CJ turned his head. “It’s not best for me without you with us.”
Emma stood and reached for the apron on the hook by the kitchen door. She wasn’t sure if she could keep from wrapping her arms around CJ and never letting him go.
“You think about the idea while I get started on supper,” she said as she tied the apron strings. “It just might be perfect for you. Your pa will help you become the best rancher on the basin, and with all your schooling you’ll be smarter and more savvy than the whole lot of them.”
CJ stood. “I’m going to my room,” he said, sounding surly.
“Bring in some wood for the cookstove before you do,” Emma said, trying to keep her voice from trembling.
* * *
Patrick’s attorney, Alan Lipscomb, met him a block away from the offices of Wallace Claiborne Hale, Emma’s lawyer.
“They’re waiting for us,” Lipscomb said, consulting his pocket watch. He ran a handkerchief across his forehead. It was a hot day for the middle of November, and a stiff breeze kicked across the valley. On Main Street, dust swirled up and down the boulevard. Only a few people were out. A wagon rattled past and several automobiles chugged by, billowing smoke. A huge tumbleweed followed one of the motorcars down the street. In spite of the bountiful crops harvested earlier in the fall along the Rio Grande, Las Cruces looked dried out and thirsty.
“They can wait,” Patrick replied, looking at the baby-faced lawyer in his three-piece suit. “Are you sure they agreed to my terms?”
Lipscomb nodded. “You pay her one-third the value of the ranch, livestock, and improvements, and she gets the house free and clear plus any remaining cash from the dissolution of the partnership and the marriage.”
Patrick hated the idea of borrowing the money to settle the divorce, but there was no other way to do it. “What about CJ?” he demanded. “I want my boy.”
“That’s what we’re here to find out. Mr. Hale says they’re willing to make an offer.”
“What kind of offer?”
Lipscomb shrugged. “Best you can plan on is seeing your son in town and having him out at the ranch when he’s not in school. There isn’t a judge in the district who will give you custody of the boy over his mother’s objections. And as far as we know, there are no moral or health issues that would hold up against her. She has all the cards.”
Lipscomb waited for his client to react. A tall man who towered over him, Patrick Kerney had a face that gave nothing away. In his two prior meetings with the man, Lipscomb had come to think of Kerney as taciturn and vindictive. Why else would he want to deny his wife custody of their son? Mrs. Kerney was well liked and respected by all who knew her in town. Many folks, particularly the men who frequented Miller’s Dry Goods, found her remarkably interesting and vivacious. Lipscomb was one of those men.
Patrick said nothing. “Are you ready?” Lipscomb asked.
Patrick nodded and stepped off briskly down the sidewalk toward Hale’s office. Lipscomb hurried to catch up and drew even with Kerney at the front door, just as he flung it open and stepped inside. A male secretary scrambled to his feet to greet them.
“Where is my wife?” Kerney demanded curtly.
The secretary nodded at the closed door to the inner office. “Go right in.”
Kerney stormed in. Lipscomb, in his wake, wondered if all hell was going to break loose. Instead, Kerney glanced quickly at his wife, sitting in a chair across from Hale’s desk, and locked his eyes on Hale, who rose, hand extended.
He shook Hale’s hand across the desk, sat stiffly in an empty chair away from his wife, and said, “Let’s hear what you have to say.”
Lipscomb took a seat between Kerney and his missus. As always, he was struck by Emma’s natural attractiveness. She had lively eyes, pleasing full lips, high cheekbones, and lustrous dark hair done up in a bun.
“Yes, of course,” Wallace Hale said, settling down behind his desk. “To the business at hand.” He passed a document across the desk to Lipscomb.
“What’s this?” Lipscomb said, reaching for his reading spectacles.
“Once signed, it testifies, declares, and acknowledges that Mr. Kerney is the father of Mrs. Kerney’s unborn child,” Hale replied. “By his signature, Mr. Kerney furthermore agrees to make the unborn child an equal heir to his estate.”
Stunned, red faced, and angry looking, Patrick turned to Emma and sputtered, “What damn unborn child?”
Wallace Hart held up his hand to stop him. “Enough, Mr. Kerney. If you are about to challenge my client’s claim that you are the father of this child, I advise against it. If you do so, all pending agreements regarding the divorce settlement will dissolve here and now, and we will see you and your counsel in court, where you will not fare well.”
Patrick Kerney clenched his jaw and shot another glance at Emma, who sat calmly, ignoring him.
“Just what does my client get out of this?” Lipscomb asked.
“Along with the already agreed-upon division of property and cash assets, Mrs. Kerney will graciously agree to allow CJ to stay with your client on the ranch each year from the start of the New Year through fall works, providing that CJ returns to his mother’s house during the summer should he so desire and your client agrees to return CJ home to his mother in time to attend school in the fall. Furthermore, Mr. Kerney must ensure that CJ attends school at the Hightower Ranch while it is in session during the time the boy resides at the Double K.”
Hale handed Lipscomb another document and watched as he read it. “Do you need a moment in private with your client?” he asked.
“Just how far along are you?” Patrick demanded of Emma before Lipscomb could reply to Hale.
“You should know,” Emma said evenly, refusing to look at him, “unless you’d like to forget what you did.”
Patrick gripped the arms of his chair and glared at her.
Hale passed another paper to Lipscomb. “Dr. Fielder is attending to Mrs. Kerney. She is approaching the end of her third month. He attests to it in his letter.”
“Did you figure out how to do all this all on your own?” Patrick snapped at Emma. “Is this how you pay me back for getting you away from Tom Dunphy and your loco sister? Taking you in when you had nothing and giving you a home and a family?”
Emma straightened her back and stared at the wall of books behind Hale’s desk.
“Do you want a moment with your client?” Hale repeated.
Lipscomb nodded.
“Use my office,” Hale said as he escorted Emma to the door. “If you agree to Mrs. Kerney’s conditions, call for my secretary. He’ll have the necessary documents for Mr. Kerney to sign.”
Patrick waited until the door closed. “Maybe I should get me a lawyer who will stand up for me.”
“Another lawyer might be more than willing to advise you to take the matter before a judge,” Lipscomb replied. “But I feel it will serve no good purpose, although folks hereabouts will certainly find plenty reason to gossip about what gets disclosed in court.”
“That kind of talk won’t bother me none out on the Double K,” Patrick replied.
“But it will surely bother your son here in town,” Lipscomb responded.
“Dammit,” Patrick snorted.
“If you have any knowledge that Mrs. Kerney has been unfaithful with another man, we can proceed with a counterproposal or take the entire custody question before a judge. Otherwise, I suggest you accept the terms.”
Patrick fell silent.
“Do you wish to contest Mrs. Kerney’s assertion that you are the father of her unborn child?”
Patrick sighed. “I want to be done with this and with her.”
“Very well.” Lipscomb opened the door and called for Hale’s secretary.
Papers in hand, Patrick and Lipscomb read though the documents carefully. After Patrick signed, Lipscomb witnessed his signature, and the two men left Hale’s office. The secretary was alone in the front office. Emma and Hale were nowhere in sight.
In spite of his bluster, Patrick wanted to see her again. He wanted to talk her out of the mule-headed stubbornness that had caused her to leave him. He wanted her to give him another chance, like any decent wife should.
That wasn’t going to happen, and he knew it. Right there, on the spot, with Lipscomb saying something that didn’t register, Patrick decided he would have nothing at all to do with the baby Emma carried. Not now, not ever.
62
As winter approached, news of impending statehood filled the newspapers. In the diners, saloons, hotels, and stores along Main Street, it was about the only subject of conversation. Rumor had it that New Mexico would become a state soon after Congress convened in the New Year. The city fathers were already planning a day of celebration.
Emma used some of the money she received from the divorce settlement to have electricity installed in her house. Workmen ran a wire from the poles in the alley, cut a hole through the adobe wall, put in switches, outlets, and ceiling lights, and attached the wires to everything. As soon as they were done, Emma bought table lamps and lightbulbs for each room. Every day at dusk, she and CJ turned all the lights on just because it was such a marvel. After supper, they sat together in the front room. Emma usually sewed while CJ did his studies, and when he finished they read aloud to each other until his bedtime.
For a nickel, she had bought a dog-eared, used copy of A Lady’s Life in the Rocky Mountains, by an Englishwoman named Isabella Bird. The book totally enthralled her, and CJ enjoyed it as well.
It was a series of letters written in 1873 by Isabella to her sister back in England as she traveled alone in the Rocky Mountains, meeting up with a one-eyed desperado, surviving blizzards, climbing fourteen-thousand-foot mountains, weathering cold and hunger in a mountain cabin during an ice storm, staying in flea-infested houses, and traveling on foot through the forest after being thrown by her horse when a bear attacked. Not only were the tales exciting, but the author’s descriptions of all she’d seen were splendid.
The night she finished reading aloud the last chapter to CJ, Emma came to a decision. Isabella Bird had inspired her. She would not leave this world without first seeing something of it, no matter if it was only a small slice.
She closed the book and looked at CJ. “You and I are going to take a trip before you leave for the ranch.”
CJ’s eyes lit up. “Where to?”
“California. I want to see the Pacific Ocean and dip my toes in the water. We’ll stop at the Grand Canyon on the way back.”
CJ grinned. “I’d like that a whole bunch. Maybe we could visit Inscription Rock, where all the Spanish conquistadors and early explorers signed their names,” he added excitedly. “It’s over northwest from here.”
“I don’t see why not,” Emma said, almost giggling. “On our way home we can stay over a few days in Albuquerque, go to Santa Fe, and visit some of the Indian pueblos along the Rio Grande. I’ve never been to any of those places.”
“When are we going?” CJ asked.
“Soon. I’ll go to the train depot in the morning and get schedules and brochures. We’ll plan our adventure tomorrow after you’re home from school.”
“Do you really mean it?” CJ asked, barely able to contain himself.
“Yes, I do.”
“Whoopee!” CJ shouted with a grin.
“We’ll have such fun,” Emma said. She pulled him out of his chair and danced him gaily around the room.
* * *
In the predawn darkness of a cold, early January morning, CJ stepped out of his mother’s house, walked through the gate of the picket fence, put his heavy parcels and bags in the back of the wagon, tied Buddy to the tailgate, and climbed up on the seat next to his father. He could see Ma’s outline in the front-room window. She’d been crying a little when she kissed him good-bye, and CJ wasn’t feeling too good to be leaving her for so long a time himself.
On their trip to California, he’d seen more, done more, and had more fun than his two best friends, Austin Feather and Billy McFie, could imagine. He must have told them about his adventures more than a dozen times, describing the ocean, which went on forever, filling up the horizon more than the desert ever could, and recounting his first look into the Grand Canyon, spotting the thin ribbon of the river in the deep gorge thousands of feet below, and how scary it was to peer down into it. He told them about Inscription Rock, where for hundreds of years a pool of clear water had drawn travelers, who chiseled their names and initials in stone on the towering, sheer cliff. He talked about the people he saw on the trains, the land he saw from the railcar windows, the fancy two-story buildings that lined the Santa Fe Plaza, and the Indians at the pueblos.
Envious of all CJ had seen, Billy and Austin declared Mrs. Kerney to be the swellest mother in town to take him on such an adventure. CJ felt the same.
“I see she’s got electricity now,” Pa said as he started the team down the street.
“Sure makes it easier on the eyes come nightfall,” CJ allowed with a nod of his head.
“I suppose so. Waste of money, as I see it.” Patrick reached for a blanket on the floorboard. “Here, in case you get cold.”
“I’m fine, Pa,” CJ replied, stuffing the blanket between them on the seat.
“What have you got in those parcels?” Patrick asked.
“Schoolbooks,” CJ replied. “Ma doesn’t want me falling behind in my studies. I’m to give the books to Mrs. Hightower, so she can make assignments for me from them.”
“Sam Miller told me your ma stopped working for him and took you on a trip to California.”
“Yep,” CJ said enthusiastically, “and it was some humdinger too. We saw the ocean, the Grand Canyon…”
“Damn wasteful foolishness,” Patrick scolded. “I’ll hear nothing about it.”
CJ dropped his head. “But you saw the ocean, even rode on a ship to Cuba and back.”
“That was different; that was war. The government paid for it.”
“How come you don’t talk about the war?”
“Because the only friend I had got shot down in front of my eyes and I wanted no more to do with losing people I took a liking to. Came close to dying myself. I don’t like those memories.” The vision of Jake Jacobi dead and bloody at Colonel Roosevelt’s feet passed through Patrick’s mind.
“Are we gonna come back to town when Ma has the baby?” CJ asked.
“I’ll hear no talk of that,” Patrick snapped. “Not now or ever again. And you won’t be coming back here until you start school in the fall. I’ve moved all my business dealings to Alamogordo, so that’s where we’ll go when we need victuals, supplies, and such. I’d like it fine if this is the last I ever see of Las Cruces.”
“Why can’t you and Ma get along?”
“Ask your ma. It wasn’t me who did any of this. You’ll be starting school in a week, but your chores come first, understand? I don’t want you lollygagging at the ranch.”
“Yes, Pa.”
“No school unless the chores get done.”
“Yes, Pa.”
Patrick gave him a tight smile. “You and me are gonna run the best outfit on the Tularosa. Ain’t that right?”
“Yes, sir,” CJ replied.
A weak sun broke over the top of the snow-tipped Organ Mountains, and a chill wind coursed down San Augustin Pass. Suddenly, CJ felt cold. He turned his collar up, wrapped the blanket around his legs, and felt a quick stab of regret about leaving Las Cruces, his school pals, and his ma.
* * *
CJ soon discovered the ranch wasn’t the same without Ma there. Pa had turned the house into a messy workshop of sorts, with tools, ropes, buckets, saddles, and other gear spread out all over the front room and the kitchen table. He’d taken up drinking, although not when CJ was around, and the whiskey bottles were in plain sight.
Pa had given CJ Cal’s old room, and he’d fixed it up with a table made out of scrap wood, which he used for studying in the evening after supper.
Most nights he was dog tired from his chores. First off, he had to clean out the barn stalls and rake the horse apples out of the corrals every morning. Then he had to feed the critters and turn them out for water on the pasture. Pa usually had breakfast ready by then, and after cleaning the dishes and washing up, CJ hurried off on the trail to the Hightowers’ for school. Some mornings he about froze before he got there.
With daily ranch chores to be done by the three Hightower girls and the two young Carter boys needing to travel a long way home, school didn’t last more than four hours a day. Mrs. Hightower was a real nice lady, and CJ liked her a lot, but she sure wasn’t much of a teacher when it came to answering his questions, especially about science and mathematics. Still, the schoolbooks he’d brought along kept him learning, and he was able to figure a lot of stuff out by himself.
The oldest Hightower girl, Amy, was a year younger than CJ and a real pest. A redhead with a temper, she always chased him during recess when they played tag.
However, she was smart, and CJ liked her for that.
Because he was the oldest student at school, CJ had to tend the woodstove, chop wood and kindling, haul water, and watch the younger children when Mrs. Hightower got called away by her husband for one reason or another. Sometimes she was gone for a half hour or more.
For lunch he mostly brought canned fruit, crackers, and beef jerky. Once in a while, Mrs. Hightower fixed him a sandwich or gave him a hard-boiled egg.
Back home after school, CJ chopped kindling, cleaned out the cookstove, set a new fire in the fireplace, and helped out with the ponies. He also had to keep the kitchen clean. When Pa wasn’t back in time from day herding, he fixed supper, getting scolded when he burned the meat or didn’t have the food ready and waiting.
In early March, Mrs. Hightower let school out for spring works, and CJ stayed busy helping with the gathering, his studies pleasantly forgotten. Pa let him work the calves during branding, and he felt real grown-up, hazing the critters to catch hands, who roped the animals and brought them to the bulldoggers to earmark, castrate, and brand with a hot iron. More than once CJ had to shoo away an upset mother cow riled by her calf’s blatting. One of the boys from another outfit gave him a nod of thanks and a wink for keeping a charging cow from wrecking into him. CJ felt real good about that.
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