The Bones of Paradise (31 page)

Dulcinea slapped the glass from her hand before she could stop herself. “You are no longer welcome,” she hissed between her teeth. The dog cowered and whined.

Markie Eastman smiled at her folded hands and shook her head, her shoulders trembling until she could no longer control herself and she laughed out loud. “My Lord, woman,” she gasped, “who do you think you are?” Then she rolled her shoulders forward and stood, brushed a lock of hair off her cheek. “It's been very entertaining, but I must be going. I'll have to contact my father in Denver and tell him to move forward on filing for a federal claim for oil and mineral rights.” She glanced at Tookie. “I wonder how many of you will still be here when we're through.”

She opened the door and glanced outside into the darkness, where the only sound was the jingle of the harness when the carriage horses stamped their feet against the mosquitoes. “I'll take that dog when you go broke, too,” she said with the same infuriating
smile and carefully closed the door. They heard the murmurs of the men on the porch quiet and rise again into farewells, then the jingling of the harness as the carriage began the long journey to town.

“A most unpleasant creature.” Rachel Rivers yawned and patted her mouth with elfin fingers. Dulcinea smiled gratefully and offered her more coffee, but she pointed to the decanter instead.

Dulcinea poured three generous portions and, ignoring social graces, the women took long draughts of brandy to flush away the unpleasantness.

After they spent a moment with their thoughts, Dulcinea asked Tookie, “Does the government own the mineral and subsurface rights to our land?”

Tookie shrugged. “Evan says he thinks so.”

Rachel Rivers nodded. “My husband says you're all in danger if you don't agree to let them drill. The government has been ignoring you for a long time, except of course for the open range and Homestead Act violations, but that could change if the right pockets are lined. And if there is any evidence of oil or gas out here. So far, nobody's been able to make that claim. It's all speculation.”

Once again, she realized her hasty judgments had led her astray. Rachel Rivers was a good listener, apparently, with an accurate eye and ear. Dulcinea recalled the other day when she and Rose had spotted Chance digging in the hills.

“What does he think we should do?” Tookie asked, a worried expression on her face for the first time.

“Hire him to negotiate,” she said, her eyes sharp and practical, very unlike those of the child's toy Dulcinea had imagined earlier. She wondered if her husband was working with the gas and oil company, too, but didn't ask.

“And you”—Rachel turned her gaze to her hostess—“might ask yourself who outside the family has had free access to your land of late.” She gave her doll smile and returned her face to the pretty porcelain painted expression as the other two simply stared at her.
Chance had said what he was doing, but not who he was working for. Was he trying to take her land? But how would murdering her husband and that girl help him do that? She'd have to speak to Rose.

“Well, missus, we is about done here.” Vera had tied one of the plaid dish towels from Marshall Field's over her head like a Southern field hand and clasped her hands in front, head bowed in mock deference. Rose, behind her, looked uncomfortably toward the door while Lily tugged her arm, eager to escape.

“Wouldn't you-all like to sit with us and share this here brandy?” Dulcinea kept her face neutral as she lifted the decanter, even though there was a glint of hard amusement in Vera's eyes.

“Why thank ya, missus. You is too kind.” Vera yanked the towel off her head and flung it over her shoulder, narrowly missing Rose and Lily as they sidled toward the door.

“Rose?” Dulcinea said. Rose glanced at Lily. The child was long past bedtime, and with lower lip outthrust, she scrubbed her eye with the heel of her hand as her mother pulled her out the door.

Vera lifted an empty glass, held it to the lamplight, frowned and rubbed a forefinger over a spot, then thrust it toward Dulcinea. When the glass was half-full, Vera raised her brows and drank. Watching her throat work as she swallowed, Dulcinea wondered if Frank knew more about this business with the gas and oil people than he let on.

“Good venison steaks tonight, Vera. You use butter or lard?” Tookie took another long gulp.

“Bacon grease. Add a little butter and a pinch of flour to the pan, make you a thin gravy, then pour it over the steaks.” Vera drank again. “And if you have a bottle of J.B.'s brandy open, you can add a splash of that, too.” She smiled.

“Mighty, mighty good,” Tookie said. “Don't s'pose there's any extra bottles of that brandy laying around.” Her glance at Dulcinea was earnest to hide the teasing. “The rate we're going these days, there won't be any brandy left in Cherry County.” Dulcinea lifted her glass and drank, appreciating the smooth, smoky-sweet flavor
on the back of her tongue. Honestly, that man had an unusually fine palate for a person raised without the niceties in life. Another pang of regret traveled the nerves of her arms and settled in her hands, made the bones ache, as if she struggled to hang on to something that tugged hard to get loose. She shook her hand like it had fallen asleep, and ignored Vera's inquiring gaze. Again, she had to wonder, who was her friend and who her enemy: Graver? Chance? Frank Higgs? Drum? Her boys? Judge Foote? Larson Dye? No, she didn't think the other ranchers were deeper into this than she was. Drum had shown the same shock. Cullen, well, he was an angry child, but surely, he was open about what he was doing. Hayward was much too young. Chance had admitted what he was doing. The ranch was big enough that all kinds of people could be wandering around unless one of the men came across them by accident. What about the men, now that J.B. was gone? Were they loyal? Drum's men? He was so hated, maybe one of them. She'd have to conjure a way to question Drum. She recognized that her worst enemy had to become an ally for the time being. But was he using the Eastmans to get his hands on her ranch? Maybe there was no threat, maybe she should just sell the damn ranch and move away. Drum would be furious. Someone was the betrayer, and she intended to find out who, and then they would discover her true nature, the one people kept underestimating.

I
t was early the next morning when Rose met Dulcinea in the kitchen. They eyed each other after a night troubled by dreams, muffled voices, and creaking saddles. The sun was nearly up, yet Vera was nowhere to be found. Rose quickly set about making coffee and frying bacon while Lily set the table. It wasn't until after breakfast that they found a moment to sit.

“We're not any closer to finding the killer, are we?” Dulcinea asked.

Rose turned the cup in her hands, tilted the coffee up one side, then the other until it was on the verge of spilling. Setting it down, she placed both hands flat on the table.

“Last night, while I was
serving
your guests”—fhe paused, showing her irritation—“this locket slipped out of my blouse.” She pulled the chain over the neck of her dress and cradled the locket in her palm. “Hayward couldn't take his eyes off it.”

Dulcinea frowned.

“Later, after the dishes, he tried to stop and talk to me, but Lily and I slipped away.”

“What do you think he wanted?” Dulcinea's tone was flat.

Rose shrugged and opened the locket, revealing two faces. Dulcinea
bent to examine it, then sat back stunned. Rose thought the man looked like a younger version of Drum. The woman was a stranger.

“You think my son's involved, that he killed his own father?”

Rose glanced away as she tucked the locket back in her dress, and the women sat there considering the implications. “Could be the boys. Or Drum.”

Rose thought back to how Jerome had found Star's body. When he was a boy he could see the ghost herd that ran alongside their Indian ponies, all the animals slain in battle galloping stride for stride with the few half-starved animals left. When he described his vision, the tribe named him Some Horses, because he saw this world and the other, as Yellow Leg, an elder, promised years ago. Now, the ghost horses led him to find the missing. That night he let their horse loose and followed for hours until it led them to Star's body.

Last night she saw her husband watch from the barn as Vera slipped out of bed to meet someone and the oldest son rode off to town. A while later the youngest slipped out of the house, past his grandfather dozing on the porch, and followed his brother. Then the judge came down and sat with the elder on the porch talking for a long time. Jerome said three ghosts lingered around the men. J. B. Bennett, who never left the house, an Indian woman—a Mandan in traditional dress who stayed closest to the old man—and a limping white man in tattered clothes he didn't recognize. That was the angry one.

Sometimes she wondered if he imagined the spirits, as he did when he drank liquor and told people what they wanted to hear. “My name,” he said, “means I was a rich chief until we lost the war. I had many wives,” he lied, “and now only this poor one.” He shook his head in mock grief and she wanted to knock his brains in and cure his hide with them. “Is this not the dress of a warrior chief?” He pulled on the headdress he bought at the trading post pawn in Rushville for two buffalo skulls, a cavalry saddle with a rusty iron
seat and rotted leather, and a broken U.S. Cavalry pistol he found in the hills, and stood, sweeping his arms dramatically along his sides to show off the beaded, fringed white deerskin leggings and arm cuffs he'd won in a cutthroat game of stones last powwow. The bone and brass breastplate was actually given to Rose by her mother when her father died, and was older than any of them. The spear was a piece of crooked cottonwood tied with red felt, trade beads, and rotted deerskin. The stone point wouldn't scratch a dog, it was so clumsily shaped and blunt, but the whites didn't notice these details when they asked for the postcard or to take his picture. On good days he charged a nickel, on bad days he made them buy him a drink. He was a good man, better than most, and if she saw all those ghosts standing around she'd need a strong drink to blind her, too. It was hard enough with Star's tiny teeth chewing her flesh from the inside out. Rose had to send her spirit home before it ate their whole world.

Was it the locket that lured him to her, as he was now drawn to Rose? Before she died, Star told her she had set a trap for their mother's killer, and was selling him handmade goods. Rose told her to wait for Some Horses and their cousins before she went to meet him. Star said she would, then didn't. The boys were too young to be part of the massacre, though, so Star must have arranged to meet an older man. This story was like a snake eating its own tail. Every time she thought she'd found the end, it led her back to the beginning. Tears filled her eyes.

Dulcinea placed her hand over Rose's. “I'm so sorry.”

Rose shook her head and wiped her eyes with her arm.

“It comes down to three possibilities as far as I can see.” Dulcinea stood and brought the coffeepot to the table and poured a splash in each cup. “Drum, Graver, or Chance.” Rose picked a cold biscuit from the platter, broke it open, and covered it with Vera's mulberry jam. “Not my husband.” She stole a glance at Rose. “And not my boys.” She set the pot down on the table.

Rose shook her head. She knew Dulcinea would never consider
her sons capable of murder, but on her own list she placed them pretty high. After last night, Hayward was at the top and maybe Cullen, too, despite their age. Drum Bennett she didn't know about.

“Maybe there's more than one killer,” Rose said.

Dulcinea chewed thoughtfully and sipped her coffee. Her hands shook, and she steadied them on the table.

Higgs burst through the door, looked wildly around the kitchen and parlor. “Where is she? She's here, isn't she? You hiding her?” He spun and Graver, who followed, grabbed his arm to stop him. “She's not here!” His words almost an accusation. The two women looked at each other. Vera was gone.

“I'll go and look for her,” Graver said. “Should I take anyone?”

“The Indian,” Higgs said. Then his shoulders slumped and he remembered his hat, pulled it off his head, and held it in his hands as if he stood beside a gravesite. Dulcinea was about to offer him coffee and breakfast, half out of her chair when Rose put a hand on her arm to stop her.

“She's gone. Black Bill, too. They run off together,” Rose said. Higgs ran a trembling hand up his forehead and the bald dome of his head.

“She hasn't been herself, I could see that, I knew she was unhappy.” He glanced at the women at the table as if suddenly aware they listened. Without another word, he set his hat on his head, turned, and left.

“Do you think this has anything to do with . . .” Dulcinea asked.

Rose thought for a moment, then shook her head. “Vera loved your husband like a brother.”

“Why did she leave, then?”

Rose looked out the window and didn't answer.

Chance came down the stairs carrying his bag. He tipped his hat at Dulcinea and ignored Rose. His handsome face appeared hollow this morning with dark circles around his eyes as if he had not slept. A pallor like dusty fog clung to his skin. He had shaved, badly, nicking his chin and missing the dark stubble patches on his throat.

“Did you know about this business with the Eastmans?” Dulcinea asked, her voice harsh.

He gazed at her, rolled his lower lip under his teeth, looked at Rose, and then shook his head. “Last night's the first I heard of it.”

“How can that be? You told me you were looking at my land, you must have someone who's paying you.”

Rose wanted to add that he was too busy living off the fat of the land and pretending to prospect to do much work for anybody, but stopped herself.

“I haven't been in my office much of late. Miss Eastman arrived while I was out of town.” He raised his brow. “Maybe Cullen can provide the information you seek.” Rose could tell he was a person unused to questioning, especially from a female.

Dulcinea squared her shoulders. “Do we have a conflict of interest?” She poured herself more coffee without offering him any.

He looked startled, shook his head quickly, and tried to hide the anger in his eyes. “No, I'm working to gain clear title to the ranch for you. I told you I was looking for oil and gas. This new business with the Eastmans—are you wanting me to represent you in that, too?”

She paused, sipped her coffee without taking her eyes off him. “How can it be clear title if the rights are subverted? What led Cullen to imagine he could sell those, I wonder?”

He held up a hand, set down his bag, and stepped toward the table. “Mind if I sit and have a cup of coffee with you?”

She hesitated before giving a quick nod. Rose stood, took a dirty cup from the pile in the sink, placed it before him, and let him pour his own. He lifted a hand to reach for the sugar, glanced at Dulcinea, then picked up the bowl. He looked around for a spoon, gave up, poured it in, and stirred with his finger. His eyes searched the table for the cream pitcher, but Rose had already put it away and made no move to retrieve it.

He drank from the cup, grimaced, and set it down. “In the matter of—”

Dulcinea jumped up. “Oh, stop it! I'll go to town today and contact my people in Chicago to discover the meaning of all this. I don't know who you think you're dealing with, Mr. Chance, but I am not the fool you have been taking me for!”

She gathered her skirts and marched to the stairs, where she stopped and turned again, saying, “Good day, sir.” And then flew up the stairs to change into her riding costume.

Rose wondered how she could escape the lawyer, who always found an excuse to linger at the ranch. In some ways he reminded her of Crockett from the telegraph office. Lily skipped in and tugged on her skirt. Behind her three kittens followed, tails stiff as tiny lodge poles as they crossed the porch into the house to tumble at the child's feet. When Rose knelt to pet them, Lily whispered, “Mama, Mr. Higgs says his wife is gone, and Black Bill's with her. Mr. Higgs is so upset he wants to hurt someone, he says. Mr. Graver says don't act too quick, he'll find them.” Lily gazed into her eyes, and her chin quivered. Rose gathered her in her arms and rocked her, crooning. She might be small, but she had to live among people who were not her own, and must learn vigilance, and how to guard herself by finding the secrets they carried. She felt the lawyer's eyes follow her every move.

“I'm leaving then.” Chance stepped onto the porch. Rose kept her eyes on his tall black boots, their heels and soles worn to the thickness of a cottonwood leaf. He pulled a small leather pouch from his pocket and shook it. The sound of jingling coins caught Lily's attention. He loosened the drawstring and let a coin slip into his palm, then held it up to catch the light. Lily started to reach for it, but Rose drew her hand down with a shake of her head. The lawyer shrugged and slid the coin back in the pouch. With a tip of his hat, he left. Rose watched him all the way to his horse, already tied at the gate by one of the hands, who must have felt as she did about the man who never went home.

She held Lily on her lap as she nuzzled the gray kitten against her cheek, and was reminded of her sister. They were separated when
Star was four years old by the priests who took Rose away to train as a servant at the mission school, but she had always kept Star close in her thoughts, especially after their mother was killed. She rarely thought about their father, who drank until he died on the road to Rosebud one winter night and wasn't found until spring melted the snow, revealing him on his back, one arm flung out in sleep, the other clutching the whiskey bottle he favored. His face gnawed some, the rest of him untouched, too old and sinewy, too pickled, people laughed, maybe he was onto something there. Ever know a drunk to get a mosquito bite?

As was the nature of her people, it was a good joke that grew until it was said that he'd died a happy death, smiling. Since his nose and cheeks were gnawed off, Rose didn't know how they could say that. She was still at school, almost trained, the whites said, enough for a dumb one, though what good it would do to write and read English and do sums when she would be scrubbing floors, washing dishes, and calling white people mister and missus, she couldn't say. They wouldn't let her go home for the funeral. Then her mother insisted she take the first job offered with the telegraph man because of the upheaval on the reservation.

After their mother was killed, Star was taken in by their aunt to live with her white husband and sprawling family on their rundown ranch. The white man was an indifferent rancher and left all the work to her cousins and other distant relatives, who knew enough to keep horses and cattle from starving and freezing, even if they couldn't hang on to their allotment of land. At least people wanted Star. After Rose left Crockett and the telegraph office, she fled to Pine Ridge with Dulcinea and stayed with those same relatives until she met Jerome Some Horses, who was already a man with a vision and a horse and a shack, where he lived with his grandmother.

Last spring, as they made their way north, through Babylon for a few supplies, and out to the Buffalo Grounds to set up summer camp, they met her mother's cousin, Byron. He shared a beer with
Some Horses, and Rose gave him a bowl of rabbit stew, a poor meal, but it was a hard winter and the animals wore only thick coats over their bones. A few days before, Byron was drinking in town with the white man, Conway, married to her aunt, when Conway complained that Star was worse than useless, as he put it, and to top it all off, she'd run away. He suspected she'd gone to Rapid City or even as far as Omaha to lift her skirts and earn her keep. Byron hit the man and was promptly beaten, then thrown in jail, but the sheriff released him two days later when a white boy charged with murdering his grandmother refused to share a cell with an Indian. Byron's long, pox-scarred face was still bruised and lumpy from the beating as he gummed the thin stew and swallowed.