by Mari Collier
He's too thin, thought Brigetta. He is not eating right since Antoinette died. She reached out and patted his hand. “I miss her too, Lorenz. Just think how she vould have loved this party. She always loved parties vhere she could boss everyone around.”
Lorenz nodded and smiled softly, and then the mouth tightened. Brigetta bent her head and smelled the roses, the sweet scent evoking more memories.
This time when she spoke she used German. “Ah, this brings back memories. Do you remember our twenty-fifth anniversary?
“Yes, that was quite a party, but there weren't as many people attending. Of course, you weren't ninety-five then and did not have all these descendants to help you celebrate.” He too spoke in German.
“I didn't have all these relatives until they discovered oil on our ranch. Now they flock in, but I don't care.”
Brigetta sat back, “I've always wanted to tell you. I fell in love with you that night.”
“What?”
Brigetta smiled again at the memory. “Ach ja, I was so upset at the thought, I ran to the front porch. Toni followed me and calmed me down. She thought it was something different.” Brigetta felt a faint flush for she could not say “the change.”
“She insisted I come back for Martin's speech. Somehow I managed to go back and walk up on that stage. Then Martin started telling everyone what a wonderful wife I was and gave me the flowers.” She fingered the topaz and pearl broach pinned to the afternoon suit of light blue.
“I fell in love with Martin while he was talking.”
Lorenz laughed, his high baritone carrying far enough for some to look at them, and he answered in German. “Brigetta, I never knew you were so fickle.”
Brigetta grew pensive. “I need to know. Were the roses Antoinette's or your idea?”
“I swear, Brigetta, it was Martin's idea. He just didn't know where to buy roses. When he asked me, I thought he was crazy. We both had to go to Toni to find out where to buy roses.”
“Thank you, Lorenz. She was a good friend.” She sat back and closed her eyes.
Lorenz looked at the sleeping Brigetta and shrugged. Her face was relaxed and a slight smile pulled at her lips. She had returned to the stage while Martin told how blessed he was to have her as his wife.
The great-niece returned with the glass of lemonade and the granddaughter followed with a vase filled with water. She smiled at Lorenz while she gently extracted the roses from Brigetta's lap and placed them in the vase.
Lorenz stood with his hat in his hand. “She's asleep.”
“Yes, Grandma does that a lot. Y'all should get something to eat, Uncle Lorenz. She may not wake up right away. Sometimes she sleeps for an hour or more.”
Lorenz shuddered inside. Antoinette was like that for a year. She had been waiting for death and knew it. Did Brigetta know? The emptiness of grief erupted again. It had been four long years without Antoinette, and the knowledge that Brigetta would soon be in the earth resting beside her Martin was too much. He bowed to the younger women and set the Stetson back on his head.
“Thank y'all for the offer, but I'm a bit tired myself.
He walked back to his automobile and slid in. Once he would have ridden his horse here, but people would wonder at an eighty-nine year-old man still riding a horse everywhere when they believed he was rich as Crocus. Why, he wondered, do the two hearts continue to beat so damn well when his reason for living died four years ago?
He set the choke, pressed the starter, turned the key in the Packard, and heard the motor. It was a powerful car, and he appreciated it the way he appreciated a good horse. He had wanted to join Toni after her funeral, but suicide was out of the question; an act distasteful to him. Perhaps it was too many years of sensing when someone wished to kill him or someone he cared about. Papa had wanted him to join them at the MacDonald Lodge and learn to navigate the stars before they left for Thalia.
“I can learn that on the way there.”
“Even ye are nay that clever.”
“I'll come when I'm ready,” he had growled. He did not like the East. The smells were wrong, the winters too long and cold, and the food too bland. “We can't go anywhere until Rity finishes raising her girl and Randall won't leave his Iris anymore than I would have left Antoinette. Since Iris is only about fifty, she'll probably live another twenty years, Papa.”
The sound of annoyance in MacDonald's voice told him that Papa might not wait that long. He still had to find someone they could trust to manage their funds and run the various MacDonald enterprises. Lorenz thought he had found the ranch manager in Pinky's husband, Bruce Tillman. Now he wasn't so sure. So far the man performed well, but there were mutterings among the Mexican hands. They did not like him.
All too soon he was back at the Rearing Bear Ranch and pulling into his garage. He walked into the house debating whether to drink too much or study the math his father had sent.
“Hello, Pawpaw.” Pinky used the greeting that all the grandchildren and great-nieces and great-nephews used. “I didn't expect you back so soon.” Her ivory skin, framed by strawberry blond hair, flushed with pleasure. “The cook was just going to prepare a light supper as we thought you'd be eating at the Rolfes.”
“I'm not hungry.” He smiled back at her. Except for the much lighter hair, she reminded him of his sister, her grandmother, Mina.
“Now Pawpaw, you simply must eat. Would you like to come for supper at our house tonight? I can make the salad bigger and have the cook come over to my place.”
“No, whatever Maria is making here is fine with me.” It was beginning to annoy him that Pinky kept referring to the Mexican help by title instead of their name. It was as though she was denying their existence as human beings.
Pinky almost frowned, and then her light-brown eyes brightened. “I have something to tell you, Pawpaw. I was going to tell you the next time I saw you and that's now.” She gave a self-conscious giggle and blushed. “Bruce and I, well, we're expecting again.”
He stared at her stunned. She had arrived for Antoinette's funeral from St. Louis with Tillman's grandson, Bruce, and their two-year-old son. Pinky was so ill from miscarrying that he ordered her to bed and the nurse for Antoinette rehired. Bruce had thanked him profusely and asked for a job since the Tillman ranch was run by his uncle who had enough sons of his own to keep busy.
“Y'all can start as a regular hand as long as Pinky stays here until she's well. If it works out, I may need a new foreman or manager.”
At first things went well. Bruce offered no objections when Lorenz told him that he had to pay for someone to care for their son until Pinky was well enough to care for him.
The six months it took Pinky to recover made up for the quiet without the bustle of Antoinette. As Mina's granddaughter, Pinky had every right to consider the Rearing Bear her ancestral home. His father's feelings about House were quite clear. Everyone was his, the Maca's, responsibility. That so few of the family knew he was the Maca of Don and still alive, did not concern him. The elder MacDonald had sent Gary MacDonald to Texas find out why Pinky was having medical problems in birthing.
“I've told her not to have any more children.” Gary had sat in Lorenz's office nursing a whiskey, the door firmly closed against intruders and too thick for someone to hear through. “My problem is that I can't tell her that my knowledge comes from a machine in a spaceship for God's sake.” He brushed his overly long hair back off his brow.
Lorenz noted his grandson's added weight made him appear soft, but held his tongue. To Lorenz, most people from the East looked soft. He was sure Iris would berate her son about excesses of any kind.
“What causes the problem?”
“It's probably the same thing that afflicted so many of the people in our family. It's a matter of RH negative and RH positive blood. The cure is quite simple, but, unfortunately, that doesn't exist in Earth's medical lore. I can't even tell Pinky how I determined this. If I make a medical discovery and share it with this world, it's shar
ing knowledge from another culture and bringing attention to me and the whole MacDonald clan. Grandpa Mac, Great-great-grandmother LouElla, and my father turn absolutely livid at the idea.” Gary had left the next morning.
Lorenz finally found his voice to answer Pinky. “Are y'all sure? Remember what Gary told y'all. No more children.” He was considering calling Gary to return and put a stop to this insanity.
“Of course, I'm sure, Pawpaw. I'm fine. It's been four months now and, well, I thought you had noticed already.” She frowned slightly and then smiled again. “I need to run home now Pawpaw. Bruce doesn't like it when I neglect the family.”
Lorenz watched with a sour mouth as she ran down the steps and toward the foreman's house where they were living. What the hell did she mean neglect the family? And why was she running if she was pregnant. He could not recall Toni ever running when she was expecting, but then people did things differently now.
Chapter 38: House Call
Lorenz woke suddenly and realized the dark of night still surrounded the house. He was slightly surprised that he'd slept at all. There had been another argument that evening with the elder MacDonald about Lorenz rejuvenating himself. Lorenz had installed a ham radio system in his office to conceal a communication device from the Golden One that he actually used to talk with his father. The argument had deteriorated into both of them yelling and ending the conversation abruptly. He realized that the man was apt to pay a visit here. Bad idea! Papa was hard to miss. What if someone realized that he was the original MacDonald?
After the argument, he'd turned on the radio and heard the news that Germany had invaded Poland. He knew it meant the beginning of another war. If they were going to leave, it would need to be before actual war broke out. If they didn't, he was sure half the men Red had started to train would join the service. Unsure of what to do, he had paced the floor before retiring.
Lorenz listened for a moment and then realized a faint light intruded under the door. Who was in his house and at this time of night? He pulled on his Levis and boots and grabbed the shirt hanging on the wooden valet.
He found Pinky and her six-year-old son, Bob, in the kitchen. Pinky was holding a washcloth filled with ice to her bloodied nose. When she looked at him, she hurriedly turned away. Both of her eyes were blackened and her lower lip was split.
“What happened? Have y'all called the doctor?”
“No, don't, Pawpaw. No doctor, please, it will only make Bruce madder.” Her voice was terror stricken. “I'll be fine, really I will.” She started to rise, but sank back down.
“The hell, sorry, Pinky, but y'all can't even stand up. Where is that no-good man of yours?”
Bob stared at him. “You can't talk about my daddy like that.”
“Your daddy is a coward.” Lorenz spat the words out and stalked to his office where he called the doctor, and then returned to the kitchen.
“Y'all are going to bed. I've called the doctor and he'll be here in twenty minutes. Now where is that worthless man of yours?”
“I don't know, Pawpaw.” Pinky was sobbing, the words a mumbled mess coming out of jumbled lips. “It's not his fault. I haven't been able to be a wife. We had a fight just before he left, and I can't say anything more in front of my child. I just need you to get someone to watch him. I can't let the help see me like this.”
“Up, and into bed.” Lorenz helped her up and walked her through the dining room and huge foyer into his bedroom.
“Now y'all stay in bed. I'll get Maria and her daughter in here.”
By the time he returned to the house after waking Maria, he realized his father was right. He had let himself become weaker in body and mind. He should have realized what was going on. He walked into his bedroom and noted that Bob was sleeping in the bed too. He pulled out his white shirt and grey suit. He knew where that bastard had gone.
Within minutes he was speeding down the road towards Arles, but swung off near one of the places where they used to camp along the river. Now the oaks, cottonwoods, and willows helped to conceal a neat, white two-story house. The front porch was flanked by two Grecian columns that looked out of place on the plains of Texas. The parking lot held an assortment of newer and used autos. He turned his car toward the road, parked, put the key in his pocket, and took his cane. Anger drove him after a man that had hurt someone in his family.
Lorenz was ready to bring his cane down on the door when it was thrown open. Thelma, or Mrs. Patterson as she liked to be called by her clients, wore an orange-red smile on her face. Her orange dress was one of the tightest, lowest cut gowns Lorenz had ever seen on an aging, well padded body.
“Why, Mr. MacDonald, y'all just come right on in. This is such an honor.” Her husky voice was purring. She turned just enough to yell at someone. “Mickey, y'all open a bottle of our best bourbon for our guest.” She turned to Lorenz again and her smile faded. There was no mistaking the tight mouth pulled slightly to the right side and the cold, smoky eyes looking at her, seeing her, but not caring about her. This was an angry man and an angry man could mess up a good night's business.
“Which room is Bruce Tillman in?”
“Why, Mr. MacDonald, what on earth do y'all mean?” She started to twitter, when her brown eyes widened and she whispered, “He's in the room with the blue door. That's on the second floor.” Her hand flew to her mouth as he pushed past her and took the steps two at a time, his mind thwarting her ability to move or speak.
At the blue door he tried the knob: locked. He raised his cane and rapped loudly on the door not caring whether he dented the gold knob or not.
“Go away.” An angry male voice shouted.
“Open the damn door, Bruce, or I'll shoot my way in.”
A naked Bruce yanked the door open. “Go away, Pawpaw…” The words stopped as the cane smashed into his midsection. The brunette on the bed screamed.
Bruce grabbed for the cane and missed. Lorenz rammed the gold knob into Bruce's face knocking him backwards.
Lorenz followed him into the room and his next blow caught Bruce square on his head. He swung the cane over and over, rapidly striking at every vulnerable point until Bruce was on his knees, whimpering, holding his hands over his head in a futile effort to avoid the blows. Lorenz looked up when he heard the people at the door. The woman on the bed was cowering in the corner in fear, a sheet clutched up to her chin.
“Let me through, damn it.”
Probably a bouncer, Lorenz thought and jammed the cane into Bruce's ribs one last time. Then he turned and started for the door.
“You all are in my way. Move!”
The women and men moved back, their eyes filled with awe, some had open mouths. Many of them had known him for years. They thought of him as old, a broken legend, no longer the dangerous man he might have been.
Lorenz shouldered past them and was almost at the stairs when a hand reached out and grabbed his right arm holding the cane.
“Mr…”
The man wasn't able to say more. Lorenz spun, his left fist smashing into the man's stomach and driving him to his knees. It would forever blow his cover as a normal almost eighty-nine-year-old-man, but he allowed no one put their hands on him. He went down the stairs with a slight swagger, the cane resting on his right shoulder. He was MacDonald again.
“Mr. MacDonald, y'all will have to wait here. I've called the sheriff.” It was Thelma bleating at him like some sheep afraid to irritate the ram.
“Fine, he can arrest that son-of-a-bitchin' wife beater when he gets here.”
He yanked the door open and walked out into the fresh air. He would need to call Papa again and tell him to expect him as soon as he made the arrangements for a new foreman and housing for Pinky. Bruce Tillman would never set foot on the Rearing Bear Ranch again.
Chapter 39: The Organization Investigates
“I know that is the same man.” Walter Andresen tossed the five by seven inch picture of Red O'Neal standing by the Colombia Queen onto the desk. Twenty year
s had added twenty pounds to Walter's body and his blond hair was laced with white streaks.
“It can't be.”
“And it's my guess that he's still running booze, women, guns, and God knows what else on that boat and others.” Walter finished his sentence. He looked across the desk at Creighton. “You know it's him. Why else would you ask me to come out of the cellar if not to come in and confirm your identification?”
The man at the desk frowned, swiveled in his chair and looked out the window. Abruptly, he swiveled back and withdrew another photograph from the folder.
“Bear with me. I have one more photograph to show you and it may be a shock.”
Both men wore dark suits and white shirts. Walter studied Creighton's face. The dark eyes were set in a lean face that matched his thinning dark hair and slender build. The white shirt was immaculate, the dark suit tailored to a perfect fit. All of the agents on this level seemed to be slender, but then they were successful or young, and he—he brought his mind back to Creighton, watching him. Creighton was uneasy about something.
“We all know how, well, how difficult it was for you when your wife left.” Creighton left unsaid the part about how no one in the organization every really trusted him again. None had accused him of embellishing what occurred when his wife left or the tale of a long-lived man, but they almost fired him. They did not because they were short of good men during the gangland years and the Bureau's reorganization into the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
“Did you ever hear from her again?”
“Not directly. She has sent my mother pictures of her daughter.” Walter left out the part that it couldn't be his daughter; yet the pictures looked like a younger version of himself or his mother. He did not understand, nor did he wish to. “There were no return addresses and the pictures were postmarked from different states. I suspect many of the pictures were taken in the West.”
“Why?” Creighton's voice was too sharp.
Walter smiled. “I really don't believe that would matter. You said you had another photograph?”
