Backlands (12 page)

Emma nodded. “Except for CJ buried in France.”

“With his comrades, as he should be,” Patrick noted.

“Yes, I suppose so, although I'd rather have him here at home,” Emma said. “Promise you'll bury me next to Molly.”

“I won't listen to that kind of talk.”

“Promise,” Emma prodded.

“Is that your wish?”

“Yes, but not yet,” she replied with a laugh, and she spurred Stony to a trot.

They rode in silence up the canyon to a small meadow cut by the stream that meandered down to the ranch house. The basin, partially muted in the gray and brown of a dry winter under a night sky, ran to a darker hue against the Sacramento Mountains. A light breeze rustled through the mesquite and floated up to them like a whisper. Electric streetlights in the town of Alamogordo forty miles away winked like mysterious heliographic Morse code messages.

“Do you remember how angry you were when you learned Cal had willed the ranch to both of us?” Emma asked.

“Why open that old wound now?” Patrick replied.

“Because I don't want you snarling at me about what I want you to do for Matthew.”

“Are you fixing to tell me something that will rile me?”

“Before this visit, I'd say yes,” Emma replied. “But now I'm not so sure.”

“I'll hold my tongue,” Patrick said gruffly. “Say your piece.”

“After Matthew finishes grade school, I want you to promise me that he'll go on to high school and graduate.”

Patrick looked at her in stunned disbelief. “How in the hell can he live here at the ranch and go to high school in town at the same time?”

“He can board with a family in town during the school year,” Emma answered. “There will be money to pay for it.”

“What if he doesn't want to go to high school?”

“He will.”

“You're cocksure of that?”

“Yes.”

Patrick shook his head in wonder. “Well, if he's anything like you, he's already smarter than me by a mile.”

“You'll do it?”

“Have you put something in writing with your banker and lawyer?”

Emma nodded.

“It figures.”

“What does that mean?”

“I'm trying to hold my tongue like I promised, but it chafes me to know you don't trust me to do right by him.”

“What I'm asking is no different than what I'd be demanding if we were still married, living here on the Double K, and raising Matthew together.”

“And you'd hound me about it until you got your way,” Patrick added.

Emma smiled. “Probably.”

“You'd like him to go on and be a college man, wouldn't you?”

“That's my dream.”

“There's nothing wrong with that, I suppose. Are we done talking about what's gonna happen after you die?”

“Why does it trouble you so?”

“It just does,” Patrick said, stifling the impulse to tell Emma he loved her, always had, always would.

The chill of the desert night had deepened, and a shiver ran up Emma's spine. She started Stony down the canyon and called over her shoulder, “Are you coming?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Patrick responded.

Emma had bundled up for the ride, but it didn't keep the cold from numbing her arms and legs on the ride home. By the time they arrived at the ranch house, her hands tingled, her feet were freezing, and the wind against her face felt like pinpricks. She dismounted feeling weak, dizzy, and short of breath but determined to care for her pony without Patrick's assistance.

He took the reins from her hand. “You look done in.”

“I am,” she admitted, her resolve weakening.

“Go on,” he ordered, nodding toward the house, feeling done in himself. “I'll care for the ponies.”

“Thank you. Good night.”

“
Buenas noches.
”

He watched her walk to the house before attending to the ponies. By the time he had Calabaza and Stony in their stalls, the light in Emma's bedroom was out. He walked softly past Matt, who had taken to sleeping on the veranda every night. Scrunched up under a pile of blankets with only the top of his head showing on the pillow, he looked peaceful and innocent. In his bedroom, Patrick took off his boots, stretched out, and pulled a blanket up to his chin. He'd been this weary many times before; ranch work often demanded it. But tonight his heart felt worn out. He was tired of being alone; tired of being without a family; tired of his failures as a husband and father, which had put him in such a wretched state.

He had almost gotten Emma back tonight. He'd sensed it, felt it on their ride. Now it was too late. He fell asleep thinking
almost
was a useless word.

F
or three days, Emma was able to hide her failing health only because Patrick and Matthew were away from the house much of the time. They worked with Patches, fixed fences, cared for the ponies Patrick hoped to sell, and moved cattle from the higher pastures closer to ranch headquarters in anticipation of branding during spring works.

At mealtimes and in the evenings, she marshaled enough energy and cheerfulness to convince them she was simply fighting a mild springtime cold. She wanted nothing to spoil the good time Matthew was having with Patrick. He loved every new adventure with his pa and came home tired and ravenously hungry. In the evening, he chattered on about the events of the day, wolfed down his dinner, and before last light was deep in sleep wrapped up in his bedroll on the veranda. It made Emma's spirits soar to see Patrick and Matt getting along so well.

On one morning over breakfast, Patrick said, “If Matt wants it, he'll be a stockman from the heels of his boots to the crown of his hat, and a damn good one too.”

Matt's grin lit up his face.

“Is that what you want?” Emma asked Matthew.

Matt shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Would you want it enough to give up your schooling to be a rancher?” she prodded.

“Why would I have to do that?” Matt asked, his grin fading to a frown.

“You don't have to,” Emma said, hiding her relief. “You can learn all your pa can teach you by coming to the ranch during school vacations and summer recess.” Emma turned to Patrick. “Isn't that right?”

“I reckon so,” Patrick said.

“I'd like that the best,” Matt replied. He finished the last bite of his second stack of hotcakes and stood. “May I be excused?”

“You may,” Emma said with a nod.

“I'll be with you shortly,” Patrick said. He waited until Matt scooted out the door before turning his full attention to Emma, searching her face intently. “Seems you're more than just sick with a springtime cold.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You haven't been outside once since Matt and I rode in yesterday evening. You don't stay lying about unless you're really wore down.”

“I'm fine,” Emma protested in a hurt tone of voice. “If I've spent too much time inside it's because this place deserves a good cleaning from years of your neglect. I've been helping Evangelina, and that has tired both of us some. Ask her.”

“Is that true?” Patrick asked, looking at Evangelina, who'd been listening at the dish tub.

“
Sí,
it is true,” Evangelina fibbed, as she promised to do if Patrick questioned her about Emma's health.

“I didn't bring you out here and pay you wages to put Emma to work.”

Evangelina blushed. “I am sorry, señor.”

“Don't you snap at Evangelina,” Emma cautioned sternly. “I help her because I enjoy the company
and
this house needs our attention.”

Patrick glanced from woman to woman and figured there was no purchase in pursuing the subject further. He made his excuses and headed out the door.

Evangelina waited at the window until Patrick entered the barn before drying her hands and joining Emma at the table. “You must tell him you are not well,” she counseled in Spanish.

Emma shook her head and replied in Spanish. “He knows I'm dying. So does Matthew. I want them to have these last few good days together before we go home to Las Cruces without worrying about me.”

“Why are you no longer married?” Evangelina ventured. “He seems to care about you greatly.”

Emma shook her head as though to ward off the question.

Evangelina dropped her gaze. “Forgive my intruding.”

Emma took her hand. “No, please don't apologize. He does care about me a lot, except when I rile him, which is frequently. He married me when no one else would have me.”

Evangelina's eyes widened. “Truly?”

“Truly,” Emma replied. “You like it here, don't you?”

“Very much. I feel I am my own person, not just my parents' unmarried, old-maid daughter.”

“But you're not old, and being unmarried isn't a curse.”

Evangelina's smile didn't hide her melancholy. “Everyone in my family believes I will be an old maid forever.”

“Do you think so?”

“
Sí.
Are you happy living alone?”

“Do you think only old maids and widows should live alone?” Emma asked.

Evangelina ran a hand across her birthmark. “No, just women who are ugly.”

“You are not!” Emma said.

“Tía Teresa says the same, but I know better. But you did not answer.”

“I love my independence, every minute of it,” Emma replied.

“You don't miss being close to a man?”

Emma nodded. “Sometimes a little bit, sometimes a lot. But that is not as important as my freedom.”

“You are fortunate. In two days my father will come for me and what little freedom I have known will be gone forever.”

“Only if you give in.”

“Give in?” Evangelina began polishing a water spot on the table with her dishcloth.

“Let your parents govern your life,” Emma explained.

“Disobey my father?” She studied the spot on the table and rubbed harder with the dishcloth.

Emma took the dishcloth from her hand. “You're of age. It has nothing to do with defying Flaviano.”

“I am not like you. I have no way to get by, no means of support except from my family.”

“You could stay here and work for Patrick. I could see to it.”

Evangelina shook her head. “Impossible.”

“Because of what Flaviano believes you might do,” Emma challenged.

Evangelina dropped her gaze. “He thinks I might give up my virtue because of my disfigurement. I must be carefully watched so I do not stain the family honor.”

“You are not disfigured, branded, or deformed,” Emma said. “You have a birthmark, nothing more. Is your virtue truly at risk?”

Evangelina covered her mouth and giggled.

“Why is that funny?”

“No one has ever asked me that before. Sometimes I think I should prove my father right. You were lucky that Patrick married you.”

“I lived with him for well over a year before we married,” Emma said with a playful smile. “I guess you could say I suffered from a prolonged fit of weakened virtue.” A heavy coughing spell came over her, racking her body before it subsided.

“You must rest, señora,” Evangelina said. “Let me take you to your room.”

Red-faced, out of breath, and weak in the knees, Emma said, “No, take me to the casita. I can hide there.”

Taking Evangelina's steady hand, she walked slowly across the courtyard to the casita and stretched out on the bed. “You must stop calling me señora,” she said.

“As you wish, Emma,” Evangelina said tentatively.

“That's much better.” Suddenly she felt drained of all her strength. The pounding of her heart was an erratic drumbeat in her ears.

“Rest now.”

“Yes.”

“If you are not better by dinner, I will have to tell Patrick you are sick,” Evangelina warned.

Emma shook her head in protest. “I'll be fine. If they ask, tell them I am busy sewing.”

“I will come back often,” Evangelina said.

“I'll be fine after a nap,” Emma replied, gasping for air.

***

A
fter a morning session working with Matt and his pony, Patrick left the boy behind to practice some on his own and made tracks for the south pasture. Yesterday, a rider from Earl Hightower's spread had come over to tell Patrick that a traveling cattle buyer with a small crew was visiting outfits on the Tularosa, buying up culls to ship to Mexico. He'd be stopping at the Double K midday next.

The penny or two per pound Patrick would lose selling to the buyer was worth the time he'd save trailing the stock to town after spring works. Plus it would put some cash money in his pocket and he'd be able to rest the south pasture a bit longer with the animals gone.

He found the critters clustered at the dirt tank and the salt lick block looking a tad less scrawny. He rounded them up without difficulty and moved them slowly homeward, chasing an upstart yearling or two and a disorderly steer back to the bunch every now and then.

He had been with company of one sort or another almost constantly since the day he fetched Emma and Matt to the ranch, and he welcomed the solitude, except when the killing of Vernon Clagett still preyed on his mind.

The day was mild with a touch of moisture in the air, but not enough to promise rain. Small puffy white clouds drifted up the Tularosa Basin, blocking the sun for fleeting seconds, pausing to hang suspended over the malpais. It made a pretty picture. Farther north at the railroad town of Carrizozo, a small spit of virga draped below a lonely, thin gray cloud, evaporating in the late morning sunlight. He couldn't remember a day when the basin failed to show him a fresh view of things. It was a slice of the world where
ordinary
had no meaning.

At ranch headquarters, he threw the stock in the corral and went to the kitchen for some grub. Matt was at the table alone, working hard on a bowl of chili and beans.

“Where's your ma and Evangelina?” he asked.

“They're in the casita,” Matt replied between bites.

“Doing what?”

Matt spooned in another mouthful. “Evangelina said they had some sewing to do.”

The sound of an approaching rider kept Patrick from going to investigate what the women were up to. He stepped out on the veranda as the rider drew rein at the hitching post.

“Patrick Kerney?” the man asked.

“Who might you be?” Patrick replied as Matt scooted out the kitchen door to see who'd arrived.

“Makiah Whetten,” the man answered. “You might not remember me, but I bought some cows for my boss from you and Cal Doran down in Mexico some years back. I'm here to buy what livestock you got to sell.”

“I do remember you,” Patrick said. “Light. We've got coffee and some good chili and beans.”

“I'd be obliged for a cup,” Whetten said as he stepped down from his pony and came spritely up the stairs.

It had been more than twenty-five years since Patrick had seen Whetten. Back then he'd been in his prime, a Mormon cowboy with three wives and a passel of kids who worked for the biggest stockman on the biggest ranchero in Chihuahua, Mexico. Whetten was an old man now, still slender, a little stooped, with a bushy white mustache, but still vigorous in his manner.

“It's been a while,” Patrick said, shaking Whetten's hand. “I didn't expect to see you again, not with that revolution going on down your way.”

“Ten years of killing are about over,” Whetten replied with a sad shake of his head. “Since nineteen and ten, a million dead and the rangeland empty. It's time to restock.”

“Are you still ramrodding for old Emiliano Díaz?”

“His son, Delfino,” Whetten explained. “Emiliano got himself killed late in the war for supporting the wrong brand of revolution. Unfortunately, he left a lot of land and very little money, so I'm forced to bargain hard for the best prices I can get.”

“Hard times can do that, I reckon,” Patrick said. He introduced Matt to Whetten and told him to take Patches and pester the livestock in the corral while he talked business. Matt grinned, hightailed it to his pony, and jigged Patches to the corral.

Over coffee on the veranda, the two men caught up. Patrick kept it short, mostly about how Cal died after getting mauled by a bear, and how the stockmen in the basin were toughing it out now the war in Europe was over and the Brits had stopped buying horses and beef.

Whetten told of staying put with his family in Mexico during the heavy fighting between factions while many Mormons fled back across the border to the United States. His uncles and cousins were now homesteading along the Gila River in southwestern New Mexico. He had held on to his small ranch for as long as he could, but the revolutionary government took it away from him a year ago and gave it to a high-ranking general's son.

“They had to move us off at gunpoint,” Whetten added. “It scared my wives half to death that we'd be shot. We're living on the ranchero now; my oldest boys and their families have stuck with us. The rest are married and have moved on. Emiliano's son has been good to us.”

Patrick nodded. “I'd have done the same to try and save my spread.” The road from Mexico where he'd met Makiah Whetten had taken him through the gates of Yuma Prison and more recently to the killing of Vernon Clagett. He wondered if an invisible noose from the past had settled around his neck.

“Good coffee,” Whetten said, setting down his cup. “Let's take a look at your cows.”

“Livestock inspection is tight at the border,” Patrick noted as they stepped off to the corral. “How do you plan to cross them without getting quarantined?”

Whetten smiled. “I'll teach them to swim the river, just like you and Cal did.”

At the corral, Whetten eyed the cattle carefully before quoting Patrick a dollar figure for the lot. Patrick haggled for a quarter cent more on the pound and got an eighth. The small wad of bills in his jeans pocket felt good.

“Two vaqueros will be here soon,” Whetten said, checking his pocket watch. “We'll move the cows to the Hightower outfit, where I have another small bunch bedded down.”

“You'll trail them to Engle from there and load them on cattle cars to El Paso, I reckon,” Patrick said.

Whetten nodded. “After a stop at Al Jennings's Rocking J.”

“He'll have a few to sell,” Patrick predicted.

Out in the horse pasture, several colts whinnied and kicked up their heels as two approaching riders threw dust in the air. Patrick remembered back to the days when CJ rode his pony to school at the Hightower Ranch. It was in part of the San Andres Matt hadn't seen. They could make it there and back before dinner.