by Jonis Agee
“Miss Edson.” He wiped his hand across the front of his worn but clean gray chambray shirt. “Mind if I have a word with my daughter-in-law? She’s spending so much time entertaining her men guests these days, we don’t get much opportunity to discuss the ranches.”
Tookie glanced at her and went to join her brother, who was talking to Chance and Stillhart, the banker. Rose thrust the tray of drinks among them and they each took one, Tookie choosing whiskey instead of sherry and Chance choosing sherry instead of whiskey.
Drum cleared his throat to capture her attention again.
“What is it?” she asked. He continued to massage his chest as if his undershirt was too tight.
“You would, would you?” He kept his voice so low she could barely hear him above the din of the other conversations and whiskey-loosened laughter.
“Would what?”
He glared at her, digging his fingers into his chest. “Make this deal without even talking to me!” He stared as venomous as a snake in the blind. “After all this family has done for you, too!”
“Stop right there!” She kept her voice to a whisper. “I haven’t any idea what you’re talking about. And I don’t need to hear any sanctimonious nonsense either, from you of all people!”
Apparently her anger got through to him because he stopped his chest kneading and rocked back on his boot heels and peered at her, cagey eyes half-squinted. “You swear?”
She started to turn, but he grabbed her upper arm and squeezed so hard she winced.
“You swear they haven’t gotten to you yet?”
“I swear if you don’t let go of my arm I’m going to punch you in the nose, Drum Bennett!” When he released her, she added, “And no, no one has spoken to me about anything other than the pleasantries of the day. What are you talking about?” It was no secret the old man was growing more suspicious with age, and for a person who started out that way, he didn’t have far before plain crazy. Of course, Chance mentioned the oil business, but she wasn’t about to share that. Again, she wondered if Drum had killed his own son in a fit of suspicious rage.
Cullen interrupted them, striding in from the study with the young woman behind him, waving his arms and raising his voice. “It’s all settled! This ranch is going to be the site of the first drilling in the Sand Hills, thanks to Western Oil and Gas.” He looked toward them and grinned as if he’d won the prize money at the ranch rodeo. “Let’s raise a toast to Markie Eastman and her father, who can’t be here!” His voice rose and cracked at the end, but he was drunk enough not to care as he grabbed a tumbler from Rose’s tray and hoisted it above his head, slopping whiskey onto his coat sleeve.
“No, damn you.” Drum clenched his fists. Cullen grinned, his eyes dancing wildly at his grandfather. “I’ll fix you, you little shit,” Drum cursed under his breath.
The company stared at Cullen and a few hesitantly lifted their glasses, until Hayward interrupted the celebration from the doorway.
“That’s all fine and dandy, Cullen”—Hayward paused and looked at Drum and his mother—“but you don’t own this ranch. Mother does. And even if she doesn’t, I do, and I won’t have anything to do with Western Oil and Gas.” He paused again and tilted his head as he stared at his brother. “But you knew that, didn’t you? That’s why you snuck off to town today.”
Cullen grinned, slugged the whiskey and let the glass drop from his hand to the floor, where it rolled without breaking. “Little brother.” He shook his head. “Little brother.” His jaw tightened.
“Cullen, we have guests. Stop making a spectacle of yourself.” Dulcinea kept her voice low and full of the motherly authority they both knew she lacked.
“Son . . .” Rivers stepped forward and placed a hand on Cullen’s shoulder. The boy shrugged it off, and his face went from red to white, which meant he would explode any minute. The young woman grabbed his wrist and spoke into his ear, and that finally stopped him.
As he pushed his way through the guests, shouldering Drum aside as if he were a wisp of straw, Cullen gave his mother a look so filled with loathing it punched her breath away. She clutched her stomach and forced herself to breathe as he stormed out the door, cracking the glass when he slammed it. The sound would stay with her forever, so clearly did it mark the end of one part of her life and the beginning of another.
Drum was suddenly the congenial one, murmuring apologies to one and all, coaxing them to the supper table while she stood alone watching, not quite able to grasp what had happened.
Finally Hayward offered her his arm and led her to the head of the table opposite Drum, who wouldn’t look at her. The old man was always a surprise. In the years she’d known him, she never suspected he had a social bone in his body. Watching him tell a story to Rachel Rivers, she realized he had known about the deal Cullen made. He was probably most upset that she would authorize it without his say-so. Who else knew besides Rivers, Drum, Cullen—ah, yes, Judge Foote.
The dinner progressed with small talk and food she couldn’t taste.
Hayward, seated on her right, leaned over and repeated his promise of that afternoon. “It’ll be fine, Mother. Don’t worry.”
She dipped her head and peered at her son and managed a smile. “Of course it will, dear.” What she couldn’t say was that she would never rely on another man to take care of her.
He reached for the wine bottle and poured her glass too full, but she didn’t correct him. She had to raise it with both hands to keep from spilling. As she drank, she caught Judge Foote’s eyes on her. She did nothing to acknowledge him and he turned to speak to Markie Eastman at his side, who seemed to have a way of flattering men without simpering or flirting, and the judge straightened and beamed at her remarks—becoming more of a man, just as Cullen had for that brief, jubilant moment.
While the men went outside to smoke and drink brandy, the women retired to the parlor. It was Dulcinea’s first opportunity to speak with Rivers’s wife, who appeared flustered by the economies of ranch life, or perhaps life in general. Rachel Rivers was a small woman with a big bosom who seemed to keep her shoulders back to avoid toppling over. Even as she sat on the sofa, she held her head high so her small brown eyes looked down at the world. She had the little round face, tiny upturned nose, and pointed chin of a pixie in a child’s storybook, complete with plump little Cupid’s bow lips that seemed on the verge of either kissing or spitting. When she spoke, her voice was higher than one might expect, and slightly singsong, as if she followed along with a melody in her head.
Tookie watched her with an astonished expression, almost slack jawed. Markie Eastman paid little court, wearing a smile that could also be called a grimace if one looked closely. Markie herself was unremarkable, except for the extreme pallor and the features so regular and purposeful they lacked feeling. Mahogany-brown hair in soft waves caught with a bow at the back of her neck, unblinking brown eyes, perfectly straight nose, and well-formed mouth, the only defect being the slightly large ears she hid under her hair. Her lips and brows appeared painted. Dulcinea wondered that her son was so easily caught by this girl. As she examined her more closely, she realized the woman was older than she appeared, closer to thirty than the twenty she conveyed at first glance. She caught Dulcinea’s stare and raised a glass of brandy to her lips, sipping while she returned the look, unblinking, as expressionless as a lizard.
“Tell me what you proposed to my son, Miss Eastman,” Dulcinea said. In the background, Vera clattered pans for all she was worth, angry to be relegated to hired help in the presence of company. Dulcinea didn’t blame her.
“Why, Miz Dulcinea—is it all right if I call you Dulcinea?” the other woman drawled in a Deep Southern accent.
“Mrs. Bennett will be fine,” Dulcinea said. Markie glanced at Rachel Rivers, who fluttered nervously.
“My son?”
“‘God handles the large actions, but the small he leaves to Fortune,’ as the ancient Greeks used to say. Don’t you agree? I’ve always found
it so.” Markie Eastman sipped the brandy she insisted on, though excluded from the men and their talk. Tookie and Dulcinea joined her.
“Ah.” Dulcinea smiled and decided to play her game. “They also said, ‘Fortune took the dearest thing I have as fee, and made me wise.’” She noted Tookie shaking her head while Rachel Rivers gazed about the room.
“I see.” Markie stared into her brandy for a moment, then held up the snifter and sighted through it. Aside from sharing a classical education, Markie Eastman and Dulcinea were at opposite ends of the world. “There’s money to be made out here, Mrs. Bennett. You, your neighbors”—she nodded toward Tookie—“or someone else, it doesn’t matter. Your son was the first to come forward when he heard I was in town. Apparently he has an eye for the future.” She raised her brow slightly as if she paid her a compliment, then lifted the glass and drank like a man, deep and long.
“He can’t sell rights he doesn’t own.”
“I’ve always found that men have a better sense of business than women.” She smiled at Rachel Rivers, who gave a tiny, obligatory nod. The harlequin dog plopped next to Markie’s chair; she reached down and fingered its ears.
Dulcinea slapped the glass from her hand before she could stop herself. “You are no longer welcome,” she hissed between her teeth. The dog cowered and whined.
Markie Eastman smiled at her folded hands and shook her head, her shoulders trembling until she could no longer control herself and she laughed out loud. “My Lord, woman,” she gasped, “who do you think you are?” Then she rolled her shoulders forward and stood, brushed a lock of hair off her cheek. “It’s been very entertaining, but I must be going. I’ll have to contact my father in Denver and tell him to move forward on filing for a federal claim for oil and mineral rights.” She glanced at Tookie. “I wonder how many of you will still be here when we’re through.”
She opened the door and glanced outside into the darkness, where the only sound was the jingle of the harness when the carriage horses stamped their feet against the mosquitoes. “I’ll take that dog when you go broke, too,” she said with the same infuriating smile and carefully closed the door. They heard the murmurs of the men on the porch quiet and rise again into farewells, then the jingling of the harness as the carriage began the long journey to town.
“A most unpleasant creature.” Rachel Rivers yawned and patted her mouth with elfin fingers. Dulcinea smiled gratefully and offered her more coffee, but she pointed to the decanter instead.
Dulcinea poured three generous portions and, ignoring social graces, the women took long draughts of brandy to flush away the unpleasantness.
After they spent a moment with their thoughts, Dulcinea asked Tookie, “Does the government own the mineral and subsurface rights to our land?”
Tookie shrugged. “Evan says he thinks so.”
Rachel Rivers nodded. “My husband says you’re all in danger if you don’t agree to let them drill. The government has been ignoring you for a long time, except of course for the open range and Homestead Act violations, but that could change if the right pockets are lined. And if there is any evidence of oil or gas out here. So far, nobody’s been able to make that claim. It’s all speculation.”
Once again, she realized her hasty judgments had led her astray. Rachel Rivers was a good listener, apparently, with an accurate eye and ear. Dulcinea recalled the other day when she and Rose had spotted Chance digging in the hills.
“What does he think we should do?” Tookie asked, a worried expression on her face for the first time.
“Hire him to negotiate,” she said, her eyes sharp and practical, very unlike those of the child’s toy Dulcinea had imagined earlier. She wondered if her husband was working with the gas and oil company, too, but didn’t ask.
“And you”—Rachel turned her gaze to her hostess—“might ask yourself who outside the family has had free access to your land of late.” She gave her doll smile and returned her face to the pretty porcelain painted expression as the other two simply stared at her. Chance had said what he was doing, but not who he was working for. Was he trying to take her land? But how would murdering her husband and that girl help him do that? She’d have to speak to Rose.
“Well, missus, we is about done here.” Vera had tied one of the plaid dish towels from Marshall Field’s over her head like a Southern field hand and clasped her hands in front, head bowed in mock deference. Rose, behind her, looked uncomfortably toward the door while Lily tugged her arm, eager to escape.
“Wouldn’t you-all like to sit with us and share this here brandy?” Dulcinea kept her face neutral as she lifted the decanter, even though there was a glint of hard amusement in Vera’s eyes.
“Why thank ya, missus. You is too kind.” Vera yanked the towel off her head and flung it over her shoulder, narrowly missing Rose and Lily as they sidled toward the door.
“Rose?” Dulcinea said. Rose glanced at Lily. The child was long past bedtime, and with lower lip outthrust, she scrubbed her eye with the heel of her hand as her mother pulled her out the door.
Vera lifted an empty glass, held it to the lamplight, frowned and rubbed a forefinger over a spot, then thrust it toward Dulcinea. When the glass was half-full, Vera raised her brows and drank. Watching her throat work as she swallowed, Dulcinea wondered if Frank knew more about this business with the gas and oil people than he let on.
“Good venison steaks tonight, Vera. You use butter or lard?” Tookie took another long gulp.
“Bacon grease. Add a little butter and a pinch of flour to the pan, make you a thin gravy, then pour it over the steaks.” Vera drank again. “And if you have a bottle of J.B.’s brandy open, you can add a splash of that, too.” She smiled.
“Mighty, mighty good,” Tookie said. “Don’t s’pose there’s any extra bottles of that brandy laying around.” Her glance at Dulcinea was earnest to hide the teasing. “The rate we’re going these days, there won’t be any brandy left in Cherry County.” Dulcinea lifted her glass and drank, appreciating the smooth, smoky-sweet flavor on the back of her tongue. Honestly, that man had an unusually fine palate for a person raised without the niceties in life. Another pang of regret traveled the nerves of her arms and settled in her hands, made the bones ache, as if she struggled to hang on to something that tugged hard to get loose. She shook her hand like it had fallen asleep, and ignored Vera’s inquiring gaze. Again, she had to wonder, who was her friend and who her enemy: Graver? Chance? Frank Higgs? Drum? Her boys? Judge Foote? Larson Dye? No, she didn’t think the other ranchers were deeper into this than she was. Drum had shown the same shock. Cullen, well, he was an angry child, but surely, he was open about what he was doing. Hayward was much too young. Chance had admitted what he was doing. The ranch was big enough that all kinds of people could be wandering around unless one of the men came across them by accident. What about the men, now that J.B. was gone? Were they loyal? Drum’s men? He was so hated, maybe one of them. She’d have to conjure a way to question Drum. She recognized that her worst enemy had to become an ally for the time being. But was he using the Eastmans to get his hands on her ranch? Maybe there was no threat, maybe she should just sell the damn ranch and move away. Drum would be furious. Someone was the betrayer, and she intended to find out who, and then they would discover her true nature, the one people kept underestimating.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
It was early the next morning when Rose met Dulcinea in the kitchen. They eyed each other after a night troubled by dreams, muffled voices, and creaking saddles. The sun was nearly up, yet Vera was nowhere to be found. Rose quickly set about making coffee and frying bacon while Lily set the table. It wasn’t until after breakfast that they found a moment to sit.
“We’re not any closer to finding the killer, are we?” Dulcinea asked.
Rose turned the cup in her hands, tilted the coffee up one side, then the other until it was on the verge of spilling. Setting it down, she placed both hands flat on the table.
“Last
night, while I was serving your guests”—fhe paused, showing her irritation—“this locket slipped out of my blouse.” She pulled the chain over the neck of her dress and cradled the locket in her palm. “Hayward couldn’t take his eyes off it.”
Dulcinea frowned.
“Later, after the dishes, he tried to stop and talk to me, but Lily and I slipped away.”
“What do you think he wanted?” Dulcinea’s tone was flat.
Rose shrugged and opened the locket, revealing two faces. Dulcinea bent to examine it, then sat back stunned. Rose thought the man looked like a younger version of Drum. The woman was a stranger.
“You think my son’s involved, that he killed his own father?”
Rose glanced away as she tucked the locket back in her dress, and the women sat there considering the implications. “Could be the boys. Or Drum.”
Rose thought back to how Jerome had found Star’s body. When he was a boy he could see the ghost herd that ran alongside their Indian ponies, all the animals slain in battle galloping stride for stride with the few half-starved animals left. When he described his vision, the tribe named him Some Horses, because he saw this world and the other, as Yellow Leg, an elder, promised years ago. Now, the ghost horses led him to find the missing. That night he let their horse loose and followed for hours until it led them to Star’s body.
Last night she saw her husband watch from the barn as Vera slipped out of bed to meet someone and the oldest son rode off to town. A while later the youngest slipped out of the house, past his grandfather dozing on the porch, and followed his brother. Then the judge came down and sat with the elder on the porch talking for a long time. Jerome said three ghosts lingered around the men. J. B. Bennett, who never left the house, an Indian woman—a Mandan in traditional dress who stayed closest to the old man—and a limping white man in tattered clothes he didn’t recognize. That was the angry one.
Sometimes she wondered if he imagined the spirits, as he did when he drank liquor and told people what they wanted to hear. “My name,” he said, “means I was a rich chief until we lost the war. I had many wives,” he lied, “and now only this poor one.” He shook his head in mock grief and she wanted to knock his brains in and cure his hide with them. “Is this not the dress of a warrior chief?” He pulled on the headdress he bought at the trading post pawn in Rushville for two buffalo skulls, a cavalry saddle with a rusty iron seat and rotted leather, and a broken U.S. Cavalry pistol he found in the hills, and stood, sweeping his arms dramatically along his sides to show off the beaded, fringed white deerskin leggings and arm cuffs he’d won in a cutthroat game of stones last powwow. The bone and brass breastplate was actually given to Rose by her mother when her father died, and was older than any of them. The spear was a piece of crooked cottonwood tied with red felt, trade beads, and rotted deerskin. The stone point wouldn’t scratch a dog, it was so clumsily shaped and blunt, but the whites didn’t notice these details when they asked for the postcard or to take his picture. On good days he charged a nickel, on bad days he made them buy him a drink. He was a good man, better than most, and if she saw all those ghosts standing around she’d need a strong drink to blind her, too. It was hard enough with Star’s tiny teeth chewing her flesh from the inside out. Rose had to send her spirit home before it ate their whole world.
