Titans

by Leila Meacham

  “I don’t know anyone from Texas who’d be writing to me,” Bridget Mahoney mused, studying the return address.

  “Nice handwriting, I’d say. Well, I’ll be on my rounds,” the postman said. “Thank you for the cookies. Delicious as always.”

  Bridget did not acknowledge the compliment. Her attention still on the return address, she lowered herself onto the porch swing of her trim little two-story house, proudly purchased and paid for with the earnings from her husband’s ferry business, begun when the Mahoneys first arrived in San Francisco in 1885. The postman was stepping up to the porch of the widow’s house next door when he heard Mrs. Mahoney cry, “May the merciful heavens be praised!”

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  It was the end of a long day. The brief reappearance of summer was over. The sun withdrew its warmth as it began to sink, leaving a threat that tomorrow it would rise on the return of a cold and blustery autumn. None who had ridden out to the drill site in the morning—Samantha, Neal, Nathan, Todd—had broken for a meal or rest. First they had unloaded the wagon of the tools and equipment to be used for the start of the drilling operation, then the Waverling contingent had set about plotting the various areas for the mud pit, latrines, and ditches to imbed pipelines to the underground spring.

  Samantha had kept a wary eye on the proposed placement of the oil storage tanks and portable steam engine and boiler, the service road, and the crewmen’s camp, sometimes offering her opinion of better locations.

  “For holy sakes, Sam, let the men do their job!” Neal wailed.

  “I’m not interfering with their jobs, Daddy. I’m seeing they abide by the contract to preserve as much of our land as possible.”

  Samantha had wanted to know everything about the drilling operation from boring the hole in which the rig was to be set (which she understood would first be cemented in “surface casing”) to the working of each part of the machinery used to penetrate the Earth’s crust for the purpose of drawing up oil. No foreign term uttered between Nathan and Todd escaped without her asking for a definition.

  “What is a marmon board?”

  “It’s a five-foot-long board pulled by a team of draft animals to scrape dirt over a pipeline in a ditch.”

  “What does ‘spudded in’ mean?”

  “The very first date the drill bit hits the ground. In other words, the day the drilling begins.”

  At long last, it was time to call it a day. Nathan called to Todd, “We’d better get the tents up.”

  “Be right there,” Todd called back.

  Samantha, standing nearby, heard the summons. “It’s too late to pitch your tents tonight, Nathan. You and Todd can stay at the Triple S. We’ve got room to put you up, Zak, too.”

  Nathan’s eye strayed to Todd, surveying the plot they’d set off with wire strung between pegs to cordon off a one-hundred-yard area for a platform that would support the derrick. Nathan had not expressed his suspicion to anyone that Todd was responsible for the theft of Samantha’s prehistoric find, and he never would unless the geologist gave him further cause. Todd had remained under a cloud with his boss over doubt that the failure of Samantha’s camera to arrive at the Kodak Company in New York was the fault of the U.S. Postal Service. He would be under Trevor Waverling’s scrutiny for the rest of his employ. And Todd’s reversal of his initial belief in the authenticity of Samantha’s dinosaur skull—her betrayal for his own gain—had severed their lifelong friendship, a break that Nathan sensed the geologist deeply regretted. So, in Nathan’s mind, to a degree, justice had been done without his having to put a hand in it. However, he did not have to subject Samantha to Todd’s company in order to offer her hospitality to him and Zak. He opened his mouth to respond when a loud “No!” came from Neal, so startling that it caught Todd’s attention.

  Neal, weary to his spurs, had overheard the invitation as he was coming to break up the confab between Nathan and his daughter. Already exasperated that she had hung around the entire day when she should have been back at the Triple S so that he could return to his duties at Las Tres Lomas, he had bellowed out before he thought. “I mean—I was just coming over to invite you and Todd to bunk with me tonight, Nathan. It’s been damn lonely cut off from everybody this past week, and I was sort of looking forward to the pleasure of some company. We could have a bite of supper, drink a little bourbon, play some cards.”

  “That’s most kind of you, Mr. Gordon, but as you can see, I’ve got my dog with me, and, uh, well, he stays with me at night.”

  Neal flapped a hand. “Hell, he’s welcome, too. I don’t mind a dog in the house.”

  Samantha heard her father in disbelief. He never allowed dogs in the house. She’d feared he would rudely banish Zak when he found him in the great room that morning, and during contract negotiations, he’d adamantly refused to feed and house Nathan and Todd and Daniel as the supervising crew. These baffling spells of sudden mind changes were becoming a deep concern. Todd had drawn up to the conversation, his face brightening at Neal’s offer of overnight room and board, and said eagerly, “I say it beats the cold ground and colder beans, Nathan.”

  “Well, all right then, it’s settled,” Neal said. “Pack up what gear you’ll need and come on to the house.”

  Samantha said, “Daddy, we were planning on having you for supper tonight. It’s been a while since the girls have seen you.”

  “Thanks, hon, but it would be too late to ride home in the dark. Come on, boys.”

  Samantha received his usual kiss on her cheek in further bewilderment. No matter how late, her father had never before appeared afraid to ride home from the Triple S in the dark.

  The next morning, dressed in his Sunday best, his legs crossed and bowler hat resting on his knee, Daniel Lane waited in the reception area for Noble Rutherford to receive him. He had scrubbed his nails cleaner than usual (Billie June had a fetish about clean fingernails) and knew he had caught the admiration of the receptionist—herself an eyeful—trying primly not to show it. Daniel had to admit it. He was one handsome dude, a commonly held opinion among the ladies that never seemed to faze Billie June. Other plain women, courted by a younger man of his masculine appeal, would feel threatened and insecure in the presence of her lover under the eye of a beautiful woman, but not Billie June. If she were sitting beside him, she would take up a magazine and allow the woman her look without a heartbeat’s flutter of apprehension. Or at least not one she’d ever show. No one in the world had more pride than Billie June, and that was why he was here.

  A bell on the wall behind her pinged. “Mr. Rutherford will see you now,” the receptionist announced.

  Daniel followed the curve of her hips into the banker’s luxurious office, overpowering in its ostentatious elegance. With obvious reluctance, Noble rose from behind a desk of gigantic proportions and offered a lackadaisical hand without bothering to button his coat. His barely civil greeting raised Daniel’s ire. Noble Rutherford topped the list of the breed of man he most despised. How could he have ever thought Sloan Singleton one of his kind?

  Noble sat down again and gestured that Daniel do the same. “I must say I’m puzzled, Lane. Why ask for a private audience? If you’re seeking a loan, surely one of my clerks could assist you?”

  “They couldn’t with the loan I’m seeking, Mr. Rutherford.”

  “Oh? And what kind is that?”

  “Not kind. Whose.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m not here to seek a loan, but to buy one that your bank is carrying, Mr. Rutherford. It’s in your best interest to sell it to me, no pun intended.”

  Noble Rutherford observed Daniel in surprise. “And whose loan do you wish to buy?”

  “Sloan Singleton’s.”

  That afternoon, on a rented horse, Daniel rode out to the Triple S. He did not go to the main house, but asked one of the cowhands where he might find his boss. The dining hall, the man said.

  He found the target of his former vengeance seated with t
he ranch cook over cups of coffee, Sloan looking drawn and worried, years older than his age. Daniel entered the dining room quietly and allowed the cook to finish his fuming before announcing his presence. Apparently the cook was still stewing about a mystery that had occurred a week ago. Somebody had stolen into the pantry during the night and confiscated a cardboard box that had held cans of string beans. “Who in the crew would feel he had to steal a box, leave the cans on the floor and make off with half my drying towels?” the cook fussed. “At first, I thought the box and towels might be for a litter of kittens or pups, but we ain’t had any of those about for years now. Besides, all any of our boys would have had to do was ask.”

  “It’s a mystery all right,” Sloan agreed. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Daniel behind him. “What are you doing here? Billie June said you were headed down to the coast today.”

  “I had some business to attend here in Fort Worth,” Daniel said, chuckling inwardly, “and it included you. May we speak privately?”

  Sloan glanced at his cook, who immediately got up from the table and made himself scarce. “Have a seat, Lane. Included me? How so?”

  “Well, first read this,” Daniel said and handed Sloan an envelope from which he extracted a sheet of paper. As Sloan read it, his jaw slowly sagged. He looked at Daniel in disbelief. “What is this? It says my loan at the Rutherford City Bank has been paid in full.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But… I don’t understand. How did that happen? And what are you doing with the notification?”

  “This will explain it.”

  Daniel withdrew a legal document from another envelope and pushed it across the table to Sloan. Sloan read it, and his eyelids momentarily sank. He shook his head and pressed his lips together in the clear and painful expression of a man who should have seen it coming but hadn’t, and now it was too late. He opened his eyes to stare at Daniel and said in a voice weary with resignation, “You’ve paid off the loan. You now own the Triple S.”

  Daniel reached forward to take back the conveyance of title to personal property. “Sure looks like it.”

  Sloan’s face had become the color of granite. “It’s what you’ve been after all along, isn’t it—to get your hands on my ranch.”

  “Well, yes… that was my intent at first. However”—Daniel scratched the back of his neck thoughtfully—“I changed my mind. There’s something else of yours I’d rather have instead. In exchange for it, I’m willing to sign your ranch back over to you right now, free and clear, no conditions attached, and nothing need ever be said on the matter again.”

  “And what in the world is that?”

  “Your blessing when I propose marriage to your sister Billie June.”

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  How did you manage it?” Billie June asked, enfolded in Daniel’s arms.

  “I offered my boss lifetime patent rights to my blowout preventer if he would give me the money to pay off your brother’s loan,” Daniel answered. He chuckled. “That vengeful bastard Noble Rutherford was only too happy to oblige. He believed I was out to get Sloan Singleton even more than he was.” Daniel mimicked the banker’s pompous voice. “ ‘Lane, I’m going to deny myself the pleasure of foreclosure and give it to you. That way, it can’t be said that I took possession of the Triple S out of revenge for Sloan’s insult to my daughter. What the hell do I want with a ranch anyway, especially one on the verge of ruin.’ ”

  Billie June chuckled. “You know what you forfeited, don’t you?” she said, her cheek wet against Daniel’s shirt front.

  “I’ll make it back. I’ve got a rotary drill design up my sleeve as well as some other ideas for revolutionary tools, and I’ve got enough money left to buy you a nice ring.” Setting her away from him, Daniel pleaded, “Now will you go see a doctor?”

  Billie June sighed and settled back into his arms. “I will, but I know what’s wrong with me.”

  “You do? What?”

  “I’m pregnant,” Billie June said.

  Two weeks later, October sixth, Billie June and Daniel were married in a civil ceremony conducted by a judge and longtime family friend of the Singletons in the county courthouse. The proceedings, attended only by Samantha and Millie May and Sloan, who stood as Daniel’s best man, were simple, but his new brother-in-law emptied the ranch coffers to pay for an extravagant party afterward, arranged by Millie May and Samantha. It was held in the reception room of the Opera House, a monument to Fort Worth’s transition from cattle town to modern city that proved an ideal venue to accommodate the rousing guest list. Grizzly and Wayne, Claude Chandler, the cowhands of the Triple S, Billie June and Millie May’s activist cohorts, and Daniel’s new friends at Waverling Tools, including his employer, were invited along with many who had attended Sloan and Samantha’s wedding. Anne Rutherford’s name was excluded, and Todd Baker declined the invitation.

  On the park bench, Leon searched Randolph’s letter for information hidden between the lines. The letter was dated October tenth, written seventeen days earlier but postmarked October twenty-third. It was as if, after writing the letter, Randolph had a change of mind about mailing it but held on to it until something prompted him to send it. His usual precise, upright script leaned a little, and the periods looked inexact. Some of the i’s had tails, as if his hand had slipped. The contents had very little to do with his school courses, grades, professors, and friends, news Millicent lived to read from letter to letter. This latest was mostly about Randolph’s plea for more money.

  Leon couldn’t understand it. As parents of a first-year student in Columbia University, they had received a list of school expenses and their estimated cost from the school’s Office of the Exchequer. In Randolph’s name, Millicent had opened an account at a campus bank for the amount as well as a sum for his personal expenses to which she’d add each month. When Randolph wrote his letter asking for additional funds, October was only ten days into the month. How could he have been out of money so soon?

  “I want to join a fraternity, and I have to pay the entrance fee up front,” he wrote. “I’ve received bids from several of the top Greeks on campus without even rushing their houses, and that says a lot about what they think of me. Mother, you’d be so pleased because the members are sons of tycoons and diplomats and high political leaders and the like. A fellow can’t go wrong brushing shoulders with them. Who knows what future influence they might mean to me? Right?”

  Pompous little ass, Leon thought. Uneducated that his son’s father was, he was ignorant of college jargon like fraternities, bids, Greeks, rushing, and houses, but he could figure out their meaning from the letter’s context, and it all smelled fishy. Randolph had not been popular among his classmates throughout his school years in Gainesville. How could the pretentious son of a modest farmer from a little town in Texas suddenly become in demand to join a fraternity whose members were the offspring of tycoons and diplomats? With brains had to go an engaging personality, which Randolph sorely lacked.

  “Oh, Leon, this is what we’ve hoped for our son!” Millicent raved when she read the letter. “Of course we have to send him the money!”

  Leon wondered where she got the we. His wife might consult him about expenditures, but the final say was hers. It was her money she spoke of, and only her name on the bank checks. Unknown to her, he still maintained an account in a bank in town, to which he added from his spending money now and then.

  “Millicent, you’ve got to watch your pennies,” he advised. “The money from the sale of the farm isn’t endless. What will you do if you run out?”

  “We won’t run out,” she snapped. “By the time it’s… low, Randolph will be in a position to help us.”

  Leon worried also about his daughter disappointing Millicent’s expectations. She had entered the girls’ academy in Denton and had no dearth of suitors pleasing to her mother’s calculations. Lately, however, her letters had given her parents the impression she’d foresworn her interest in them to put
her attention to her schoolwork.

  “What’s gotten into her?” Millicent asked of him. “She’s never given a fig about her studies.”

  Leon could have given her an answer, but he didn’t. He had an idea of what was up. On a recent solo trip to Denton to cart Lily some items from home, the two of them had had a chance to talk. His daughter had always been able to share with him confidences she wouldn’t with her mother. Over ice cream sodas in a local drugstore, she’d told him of her admiration for the head of the history department whom Leon and Millicent had met when Lily enrolled. “So inspiring, so learned,” Lily gushed. He was also unmarried, handsome, not too many years older than she, and very eligible, if a girl was inclined to seek the attentions of a member of a profession who would keep her in genteel poverty. Lily’s infatuation with the man was probably shared by every other history student at the academy and was nothing more than a schoolgirl crush that would fade by the arrival of the new moon. Leon thought there was no point in worrying her mother with this latest distraction that had improved their daughter’s grades.

  Leon sighed. How he missed the days of his farming. For all its uncertainties, crops were a mighty lot easier to raise than children.

  Bridget Mahoney reread her response, dated October twenty-seventh, 1900, to Samantha Gordon’s letter. It had taken her over a month to decide whether to answer it. The poor girl had expressed doubt that her letter would reach her and had probably given up hope of a reply. Bridget had agonized over the issue of her moral obligation to the newborn infant she’d taken to her nipple over twenty years ago, now a grown woman. Should she let the circumstances of her birth lie undisturbed and allow Samantha Gordon’s questions to go unanswered?