Blood Ties

by Sigmund Brouwer

  Of course, he could wait until she made it clear who she was dreaming over, then ask that cowboy to stay clear of her. But he knew that even the most resolute young cowboy would have difficulty staying away from her.

  At sixteen, Kelsie looked twenty-one, almost identical to Maggie in a wedding photo taken nearly three decades earlier. She had the same shoulder-length blonde hair, same slim waist, same heart-breaking smile.

  Kelsie, like her mother, did not have a model’s flawless cheek-bones and skin. Instead, her eyes were slightly wider and rounder, slightly farther apart than they should have been. Her mouth, too, was slightly too wide. The not-quite-perfect symmetry had a startling effect, as did her green eyes and the pouting curve of her lips.

  While Kelsie’s fashion choice tended toward work jeans and men’s shirts, the bulky clothing was incapable of hiding the considerable promise of a body far too developed for the peace of mind of her father, who with great clarity remembered the passion he’d never lost for her mother and her giving, loving body. He also remembered his wild cowboy days before meeting Maggie and becoming a one-woman man.

  James hoped Kelsie was as innocent and unaware of men's glances as she seemed to be. He told himself, as he watched her leaning against the corral, it would be far worse at her age if she already possessed enough feminine wiles to realize her best chance at landing a cowboy was to pretend to ignore him instead of mooning about in such an obvious fashion.

  Still, as he remembered so well, cowboys and young women were a dangerous combination.

  He’d have to think of something, and soon.

  7:45 p.m.

  Kelsie’s most precious possession was a gift from her mother, a musical jewelry box with a tiny ballerina on top. When the mechanism was wound, if the lid was opened and then shut, the ballerina would spin to tinkling music. The jewelry box was velvet lined and had a false bottom an inch deep; it was Kelsie’s habit to save small bills until she had enough to exchange for a fifty-dollar bill. She had four fifties in the music box now, along with her favorite Valentine’s cards, a letter from Maggie, sweet poems from her brother’s friend, Rooster Evans, and her first real love note, from a handsome cowboy named Nick Buffalo.

  No one knew of the note or the money or even of Kelsie’s deeply sentimental and romantic side, which led her to save all that she did in the jewelry box. On a ranch with three males, she’d learned early to hide her softness and her secret yearnings.

  Instead, she confided to her diary. This, too, was a secret. It felt right that she spend time with her diary in the one spot that Kelsie and her mother had shared with no one else – under their favorite tree. While Maggie was alive, they had visited the tree often, especially on clear blue summer evenings when the day’s breeze dropped to a whisper.

  The tree was a granddaddy poplar – silver, old, and dead – sitting alone on the edge of a hill two miles from the ranch house by horse trail, seven miles from any other house in the valley. Its broad trunk had been worn smooth of bark by cattle rubbing itchy hides against it. Higher up, the scars of bears’ claws could still be seen; grizzlies over the years had stretched tall and ripped at the bark to mark their territory. The tree was just wide enough to allow Maggie and Kelsie to sit between its gnarled roots and watch the shadows that lengthened across the valley with the setting of the sun. There would be a special moment – the one Maggie and Kelsie always waited for in silence – when the sun dropped behind the western edge of the valley. At that moment, the light would diffuse into golden softness so pure the entire valley seemed like a new, untouched land.

  Kelsie believed fully in God and Jesus and angels, and because of it, ever since her mother had died, she often rode Saber, her black ten-year-old gelding, to the tree for evening conversations with her mother. Kelsie knew Maggie was looking down on her and would appreciate hearing her thoughts on the day.

  Kelsie also shared these thoughts with her diary. She liked it best when she got to the tree early and was able to sort out her thoughts by talking to Maggie, with time after to record her thoughts in the diary while she waited for the special moment when the last fire of the sun disappeared;

  In the summers that had passed without Maggie, Kelsie discovered that when the golden light turned soft, she often strained her ears for the rush of air against angel wings, so great was her feeling of peace and the presence of her mother.

  Kelsie swayed with Saber’s slow walk as they neared the tree. Her mind was on Nick Buffalo. When he accepted a glass of water she had fetched for him while he was breaking horses down at the corral, they’d shared a secret smile. Although he hadn’t been able to say anything – not that he said much anyway – she knew he was thinking what she was thinking. For what they felt for each other, words weren’t needed.

  It made Kelsie dizzy to daydream about Nick’s lips on hers. Something like this – when the thought alone caused her stomach to tremble – had to be right, didn’t it? It was a question she intended to share first with Maggie, then with her diary as she enjoyed the peacefulness of the valley below.

  As usual, Kelsie looped the ends of Saber’s reins over a tree branch of a smaller poplar at the edge of the clearing surrounding the big, dead poplar. And, as usual, Kelsie grabbed a small stick as she walked toward her favorite tree.

  In the summer, because it might lead to awkward questions if she was seen with her diary going to or returning from her tree, Kelsie preferred to leave it in a hole in the side of the dead poplar. Come fall, she would take the diary back to the house and leave it in a secret spot in her room, for the weather then forced her to write there.

  Kelsie, for all her dreaminess, was still McNeill enough to have a practical streak. She always rubber-band-wrapped the diary in a plastic bag, so it wouldn’t get moldy or wet or infested with bugs. There was also a reason she carried the stick. She’d reach in with it and rattle the hole first, so that she would not be surprised by a sleeping squirrel, a mouse, or by wasps or bees.

  After satisfying herself that she could reach in without getting surprised, Kelsie took the diary from its hiding spot. She pulled it from the plastic bag, then eased herself into a sitting position against the broad trunk.

  Before opening the diary, Kelsie said a small prayer, thanking God for the day and for her health and asking God to keep looking over her father, Michael, and Lawson as they tended to the affairs of the ranch.

  Her prayer finished, she spoke to Maggie for a while, telling her about the tabby with four new kittens and how James seemed to miss Maggie still. Kelsie took time, of course, as she’d done for the past week or so, to slip in a few words about Nick Buffalo, wondering if it mattered that a man had red skin or white and then answering her question by saying probably the important thing was that the man made his woman happy, which Kelsie knew by instinct would happen when she spent more time with Nick.

  Finally, she opened her diary. She gasped.

  Bent and broken, just inside the leather cover, was a feather. She plucked it out and straightened it. If she was guessing right, it was an eagle feather.

  But how could –

  The diary had been wrapped in a plastic bag and sealed shut with the heavy rubber band. Someone must have placed the feather inside her diary, which meant someone knew where she hid it. And for that matter, knew what she’d written.

  But who could –

  She had never told anyone about this tree, not even her father. It was a secret more precious because of her memories of being there with her mother.

  Kelsie stood quickly.

  The soothing whispers of breeze and leaves became haunting reminders of her isolation. Kelsie told herself it was her imagination. She told herself the silent stands of trees above and below her hillside perch contained only small birds and rabbits. But someone had followed her there once. And someone had watched her once. Because someone had found her diary, and that someone had left the eagle feather as a message to let her know she had been watched and followed.

 
; Never before had Kelsie been frightened to be alone in any corner of the vast ranch lands. She hadn’t been scared of bears, and she hadn’t been worried about getting lost.

  Fear now shivered through her. Was someone watching her at that very moment?

  10:20 p.m.

  A few hours later, when Lawson McNeill reached the final crest of the winding forestry road, four other pickup trucks parked among the trees gleamed in his headlights. He parked his own truck, flicked off his headlights, and saw the glow of a campfire ahead. Obviously the others had decided the weather was so fine there was no need to use the cabin behind the campsite.

  Lawson stepped out of his truck and walked unhurriedly toward the men waiting for him. He guessed there might be a rifle trained at his chest, so he spoke.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said as he approached. “James had a few things he wanted done before I could leave.”

  “Don’t sweat it, son,” one voice said from the shadows at the side of the fire. “Fowler’s got no business calling us all together anyway on such short notice.”

  Lawson spotted the dark outline of an ice chest nearby, opened it, and threw in a dozen cans of beer – minus one for himself – then found a large chunk of firewood in the grass. With one hand – he held the aluminum beer can in his other hand – Lawson rolled the firewood toward the fire. With his toe, he flipped the firewood on its end to use it as a low chair. He plunked himself down beside a familiar figure and snapped open the beer top, nodding and smiling at the six other men already seated.

  “Hey, bud.”

  “Hey, Rooster,” Lawson said right back, just as quietly. Even if they hadn’t been neighbors, there would. have been a bond between the two. All the others around the campfire were middle-aged. Rooster and Lawson, who were the same age, were the only two young wolves who had been granted the privilege of admission to the select group.

  Lawson let the flow of conversation wash over him, half listening to the talk about deer hunting, loose women, money, and local politics. The other half of his attention was on the fragrance of fresh pine and the crackle of pine sap burning in the fire. He tilted his head back for a swallow of beer. Straight above was a piece of starlit sky so black it felt inches from his face, so clear the smallest stars appeared as dust among the constellations.

  He enjoyed being at the gathering, not only because of the surroundings, but also because it filled him with pride to share the company of some of the most powerful men in the Flathead – Rooster Evans and his father, Frank, along with Bud Andrews and Freddie Dubois, who were on the county council, Judge Thomas King, and Wayne Anderson, a banker. It felt good to be a man accepted so casually by those he admired.

  Lawson was in no hurry to drink his beer. The last thing he wanted was for them to think drinking beer was important to him. These weren’t the kind of men who approved of drunkenness.

  Ten, maybe fifteen minutes passed. Wayne Anderson, the banker, handed more cans of beer to Lawson and Rooster. “Can't let this stuff get warm,” he said. “No telling when Fowler will get here.”

  “Three minutes away,” Lawson said, accepting the beer. “I’m guessing he’s already crossed the Diamond Creek bridge.”

  “No kidding?” Anderson said, his tone friendly, not disbelieving.

  “Heard his motor.” Lawson corrected himself, trying to cover all bases. “Unless it’s someone else.”

  The judge slapped Lawson’s back. “Hey, boys, how would you all like to be a puppy again? Back when a feller had sharp eyes, sharp ears, and a tail ready to wag at anything.”

  The others chuckled dutifully.

  Lawson shrugged away his pleasure at the attention. By example, James McNeill had taught him well over the years. Any show of emotion was a show of weakness. And he wanted to be, if nothing else, known as James McNeill’s boy.

  Within minutes, as Lawson had predicted, a new set of headlights appeared over the crest of the road. The group waited for the slamming of the truck’s door. Then the judge, a skinny man with a lion’s head, set down his beer and grabbed a rifle. He held it ready until Fowler called out his howdy then leaned the rifle back against a piece of firewood.

  Fowler declined an offer to sit and declined a beer. Standing above the small group, Fowler wasted no time. “I’ll get right to it,” he said. “You all probably heard by now about the Flathead squaw we found early this morning at the Windsor Motel.”

  “Old news, Sheriff. Don’t tell us this is the reason you dragged us up here.”

  “Cork it, Frank,” Fowler told the rancher. “The reason I dragged you up here is because we need to talk some about what this means.”

  “Like what?” This from the judge, Thomas King.

  “Like how we all agreed the first rule was nothing public. How do you expect me to cover something like this?”

  “Hold on,” Frank said. “Are you accusing one of us?”

  “No,” Fowler said. His tone suggested a bull pawing at dirt. “I’m not going to accuse any of you. Fact is, I don’t want to hear one of you did it. What I saw this morning was more than I’ll accept, and I’m telling you now if I find out who did it, I’ll take –”

  Fowler stopped short. A Winchester 30-30 leveled chest high has that effect on a man, no matter how sure he is of himself.

  “That sounds real close to a threat,” the judge said, standing with his legs braced.

  "This ought to be good,” Fowler said. “All day I’ve been looking for an excuse to lose my temper.”

  “Tommy, put the gun down,” the banker said without rising. “This is not the OK Corral. Russ here wouldn’t ever do anything as foolish as make threats. Just like we don’t threaten him.”

  Frank burped to show his casual regard for the situation. The two councilmen watched with the same rigid silence they were famous for during town meetings and poker games. Lawson held his breath, fascinated by the palpable will of the strong men around him.

  The judge finally lowered the rifle.

  “Russ,” the banker said, “Tommy’s a little high-strung after last night’s poker game. Forget his crankiness and tell us what bee is buzzing under your skirt.”

  “Two things.” Fowler said. “The first is this: In my business, coincidences are disturbing, because they are rarely coincidences. All of you here have a good acquaintance with Doris Samson.” Fowler jerked his thumb in the direction of the cabin in the darkness behind them. “I don’t have to remind any of you about your week-long hunting trip last fall and how Doris and three of her friends provided entertainment the entire week.”

  “She’s turned born-again,” Rooster blurted. “Won’t have nothing to do with that stuff anymore.”

  Fowler paused and let his words drop slowly. “Which is the coincidence I don’t like. What if someone here took that personal? Wouldn’t be the first time a man took it hard when a woman said no after saying yes real easy.”

  “Hang on,” the banker said. “It was only a party here at the cabin. That don’t mean –”

  “Second thing,” Fowler said. “The FBI is in on this now. Which means –”

  “Russ, you promised to handle that for us,” the judge said, anger in his voice.

  “No,” Fowler said. “You made the promises.”

  “Which I delivered. They sent in a rookie on a short leash. You handle the rest and keep a potato sack over his head.”

  Fowler didn’t reply immediately. His labored breathing was audible above the crackling of the small fire. “I can’t stop him from asking questions,” he said at last. “And I got a bad feeling about him. He’s got bulldog determination. If he learns enough to land on your doorstep, I want you warned. Which is part of why we’re meeting tonight – to get some stories straight and ready for him. If worse comes to worst and it gets out she was up here last fall, we can’t let it mess up the land deal.”

  Day 2

  5:30 a.m.

  “You remember this suit, don’t you? Easter Sunday you more it to church. All the
other mothers were jealous of us. You were so handsome. Me – so beautiful.”

  He shivered, hopping from foot to foot on the tile floor beside the emptying bathtub.

  She held a shirt out for him and smiled at his small naked body. It made him feel strange, strange like when she slept with him.

  “These clothes smell funny,” he said. “I want to go home.”

  “They smell like mothballs. And I want you to remember you are home, Little Bobby.”

  “I am not Little Bobby. My name is –”

  Her hand moved so quickly, he didn’t realize at first what had happened. It sounded like a thunderclap, and the blow rocked him sideways. He began to wail.

  She folded the clothes neatly, set them on the edge of the counter, and when she was satisfied with that, finally scooped him into her arms. She kissed the top of his head. “There, there, Little Bobby. See how Mommy makes it right?”

  She pushed him back to study his face. “See how Mommy makes it right?” Her question became a threat.

  He wanted to tell her she wasn’t his mother. But then she would hold the candle flame beneath his palm again. She became angry when he didn’t call her Mommy.

  “Yes,” he said, “Mommy makes it right.”

  “Mommy’s glad Little Bobby knows who loves him.” She patted his bare bottom. “Let’s get you dressed now. All the other mothers will be so jealous of us.”

  He held out his small arms and let her pull a starchy shirt onto his upper body...

  Although the memory bothered him as he lay in bed waiting for the new day to begin, the Watcher smiled at a new thought. Maybe he should no longer think of himself as the Watcher, for he had finally gone beyond watching, hadn’t he?