The Bones of Paradise (7 page)

T
hree days after the funeral, Drum Bennett strode through the kitchen door with his usual quick steps, his boots landing lightly on the plank floor. “Where is he?” His barrel chest pushed against his faded brown flannel shirt like a threat. There was nothing apologetic about the way his gaze swept over the foreman and his wife seated at the table finishing their breakfast after the men had been fed and sent to work. At five foot eight, it wasn't height that gave Drum menace. It was the thickness of his body, the arms as hard as axe handles, the thick-fingered hands with knuckles the size of walnuts that possessed the hard speed of a former boxer. Bennett had had to fight his way clear of his past, had taken to the road as a young man and staged boxing matches with locals in the small towns of Missouri, Illinois, and Iowa before coming west. Almost every man who'd ever worked for Drum Bennett had felt the teeth-cracking blow from one of his fists. Drum was a man who hit first and didn't talk later.

Higgs merely lifted his chin toward the upstairs. Vera cleared her throat, drawing Bennett's quick eyes. She pushed back her chair and laid her hands flat on the table on either side of the plate of doughnuts she'd made for the men.

“Coffee?” she said without offering a doughnut. Bennett's gaze wavered, shifting to the plate. It took an almost visible will for him to shake his head and stiffen his shoulders. He hadn't removed his hat when he barged in, and he did now. Drum was preternaturally uncomfortable in the company of women. He blocked up like an old bull with a young cow. His hard eyes took on a surprised look that made him seem younger than his years. His nose, broken several times, seemed to collapse a little more, as if the sheer will of his cussedness was the only thing holding it up; his round, fleshy face shimmered briefly, showing a glimpse of a joyful, curious boy who had retreated too soon.

“Where is he?” Drum asked again.

“Hayward?” Higgs asked. Although his voice was neutral, a small muscle in his jaw tightened. He was already tired of Drum Bennett's questions.

“You know who I'm talking about. Suppose the boy's up there with the killer, too.” Drum was on the verge of beating the foreman to the floor.

“He didn't kill your son,” Higgs spoke carefully. “He's just a farmer.”

Drum wanted to fire this mealymouthed bastard right now, but he didn't have anyone to put in charge yet. Cullen wasn't ready, no matter what he thought. Nineteen and still unbroke as the day Drum took him. J.B.'s wife sure hadn't added any grit to the bloodline. Look how easy it was to convince her to leave and stay gone.

Higgs stood, forcing Drum to look up, another damned irritating thing about the man. “Look, Ry Graver found the bodies and got shot for his trouble. We need to be looking for the killer, not fighting each other. Graver said the shooter sounded young. Good shot, too.”

“What do you mean, ‘bodies'?” Drum tilted his head to study the man.

Higgs looked confused for a minute. “We found an Indian girl with J.B.”

“What Indian girl? What the hell are you saying?”

Higgs ran a hand through his thick gray hair and shook his head. “Don't make a lick of sense. Didn't recognize her. Fourteen, sixteen, you know how those women are, growed at twelve.” He described the scene in a few brief sentences, his eyes fixed on Drum.

Drum nodded and searched the man's face, then let his gaze wander the kitchen. “What else?”

Higgs took his time, glanced at his wife, who lowered the coffeepot to the table. “I can't figure out why the shooter didn't finish Graver. Rode off and left him. Kills two, leaves one. Don't make sense.”

“You're sure about this man?”

Higgs thought a moment, and then slowly nodded. A fly bumped the window glass over the sink, buzzed angrily.

Drum released a long breath and stretched his neck to the right until it cracked. “Reckon Hayward could come down here?”

“I'll give a call,” Vera said.

Drum watched Vera's swaying hips as she left the room and again wondered if J.B. was blind.

“How's Cullen?” Higgs asked.

Looking around the kitchen, Drum let the question linger in the air. The fly buzzed louder, banging into the glass with tiny bumps hard enough to knock it down to the sill. J.B. hadn't done so bad for himself. Curtains on the windows, swept floor, lamp chimneys shining clean, wild roses in a vase on the table. His own house was a lot rougher. He and Cullen too tired of a night to do more than eat the bland beans, beef, and stewed fruit on tin plates Stubs served up to the hired men. The smell of those doughnuts clung to the room, made his mouth water. Maybe he should hire Higgs and his wife to come work for him. He glanced at Higgs, standing with his hands braced on the back of the kitchen chair. When their eyes met, Higgs didn't shy away, as a lesser man would. He held his ground. Drum knew he tended to low-rate other men. The man would have to sharpen his spurs to ride for Drum Bennett, though.

The sound of hurried boots on the porch brought both men's attention to the kitchen door as Hayward burst through, already trying to assume an authority that sat poorly on his face and shoulders. There was something there, though, a worried expression that flitted across his eyes behind the defiance.

“What do you want?” He stood beside the door, arms folded, leaning stiffly against the wall.

Drum studied the boy he rarely saw. J.B. hadn't the heart to make a man out of him. Though he and Cullen were brothers, four years apart, this one was a waste of good food. Drum thought briefly of taking him home, too, then stopped. He was already ruint. Fancy shirt, trousers, even his boots showed little wear. Kid had those dark circles under his eyes and pale skin from doing more night work than day jobs.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” Drum asked.

“What's it to you, old man?” The kid actually sneered and Drum was on him, slapped his face so hard his head banged against the wall. As soon as the boy started for him, Drum slapped him on the other side just as hard, and watched with pleasure as the pale skin flamed with his fingerprints and the kid shook his head to clear it.

When Hayward started for him again, Drum balled his fist and bent his knees, but Higgs caught his arm before he could throw the punch that would've broken the boy's nose.

“Let him be,” Higgs warned.

“I'll get you!” With tears in his eyes, Hayward glared at his grandfather, turned and yanked open the door, and ran outside.

Drum snorted in laughter. “Kid's got some gristle after all.”

“He just lost his father,” Vera said in a voice that let him know he'd stepped over the line. The image of the fleeing doughnuts made Drum a little sorry.

“Can't baby a half-grown boy, make a bottle calf out of him.” He grabbed his hat and put it on, gave the brim a yank, and moved the slide up the stampede strap to his chin. Damn wind always blowing in the hills, trying to take a man's hat and his thoughts both.

“I'll be sending a man over in the morning to inventory the place before I decide who to keep on.” He glanced around the kitchen once more. It might work out that he would move over here, run the combined ranches from the more comfortable place, let the boys have the run of the other house, which was so rough they couldn't do more damage if they tried.

“I don't think so,” Higgs said.

“What?” Drum tilted his head like he hadn't heard right.

“You're not sending anyone over here.” Higgs straightened his shoulders and raised his head so his four extra inches seemed to grow.

Drum chuckled and shook his head. He'd have to fire him now.

“J.B. left a will. Copy's with the lawyer in Babylon.”

Drum's stomach churned unpleasantly and sent painful acid-laced food into his mouth. He swallowed and scowled at the other man. “What's it say?”

“Wife and boys.” Higgs fought the faint expression of amusement in the corners of his mouth. “She's to look after the youngster, and Cullen takes over running the ranch.”

Drum's skin prickled cold. “He did that. Left those no-count boys and a runaway wife . . .” He shook his head. “I don't believe it.” He knew they hadn't seen eye to eye on things, but to leave it all outside the family this way. Was he drinking? Drum felt the flush of anger move up his legs, spread through his torso and along his arms, and threaten to choke off his breath. He fought to keep it from flooding his brain, making him do things he'd regret. He had to get out of here, go home, and consider his next steps carefully, away from Higgs's prying eyes.

He pulled open the door and hurried outside, passing Cullen, who lounged against the fence post bordering the yard. “Let's go,” Drum ordered.

“Cullen.” From the doorway Higgs said the boy's name loud enough that Drum glared at him. “You want to come inside a minute, son? I got something to tell you.”

“Come on, damn it.” Drum jerked his horse's reins loose from the hitching rail. Used to his master's impatience, the big spotted gelding stood, iron jawed and unblinking as the man tightened the cinch with short, hard pulls.

“I'm gonna see what he wants,” Cullen said, already halfway up the steps to the house.

“Get back here!” Drum raised his quirt as if he could strike the boy from that distance, and the horse shied, aware that it might be the recipient of the blow. Cullen sneered at him and disappeared into the house, letting the door slam loud enough to spook the spotted horse.

“Hold still, you ignorant son of a bitch.” Although his words were rage filled, Drum kept his voice and body quiet so the horse wouldn't shy and buck away. How was it that nobody was listening to him today? “I'll settle with that boy later,” he muttered, all the while wondering whether it wasn't a little late for that now that Cullen was taller, faster, and meaner than his grandfather. Those days of beating sense into the boy were over. Now it was time to see what took and what didn't. The cussedness of J.B. giving the ranch over about knocked Drum off his horse. The wife would want to sell it, and Drum would have to come up with ready cash he didn't have unless he raided his gold stash again, and that was a dangerous proposition. Why couldn't his son have just died and let his father take over? They never had a need for lawyers and such. No high-falutin judge had ever put his thieving fingers in the family business and come out rich. Not until now. Next thing he knew, that damn wife of J.B.'s would sneak back and lay claim to everything. His threats wouldn't hold much water now with J.B. gone. A thought crossed his mind that made him so uncomfortable he shook his head and cursed. He hoped to God he didn't have to sink so low as to kill a woman.

“Damn you, son, what the hell were you thinking? How'd you go and get yourself shot anyways?” Drum put the horse into its running walk, the one that ate miles as if they were inches and stayed easy on his back.

It dawned on him slowly, spreading a smile across his face even as the horse sidestepped to avoid a prairie dog hole. He settled his seat again and gave the animal its head. Yes, Higgs would need his help convincing the men. No reason a man shouldn't go and help his grandsons and his son's widow. One thing continued to bother him during the ride home, though: Why was J.B. so unforgiving about his taking Cullen to be raised? Drum had gotten over it, as he guessed his own father had. It was what they did with first sons, took them to be raised right, like the old Greeks, the Spartans, so they'd grow to be men who could last, men who'd stand in a fight. Drum remembered his own cousins, how shiftless they turned out, running off to fight for the wrong side in the war, getting themselves kilt with a bunch of border raiders in Missouri. Drum's great-grandfather drank himself into steady decline until he swole up like a pillow, turned yellow, and died in the front porch rocker
his
father had made when their people first came to the Missouri Ozarks. It was Drum who pushed west to the Sand Hills of Nebraska and used his gold to buy as much land as he could before anyone else found out about the place.

Drum stopped at the windmill that marked the end of J.B.'s land and the beginning of his, where his son had been murdered. The cattle had trampled the grass into sand, and only the water tank kept the place from blowing out. The wind was a low, steady hum in his ears, but he could still make out the bellering of a cow to her calf beyond the nearest hill. His horse pricked up its ears and snorted, shifting its weight back and forth between its front legs. Drum lifted the reins and the horse broke into a lope, heading for the noise.

While the rest of the herd grazed their way up the next hill, a brown-and-white cow paced frantically in front of a small blowout, where her calf churned its legs in a futile attempt to stand on the dissolving surface. The calf's sides were heaving wet and its tongue hung outside its mouth, but it wouldn't give up. Drum hoped the cow wouldn't charge him as a threat to her baby. He untied his rope,
built a loop, and edged the horse closer. But as soon as the rope settled around the calf's neck, the cow charged his horse, butting him with her head so hard the horse lost its balance and went down, rolling on Drum's leg before he could free himself from the stirrups. The cow ducked away and stared at the spectacle from some distance while the calf on the end of the taut line, still fastened to the saddle, fought the rope cutting off its breath.

Drum's leg was numb as the horse lay on top of him, and for a moment he was content to stay there, not wanting to know what lay beneath the numbness. Then he swore and slapped the horse's neck. “Get off me!” It rolled onto its belly, propped its front legs straight, and raised its hind end with a big lurch. When it was on its feet again, it gave a whole-body shake like a dog and looked down at its rider, who had managed to slip his boot out of the stirrup just in time.