Backlands (39 page)

“You can't come in,” she said without emotion.

Matt's rush of good feelings evaporated. “Why not?”

Her face was a mask. “I'm seeing someone else now.”

“Is he here with you?”

Anna Lynn shook her head. “No.”

“Who is he?”

“You don't need to know.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“So you can go do something stupid?”

“That's not why I asked.”

“What happened to your eye?”

“An angry kid punched me because his pa did something stupid.”

“What did he do?”

“You don't need to know.”

“You're angry.”

“Hurt.”

“I told you from the start who I am.”

“Yeah, but it doesn't make it hurt less. Don't worry, I won't be a pest.”

Anna Lynn's expression softened just a bit. “I wish you'd had more time for me, Matt.”

“I didn't choose to be neglectful.”

“I know that.” She shrugged. “I wasn't criticizing.”

Matt turned to leave.

“We can be friends,” Anna Lynn offered.

Matt swiveled back to face her and placed the box of chocolates at her feet. “Adios, friend.”

She stood rooted on the porch with her arms folded and didn't say another word.

He drove away thinking there are good times and there are bad times, and he'd just had both come tumbling down one after the other. He had nobody left now except Pa, who wasn't a damn bit good at being a paterfamilias. It took Matt most of the way back home to shake off feeling sorry for himself.

On his next trip to Alamogordo he learned that Anna Lynn's new lover was the High Rolls CCC camp commander, who could get to work in a jiffy whenever he stayed over. According to those citizens most interested in Anna Lynn's personal affairs, he was an overnight guest more often than not.

Matt worked hard at trying to be angry at her, but the fact that he missed her got in the way.

M
att returned from town with a Chevy pickup, a black eye, and a sour mood that hung around for a long time. He wouldn't talk to Patrick about what happened and he stayed close to home, going to town only once in two months for necessary business. All of his time and efforts went into the ranch, the ponies, and the cattle grazing in the high pastures. He seemed to want no company other than the companionship of the animals. Patrick let Matt alone. Sometimes silence was the best gift you could give a body who was hurting inside.

When it came time to restock groceries, supplies, and feed for the critters, Matt sent Patrick to town on the errand. In Tularosa, he learned about Matt's scuffle with Juan Ignacio, who'd accused Matt of getting Porter Knox fired from his job. In Alamogordo he ran into a fella from Mountain Park who told him that Matt's lady friend had thrown him over for another man, some army guy from a local CCC camp.

Patrick knew Matt had lost people close to him, especially Emma and that gal Beth he'd been sweet on. But what had happened to him in Tularosa and Mountain Park steamed Patrick. To be undone by some fickle, heartless floozy and assaulted by Juan Ignacio for something not Matt's fault was unfair. He had cause to sulk some, but Patrick didn't want him turning hard, mean, and suspicious. That had caused his own downfall with Emma and all his children. Matt deserved better.

As the end of the 1930s drew near, both the weather and the economy had improved a mite. Not enough to cause unbridled optimism—no rancher ever felt that secure about the future—but enough to hold out some hope for a few more profitable years. In the spring of 1939, Matt held another successful pony auction. In the summer he sold six geldings to the army boys from Fort Bliss who unexpectedly showed up and liked what they saw. At the end of fall works, they realized a nice increase in beef prices. As a result, the ranch was on the way to the best year since the stock market crash of '29.

Patrick was proud of what his son had accomplished and told him so, but Matt quickly brushed the compliment aside. Matt had stopped being sulky and sour in favor of acting brusque and fretful. It showed in the permanent furrow etched across his forehead and the downturn in his mouth caused by the lack of a smile.

The ranch still had no electricity or telephone or even a promise from public officials that those utilities would come to the Tularosa Basin any time soon. But when regular air delivery of the Albuquerque newspaper to El Paso, Las Cruces, and a few other towns started, Matt paid the pilot to drop a copy of the Sunday edition in a paper bag when he flew over the ranch headquarters. Much to their dismay, the paper sometimes wound up in the water trough, unreadable. But it quickly became a Sunday ritual for the two men to settle down after chores and read the paper together over a fresh pot of coffee.

The headline for September 3, 1939, read:

BRITAIN, FRANCE DECLARE WAR ON GERMANY!

The lead story described Germany's massive invasion of Poland early on a Friday morning and the stunning retreat of the Polish Army across wide stretches of the country.

“We'll be in it for sure,” Patrick predicted, his bad leg elevated by a cushion on top of a crate in front of the couch, his coffee cup within handy reach on a side table.

“Roosevelt says we're staying neutral and out of it,” Matt countered from behind the desk.

“That's not gonna happen. We'll be in the thick of it soon enough. When the drums start beating, stay out of it if you can.”

“I'll serve if called,” Matt replied, thinking of CJ.

“You'll be called up, bet on it. But you don't have to prove anything to me. I'm not partial to the idea of you getting shot or worse.”

“You served in Cuba and CJ was in the last war.”

“Yep, and I got wounded and CJ got dead. That ought to tell you something about how god-awful war is.”

“You'd worry about me if I went?” Matt asked somewhat surprised.

“And then some,” Patrick replied. “Besides, who'd look after the ranch and the ponies? I'm too old and crippled to handle it all by myself.”

“Well, it's nothing we have to worry about right away.”

“Still, you think on it. The army's gonna need beef, and a lot of it, once our part in the shooting war starts. A cattleman who helps feed an army is just as important as a soldier in the trenches.”

“I never figured you to be a pacifist.”

Patrick guffawed. “I ain't. But sane men don't start wars; politicians and dictators do. And it's always because they want something that doesn't belong to them, no matter how many big words they use to pretty it up.”

“I take it back; you're unpatriotic.”

Patrick grinned, showing his set of perfect false teeth. “That's a helluva thing to say to an old war veteran.”

***

O
ver the course of the next year, the welcome arrival of more moisture and the gathering promise of war improved the price of beef enough to allow Matt to put more cattle on the high pastures. The 7-Bar-K finished up fall works in the black once again. On September 7, 1940, when the Nazis started bombing London, Matt figured it was only a matter of time before America entered the war. Nine days later, Congress passed the Selective Service Act, requiring all men between the ages of twenty-one and thirty-five to register for the draft, and he was sure of it.

In spite of Pa's advice to stay out of the fighting if he could, Matt decided to serve when his time came. He registered and was given a II-C deferment by his draft board because of his occupation as an agriculture producer. With the country still at peace, he decided to take the deferment until he could find a way to keep the ranch operating and Pa looked after while he was in uniform.

In November, he took off for the high-country pasture trailing a packhorse loaded with cabin supplies, with plans to stay up-country to fix fences, cut cord wood for the cabin, do maintenance on the dirt tanks, and patch the cabin roof. He told Pa he'd be gone two, maybe three weeks but didn't say he first planned to slip over to the Rocking J to propose a scheme to Al Jennings and his family.

He made good time to the cabin got the supplies put away and the ponies fed and bedded down in the corral. He patched the roof, lit the stove, and fixed supper. After a good night's sleep, he saddled Patches and started a leisurely ride in the chill of a crisp, clear autumn morning over the mountain to the Jennings spread.

He always enjoyed visiting the Rocking J, sheltered as it was in a pretty forest meadow with a view through the pines of the Jornada, vast and seemingly empty. The squat wooden windmill next to the water tank greeted him with a slow creak in a light breeze. The small stone and mud-plastered adobe ranch house, surrounded by a fence to keep out grazing ponies and their droppings, looked as though it had been fixed to the land forever. Smoke lazed up from the chimney. Under the shade of the porch Matt could see Al Jennings in his favorite chair watching his approach.

“Light,” Al said. “Now that morning chores are done, Dolly has brewed up a fresh pot.”

Matt slid down and Patches trotted away for a drink from the water tank. “I'm obliged.”

“What brings you visiting so early in the day?”

“I've got an idea in my head that needs explaining to you, Dolly, Al Jr., and his new bride, if you'll kindly hear me out.”

Grinning, Al rose from his chair. “We're always interested in what the Kerney menfolk are scheming. Come on inside and we'll make a powwow.”

The front of the ranch house consisted of the kitchen and a small parlor with a fireplace. There was just enough room for six people to squeeze around the kitchen table for a meal, and the small parlor could accommodate the same number if two stayed standing. To the rear were two tiny bedrooms, barely large enough to turn around in. The house had sufficed for Al, Dolly, and Al Jr., but with the arrival of Brenda Jennings, formerly Brenda Cowen of Hot Springs, the place was downright crowded.

Matt had danced with Brenda at her wedding reception in Hot Springs after drinking a whiskey to celebrate with Al Jr. outside the church reception hall. She was a calm, hefty gal with broad features and a warm smile who always brought the word
comfortable
to Matt's mind.

Al jokingly assembled his family at the kitchen table by announcing that Matt had asked to waste everyone's time to talk about some harebrained scheme. Dolly brought cups and the coffeepot to the table and they made small talk for a sip or two until Al Sr. ordered Matt to get on with it.

He smiled and took another sip. Nine months ago, Al Jr., who was a year younger than Matt, had severed his left thumb and forefinger in a roping contest with a half-wild stray bull. As a consequence, he'd been classified as physically unfit for military service by the draft board. Making no mention of those facts, Matt quickly proposed to hire Al Jr. as the 7-Bar-K ranch manager, effective the first of the year. He explained that he needed to give his full attention to the ponies and wanted to increase the herd in their cattle-raising partnership. With the grasses coming back, both spreads could put more land into use. That meant more time would be needed to throw cows onto fresh pastures. Also, he needed someone to take over most of Pa's chores now that he was slowing down on a bad leg that would never get any better.

“I want Al Jr. as my ranch manager above anyone else,” Matt said. “He knows horses, cattle, and how to run a spread. And I'll pay a fair wage and provide housing.”

He turned to Brenda. “The casita will be yours.” She'd swooned over it during a visit to the 7-Bar-K. “And you'll earn housekeeper wages for looking after Patrick. He's not that much of a bother.”

Brenda beamed at Matt, grabbed Al Jr.'s hand, and squeezed it.

“Do I get to manage the ranch as I see fit?” Al Jr. asked.

“We'll do it together when I'm there,” Matt replied. “When I'm away, you'll have full authority over all ranch business.”

Matt glanced at Al Sr. and Dolly. “Think of it as another partnership between our two families. Al Jr. can help out at the Rocking J as much as needed. We can share costs and cut our expenses. When necessary, we'll hire hands to work both spreads during spring and fall works. If we do this together, we'll be more efficient.”

“And we'd be right next door,” Al Jr. said, looking directly at his ma. “One spread over.”

“I know,” Dolly said with a sad, accepting smile.

“Are you planning to go marching off to war when we get pulled into it?” Al Sr. asked Matt.

“No, sir, at least not right away,” Matt replied solemnly. “But if I do, I know things will be taken care of and looked after.”

“I'd go if I could,” Al Jr. said softly.

“Thank God you don't have to,” Brenda said.

“Yes, thank God,” Dolly whispered.

“Do we have an agreement?” Matt asked, directing the question to Al Sr.

Al Sr. nodded his consent.

“I'm obliged,” Matt said. “Let's get started by the first of the year.”

“That's perfect,” Dolly said as she poured another round of coffee.

***

M
att spent the next three weeks at the cabin, riding fence lines, tending to the dirt tanks, cutting firewood, and repairing the two windmills that supplied reliable water for livestock in the spring and summer and wildlife in the winter. He saw plenty of deer and coyote tracks and a few wolf prints, but no sign of bear. Some San Andres ranchers were of a mind to believe that all the black bears in the mountains had been wiped out. Al Jennings had heard the last bear had been taken by a hunter two years back. Matt had seen no fresh sign for more than a year and didn't doubt it. But if the black bears were gone, it was a sad prospect.

He left the cabin feeling peaceful, content, and eager for the future. Although he wasn't sure how it had happened, his broken spirit had been mended.

Back at the ranch, he sat Patrick down and told him what he'd done and why.

“Now's the time to throw more cattle on the land,” Patrick agreed. “Last Sunday's newspaper had a story about rising cattle prices because of shortages and rationing in England. The same thing happened in the Great War.”

“Al Jr. and Brenda will move over here the first of the year,” Matt said.

“Are you gonna be bullheaded and join up?” Patrick asked, scowling.

Matt shrugged. “I'm not sure.”

“When are you gonna do it?” Patrick prodded.

“I don't know,” Matt replied pointedly.

“I hate to think the day might come when there's no Kerney living on the ranch.”

“That day will come one way or another, I reckon,” Matt rebutted.

“Not in my lifetime, I hope.”

“Nor mine, if I can help it,” Matt added. “Al Jr. and Brenda will do right by us.”

Pa nodded. “We couldn't do better.” He handed Matt a letter from the side table. “This came while you were gone.”

It was a letter from Anna Lynn asking him to visit her on his next trip to town.

“From that woman?” Pa asked harshly.

Matt nodded. “She wants me to stop by and see her.”

“What for?”

“She doesn't say.”

“Are you gonna do it?”

Matt tapped the letter against his lips. In one way he was over her; in another way, not. When he thought about her now, it was more a vague, pleasant memory. “I just might,” he mused.

“A smart critter doesn't put his paw in the same trap twice,” Pa philosophized.

“That wasn't quite what I was thinking,” Matt replied.

***

M
att debated hard if it would be wise to visit Anna Lynn. He kept putting off a decision. Two weeks before Christmas, on his way to Alamogordo, he impulsively turned onto the Cloudcroft Road and pulled to a stop in front of Anna Lynn's Mountain Park farmhouse. It was shirtsleeve weather, with a bright sun and calm winds. On the front porch a little girl no more than two looked at him from the back of a small wooden rocking horse and called out for her ma. Anna Lynn appeared, stepped off the porch, and greeted him with a smile.