The Last Ranch (29 page)

Mary got to her feet. “Why would he lie about it?”

“I don't know, but I'll have no further truck with him.”

“Let's go talk to him together,” Mary suggested, touching Patrick's arm.

He pulled back and rose up. “Leave me be, woman.” Then he slapped her hard across the face.

Stunned, her cheek stinging from the rough blow, Mary retreated. She couldn't see his expression in the darkness, but his breathing was harsh and labored.

He lurched past her down the hill. “What did I just do?” he wailed mournfully to himself, his voice full of distress.

With tears in her eyes from his blow and startled by the unprovoked attack, Mary waited until she heard the screen door slam shut before starting down the path to the house. The time had come for the family to face the hard reality of Patrick's diminished capacity.

Matt met her halfway. “What happened?” he demanded, short of breath.

“Didn't he tell you?”

“He says he doesn't know what he did.”

“He hit me, slapped my face.”

“Why?”

“There wasn't a sane reason for it.”

Matt opened his arms. “Are you hurt?”

Mary leaned against him, felt his warmth and protection as he embraced her. “Not really, but I'll probably have a shiner in the morning.”

“We have to do something about him,” Matt said with a sigh.

“Yes, we do.” She lifted her face and searched his eyes. “And we have to do something for ourselves as well.”

Moonlight through a rolling bank of clouds dappled the ranch. It never looked lovelier. “I know,” he replied sadly.

Although the cause of Patrick's condition was unknown, perhaps the result of a brain tumor or simply the process of degenerative aging, the doctor's diagnosis was severe dementia. There was no cure, no medicine to treat it, little hope for remission, and no way of predicting how long Patrick would live in his present condition; it could be months or years.

Forced by the situation to take leave from their jobs, Matt and Mary spent two weeks investigating nursing homes around the state and finally got Patrick admitted to a church-run facility in Albuquerque that was going to cost a whole lot more than his monthly veteran's pension would cover.

Housed in a thick-walled adobe near the Old Town area of the city, the facility was clean, the staff polite and helpful, and the residential rooms, although rather small, were adequate for two. After reading the physician's medical report and diagnosis, the administrator explained that Patrick could live in the home as long as he didn't become violent or run away. If that happened, he'd have to go elsewhere, perhaps to one of the state institutions.

Not sure where they would get the money to cover the additional costs, Matt and Mary signed the contract anyway, packed Patrick up, and moved him in with a chipper ninety-year-old man who smiled and talked mostly gibberish. While Matt arranged Patrick's few belongings on the nightstand and hung his clothes in a small closet, Mary settled him into a padded armchair next to his bed and promised they'd come to visit at least monthly. Patrick, who'd completely stopped talking days before, looked at her with empty eyes, said nothing, and stared out the window at a dirt lane at the rear of the home bordered by a dry arroyo.

Kevin took Patrick's removal from the family the hardest. Unwilling to believe that his gramps would never be the same, he'd begged Matt and Mary not to send him away, and got angry when they did. He'd bunked with Dale at the Rocking J so as not to miss the start of school, and when they came to fetch him he was still fuming. Their explanations about Patrick's illness had no effect on him. It took a visit to the nursing home the following weekend for Kevin to realize that his grandpa wasn't the same person anymore. Seeing Patrick in such a reduced mental state sucked the visible anger out of him. He sat sullenly in the truck on the way home to T or C looking out the window, his usual good spirits deflated.

During the rush to get Patrick the care he needed, Marge Crowley, the housekeeper, agreed to stay on until everything got settled. With Patrick gone, Matt wasn't surprised when Marge expressed a desire to leave the ranch. Without kin to turn to or friends to lean on, she decided to move to Albuquerque, find work, and look in on Patrick as often as she could. Her obvious affection for the old man touched Matt's heart, and he gave her three months' salary and spent a Saturday driving her to Albuquerque, where she settled into a small, furnished apartment on
Central Avenue near the high school, close to a convenient bus route to Old Town.

While there, Matt made a quick stop to see Patrick and found him the same as before: withdrawn and mute, but freshly shaven and dressed in clean clothes. He sat anchored to his armchair staring out the window at the dirt lane. His roommate's bed was stripped down to the bare mattress and the personal items on the nightstand were gone. The nurse on duty told him the man had died and a new resident would be moving in on Monday. She also said that their best efforts to get Patrick to socialize often failed, except at mealtime, which he always looked forward to—for the food, not the companionship. So far, he'd shown no inclination to wander off, nor had he exhibited any aggressive tendencies.

Matt tried to make jovial small talk with Patrick, asking if he'd made any friends, if he enjoyed the cooking, or if he was getting enough exercise. Patrick stared out the window, stock-still, stiff-necked, and mute. He was permanently missing in action. Matt realized the chances were slim to none that he'd ever have a meaningful conversation with his father again. An overwhelming feeling of sorrow came out of nowhere. Matt knelt down, squeezed his father's shoulder, and said goodbye.

“Maybe you can't hear this, but I hope you can,” he said in a whisper. “We've had our differences, but that's been behind us for a long time now. Mary and I truly appreciate how much attention and affection you've given to Kevin. You've been a real good grandpa to him. He misses you and sends his love. We all miss you.”

To Matt's surprise, Patrick turned his head and eyed him seriously. With a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth, he nodded slightly and softly patted Matt's hand.

Matt left the nursing home thinking he should have thanked
Patrick years ago for the man he'd become and forgotten about the man he'd once been. It made him feel small-minded for being so unforgiving over so many years.

***

A
month passed before Matt, Mary, and Kevin had a chance to return to the ranch. Already there was a feeling of abandonment and neglect about it, as well as troubling evidence of trespassing. Al Jennings had moved the few remaining 7-Bar-K ponies to his ranch headquarters. With the cattle they'd held over for spring works currently grazing on Rocking J pastures, it meant for the first time in the history of the spread, no 7-Bar-K livestock grazed on the land. That reality stabbed Matt like a cactus spine.

Somebody had shot up the windmill blades and tromped through the house. Although nothing appeared to be missing, Mary thought the food pantry had been raided for some canned goods. There was no evidence that trespassers had slept in the house or used the kitchen, but still it was an invasion that put them all in a snappish mood.

While Mary swiftly set about changing the sheets on all the beds as a precaution, Matt hurried to the barn to see if any of the saddles or tack had been stolen. He found the gear all where it should be, but Patrick's old trunk had been busted open and ransacked. Missing were his old Rough Rider uniform, assorted military equipment, and his army medals. Back at the house he searched to see what else might have been taken, and discovered Patrick's old horse pistol that he'd kept in a drawer of his bedside table was gone.

He took a walk around the ranch house looking for tire tracks and footprints, but strong, gusty winds had covered any traces
with fine sand blown up from the Tularosa. He figured the interlopers were from the missile range. Who else but soldiers would have easy access to the ranch? Who else but army boys, who didn't know the value of a well-made saddle, would pass up stealing something worth good money? Why take only some military memorabilia and an ancient handgun?

It irked Matt that part of his family history had been stolen. He wouldn't forget it. He'd file a report with the sheriff when they got back to town, but doubted anything would come of it. From now on when they were at the ranch, he'd sleep with an unloaded shotgun next to the bed, shells close at hand.

***

A
fter sweeping out the place, dusting the furniture, doing the laundry, and remaking the beds, Mary fixed a dinner of sandwiches and salad with groceries they'd brought from town. Over dinner, she waited for Matt to raise the subject of the ranch, but he didn't say a word. With evening covering the land, no critters or ponies to care for, and no chores that needed doing other than washing a few dishes to air-dry, the ranch felt hollow and empty to her. She joined Matt on the veranda wondering if Patrick's absence had somehow withered the place, much as drought could dry and stunt the land. Or maybe the thieving vandals had sucked the life from it.

She sat in Patrick's old rocker. A fleeting vision of him with his feet perched on the railing made her smile. “Where's Kevin?”

“Down at the Witch's Tree trying to spot secret agents and guided missiles through my binoculars,” Matt replied.

“I'm sure they're out there,” Mary said. She paused for a moment. “Are we going to talk about what we have to do with the ranch?”

“I've been putting it off, haven't I?”

“Understandably.”

“But for a little too long,” Matt admitted.

“Yes.”

Matt's gloomy sigh was swept away by a slight wind through the cottonwood trees. “It's just hard to let it go.”

“With nobody here to care for and protect it, there won't be much left after a while.”

Matt nodded. “It's already looking a little run-down. I wish we could sell it to anyone other than the army.”

“They're going to take it from us if we don't sell to them.” Mary leaned closer. “Either they'll steal it through the courts, or we try to get some money out of it—at least enough to pay for Patrick's care and maybe a little more.”

“Yeah, this old homestead owes him that much at least.” Matt stood, walked to the veranda stairs, and looked at the star-filled sky. “Once, I hated this ranch, wanted nothing to do with it. I even swore I'd never live here. Now, it breaks my heart to let it go.”

Mary went to him, wrapped her arm around his waist, and leaned against him. “We'll make our own happiness wherever we are, whatever we do. Isn't that already how it is for us?”

Matt smiled at her. “You bet it is.” His smile faded as he gazed at the empty pasture. “Back before the war, I had a real good run selling cutting horses and top cow ponies to ranchers and rodeo cowboys. After a long day working them, I used to love to come out here in the cool of the evening and see my ponies lazing in the pasture. God, they were as pretty as they come. Having them here made the harshness of the land somehow more civilized and peaceful.” He turned to Mary. “More beautiful.”

“We can make another place like this for ourselves,” Mary suggested.

“I feel like I'm giving up, quitting, to let this go.”

“If you want to stay and fight, we can.”

“Like old John Prather.” Matt studied Mary's face. “You'd do that?”

“I would, Mr. Kerney.”

Matt kissed her softly. “Hard as it is, I think it best we move on and make sure Patrick is well cared for.”

“Let's not move too far,” Mary pleaded.

Matt laughed. “Not on your life. I'm too much of a desert rat. Let's collect Kevin from the Witch's Tree and start making plans.”

***

B
efore approaching the army to discuss the sale of the 7-Bar-K to the government, Matt and Mary met with Craig Gridley, an Albuquerque attorney who specialized in real-estate law. Through his many contacts, Matt had learned of Gridley's successful handling of several high-profile civil cases against government agencies attempting to condemn private property at below-market value.

A tall, thin man in his thirties with a full head of unruly brown hair and thick, droopy eyebrows, Gridley sat behind his desk and studied the titles, deeds, and survey documents. When he finished, he looked up, smiled, and told Matt and Mary that based on the army's own land survey and the fact the ranch was owned outright with no liens or other encumbrances, the government wouldn't be able to get away with making a lowball offer for the ranch.

He added that using the value of comparable ranch properties on the north end of the basin where ranchers had lease agreements with the missile range would give further credence to a just-compensation argument before the court, if it came to that.

“But I don't think it will go to court,” Gridley concluded. “Obviously, the army wants your ranch and is willing to buy it. Where the niggling comes in is with what Uncle Sam is willing to pay. If you wish, I can put everything together you need to get the price up as high as possible and negotiate the deal on your behalf.”

“How soon can you do it?” Matt asked.

“Give me thirty days.”

“How much will your services cost?” Mary asked.

“I require a five-hundred-dollar retainer and I'll bill you by the hour. You can pay any balance owed me once the proceeds from the sale are deposited in your bank account. Let's set a limit of no more than twenty-five hundred dollars of billable hours and my reasonable expenses. If I have to exceed that amount, I'll ask for your approval in advance.”

“That seems fair,” Mary said.

“We want to be at the table when you close the deal,” Matt said as he wrote out the check for the retainer.

Gridley nodded and stood. “Understood. I'll make contact with the judge advocate office at White Sands Missile Range today and open discussions.”

“So soon?” Mary asked.

Gridley shrugged. “In many ways, the peacetime army is just another cumbersome government bureaucracy. Advance warning will help them get under way. Besides, they need to know we're coming at them with some heavy artillery, namely me.”

“You talk like a vet,” Matt said.

Gridley grinned. “Marines, Korea. I applied for a commission before they could draft me. The GI Bill paid for law school.”

Happy with their choice of legal counsel, Matt and Mary shook Gridley's hand and left his office convinced they'd found the right man to tussle with the army.

***

T
wo weeks passed before Craig Gridley called the T or C cottage on a Saturday evening. Gridley reported the army had made a chickenshit offer for the 7-Bar-K. He was about to launch a counteroffensive.

With the telephone receiver tilted away from his ear so Mary could listen, Matt asked, “What kind of counteroffensive?”

“I'm mailing a letter to the army advising them that you are entering into preliminary discussions to sell the ranch to either the New Mexico College of Agriculture or the US Fish and Wildlife Service.”

“We are?” Matt asked in astonishment.

“Both organizations are interested in looking at the property for range research and wildlife preservation, much like the experimental range on the Jornada and the San Andres National Wildlife Refuge.”

“How did you pull this off?” Matt asked.

Gridley chuckled. “Through my good offices as your legal counsel. But don't get your hopes up. This is a ploy. Neither the college nor the federal agency think they have a chance in hell to keep the land out of the military's grasp. They're simply willing to take a serious look at the property and consider making an offer.”