The Bones of Paradise

by Jonis Agee

  “Thank you, sister,” Rose whispered. Lily stared at her before she dropped her eyes and whimpered.

  PART THREE

  FALLING TOWARD the WOUND

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Dulcinea slept long and hard after the trip to town. She woke to find breakfast over and the ranch yard alive with men, horses, and bawling cattle. She paused on the front porch and looked for her boys. Were they already working? Somehow she doubted it, and the thought troubled. Then she recalled Cullen’s reaction to the stallion and trotted down the walk to the gate. Two men on horseback were coming down the road toward the ranch. Where was Graver? Or Rose and Some Horses?

  Inside the cool shadows of the barn she stopped to let her eyes adjust, and then headed to the back, where they’d stalled the new horses. Relief washed over her as the gray stallion poked his head over the stall door and nickered. The black mare paced uneasily, her coat damp, while the bay munched hay with a contented eye. They needed to stretch their legs. She searched for the halters and found them in the dust on the ground.

  Sloppy. J.B. wouldn’t put up with hands treating equipment this way, and neither would she. Time to stand up to these men. She raised her head and straightened her shoulders. They’d hate taking orders from her, but they’d learn.

  She led the mares out one at a time, starting with the bay, who helped settle the nervous black. The horses needed names. Maybe she should let the boys decide. She recalled Cullen laughing at her and knew it was likely a waste of time. She turned them loose in the big square pen beside the barn, and each let itself down with a groan, rolled over and over, then stood, shook off the dust like a dog, spun and galloped and bucked around the pen until it tired. It had been a long train ride from Kentucky for the two pregnant mares, but they seemed in good shape.

  She went back in the barn for the stallion. As she caressed his long neck, she wondered what J.B. would have thought of her gift, bought with her own money. She had planned it so carefully. He would bring both boys to her, the three of them reunited, a family. Of course, they’d have to work out the problems, but it would be a fresh start. She’d used an old acquaintance of her father’s, who owned racehorses, to procure these three from a reputable breeder. The gray was just below the rank of top sires. He’d broken down his first race with a badly bowed tendon, so he was cheap. The two mares were of the same quality: good, not excellent. Perfect for her plan. She imagined J.B. walking through the stable door, whistling, hands thrust in the pockets of his jeans, smiling to see her. She started to think of good things to tell him, but the illusion faded and foamy salt filled her mouth like blowback from a running horse. He had written her about the spotted mare, a brief note she’d pondered, wondering if he had killed her himself or had one of the men do it, or maybe done as he’d suggested so many years before and turned her loose to die of cold, starvation, or mountain lions. It was another stone she stacked on the wall between them. Go get your son, she’d ordered him in March. Now he was dead. Drum had to be the killer. She felt a chill on her face, stopped and heard the men yelling and whistling at the cattle in the branding pen outside. Cullen was home now, yet the thought gave her little comfort. Something was wrong with the boy.

  “Damn you, J.B.,” she cursed under her breath as the stallion swung around and headed toward the water bucket, shoving it with his nose so it splashed. It shouldn’t be so full, Dulcinea thought, why wasn’t he drinking?

  He pushed the bucket again, and more water slopped over the sides. “Stop it,” Dulcinea said and pressed her hand to his chest, backing him away.

  The mouse was a small brown field variety, with a long tail that lay on top of the water like a thick piece of string unfurled, weaving back and forth as if steering the exhausted body between scrabbling attempts to climb the slick sides of the bucket. It didn’t seem to notice the woman watching. It was far beyond that scale of worry and menace.

  Dulcinea cupped her hand underneath to lift it, and it managed to swim over her fingers. She tried again, this time with both hands, raising it up, water streaming, the soft mewling exhausted and angry. She thought to close her hands, but didn’t want it to bite or scratch. The mouse had suffered enough. She released it by a small hole in the corner of the stall. Outside she heard a commotion of voices rise then quickly fall. Maybe it was the boys. She should let them grieve, although a part of her wished they were more like their father and didn’t put themselves on display so much. Without her family’s social courtesies, and lacking the code of western men, they were more like dogs let off the chain. Although she would not admit it to a soul, they frightened her. If only she and Rose could find the killer. Then she would leave these hills and take the boys with her; they would improve with education, she was sure of it.

  When she led the stallion out to his pen, she saw Larabee, Irish Jim, and Willie Munday resting in the shade beside the barn, their clothes and faces streaked with dirt-soaked sweat, three shovels propped next to them. They’d been working on the road between the ranches since Drum demanded they improve it. She wanted to tell them not to spend much muscle because she intended to put a stop to his plans this week. As she turned the horse loose, someone called her name from the hayloft window. Rose stood in the opening, pointing toward the house, where Percival Chance stepped down from a tall, narrow bay mare with a crooked white stripe down her nose that veered to the right at her nostrils. Beside him, Alvin Eckhart, the sheriff, struggled to dismount from a nondescript shaggy brown horse that could only be another refugee from Dun Riggins’s livery stable. Overweight and unused to riding, the sheriff looked pale and sweaty as he stumbled to maintain his feet and stand beside the horse to loosen the girth.

  She ignored the newcomers and turned to the resting cowboys. “Why aren’t you men working? There’s a lot of daylight left.” She found herself imitating J.B.’s manner of address with the men.

  They stopped talking and averted their eyes as they brushed the dirt from their trousers and shirts.

  “We’re waiting on Higgs.” Larabee indicated the foreman’s house with a tilt of his head.

  “Go knock on the door and find out what he wants you to do, for heaven’s sake.” She was tired of these men and their mincing rules.

  The other two looked at the ground while Larabee shrugged and shook his head. “Rule one: don’t bother Higgs in his house.”

  She snorted. “Rule two: don’t expect to get paid for standing around half a day. So here’s work: Willie, you clean the henhouse, pull out the old bedding, line the laying boxes with fresh grass, and wash the waterers and feeders. Irish Jim: You clean the horse stalls and lay down fresh bedding. Then scrub out the water buckets and refill them. Larabee: you shovel the manure out of the corrals and clean the water tanks. When you’re done, you can start taking down the cobwebs in the stable, and I want the tack hung up properly in the tack room. No more throwing equipment on the ground. If you still have time on your hands, check with me. I don’t mind being bothered if it means you earn your keep.”

  She blushed at their surprised expressions, yet knew from teaching school and every other job she’d held over the last ten years that she had to stay firm or they’d spot her softness, and that never did anybody any good.

  Chance wore a small grin, and his eyes appraised her anew. She took in the pink glow on his cheeks from the ride in the full hot sun that produced a sprinkle of freckles over his nose and on the backs of his hands. She was surprised he didn’t wear gloves like most of the town men, but when she put out her hand the way a man would, she recognized the reassurance the callused palm gave his grip. He was a handsome man, yet her body felt uneasy around him and she couldn’t say why.

  “That’ll teach them to sit idle when the boss is around,” he said with a laugh.

  “Ma’am.” The sheriff managed to tip his hat and wipe his face with a big blue square handkerchief at the same time.

  “We’ll go inside,” she said and looked back at the barn where Rose stood in the shadows.
It would help if she’d come and hear what was said. She tipped her head, gave a small wave of her hand, and hoped Rose understood.

  Seated in J.B.’s office, Dulcinea, Chance, and the sheriff examined each other for a moment. Chance was the first to break the silence, reaching inside his coat and withdrawing a thick sheaf of folded papers. “I think we’re well within our legal rights on this, Mrs. Bennett. I went to the length of consulting by telegraph with a colleague in Omaha. We all agree that the letter and subsequent will should take precedent. Since Mr. Rivers could see nothing flawed in my argument, he’s allowing the documents to be filed.” He opened the folded papers and smoothed them with the edge of his hand. “Provided you attend a hearing when the county court is next in session, it should turn out fine.” He leaned back and looked at the plaster ceiling. “That should be in late fall, I believe. Too much ranch work until after first snow.” He glanced at her. “Is that agreeable?”

  She gazed at him, noting the too-straight nose, as if it had been drawn on his face by a skilled artist re-creating the ideal proportions of an ancient Greek statue. His longish face had a more Byzantine aspect, or Spanish Inquisition. El Greco’s long-fingered, hollow-cheeked noblemen with pointed beards that seemed too carefully groomed. Still, there was something about the lawyer that pleased the eye if one ignored the almost constant amusement in his.

  She shook her head and picked up a large, crudely made knife J.B. had used as a letter opener. It surprised her by fitting neatly in her hand, and the rawhide-wrapped grip immediately warmed her fingers. She tapped the flat of the nicked blade against the stack of unopened envelopes and assorted sheets of paper before her, watched the balance shift, the pieces separate and slide off, revealing a small beaded figure that resembled a turtle. She picked it up and turned it over. It was unlike J.B. to own such artifacts. Hayward’s perhaps?

  “Your husband seemed to have an interest in Sioux culture. I happen to have a number of artifacts in my possession. If you like, I can show—” He reached into his coat pocket, and she held up a hand to stop him.

  Again, she heard the sound of men’s loud voices and ignored them. She pushed the papers back over the beaded piece.

  “Mr. Chance, my case?”

  “Yes, well, I suppose we could petition the court for an early judgment. Contact the judge, send him the papers, explain the exigency, and so on. No guarantee he’ll want to take it on, but it’s worth a try. I’ll explain that you have traveled a great distance and that deferring the ruling means detaining you and creating great discomfort in your current, ah, situation, when you are accustomed to a life more accommodating to your, ah, feminine nature.” He cleared his throat as she glanced at the dust and horsehair on the front of her blouse and began to brush it off.

  She smiled and looked directly in his eyes, the color of her old dark blue velvet opera cloak. “I suppose it wouldn’t do to appear before him in my current state?”

  The lawyer dipped his head in a slight bow. “Although it has its charms, perhaps you are right. Helpless is a better tone to set with Judge Foote.” He paused and appraised her for a moment, which made her uncomfortable. “I myself prefer a woman who is unafraid to take command of her surroundings.” He leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head. The sheriff cleared his throat.

  “Have some things to tell you,” he began. Her heart leapt at the possibility that he’d solved the murder. She was quickly disappointed, then angered by what he said.

  “Well, I asked around town, nobody knew nothing. Then I thought about the Indians since one of theirs, you know—” The man dropped his chin and looked at his hands. “At first, none of them knew a thing. Then I got this boy in jail for fightin’ and he spins a tale about—” He glanced over his shoulder, then back at her.

  “What?” she asked.

  “About those boys of yours coming up on the rez and causing trouble. Might be that girl was part of it, too.” He took a shallow breath and let it out with a shake of his head. His face was damp again, and he pulled the big blue handkerchief from his jacket, patted his cheeks and forehead.

  “You’re not serious,” she said with a quick glance at the lawyer, who seemed amused.

  The sheriff studied her a moment while outside they heard the boys whooping as they clattered into the ranch yard at a gallop.

  “They’re children,” she said. “Do I have to hire Pinkertons to come out here and find my husband’s murderer?” She laid her hands on the desk and leaned forward.

  The sheriff looked at his hands, plucked his hat off his knee, and stood. “Don’t know what to tell you, Mrs. Bennett. My money’s on the boys. You hire anyone else, they’ll come to the same conclusion. My advice: hire you a good lawyer. Good day.” He nodded to her and Chance, put on his hat, and left. She spun her chair and watched him struggle to mount his sorry horse and put it into the slow trot that would eat the miles to town.

  “Mrs. Bennett?” She turned at the sound of the lawyer’s voice.

  “Could I help out?” For once all the features on his face matched in seriousness.

  She shook her head. “I can’t believe this.”

  “He’s a dentist, not a trained investigator. Undertaker too. Not much experience aside from pulling teeth and putting people in holes. I wouldn’t trust him to find a stray cat.” The lawyer eyed her, started to say something else, and then stopped.

  She picked up a brittle yellowed newspaper from a stack on the desk and saw J.B.’s notes on the Wounded Knee massacre. Rose had told her about losing her mother there, and that her sister, Star, was close to unmasking her killer. She had repeatedly warned Dulcinea not to mention the story to anyone, but she thought she should tell the lawyer the one fact that might help his investigation. As she opened her mouth to speak, her nerves sang to stop.

  “I recently hired a Sioux woman whose sister was the girl killed with my husband. Star was her name, I believe. Perhaps you could discover how—” She paused, her throat closed. She coughed to clear it and found she had to hold her fingers against her neck to continue. “What their relationship was.” She felt her face flush, and couldn’t look at him.

  Chance stood. “Of course.” He put on his hat and paused at the door. “You can count on me to be discreet.” He studied the doorframe for a moment. “What’s the Indian’s name?”

  After he left, she resolved to tell Rose what she’d done. In some way, it was essential that Dulcinea know if her husband was having an affair with the young girl. She was haunted by the terrible notion that he’d deserved to be killed by the girl’s family if he had corrupted her. She shook her head. No, she couldn’t believe it, no matter what Drum said. And the idea that her boys could kill—that was ridiculous. But even as she thought the words, she felt uneasy. Could Cullen? Hayward was too young, but his brother? What would she do if it was true? She’d have to protect him from Rose as well as the authorities. She’d have to leave the hills with both boys and sell the ranch, hide as far away as possible. Europe or South America.

  Her shaking hands rattled the newspaper she held and her gaze fell on J.B.’s underlined sentences that described how the bodies were stripped and thrown into a mass grave. On the second page, J.B. had underlined the names of whites who’d been there—and written Harney Rivers and Percival Chance in the margin. It sent a shiver across her shoulders, and she swiveled her chair around to look out the window. Chance was talking to the hands on the porch of the bunkhouse. She gathered the papers, tucked them in the bottom of the lowest desk drawer, and locked it.

  The boys were sullen at supper, eating quickly and sloppily with their faces a few inches from their plates, refusing to answer the lawyer’s polite inquiries. Although she hadn’t wanted to, she’d invited him to stay the night since his interviews with the men had taken the rest of the day. Rose was silent when Dulcinea told her about the lawyer’s offer without mentioning the sheriff’s initial conclusion. Maybe Rose already knew, maybe all the Indians believed it was her boys. The thought
made her frantic.

  Chance raised his voice to be heard above Drum’s constant thumping overhead. “Do you find many Indian artifacts in your blowouts?” The boys glanced at each other.

  “Hayward, I saw a collection of arrowheads in your room. Why don’t you tell Mr. Chance about them?”

  Her son’s face reddened with the effort to remain silent as he pushed at the half-eaten slab of chicken with his fork. A sly smile widened Cullen’s mouth. Was it possible to dislike her own flesh and blood so much she wished them ill? She wanted to tell Cullen that she didn’t even recognize him. She wanted to announce that he had to leave her table and never return. She hated herself for it and turned her attention to him with a smile.

  “Cullen, perhaps with your greater experience, you wish to speak to Mr. Chance’s question.” She touched her lips with her napkin and lifted her chin. He glared at her with such pure hatred it made her skin clammy. How did her lovely towheaded boy become this Cullen? She looked deeper into his eyes, searching for that boy, but they remained bottomless, empty, as if she could see through the dark tunnel to his skull.

  Then he pushed back his chair, stood, lifted his hand and dropped the linen napkin on the gravy laden plate, shoved the chair against the table, rattling the glasses, and strode toward the stairs, mounting them with the litheness of a cat leaping from limb to limb. The pounding on the ceiling stopped, and those left at the table absorbed the silence in its wake.

  Higgs and Vera studied their plates. Hayward looked confused as to whether he should follow his brother or finish the food he eyed hungrily. With a sigh he cut a large chunk of chicken breast and stuffed it in his mouth, chewing rapidly. When he tried to swallow and commenced to choke, it was Chance who thumped him on the back and handed him a glass of water. Hayward almost thanked him when he could breathe again, caught himself, and settled for a quick nod. Chance looked at Dulcinea with a twinkle in his eyes. She glanced at Vera in time to catch her watching them with an odd, distracted expression.