House on Diablo Road: Resurrection Day (The McCann Family Saga Book 3) (3 page)

“
Nonsense,” Minna scolded. “Had it not been you, it would have been some other man. Having babies is a woman’s game of chance, and sometimes she draws a losing hand. That’s all it is and nothing more. You cannot blame yourself...or your God.”

Buck never saw his baby’s face. He placed blame wherever he could—especially on that day they lowered his wife and baby into that dark, life sustaining soil. But the earth took back and claimed the flesh in return for favors given. Charlotte and the baby were laid to rest alongside members of Cyrus McCann’s family, in the cemetery behind the House on Diablo Road. Cyrus had purchased a stone angel carved by a local artisan to mark the mutual grave of mother and child.

Above them, ancient oaks provided eternal shade for all who came to remember and find peace. For Buck there could be no peace, and remembering would be with him for the rest of his life. Brother Craven read from the bible and prayed that the two souls be delivered into God’s hands. Buck bowed his head respectfully, but inside he rejected the very thing that sustained others. On that day, he railed against his Creator, as he flung the first shovel of dirt over the pine box that contained his entire world.

After the service, the preacher lingered over coffee in the parlor and seemed to be choosing his words as carefully as he balanced the china cup and saucer. Lucinda sobbed softly over the loss of the last of her kin, while Cyrus tried in vain to comfort her.

To the silent young widower, the preacher found nothing to say that had not been said millions of times, for the loss of millions of others. It was an offering of crumbs to one who starved. “Young man, you’ll overcome your grief in time. You have your life ahead of you. No doubt you’ll remarry and have many children.”

Cyrus nodded in agreement. “That's right, my friend. In time, you'll love again. Think of what Charlotte would have you do.”

“
You give me kind but empty words. I thank you, but I don't need you to comfort me. No sir,” said Buck. “I’ll not risk putting another woman through that agony, and if I’m lucky enough to make it to Heaven, I want only one wife there at the Pearly Gates.”

Brother Craven nodded and said no more, until he rose to leave. “Stay close by the plantation this afternoon, Buck. Jonathan Bonney and his bunch are calling on each and every landowner up and down the Neches River. They’re trying to strong arm their neighbors into signing some kind of petition. I’m not a political man, so I don’t know the full story on this impending war...but I do know that wherever the Bonneys go, trouble’s likely to follow. Jonathan Bonney is one of the largest landowner in the county and second only to Cyrus. He thinks that gives him some kind of power only God Himself possesses.”

Buck thought of Charlotte’s dying request and her nightmares of trouble on the plantation. It was his vow to her that would keep him there—that and nothing more. Yet he would remain a loyal friend to that family to the end of his days, especially to Cyrus' nephew Jesse, whose path would eventually cross with his, to become like his own son.

Just as they walked the preacher to the door, a group of grim faced men came riding up. Buck and Cyrus stepped out to the porch, and Lucinda came to stand behind them.

“What can I do for you, Jonathan?” Cyrus asked.

Jonathan Bonney's smooth, handsome face bore the cleft in his chin that was common to the men in the that family, and his keen, lively eyes hinted of an inner darkness. When he spoke, his voice conveyed the easy authority of privilege. “I suppose you’ve heard the news, McCann. Delegates from Texas counties are planning a meeting to discuss our solidarity with other slave-holding southern states. The Union wants to take our rights away, so southern states are forming a union of their own. Texas needs every landowner to sign a petition to secede.”

“
I don’t believe in slavery,” Cyrus replied. “I can't support your cause.”

“
Yet you own slaves...”

“
I do not! I own no man, nor do I wish to. My workers are free. They deserve a decent life, and I aim to see them have it. I hired them to chop and pull cotton and butcher my hogs, and I pay them good wages. These people stay by choice, not by enslavement. Now if you’ll excuse us. We’ve had a sad time. We buried my wife’s cousin and newborn son today, so this discussion of Texas’ secession from the Union must wait.”

“
Leave these folks in peace,” the preacher added. “Ride on down the road.”

Jonathan Bonney, after ignoring both requests, dismounted, took two steps up the porch and thrust the petition into Cyrus' hands. His men kept wary eyes focused on both men. Bonney’s suave manners and easy smile had been replaced by the cool aggression of a rattlesnake. “I'm truly sorry to hear of your loss, but just the same, sign the petition. You have no choice but to stand by your neighbors.”

Cyrus handed the paper back, unsigned. “This cause is not mine to defend, and I am free to make my own choices. Now I’m telling you and your men to get off my property. I’ll live my life as I see fit, with apology to none.”

“
What do you think the rest of us want, McCann ? We want to defend
our
way of life.”

“
If you come here in defense of slavery, I'll not join you, unless I'm called to war. I stand with my friend Sam Houston on the matter of secession.”

“
You are a Unionist!” Jonathan shouted.

“
I am nothing but a common man who has no lofty ideals other than to live my life in peace. That’s why I built this house at the end of this road.”

Jonathan leaned close to Cyrus’ face and lowered his voice. “Do you think your isolation allows you to do as you please without consequences? Don’t tell me you don’t own slaves. I recognize several of mine working in your field as we speak. You must have come in the middle of the night and taken them from me.”

“
I won’t bother defending myself against such a slanderous statement. Those men you see escaped cruelty from their owners, and maybe you were one of them. I know nothing of that. They came to me with whip lashes carved into their backs, and I gave everyone of them their legal right to freedom.”

“
You lie.”

“
You know I tell the truth, no matter the cost. Most landowners in East Texas don't condone cruelty, and some of us don’t believe one man should own another. If your men ran away, then no man flees from a happy existence.”

Bonney’s eyes shifted to Lucinda and softened. “Nor does a pretty woman look elsewhere, when she is content at home.”

Lucinda’s fair skin flushed crimson. She glanced at her admirer and then quickly looked away. Blindsided by the man’s unexpected and unspeakable audacity, Cyrus stood, for a moment, speechless.

Buck thought, for a split second, he had detected a tiny flicker in Lucinda’s eyes, and a spark ignited to flame, if fanned well enough. It seemed to him Cyrus would not defend his wife’s honor in the forceful way he should. For Buck, that was unacceptable, for he himself had lost his wife when there was no way to fight for her. At that thought, he lost all sense of restraint and rushed to his cabin with the sounds of an argument beginning in earnest. He returned holding a Henry repeating rifle which he fired into the air, causing the horses to jitter and the men to jump. He now owned everyone’s attention.

“
Listen close. I ain't saying it but once. I just buried my wife and my baby boy today, and not too much matters to me right now. If I lose my life for shootin’ a Bonney, wasn’t much to lose on either side. So y'all get on back to whichever rock you crawled out from under. Don’t threaten my friend again, and keep your eyes off his wife.”

Jonathan Bonney waved his hand in a gesture like dismissing a worrisome fly. “I was ready to leave bad company any way. As for you, McCann, think hard about signing, and you come see me, or else we will return.”

Then, in a puzzling change of demeanor, Jonathan smiled, tipped the brim of his hat to Lucinda and melted under her gaze like butter sweetened with wild honey. “My condolences for the loss of your cousin and her baby, ma’am. Pardon me for saying so, but you are one fine woman.”

Bonney and his men turned their horses and rode away.

Buck Hennessy now had an idea that what Charlotte envisioned between Jonathan Bonney and Cyrus McCann was bad blood. Some vile night, some of it was bound to spill. The way Buck saw it, Jonathan hated Cyrus, not only for his politics, but for what he himself could not have.

That blazing summer of 1860 ushered in the beginning of mayhem the likes of which had never been seen in that peaceful paradise in the pines. Sheet covered Night Riders rode the countryside forcing men to sign petitions and join their cause. They threatened, terrorized and bullied anyone who took a stand against them. Although Buck’s head told him to leave Diablo Road, his heart held to his promise to Charlotte.

The past retreated. It was 1921 again, and Buck Hennessy floated back to the gentle shores of the here and now—he the backwoods East Texas wildcat, whose greatest accomplishment was rescuing an errant eight year old boy. He and Tobias were safely home, and he puffed up with pride when the boy ran into his mother’s arms. It did him good to see it. In some ways, it eased the old ache that had never gone away. He had not been able to save his own boy but , by golly, he would look after his godson as long as he lived.

Something there on Diablo Road rose up to reclaim the family from whose roots it had sprung: The McCanns. One by one, they would become drawn into a dark valley of old secrets and spiritual unrest. That day marked the beginning.

“
Granny, eat just another spoonful. You have to keep up your strength.” Annie coaxed.

Minna, that once vigorous woman who had delivered Buck's son and many other babies so long ago, could no longer tend to her own needs. The stroke had taken her independence. Annie did what she could to take care of her, because she loved her, and because it had been she who had raised her. Yet her efforts were met with obstinacy. Finally, Annie threw up her hands, left the food tray beside the bed and headed downstairs.

Just as she descended the stairs, she saw Jesse walk in the front door. The sight of him always brought a feeling of contentment that washed away her displeasure. There stood the one man she had loved since he rode into Morgans Bluff as a West Texas greenhorn. He had been there in that safe haven, for her, every day, for thirty years of marriage. Even after all that time, she would put him up against any man anywhere. She knew he loved her with a passion that time had polished to a soft and smooth patina. Yet over the years, she also knew it was she who had changed. There was a part of her that was sometimes closed to him. There was a restless absence of heart and mind that neither could overcome with love.

He slid out of his jacket and reached out for her. “Any change in your grandmother today?”

Annie bit her bottom lip and shook her head. “Supper’s waiting for you. Everyone’s gathering round the table. Wash up.”

As an afterthought, she turned and dialed back the abruptness with a kiss, letting him know that if all wasn't quite well with her, it soon would be. She had her child back. Buck had delivered Tobi home safely, in a search that had ended just before Jesse’s arrival. Annie toyed with the idea of telling Jesse and decided to let it come from their son instead—in whatever manner the subject arose. Her practicality told her she could not speak for the boy forever.

Jesse took his place at the head of the table surrounded by those he loved, those who had given him the drive to develop the mills left to Annie by her grandfather Reese Morgan. Beside Annie sat their midlife miracle child. To his father, Tobi seemed a mixture of the adventurous ruffian Huckleberry Finn and the naive Tom Sawyer. That he doted on the boy was an understatement, but that adoration was held in check by the need for a firm hand. The boy was sorely in need of it.

Then there was Calvin, the boy whom they had adopted eight years ago—now a sullen, recalcitrant adolescent with the dark coloring and lankiness of his birth family, the Conners. The youth, who had once been a love starved boy, had become progressively unmanageable. It was as if that dark spirit had been his birthright from his beginning, festering there in that tar paper shack at Boggy Slough. Buck had warned Jesse: “Sooner or later, blood reverts to its own kind.”

On the other side of the table sat Buck Hennessy who was preoccupied with slathering butter on his cornbread. This was the father image who had given Jesse his first job as wolf hunter and log roller, back in the early logging days. Now in his eighties, the one time lumberjack had outlived his cronies through sheer cussedness. Yet his mind sometimes wandered and became lost, until he had finally agreed to come to live in the McCann home.