Backlands (20 page)

P
atrick didn't learn about the auto accident until a letter from Matt came a week later. It arrived just as he was about to leave the Double K to freight some cow ponies by rail for the Diamond A in the Bootheel. The ranch manager was meeting him in Lordsburg to take delivery.

In Patrick's mind, the only issue of importance surrounding the death of Wallace Claiborne Hale was who would take over as the administrator of Matt's trust.

He trailed the ponies to Engle, loaded them on a livestock car, and changed the ticket so he could lay over with his ponies in Las Cruces for a few hours. In Las Cruces, he hurried downtown and immediately hired Alan Lipscomb, the lawyer who had handled his divorce from Emma, to find out what he could about the status of Matt's trust.

“That won't be a problem,” Lipscomb promised, running a hand through his thinning hair.

“Good,” Patrick said. “Now that both of the men Emma appointed to dole out Matt's money are dead, I want to know if there's any legal mumbo jumbo that bars me from taking over.”

The Diamond A had agreed to a good price for the ponies and Patrick felt flush. He counted out some greenbacks and slid them across the desk to Lipscomb. “Let me know if you need more.”

Lipscomb smiled. Cash was always welcome in his practice. “I'll get right on it.”

“I'm freighting some ponies to Lordsburg and I'll be back the day after tomorrow.”

“I'll have something for you by then,” Lipscomb replied, pleased with the amount of Kerney's retainer.

“Let my boy know that I've asked you to make sure everything is gonna be okay with the trust. Tell him I'm delivering some ponies to a buyer and will see him soon. That's all you need to say, savvy?”

“I'll tell him exactly what you wish,” Lipscomb vowed.

Patrick nodded and left.

The next day at the probate court clerk's office, Lipscomb got a copy of Emma's will and the trust document, and after a careful reading of both documents, he prepared his analysis and paid a visit to Hale's clerk, who was in the process of shutting down the practice. When Kerney returned the following day from his business trip to Lordsburg, Lipscomb reported that no provision had been made to name a successor in the event of the death of both trust administrators. Furthermore, the most recent last will and testament Hale had filed with the court did not mention the trust, much less state a preference as to who should manage it in the event of his death.

“That's what I wanted to hear,” Patrick said. “I want to be put in charge of the trust. How do we do it?”

“As Matthew's father, you can expect a judge will look favorably upon your petition to assume fiduciary control of the trust on your son's behalf until his majority,” Lipscomb replied.

Patrick groaned. “You can't just do some paperwork to get it done?”

“I'm afraid not,” Lipscomb replied. “It will take a court order made on behalf of Matthew Kerney, a minor child, to change the trust document. It's not a lengthy process, but we will need to appear before the court and answer any pertinent questions the judge might have.”

“What kind of questions?”

Lipscomb shrugged. “Nothing of great consequence, I would imagine. He'll be interested in knowing your current living conditions, your ability to adequately care for your son, your reputation and character—that sort of thing. He'll likely want to visit with Matthew in chambers and also speak to your wife.”

“Is all that necessary?” Patrick snipped.

“I'm not sure if it is or isn't,” Lipscomb answered, ignoring Kerney's querulous tone. “It depends on the judge. But it's best to be prepared.”

“When can we see a judge?”

“Soon, I hope. Hale's clerk told me only Hale had the authority as trust administrator to write the checks and pay the bills. I'll cite economic hardship for creditors and workers who are owed money by the trust and ask to have your petition heard as soon as possible. It will take me two or three days to have the petition ready. It's best that we go over it together before I submit it.”

Patrick snorted. “I suppose I can stay in town a day or two longer. Can you have it ready for me to look at day after tomorrow?”

“Fine,” Lipscomb said, seeking to avoid being browbeaten by a man in a hurry. “We'll meet day after tomorrow here at my office, same time. You might want to bring Matthew along so he's fully aware of what you're doing on his behalf.”

“There's no need to trouble him about all of this,” Patrick replied. “Do you know if Hale was taking any money for himself out of the trust?”

“I don't have access to the actual financial records,” Lipscomb replied. “But it's normal practice for a trust administrator to be reimbursed for any legitimate expenses that are incurred.”

“So he probably did,” Patrick ventured.

“I would imagine so. It's perfectly ethical.”

Patrick cracked a tight smile and stood. “I'm obliged.”

Lipscomb got to his feet and walked Kerney to his office door. “The sheriff told me that Hale drove straight into the bridge at a high rate of speed. He didn't swerve or brake to avoid something in the road. Don't you find that interesting?”

“Was he drunk?”

“The sheriff said he didn't appear to be.”

“You're saying the man wanted to kill himself?”

“Apparently,” Lipscomb replied. “But those of us who knew him are baffled as to why. The sheriff reported the cause of death as an accident.”

“You got a point in telling me all this?”

“When I spoke to Matthew on your behalf, he mentioned he was Hale's houseguest over the holidays. It struck me that he might have an idea of what was troubling Wallace.”

“The man's dead,” Kerney replied tonelessly. “I say let him rest in peace.”

Lipscomb's cheeks flushed pink as he accompanied Kerney through his outer office. “Yes, of course. I'll see you the day after tomorrow.”

Patrick nodded and stepped out into a cold, dry wind. A curtain of dust was bearing down from the west. He moved at a fast clip down Main Street with a few other pedestrians, hurrying to beat the blast of sand soon to engulf the town, and made a quick stop at a bank before turning onto Griggs Avenue. He reached the house and knocked on the door just as a high wind began to whistle through the bare branches of the tall cottonwoods that lined the street.

“It's blowing fierce out here,” he said as Matt opened the door to let him in. The boy had grown at least an inch or two in the time since Patrick last saw him.

“Mr. Lipscomb told me to expect you sometime today. Have you seen him yet?”

Patrick nodded. “I just came from his office. He says you, me, and Evangelina are gonna have to go before a judge to get everything squared away. Seems old Wallace Hale didn't plan on dying, so there's nobody who can take legal care of things until a judge decides. With only three years until you turn eighteen, Lipscomb thinks the best thing to do is put me in charge until then.”

“Why is that?” Matt asked.

“For a couple of reasons,” Patrick replied. “Appointing someone else could take a lot more time, and unlike Hale, I won't be taking money out of the trust as a paycheck for managing it.”

Matt stiffened. “Hale did that?”

Patrick shrugged. “That's what Lipscomb said.”

“That's balled up,” Matt snapped.

“Don't take it hard,” Patrick counseled. “Most all of these lawyer fellas always find a way to look after themselves first.”

Matt shook his head in disbelief. “How long does Mr. Lipscomb think it will it take to get things settled?”

“I don't know yet. I'll see Lipscomb again day after tomorrow.”

Matt scowled. “That's not fair to Nestor and Guadalupe. They haven't been paid for two weeks. Hale really took money from the trust?”

“I reckon,” Patrick replied. “Ease up worrying about Nestor and Guadalupe. I'll pay them out of my own pocket until we get this settled.”

“That's jake,” Matt said, his stern look vanishing. “Thanks.”

“Lawyer Lipscomb thinks you might have some idea about why Hale killed himself, seeing as you stayed at his place over the holidays.”

Matt's jaw tightened. “He said it was suicide?”

“What he told me was the sheriff called it an accident, but in fact old Hale drove straight into the bridge without stopping.”

Matt took a breath and held it. “That can't be,” he finally said.

The mortification on Matt's face made Patrick pause and wonder if he knew something about Hale he wasn't telling. “It could be just a lot of gossip,” he said reassuringly. “Don't put any stock in it.”

Matt recovered quickly. “Yeah, you're probably right.”

“How about we step next door and settle up with Nestor and Guadalupe. With the wind now eased up some, we can walk over to that new diner on Main Street and have a meal. I hear the food is good.”

“I'd like that,” Matt said with a grin.

“Well then, jingle your spurs,” Patrick urged.

***

D
uring dinner, Matt managed not to ask Pa if he'd learned anything else from Lipscomb about Wallace Hale's death. The notion that Hale might have killed himself made Matt's guilt about Jimmy Potter's death bubble to the surface like hot lava burning in his mind. Images of Jimmy falling, falling, falling, out of that cottonwood tree, his arms flailing, his face frozen with fear, his mouth open in a silent scream, prowled inside Matt's skull most every day like a bad dream.

He should have stopped Jimmy from climbing that tree, or climbed it first. Now he had Wallace Hale's death weighing on his conscience.

With his head bent over a bowl of peach cobbler, he squeezed his eyes shut as the newspaper photograph he'd seen of Wallace's smashed car crumpled against the highway bridge floated into his mind's eye. It made him shiver. If he'd accepted Wallace's apology on the telephone, would he be alive today?

Matt wanted it out of his mind forever, but he knew it wouldn't go away. He swore silently that he'd never say a single word to Pa or anyone else about what Hale had done. Never, ever.

He glanced at Pa, who was busy finishing his bowl of cobbler, running his spoon along the rim for that last bit of sweet peach filling. Pa was never one for conversation at mealtimes, and Matt's silence at the table went unnoticed. About the only thing that would raise Pa's curiosity would be his untouched cobbler bowl.

Matt got to work on it. After his last bite, he thanked Pa for dinner and for paying Nestor and Guadalupe's back wages out of his own pocket.

“I was glad to do it,” Pa replied. “Maybe it's best old Lawyer Hale is gone. There won't be any more of this taking your money for his own use. I'll look after what your ma left for you; I promise you that.”

“He told me there's enough to pay for college,” Matt said.

“You need to get yourself through high school first, before you have any highfaluting ideas about college.”

“I know I can do it.”

“Maybe so,” Pa replied. “But don't get to thinking you'll become some smart-ass, high muckety-muck if you do spend a little time being a college boy.”

Matt colored at the insult behind Pa's words. “I ain't like that.”

“Maybe not,” Pa retorted as he dug into his pocket for money to pay the bill. “Just don't get your hopes up.”

***

O
utside the diner, Matt grumbled good night, not caring if Pa heard the annoyance in his voice, and walked home alone. Not once in his life had Pa ever spent the night at the Griggs Avenue house. That hadn't changed since Ma died. Matt figured it had something to do with their divorce. The way he'd heard it from Ma, they'd bought the house together so she could stay in town while she was pregnant with CJ. Maybe Pa figured Ma's getting the house wasn't fair. Or maybe he couldn't stand to stay in the place where Ma had gone on to make a good life without him. From what Hale had told him, Ma's money savvy put her way ahead financially of what Pa had done with the ranch. Could be that he was just downright jealous.

Matt figured he'd never know the truth of what happened between his parents that caused Pa to be so uncomfortable at the house. But he didn't mind a lick that Pa stayed at a hotel when he came to visit. That was especially true tonight. The idea that Pa didn't seem to think he had the sand and the wits for college made Matt boil with anger.

At home, he plopped down at the kitchen table with his schoolbooks and stared blankly out the window at the dark, moonless night. Once again he got angry at Ma for dying and leaving him alone, and then the tears came.

T
wo weeks before the start of spring works, Patrick, Matt, and Evangelina met in chambers with Alan Lipscomb and Judge Horace Van Patten. In chronic pain from gout and with a highly publicized murder case about to go to trial, Van Patten had no desire to waste time going over the details of what was clearly a legitimate request by a responsible, law-abiding father to assume control of a minor child's rather considerable trust.

Spectacles perched on his nose, Van Patten quickly satisfied himself that the new trust document honored the intent and purpose of the original document drawn up for the boy's mother before her death. He looked up and smiled at Lipscomb and his clients, who stood silently at the front of his desk, and let his gaze fall on young Matthew Kerney, a fine-looking lad indeed.

“Do you plan to graduate from high school and continue on to college as your mother wished?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, I do,” Matt replied. “I'm to graduate next year and start college in the fall.”

Van Patten beamed with approval. “Excellent.” He signed the petition with a flourish, handed the documents to Lipscomb, and smiled at Patrick Kerney. “You've a son to be proud of, Mr. Kerney.”

“He's a good boy,” Patrick replied with a nod.

“Thank you, Judge,” Lipscomb said as he tucked the documents away.

“Yes, yes,” Van Patten said, distracted by his bailiff, who signaled from the private entrance to the courtroom that all parties had convened to present their pretrial motions.

Outside the courthouse, Patrick and Lipscomb departed for the lawyer's office, while Matt and Evangelina went to get Johnny, who was happily being looked after by Guadalupe. On the way, Evangelina urged Matt to come to the ranch for spring works.

“I hadn't planned on it,” Matt replied as they strolled along. “I've got studying to do for exams.”

Evangelina stopped him with a hand on his arm. “
Por favor,
come. Your
tía
Teresa will be visiting and I promised her you'd be there. She insists we are going to have a fiesta.”

“Does Pa know about this?”

Evangelina nodded. “He tried to say no, but Teresa wouldn't hear of it. She is bringing my parents, some cousins, and a few of the little ones to play with Johnny. He gets so lonely with no other children around.”

Matt searched Evangelina's sad face. “And you?”

“
Sí,
me
también,
” Evangelina admitted with a cheerless smile. “We have few visitors at the ranch, and many times when he goes to town he leaves us behind.”

“He's a thickheaded old man who only cares about himself,” Matt blurted, still stung by Pa's insinuation that he might not be smart enough to succeed in college. The barb stuck in him like a cactus thorn.

“You will come,
por favor?
” Evangelina pleaded without uttering one word in defense of her husband.

Matt nodded. “For you, Johnny, and Tía Teresa, I will.” He pulled her along by the arm. “Let's get Johnny and go to the drugstore for a soda pop.”

“I have no money,” Evangelina said apologetically.

“It's my treat,” Matt replied, jingling the coins in his pocket.

Evangelina smiled. “I am so happy Johnny has you for a brother.”

“Come on, let's get the little rascal,” Matt said, hurrying her along.

***

A
nticipating that Judge Van Patten would approve Kerney's petition, Lipscomb had arranged a meeting at the bank that held the trust fund assets on deposit. The bank president and majority stockholder, Edgar Worrell, late of Chicago, Illinois, had poured a great deal of his wealth into the institution. A former member of the Chicago Board of Trade, Worrell had made his fortune during the Great War buying and selling grain commodities. He'd relocated to Las Cruces two years ago and quickly built a reputation as the banker to see for the most profitable ways to make money in the booming stock and real estate markets. Lipscomb had recently been appointed to the board of directors by Worrell and served as legal counsel.

A man with a thin face, long neck, and thick eyebrows, Worrell was a confirmed Anglophile who had adopted a formal Victorian manner that suited his status as a successful financier. He greeted Lipscomb and Kerney with a warm smile as he ushered them into comfortable office chairs.

“By your presence here, gentlemen, am I to assume the petition to administer the trust has been granted by the court?” he asked in a flat midwestern accent.

“Yes, indeed,” Lipscomb replied as he presented the document to Worrell for his inspection.

“Excellent,” Worrell commented as he scanned through the petition and set it aside. He removed a file from a desk drawer and handed it to Patrick. “Here are the financials for your perusal, Mr. Kerney. You'll find a summary report on top. Please note the trust grew twenty percent in the eighteen months since your predecessor, Wallace Hale, transferred the account to us. We would very much like you to consider keeping the trust with us.”

“It says here in the summary some property got sold,” Patrick said, reading the summary. “Why was that?”

“We felt the annual income from the agricultural land under lease was simply too inconsequential to justify retaining it in the trust portfolio. Mr. Hale agreed. He liquidated the asset and used the proceeds to buy a sizable block of stock on margin that continues to perform quite well both in terms of share value and strong earnings. That transaction alone generated over fifteen percent of the net worth increase in the trust.”

“That makes sense, I reckon,” Patrick said. “But I personally don't cotton to the notion of selling a good piece of land.”

Worrell smiled appreciatively. “I understand your point of view completely.”

Patrick ran a finger down the summary page. “I didn't know there were any mortgages on the rental houses.”

Worrell smiled. “Only two that were recently taken out by Mr. Hale and are serviced by us. The proceeds have yet to be disbursed and are in an interest-bearing savings account. Wallace intended to use the funds to make additional investments in the stock market. You'll notice that the rental income on both properties slightly exceeds the monthly mortgage payments.”

“I'm not sure I like the idea of borrowing against property when there's no real need for it.”

Worrell nodded agreeably. “A worthy sentiment I fully share, but in this case the risk is at most negligible and the rewards substantial.”

“I'll need to study on this more,” Patrick said, tapping the file with his finger.

“Of course,” Worrell said as he slid a paper across the desk to Patrick. “If you'll sign this authorization, you will have immediate access to the funds in the accounts. Feel free to consult with Mr. Lipscomb or myself should you have any financial questions or wish our guidance.”

“I'll do that,” Patrick said as he signed the form.

“Do you require any immediate cash?” Worrell asked as he retrieved the form.

“I surely do,” Patrick replied.

***

M
att returned to the Double K two days before Tía
Teresa and the others were due to arrive. He found Pa in a foul mood about the fiesta soon to be foisted on him, and Evangelina cleaning every nook and cranny of the house to avoid him and to get ready for her guests. The two weren't talking, and when Pa sulked back silently from his after-dinner chores he went straight for the whiskey bottle.

While Evangelina was off putting Johnny to bed, Matt sat with Pa in the living room watching him sip his whiskey.

“When did you start drinking again?” Matt asked.

Pa scowled at him from behind his desk and put the glass down. “Don't get your back up about something that ain't your business,” he snapped.

“You haven't told me anything about my trust account,” Matt replied, skirting the issue, thinking he didn't care if the old man drank himself to death.

“Old Wallace Hale did right by you,” Pa replied. “There's enough money to get you through high school and then some. Hell, you might just be better off than me when you turn eighteen.”

Matt almost said that would be okay with him but thought better of it. Instead, he asked, “How come you're mad at Evangelina?”

“Never ask a man about his personal troubles with his wife,” Pa retorted. “It ain't polite.”

“Because I'm part of this family, I can ask,” Matt countered.

Pa shook his head in disgust. “I swear I should take a switch to you. Tomorrow at first light, be ready to ride. We need to fix the windmill at the north canyon. It's been broke since last fall, but with no cattle to water I haven't bothered with it until now.”

Matt, eager to avoid any further clashes with Pa, allowed he needed to look after Patches and his tack if he was to be in the saddle most of tomorrow. He left Pa to his whiskey and at the pasture fence he whistled for his pony. In the soft light of dusk he watched Patches come to him at a fast trot, head high, tail in the air. Just the sight of him took away the disagreeableness of being with Pa.

Matt opened the gate and Patches pranced through. Fearing his schoolwork wouldn't give him time to care for him, Matt had left Patches behind at the ranch after fall works. He silently vowed not to do that again.

“Miss me, old boy?” Matt asked, rubbing the pony's nose.

Patches snorted a reply.

“I missed you too,” Matt said. “Come along to the barn and I'll give you a good brushing.”

In an empty stall, Matt brushed Patches down, prettied up his mane and tail with a comb, checked his mouth and teeth, and cleaned his hooves.

“You've been lazing around,” he chided as he ran a hand over Patches' belly. “Not getting enough exercise. We'll fix that tomorrow.”

Patches nodded.

“I'm fifteen soon. Three more years and we'll be done with all this,” Matt whispered. “Ain't too long now,” he added wistfully.

He left Patches in the stall and by lamplight spent some time cleaning his saddle in the tack room. Finished, he doused the lamp and hung it on a hook by the open barn door. A half-moon hanging over the Sacramentos gently illuminated the dark and quiet house. As he climbed the stairs to the veranda, the thought struck him that the only time there was ever any peace at the Double K happened at night, by accident, when people were sleeping—and maybe not even then.

***

W
hen Pa concentrated on work and wasn't fuming about this or that, he was tolerable to be around. Matt studiously avoided topics he knew would set him off, which kept things calm right up to the time Tía Teresa and her entourage appeared, spreading laughter, conversation, and good cheer. It threw Pa into such a funk, he grumbled his greetings and stomped off, not to be seen again until folks had settled in.

When the women got busy in the kitchen, Flaviano, Miguel, and Miguel's older brother, Juan, tracked Pa down in the barn with a bottle of liquor and enticed him to stop hiding.

The whiskey improved Pa's disposition enough that he did a fair job as host over dinner, snapping only once at Evangelina for not making his favorite empanadas for dessert. Silence around the table and Teresa's fierce look of disapproval stopped him from voicing any further criticism. Matt wiped his face on a napkin to hide a smile.

After dinner the first storm of the year chased the party into the barn. Bolts of lightning flashed across the San Andres, thunder rumbled and roared, and big, wind-driven raindrops pelted the ground. For a time everyone stood in the open barn door, silently mesmerized by the sight, faces turned skyward, breathing in the sweet scent of rain, listening to the rat-tat drumming on the roof.

When the downpour slackened a bit, the men moved the wagon out of the barn and stacked the hay in empty stalls while the women swept the dirt floor clean. Miguel hoisted Matt on his shoulders to hang lamps from the rafters, and under the flickering lights the music began, accompanied by the crescendo of the deepening storm.

Everyone danced, even the little ones, who twirled around the legs of their parents. Johnny did an improvised jig with Miguel's daughter, Carmelia, who was trying to keep him off her toes. Tía Teresa gracefully swirled in the arms her oldest son, Juan. Even Pa had an arm wrapped around Evangelina as they took a turn around the floor. Matt didn't see one unsmiling face. It was as if the storm had brought along with it a magic concoction of merriment.

The fiesta didn't stop until the storm ended. Under a clearing sky in half-moon light, the ground was muddy, puddles filled wagon-wheel ruts, rainwater dripped off the sloped veranda roof, and the bone-dry empty streambed that coursed through the horse pasture from the high country roared full throated with water.

Except for Pa, folks hugged, said good night, and went off to bed. After his dance with Evangelina, he'd retreated to his whiskey, loitered for a few minutes, and then snuck away. Before turning in, Matt checked Pa's bedroom, but he wasn't there.

***

T
eresa retired to the casita pleased with the success of the fiesta but deeply worried about Evangelina. Patrick had destroyed one marriage and was on a path to ruin another. He was a drunk who neither liked nor respected Evangelina and who seemed to care not a speck for their son, Juan Ignacio.

The reality of Evangelina's situation made Teresa shiver. How horrible to live that way. Yet, she knew of other women in similar circumstances who stayed and endured ill treatment by cruel men. Was Evangelina one of those women unable to break away? If so, what would become of Juan Ignacio? Teresa couldn't abide the notion of her grandnephew growing up in such misery.

Or was Evangelina like Emma? She wasn't sure. In recent conversations with her, not a bad word had passed between them about Patrick or her marriage. If she had the strength and desire to leave him, Teresa had yet to see it. And if she encouraged Evangelina to rid herself of Patrick, would Flaviano, who considered his daughter's marriage to Patrick a godsend, ever speak to her again? Without hesitating, Teresa shrugged off that trifling concern. Flaviano's disapproval mattered little compared to saving mother and son from a life of constant sorrow.