancing from Mr. Bowman to Mr. Hale, who sat on one side of him, Ma on the other. “We do just fine, the two of us.”
“I’m sure you do, son,” Mr. Hale said earnestly. “But from now on, we’re here to help out just in case you need us.”
Matt studied Ma, who no longer looked miffed. “Are you gonna get sick some more?” he asked.
“It’s about you being taken care of by Mr. Bowman and Mr. Hale if I’m not around,” Ma said softly, reaching for his hand.
Matt stuck his hand between his legs before she could grab it. “Are you getting sick again?” he demanded.
“It could happen,” Ma replied, “and probably will. We need to be ready so you don’t have to take care of me the way you did before.”
“I didn’t mind doing it most times, and you said I did a good job of it.” Matt looked at the men. “What will they do if you get sick again?”
“Make sure you don’t want for anything.”
Matt stared at the tall man sitting next to him. “How are you going to look after my ma?”
Mr. Hale smiled at Matt. “I’ve heard you’re a smart boy, and you’ve asked a smart question deserving an honest answer: I’ll look after your ma by looking after you. That’s the way she wants it. Mr. Bowman and I will be responsible for your welfare if she can’t. We’re meeting today so you know who we are, what we’ve been asked by your mother to do, and how to find us.”
From be
hind his desk, Henry Bowman cleared his throat and gave Matt a kindly smile. “She wants you to be happy and well provided for. That will be our job.”
“I can help my ma and look after myself,” Matt declared, a sinking feeling filling his stomach. “I’ve already showed that I could.”
“What if she gets really sick?” Mr. Hale asked gently.
“I said I can do it,” Matt replied defiantly.
“No, you can’t,” Ma said with a sad shake of her head. “I won’t allow it. You will not spend your childhood looking after me. That would make me miserable and unhappy and be awful for you. You know my sickness can’t be fixed. We’ve talked about it before.”
“But you’re better now,” Matt said.
“But not forever,” Ma replied, “and maybe not for long. We can’t change that.”
“Are you going to send me away somewhere?” Matt asked, getting to his feet, his resolve to not act like a little crybaby faltering.
“I would never do that!” Ma said.
“Do I have to stay with these men when”—he forced himself to say it—“you die?”
“You’ll go to the ranch and be with your pa,” Ma said.
She had the saddest smile on her face he’d ever seen, like she was already saying good-bye to him. Somehow he knew he’d never forget the way she looked at that moment. His feet were frozen to the floor and he felt like sobbing, but he blinked away the tears. He didn’t want to hear any more words, wasn’t gonna start bawling baby tears in front of everybody. He wanted to run away. He wanted to hit somebody. He held his breath until the jumble of notions stopped thundering through his head, until he felt cold inside about everything and everybody, empty and all alone.
Finally, he shook his head. “I have to go feed Patches.” The words tumbled out, his voice thin and far away in his ears. He ran out of the room before anyone could stop him.
***
Riding low, his cheek on Patches’ neck, Matt raced his pony through the cottonwood trees along the bosque, not caring where he went or how long he was gone. Patches stretched out in a smooth, steady gait, hooves pounding on the soft turf of the early spring grasses that lined the riverbed. At a shallow river crossing Patches hesitated, and Matt urged him across the slow brown current, up the sandy bank, and west into the desert. On the horizon, sunset had turned to dusk. Already late going home, Matt continued west, keeping Patches at a steady lope, the tiny twinkling lights of Las Cruces receding at his back. On broken, rock-strewn ground he finally drew rein and turned around. Just a hint of moonrise light touched the tips of the mountains east of town, and even with a sky full of stars, the night was black.
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