Dark Paradise (17 page)

like Lucy to be dramatic even from beyond the grave.

With her elbows braced on her knees, Marilee leaned over the letter and

read the phonograms.

Dear Marilee, if you're reading this, it means I've gone on to my just

reward . Do you think I'm getting a bargain a better hereafter for me?

Probably not. The bastards always want the best for themselves and the

rest of us can go to hell. Oh, well. God knows I was a very naughty

girl. I'm sure He does. But that's between me and the Big Guy.

This is about you. You need a life, pal. I'll give you mine. You have to

promise to dump that schmuck Bradford. And you have to promise to devote

yourself fully to aggravating your family. We all have our calling in

life, that's yours. Mine was being a thorn in wealthy paws. I was a

champion. It got me where you are today. Or did it get me where I am?

No matter, my peach. Take the bulls by the horns and ride them into the

ground. You won't get into Martindale-Hubbell, but my name will live on

in infamy and you'll have some fun for once.

Shed a tear or two for me. No one else will. Raise a glass in my name.

Know that you're the only real friend I ever had. And when you bed your

first cowboy, think of me fondly before you mount up, then ride 'im,

cowgirl.

Live it up, sweetheart. Life's too short to play by someone else's

rules. Take it from someone who knows.

Yours in a peanut tin, Lucy

She read it twice. It didn't make any more sense the second time. All

she managed to do was increase the ache of loss and the feelings of

abandonment and guilt.

She slipped the letter under the feet of Mr. Peanut and curled up in the

chair, her gaze fixed, unfocused on the beauty that lay before her. And

she thought of Lucy, so brassy, so tough, surrounded by important

people. . . alone in the world with just a drinking buddy for a friend.

Full of secrets and hidden pain. Dying alone. Left on a Mountainside,

forgotten.

Foul was a kind word for the mood J.D. was in. As days went, this one

had started out bad and gone downhill from there. In the morning Will

had shown up just as J.D., Tucker, and Chaske were getting ready to ride

out.

It had been clear that if he'd spent any time in a bed the night before,

he had not been sleeping. His eyes were as red as tomatoes, his pallor a

shade of gray generally reserved for corpses. He was in no shape to get

on a horse.

So, naturally, J.D. had badgered him onto one and then made him ride

drag all morning, eating the dust of a hundred fifty cows and their

bawling calves.

Will hadn't uttered a word of protest. Tucker had done enough

complaining on his behalf. Cut the boy some slack. Give the kid a break.

He's going through a rough patch. Have a heart, J.D.

Will didn't need any slack as far as J.D. could see.

What he needed was for someone to knock some sense into him. He needed a

good kick in the pants. He had needed that his whole life, but their

daddy hadn't cared enough to do it. He had conceded Will to Sondra. And

Sondra didn't let anyone lay a finger on her baby. Of course, Sondra's

say-so had never meant spit to J.D.

"You can't hit me, J.D.," Will challenged, his lower lip jutting out,

trembling just a little despite the fierce gleam in his eyes. He offered

up the only real threat an eight-year-old boy could use to ward off his

big brother. "I'll tell Mama."

J.D. circled around him, his shoulders hunched, his hands curling into

fists. Anger was like a red-hot poker inside him, burning, turning his

blood to steam in his veins. He was sick of his little brother's

threats. He was sick of his little brother, period. Always slacking,

always screwing up and never taking the blame. "I'll hit you if I want,

you little snot-nosed mama's boy. And if you tell, I'll whup you all

over again. You left that gate open and I had to spend the whole goddamn

day chasing horses."

"You swore!
 
You'll go to hell!"

"You'll be there first, brat."

Will started to dart away, quickness being his best defense. But J.D.

was quicker, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck and wrestling him to

the ground. They tussled in the dirt like a pair of tomcats, bowling,

arms and legs in a tangle, punching and kicking. Will fought with all

the wild fury of someone who knew the odds were stacked well against

him, jabbing at his brother with fists and boots and elbows.

J.D., who, at twelve, was in the first growth spurt of early

adolescence, was taller by a foot and heavier by half. He was too aware

of the disparity as he twisted his little brother over in the dirt and

rolled on top of him. He loomed over Will, knees on either side of his

heaving rib cage, and wished to God the little snot was bigger. He

wanted nothing more than the chance to let out all the pent-up anger and

pain that had been storing up inside him practically since the day Will

was born, but he couldn't hit something that was so much smaller than

him. Picking on little guys was for bullies and cowards, and Tucker had

told him no Rafferty had ever stooped so low.

Reining back the tangle of feelings inside, he spit in the dirt beside

his brother's head and got up off him. Will scrambled to his feet,

glaring, tears streaking mud down his face. J.D. curled his lip in his

best sneer. "Go run and tell Mama, you little jerk."

"You're a jerk first!" Will shouted, running after him as J.D. turned

and headed for the corral.

"Yeah, I'm everything first," J.D. grumbled. "First to do the chores,

first to clean up all your messes, first to ride after the stock you let

out."

First and forgotten. That was what he was. Will was the little prince,

the apple of his mama's eye. And J.D. was slave labor, doing all the

jobs Daddy neglected. The afterthought of a marriage Tom Rafferty had

mourned deeply, then forgotten.

He stopped at the gate and unwrapped the chain with angry movements,

bruising a knuckle in the process. His eyes burned, and he sucked on the

joint and fought off a pain that had little to do with his injury.

Will looked at him sideways, his anger melting into contrition. "I

didn't mean to leave the gate open, J.D.," he admitted in a small voice.

"I don't want you mad at me all the time."

"Why do you care what I think, worm boy?"

"'Cause you're the only brother I got."

J.D.'s hands stilled on the bars of the gate. They were family. That was

what mattered more than anything between them. They were Raffertys.

Raffertys stuck together and took care of their own. That was important,

especially now. He had heard the late-night conversations between his

parents. Sondra telling Daddy how unhappy she was on the Stars and Bars,

how she wanted out. She wanted to break them up, to leave and take Will

with her. But Daddy said they were family and family had to stick

together. No one could take a Rafferty off the Stars and Bars. Nothing

mattered more than family except the land.

He looked down at Will, a suspicious emotion knotting like a fist in his

chest. "Yeah," he muttered. "I guess that works both ways."

He shook the memory off, disgusted with himself. God knew, he had more

important things to do than reminisce about childhood. The day was

sliding away and he had spent half of it beating his head against a

brick wall. He shifted in his saddle now and urged his gelding into a

canter, eating up the distance to the gate of the holding pasture.

Will rode out to meet him. If his color was better than it had been in

the morning, it was impossible to tell for all the dirt on his face.

Both he and the gray horse he straddled looked as if they had been

ridden long and hard and were equally grateful to drop down into a walk.

"Just brought in the last of them," he said as he turned his gelding

around and fell in step with J.D.'s Mount. "Tucker went up to the house

to start supper. Chaske's seeing to the horses. Anything more for today, boss?"

Will fielded the narrow look J.D. tossed him with a weary version of his

infamous grin. He'd been in the saddle for the better part of ten hours,

chasing animals that were too ornery and too stupid to live. He felt as

if each and every one of them had trampled over his body on their way to

the holding pen. He was beat and dirty.

Razzing J.D. was going to be the only high point of his day.

On paper, they were equal partners in the ranch. In reality, J.D. was,

always had been, and always would be boss of the Stars and Bars. Even

when their father had been alive, Will had felt that the real power had

lain in J.D., dormant, but strong, far stronger than Tom Rafferty had

ever been. All their father's energy had gone into the useless effort of

trying to keep Sondra chained to a life she hated. The ranch, for all he

had been bound to it by tradition, had never come first with him. But it

was J.D.'s mistress, his first love, his only love outside the horses he

nurtured and trained.

Will had never felt anything close to his brother's love of the land. To

him it was an anchor, something he had been shackled to by an accident

of birth. He had never challenged J.D. for control, had always felt more

like a cowboy than a rancher. He did his job and gladly left the worry

and the responsibility to fall on J.D.'s shoulders.

That weight seemed to be sitting heavy on his brother now. There was a

tightness around his mouth, a grim, angry cast to his eyes.

"You talk with Lyle?" Will asked.

"Yeah. For all the good it did. He said he'd hold off for a time, but

his mind is made up. He's selling. It's just a matter of who. I told him

I'd try to put something together."

"You can't outbid Bryce."

"I shouldn't have to."

"You can't expect Lyle to give you a bargain when Bryce is offering to

make him rich. Loyalty goes only so far."

"Is that so?" He shot a hard glance at his brother, then turned to

survey his cattle, not wanting to think about how far Will's loyalty

would go.

They sat at the pasture gate, their horses content to stand side by side

with their heads hanging, nipping at each other in idle play. In the

pasture beyond, the cattle that had been herded in during the course of

the long day were grazing quietly. Calves slept, curled into lumps on

the ground near their mothers, or played in groups, chasing each other,

bucking and running.

For a moment J.D. allowed himself to appreciate the quality of those

animals. He had worked hard to establish a breeding program that would

improve the size and grade of the Stars and Bars cattle. The cows were

black angus, good mothers who were hardy and gave ample milk. Their

calves, which ranged in color from near white to near black, were the

result of crossbreeding with topnotch Charolais bulls, a cross that

produced big, blocky animals that matured early and finished out well in

the feedlots. But beyond their value, J.D. enjoyed just looking at them,

knowing they had been bred here, knowing he was responsible for them,

knowing that all the hard work had produced something good and

worthwhile.

He thought of Lyle Watkins and wondered what he was thinking on this

spring afternoon as he looked over his cattle. If he sold out - when he

sold out - everything his family had worked for on the Flying K would

simply cease to exist.

"It doesn't mean that much to everybody, you know," Will said, his voice

low, as if he were blaspheming in church.

J.D.'s jaw tightened. He straightened in his saddle, the old leather

creaking a protest. "It's got to mean that much," he said. "Or what the

hell are we doing here?"

With nothing more than the pressure of his legs and a shift of his

weight, he turned his horse around and rode away.