ALSO BY MICHAEL MCGARRITY
Tularosa
Mexican Hat
Serpent Gate
Hermit’s Peak
The Judas Judge
Under the Color of Law
The Big Gamble
Everyone Dies
Slow Kill
Nothing but Trouble
Death Song
Dead or Alive
Hard Country
Backlands
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
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Copyright © 2016 by Michael McGarrity
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Names: McGarrity, Michael, author.
Title: The last ranch : a novel of the new American West / Michael McGarrity.
Description: New York : Dutton, [2016] | Series: American West trilogy ; 3
Identifiers: LCCN 2015047686 (print) | LCCN 2016000366 (ebook) | ISBN
9780525953258 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780698409736 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Ranch life—New Mexico—Fiction. | Family life—New
Mexico—Fiction. | New Mexico—History—20th century—Fiction. | BISAC:
FICTION / Westerns. | FICTION / Sagas. | FICTION / Action & Adventure. |
GSAFD: Western stories. | Historical fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3563.C36359 L37 2016 (print) | LCC PS3563.C36359
(ebook) | DDC 813/.54—dc23
LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015047686
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
CONTENTS
Map
Also by Michael McGarrity
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
Acknowledgments
ONE | Matt Kerney Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
TWO | Mary Ralston Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
THREE | Kevin Kerney Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Dedication
About the Author
Kerney Family Tree
The place of infinite possibility is where the storyteller belongs.
—N. SCOTT MOMADAY
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A tip of the hat and muchas gracias to Stephanie Kelly at Dutton, who resolutely and enthusiastically helped me get to the finish line. And much thanks to Brian Tart. Without him the American West trilogy would have been nothing but a haunting, chimerical dream.
1
In the pale moonlight that floated through her bedroom window, Anna Lynn Crawford studied Matthew Kerney’s face. Fortunately for both of them, tonight he slept quietly. Whenever he stayed the night at her house, he often woke with a start from bad dreams that left him shaking, and she would find him sitting silently alone on the front porch at first light. When he was restless, Anna Lynn took to curling up on the floor with a pillow and comforter in the hope her absence would have a calming effect on him. Sometimes his breathing eased and the night passed peacefully. But most mornings, she found him on the porch in her rocking chair, unmoving, his hands clutching the armrests, his face moist with sweat.
Six months earlier, Matt had returned home from the war with a patch covering his left eye, which had been destroyed in a land-mine explosion during the Allied invasion of Sicily. He only removed it at night. As he lay quietly sleeping, Anna Lynn snuggled close to examine the wound Matt insisted made him ugly.
His upper-left eyelid was missing completely, shredded during the explosion, and there were tiny, jagged shrapnel scars around the socket of the eye, which was covered in a murky film. There was a slight puffiness under the eye she hadn’t seen before. She wondered if it was causing him pain.
You’re still a handsome man, you fool, she thought to herself. You still look like you.
She’d told him that if he stopped wearing the patch, folks would soon pay the injury no mind. But Matt immediately dismissed the suggestion the two times she’d made it, the second time so vehemently that she hadn’t mentioned it since. She had to try again to persuade him to listen to reason, but dreaded his reaction. He was, and he wasn’t, the man she knew before he went into the army.
What she knew about Matt’s war experience came mostly from an army press release printed in every New Mexico newspaper the week after his discharge from Fort Bliss, the army post outside of El Paso. He’d been decorated for bravery under fire for clearing a fortified enemy position above a beachhead, where troops had been pinned down and taking heavy casualties. His actions had allowed a battalion of men to move inland without suffering further serious losses. He’d been promoted to platoon sergeant on the spot and was later awarded another medal for using captured enemy horses to carry equipment through rugged, mountainous terrain, which aided the Allied advance against a large, retreating enemy force. He’d lost his eye in the final push to liberate the island and had been evacuated to a hospital ship, where he’d received the Purple Heart from a general after his surgery.
She snuggled closer and gazed at Matt’s face, remembering the only time he’d talked about those experiences. After making love early one morning, they’d sat quietly together on the veranda of his ranch house overlooking the wide expanse of the Tularosa Basin, her daughter Ginny sound asleep in bed and Matt’s father, Patrick, away in town. She’d broken the silence by asking Matthew to finally tell her what had happened to him in Sicily. It earned her a sad-faced grin and a loud chuckle.
“What’s so funny?”
“It was all a big frigging joke,” he answered without rancor.
“How so?” Anna Lynn asked.
Still smiling, Matt rose from his chair. “Wait here and I’ll show you.”
He returned
and gave her two cartoons from the pages of an army newspaper. One showed a sergeant with a shiny medal pinned to his uniform explaining to a ragtag private that he’d been decorated for scaring the enemy away by speaking “Eye-talian” at them. The second cartoon displayed a grizzled sergeant pointing a finger at a sorrowful-looking horse, demanding to know if, as a POW, the animal would abide by the Geneva conventions.
Anna Lynn looked up from the cartoons. “I don’t see what’s so funny.”
Matt smiled at the only two memories of Sicily that brought him any pleasure to recall. “What makes them funny is they show exactly what happened to get me decorated like some kind of hero. On the beachhead, all I did was talk some Italian soldiers into not shooting at us anymore. They withdrew from their position and we were able to move inland. There was nothing heroic about it. Later on, when we were in the mountains, my platoon stumbled on a herd of abandoned enemy ponies that we commandeered for the regiment to use as pack animals in the high country. Because it helped force the Germans into a hurried retreat, I got another medal, and it wasn’t even my idea in the first place. That’s the sum total of my so-called bravery.”
Anna Lynn gazed at his face and his eye patch. “That may well be, but it doesn’t make you less of a hero. You were smart and saved lives, and besides you were gravely wounded.”
Matt’s mood shifted as he thought about the men in his platoon he’d lost. His expression turned somber. “I didn’t save enough lives. And I lost an eye for being stupid and not paying attention to what I was doing.”
The image of Pvt. Joey Cohen taking a bullet in his head, twirling around, and dropping dead at Matt’s feet replayed through his mind as it did at least once a day. He shook it off and pointed at the signature on the bottom-left corner of each cartoon. “I thought you would have noticed by now who drew these,” Matt said, trying to sound lighthearted. “They’re both signed, ‘Bill Mauldin—Sicily.’”
“Bill Mauldin!” Anna Lynn squealed in surprise. “Our very own little Billy Mauldin?”
Matt smiled and nodded. “Yep, the one and same scrawny kid who peddled his drawings and cartoons to folks up and down the west slope of the Sacramento Mountains. I still have a stack of them put away somewhere. He sends you his regards.”
“Oh, that sweet, lovely boy,” Anna Lynn said, blinking away a tear. “Is he a war correspondent?”
“Nope, he’s a soldier in the 45th Infantry Division, if he isn’t already among the dead from all the casualties we took in Italy.”
Anna Lynn’s face clouded at the mere thought of it. “Oh, please don’t let that be true.”
“I sure hope he survived,” Matt agreed. “I figure he’s gonna become rich and famous if he comes through the war alive and intact. The troops already love him.”
Matt took the cartoons from Anna Lynn’s hands. “That’s all the talking I want to do about my time in the army. I’m home now and that’s the end of it. Understand?”
Anna Lynn nodded. “If that’s what you want.”
“It is.”
Matt had countenanced no more talk about the war after that morning, although he diligently followed the battlefront newspaper and radio reports, especially the ones from Europe, which often threw him into a funk. As time passed, his interest waned in anything or anybody other than the war, Anna Lynn’s five-and-a-half-year-old daughter, Ginny, and the ponies on his ranch. He withdrew, turned inward and silent. His visits to her farm became less frequent, their conversations, once so engaging, became awkward, their lovemaking, always passionate, turned perfunctory at best.
The changes between them chilled Anna Lynn. Here, close to him in her bed, his warm breath against her cheek, she wondered if she’d lost Matt completely because of the terrible war. If so, it would have been far less of a heartbreak to have lost him to another woman.
The next day he was to travel to William Beaumont Army Hospital at Fort Bliss for a follow-up physical disability examination. If he failed to keep the appointment, his monthly pension benefits might be suspended, and Anna Lynn knew he could little afford the loss of that income. She wanted to go with him, but he wouldn’t hear of it. She fell asleep hoping the army doctor might have a miracle in his pocket to restore Matt’s eyesight. If he were made whole again, at least in some psychological way, perhaps her constant fear of trying to endure an unhappy future with a man who’d once filled her heart with so much happiness and joy would vanish.
***
In the morning, Anna Lynn fixed steak and eggs for Matt and pancakes for Ginny, who sat next to Matt with syrup dripping down her chin as she chewed a bite and stared at Matt’s eye patch. She reached up with sticky fingers to touch it and he yanked her hand away.
“Don’t touch,” he snapped.
“Why not?” Ginny demanded, shocked at Matt’s scolding.
Matt took a deep breath to calm his annoyance and forced a smile. “Because I look like the bogeyman without it and that would scare the dickens out of you.”
“It would not,” Ginny replied bravely, not completely sure of herself or of Matt’s warning.
“Well, it sure would scare the hell out of me,” Matt said, tousling Ginny’s hair. “Now, eat, and don’t be such a pest.”
Reassured, Ginny put another big bite of pancakes into her mouth, closed her left eye, put her hand over it, and looked around the room. She saw her mother’s jars of honey she got from the bees lined up neatly on the shelves above the kitchen cabinet and sink, her mom’s reading chair next to the table with the lamp and radio, the box under the window with her toys and books that had to be put away neatly every night before bed, and the open front door with the screen gently flapping in the cooling morning breeze.
“I can see okeydokey with one eye,” she announced matter-of-factly.
“But it’s better with two eyes,” Matt countered, forking the last of his steak. “Don’t you think?” he asked after his last bite.
“Yeah,” Ginny agreed with a grin.
“We’d like to keep you company today,” Anna Lynn said casually as she cleared Matt’s plate.
“Can we?” Ginny pleaded, clapping her hands. She loved trips to town.
Matt shook his head and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “There’s no need,” he replied, ignoring Ginny’s pout. “I’ll stop by on my way home to the ranch tonight and tell you what the army doc had to say.”
Anna Lynn dipped Matt’s plate into the soapy dishpan at the sink. “You’d better,” she cautioned.
She turned her head from the sink to look at him, and he grinned at her in agreement. A forced grin, she thought, trying her best to smile in return. The left side of his face twitched involuntarily. She was sure he was in some pain. She was also sure he knew that he couldn’t hide it completely from her.
“Stop worrying about me,” Matt ordered gruffly.
“I just want you to be okay.”
“I am okay.” Matt pushed back from the plank-board kitchen table. “And I’m trying my damnedest to stay that way.”
He exchanged hugs with Ginny that left her sticky syrup fingerprints on his shirt-sleeve, kissed Anna Lynn quickly goodbye, and headed out the door. Below the small village of Mountain Park, the Tularosa Basin sat under a cloudless, brilliant blue sky with blinding sunlight that swept clean all color except for the gypsum dunes at White Sands National Monument and the foreboding dark uplift of the San Andres Mountains forty miles westward.
War had brought serious gasoline rationing to civilians, and most country folks had parked their cars and gone back to traveling by horse. In his pickup during the short drive to Alamogordo, Matt passed a dozen or so people in buggies or ahorseback clip-clopping along the highway heading to town. Only two passenger cars, an army truck, and a delivery van breezed by him, traveling northbound on the two-lane concrete road that gave way to gravel shy of Three Rivers. It was as though time had reversed to
the early 1920s, when horses and wagons had still dominated the mostly rutted, hard-packed dirt roads of rural New Mexico that became mud pits after a heavy rain.
At the Alamogordo train station he bought a ticket to El Paso and waited on a bench in the shade of the covered platform watching warplanes rise up from the army airfield outside of town, grouping into formations high above to practice bombing runs at the north end of the basin.
Just about every rancher on the Tularosa had filed claims with the government to get reimbursed for livestock that had been killed by trigger-happy turret gunners eager to shoot anything on the ground that moved. Matt was still waiting on payment for two old ponies he’d found riddled with bullets and half-eaten by coyotes in a high country pasture on his San Andres ranch.
After boarding the train for the ninety-mile trip to El Paso, he fished a lapel button out of a pocket. Given to him as an afterthought by a personnel clerk at Fort Bliss the day he’d mustered out of the army, it was a small button made of brass depicting an American eagle with wings spread beyond the confines of an encircling wreath. It identified the wearer as having been honorably discharged from the armed services, and was jokingly known as the ruptured duck.
Matt attached it to the top buttonhole of his long-sleeved work shirt. Soon after the train left the station, two MPs on the train looking for AWOL soldiers entered his coach compartment. They scrutinized his eye patch and the ruptured duck, and gave him a nod and a smile of acknowledgment as they passed by.
In downtown El Paso, the ruptured duck and his medical appointment letter to see Dr. S. Beckmann at William Beaumont Army Hospital got him a free ride on an army bus to the fort. Matt rubbernecked on the ride up the hill with the Franklin Mountains towering close by. Not long ago El Paso had nestled quietly along the Rio Grande across from the Mexican town of Juárez. Now the city was spreading north along newly paved streets lined with bars, diners, pawnshops, and motels that catered to the soldier boys stationed at Fort Bliss. The war economy had brought new life to the once dusty, somewhat dismal town. Matt guessed that the bars, nightclubs, and whorehouses in Juárez were also thriving during the boom times.
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