The Bones of Paradise (39 page)

T
hey hurried up the stairs, without noticing the sleeping desk clerk, down the second-floor hall to the large room at the end that was always saved for a Bennett, a courtesy passed from one year to the next, one generation to another. If Dulcinea felt any hesitation as she turned the filigreed brass knob, if she noted the floral design under her palm, it was impossible to tell, there was such confidence, such certainty in her movements. Standing to one side, Graver removed her dead husband's hat and scuffed the toe of her dead husband's boot across the cabbage rose carpet, as if smudging away a recent stain or clot of mud.

Inside the room, he shut the door as she assessed the chaos of clothing she'd abandoned in her haste. The mauve satin bedcover she ordered all those years ago was faded and bore dark holes from cigarette ash and stains from careless eating and drinking in bed. She remembered only the exhilaration of the first night she'd slept here with her husband, newlyweds even after three months. Then she felt Graver's hands on her hips as he lifted and placed her on his lap. She buried her face in the matted hair of his chest, her fingers finding the new ridge of scar over the bullet hole in his shoulder. She thought she smelled the green sunlight of the hills as she held
her breath, then felt the brush of his lips at her ear. “J.B.,” she whispered.

She didn't realize she'd closed her eyes until she felt the empty cooling space and heard the door click shut behind him. When she reopened her eyes, she saw the shabbiness of the room, the glow of J.B. had dissolved, and Graver was gone. Maybe it wasn't possible to recover the past, she thought, or to find a true present. She could only live in this shadow version of both, without love and purpose.

With her cheek against the cover, Dulcinea imagined her breath was like a breeze caressing silk drapes at an open window, creating a strange music like someone running their fingers across satin. When she held it, she swore she could still hear it, and began to breathe in tandem with the sound, unsure whether she created it or it created itself. Whether she imagined J.B. or Graver with her that night, she could not say, for it seemed they were one. She felt the terrific weight of her husband alive outside this small vial of present time, and she also felt Graver breaking into her world, shattering every window and flinging the door off its hinges each time he was near, until the more drawn she was to him, the more alive J.B. became.

Everything was silent and black when she rose sometime during the night and knelt at the window. She looked down at the two figures in the shadows, struggling, cursing, and saw the taller one stab the shorter, thicker man. He wrenched the knife upward and lost his grip when the victim staggered and fell. The attacker looked down the alley each way, drew his pistol, nudged the body on the ground, seemed to decide against the noise it would make, and put it away. He searched the victim's pockets, withdrew a packet of papers and money before sliding into darkness. When she awoke in the morning, she was convinced it was a nightmare.

When Drum Bennett was found, barely alive, the next morning, the sun was well up, and the day promised to be the hottest of fall, the
air filled with the pounding of nails into boards to replace broken windows and voices calling up and down Main Street reporting damage. Drum lay in a narrow alley between the hotel and the boot maker. He was discovered by a gang of boys searching the debris of the night's revelries for anything they could find, which thus far had produced only a pocket knife with a broken blade, a couple of whiskey bottles with a drop or two in the bottom, and a silver dollar they fought over.

I
t was Dun Riggins, owner of the livery stable, who woke Hayward with the news of his grandfather's injuries and the demise of Percival Chance from a collision with a runaway wagon. Hayward sat, blinking in the dusty light, unclear where he was. Then the fight flooded back, followed by other confusing images, and he stood, confirmed the Bennett horses were still in their stalls, and lurched toward the almost unbearable light beyond the big double stable doors.

He was horribly thirsty and unsteady on his feet, and some part of him knew his presence was required at Drum's bedside. When thoughts of his mother came, he found it easy to push them behind the pain that sat like a skullcap behind his eyes, crushing his head as it moved to the back of his neck. He was halfway to Doc's when he thought he heard someone call his name. He didn't slow. Then he heard it again, along with a thumping, irregular boot step. He stopped and turned to face Stubs, Drum's ranch hand.

The man tilted his head for them to continue without speaking, and they were almost there before Stubs paused and turned toward the street, watching as the riders from the Box LR, led by Larson Dye looking worse for the wear, walked past. Across the street,
Stillhart the banker spoke with Harney Rivers, both staring and nodding toward Doc's place.

“Gonna be a lot of that,” Stubs said. “Smart man sticks to his relations, keeps his mouth shut till he know the lay of the land.”

Hayward felt an old anger rise in chest. “Like Cullen did?”

Stubs shook his head and rubbed the knee that always ached. “Not saying do what he did. Sometimes he knew enough to sit quiet and wait to see how the game played out.” He glanced at Hayward, took in the bruises, cuts, and blood, and nodded with satisfaction. “You're carrying the name now. It's up to you.”

Hayward opened his mouth, about to ask the old cowboy what he was talking about, when the sudden weight of the words caught in his throat so dry he couldn't even cough. He shook his head and walked on until he reached the door to the clinic built onto the side of a tidy brown house. The small rooms housed the doctor, his old-maid daughter, and a strange young girl from Ireland whose passage was to be paid as an indentured servant. She puzzled Hayward even now as she pulled open the door before he had a chance to knock. Standing slightly behind him, Stubs whispered, “Them crows are circling, boy, better make tracks.”

Hayward jerked as if stung by a wasp, then explained who he was. She led them through the entryway, down a hall, into the kitchen, and through another door to a room large enough for six beds with a wooden chair beside each; a tall cabinet with glass doors and shelves that held jars, bottles, and stacks of cloth for bandages; and a narrow harvest table littered with scraps of paper and a ledger book. Although every bed held a patient, including the dentist-sheriff, the last bed against the back wall drew their attention.

Graver stood at the foot, hat held at waist, while Dulcinea sat beside Drum, holding his hand—a sight so strange Hayward almost took a step back. As he approached, he saw that his grandfather's face was white and drained. “Cullen?” the old man whispered in a weak voice. “You fighting again? Soon as I'm up and around, I'll see to you—”

Hayward snatched off his cowboy hat and shook his head.

His mother was focused on Drum, and brushed the hair off his forehead with a light touch. “I decided you're right. You'll be better soon, and we can combine our two ranches, live in my house, rent out the other or let the men use it. Hayward will take over in a few years.”

“I'll build a new house for us, and the boys.” Drum gazed at her and smiled, his eyes filled with tears. “I never meant harm to any of you—J.B.—wasn't me—” His voice slid away as he struggled to breathe against a wave of pain.

Dulcinea glanced over her shoulder and didn't seem to notice the condition of her son's face and clothes. Without dropping Drum's hand, she tilted her head to beckon him over. Hayward leaned back like an unbroken colt tied to a post, then stepped forward as soon as Graver put a hand on his shoulder. The old man lifted his free hand as if to wave them closer.

The confusion on the wounded man's face rendered him harmless, even childlike, something no living person had ever seen. It unnerved him.

“We're glad you're here.” Dulcinea patted Drum's hand.

Hayward was about to bolt. Graver stepped back to give him room to breathe, then eased over and took the chair beside the dentist's bed as Hayward sat at his grandfather's side.

“How's he doing?” Hayward asked. The harsh glare that usually shone from Drum's eyes was gone, replaced by benign confusion. Brain stroke? He had seen cowboys fall off their horses and wake with this expression, but he'd never expected to see it on Drum Bennett.

Dulcinea released Drum's hand, placed it on his chest. He hesitated to touch his grandfather. When Judge Foote walked through the doorway, Dulcinea's lips parted and Drum's breathing became labored.

The judge glanced at the family, paused at the foot of the dentist's bed, and nodded to the room. He cleared his throat, then reached
out, grabbed the dentist's foot, and gave it a good shake. Receiving no response, he cleared his throat loudly as Doc entered the room.

“Here now, stop that!” Doc pulled the judge away from the bed, then dropped his voice. “He's sleeping, for Christ's sake.”

“Dying?” The judge squinted with a nearsighted expression and lifted his chin at the patient.

“You keep bothering him.” Doc shook his head and moved to the far side of Drum's bed with the judge fast on his heels.

“Drum Bennett going to make it?” The judge's voice seemed to bang against the walls like a gunshot, making the family jump.

“What's wrong with you?” Doc shook his head and peered over his glasses at Drum's face as he checked the old man's wrist for a pulse. He shook his head again and released the hand while Drum watched without interest.

“How you doing, sir?” The judge's booming voice ratcheted around the room again. The other patients muttered and tossed in their sleep.

“Heard Lawyer Chance didn't make it. You have his body here?” The judge looked at the doctor, who shook his head and moved to the next patient. “That's a hard way to go, trampled by a runaway team, especially your own. Too late to appreciate your own irony.” His bright eyes swept the group around Drum's bed. Dulcinea's face paled at the news and she glanced at her son. Hayward didn't respond. He'd never had any use for the lawyer. He reckoned she'd have to hire Rivers now. It had nothing to do with him. She hesitated, then stood and motioned the judge to follow as she swept past Graver and Hayward, across the room and out the door. Hayward gazed after her until they were out of the room, then he slipped into her chair and peered closely at the old man, his last living Bennett relative.

Hesitantly, he reached for his hand, touched it with trembling fingers, and jerked away when the back of it twitched like a horse ridding itself of a fly. “Grandfather? Drum? Sir?”

Drum moved his head and fixed him with his stare. Hayward cleared his throat and inched closer, opened his mouth, closed it,
and opened it again, licking his lips. His hair fell forward across his cheek and he brushed it back impatiently. The small moment of order strengthened him and this time he squared his shoulders and spoke.

“I know you got no use for me, sir. That's as it may be. I wanted to say something.” He looked at the crack where the whitewashed wall met the raw cedar ceiling. “I miss my brother, sir, much as you.” He paused and swiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “But I ain't a baby. I'm grown enough to run the ranches and that's what I'm fixing to do, sir!” His voice rose on the last words and Drum gave a deep guttural groan that made him leap to his feet and eye his grandfather with horror.

“Need gold,” the old man struggled to say.

“No, sir. I can make them pay on their own. You always low-rated Cullen and me, and I'm gonna show you.”

Drum shook his head and coughed so long it seemed he wouldn't stop. Hayward reached to lift his head, and the old man said it again, “Gold.”

Dulcinea rushed in and placed a hand on her son's chest. “Stop it!” she commanded in a harsh whisper. Hayward spread his arms and shook his head before stepping back against the wall.

“I didn't do anything!” He pouted as the adults did an elaborate dance, trading places around the bedside until Graver was back where he started at the foot.

Dulcinea looked at the judge on the other side of the bed. “Are you ready?” She picked up Drum's hand.

“Ma'am?” The man was balking like a calf on a rope. Hayward couldn't figure it out.

“Do it now.” When the judge merely raised his brow, she continued. “You're to marry us, remember?” She used the clasped hands to point to Drum and herself while Graver took a step back and Hayward a step forward as if to stop her.

The judge looked at the old man to make sure his eyes were open, and then at Hayward, who fingered the felt brim of his hat. With a deep sigh, the judge lifted his chest, ran his fingertips lightly over
the top of his head as if smoothing a baby's downy hair, and began the ceremony, which after five brief sentences concluded with: “I pronounce you married.”

Dulcinea nodded and pressed the battered old hand against her lips, with her head bowed and eyes fixed on Drum's face, over which spread the slightest glow of pleasure, as if he had waited an entire lifetime for this moment. When he muttered “Geneva,” the name of his first wife, J.B.'s mother, everyone pretended not to hear. Hayward felt the sting of her deceit deep inside his chest.

“I'll get the papers now,” the judge said. His face wore a peculiar expression like he struggled not to laugh, as if he'd just seen the mouse swallow the cat whole.

“Please hurry,” Dulcinea said.

Hayward straightened off the wall and seemed to grow several inches in his outrage. “What the hell is this, Mother?” He grabbed her shoulder, yanked her to face him.

She looked at him but held her tongue until he released her. “Go run the ranches. This marriage means we have a clear title, son, don't you see? Your father wanted you to have the land.” Her cheeks burned pink under his glare. “We can talk later.”

“No. No, we won't.” Hayward's mouth twisted and white foam appeared in the corners. He merely stared at the tableau of the widow bride, the hired man, and the old tyrant who finally closed his eyes.

He looked at his mother. He hadn't seen this coming and didn't have a name for it. If the old man pulled through—He grimaced. Didn't have a name for that either. He looked at the woman he'd recently vowed to protect and realized he didn't understand her at all and had completely underestimated her. He wouldn't be surprised if she lay down on the bed right there and then and took the old man in her arms. The hated old bastard, her new husband.

Hayward pulled on his hat and walked away, and didn't turn when she called him back. Cullen had been right about her the whole time.