Flight of Fancy: Cora's Daughters (57 page)

“That was a long time ago, my askin’ about you. I’ve moved on since.” His eyes went from his father to Asiza, and then back again, “I’ve a family of my own now.”

Asiza sensed that they needed to be alone, “If you will excuse me,” she nodded to his father and then to her husband, “Going fishing, and to find Asa.”

“Don’ go far.” He warned. He wasn’t about to introduce her to his father, because he didn’t trust his reason for being there. Basically in a few moments of being there, he admitted that he’d known for years that he’d been looking for him, but couldn’t be bothered to be found – until now. No, he didn’t trust him, this was a man who had coldly turned his back on his mother, he wasn’t about to see how he felt about his Negro wife. Looking back, he regretted ever caring to find him. After Asiza put a decent distance between them, he coolly turned back to his father.

“Come in…” He turned leading the way into their spacious and extravagant log cabin home. It was easy to see, that they were not poor, the home and its décor spoke of their wealth. Broc led him thru the house towards his den, offering, “Coffee, drink?”

He need only call out to Fidel to bring them coffee, the man had permanently fixed himself into their lives and their kitchen as their cook. He helped him to take good care of Asiza, always flirting with her, making her laugh and preparing whatever he or she caught for their meals.

“A drink, bourbon?” Carrig requested, making himself comfortable in one of the leather, winged chairs before Broc’s desk. “My, my, you really have done well for yourself.”

Broc ignored that pouring him two fingers of bourbon, it came from the O’Brien’s distillery. They had a winery, distillery and brewery at Ramsey Manor, providing much of the spirits for the wedding.

Passing him the brandy snifter, Broc poured water for himself - he wasn’t interested in drinking with his father, not until he knew for certain why he was there. Responding to his compliment, he stated, “It’s a beginnin’.” And then, “What can I do for’ya’?”

Carrig sipped, savoring the wonderful drink, and taking his time finally answered, “I’m your father – isn’t that reason enough for me to be here?”

“A bit late in the day I fear.”

“Come now, it can never be too late.”

Broc eyed him distrustfully and once more, cool and detached he repeated, “Why you here?” he was determined to keep it to that question.

Carrig eyed his son as he leaned back against his desk, examining him suspiciously. He sat trying to think of what to say, how get to him to assist him, to turn over his servant girl. The moment he saw her, he knew that she was the one he’d added to his string of bounties. He was desperate for money, gambling, drinking, women had costs him so that at this age, instead of settling in, he owed money. He almost had what he owed, turning her in would give him the rest and leave him with a bit extra.

“I’m right, you’ve not come to see me, not really – why you here?”

“I – son … I’m in need of coin, I-…”

“How much?”

“It need not cost you anything.” Carrig hadn’t come for a handout, not from his own son of all people. He wanted no charity, but he did want
his
bounty.

“Why bring it up? Why’ve ya’come?”

Carrig finished his drink, turned his arm to set the empty glass on the table between his chair and another. He sat a bit taller and glanced up at Broc, shifted a bit sideways, glanced around his den and then decided to stand. Walking in a bit of a circle behind the chairs, he tried to weigh his words carefully.

Broc watched his father hesitate and work his way up to why he was really there. The man that stood before him was like some of them he’d hunted down over the years.

Shifty, fake and up to no good. Here he was, about to face the truth about his father, that he would no longer be able to deny – nor hope to find a hidden worthy fragment that might redeem him.

Immediately his grandfather’s counsel came to him once more, the one thing Broc tried to avoid thinking about was there with him now. Not only was he not to trust certain white men, but especially those in denial and running from themselves. A man who can reject and deny his own mother, is lowest of all snakes and like a snake, will bite even her if forced to – how much more so will he betray you. In other words, his grandfather had told him, if you ever find your father… do not… of all men, trust
him
. The truth of those words… he must now face – and while he wished they didn’t, they hurt. Perhaps, that was the real reason he’d stopped searching.

No sooner had that thought finally registered, when the truth landed for him to no longer avoid, his father, the bounty hunter, had arrived.

“The… servant girl, on the porch – how long – has she been in your service? I have… knowledge of her.” He asked, pretending that she could not possibly be anything more to Broc, than a servant girl or bed-wench. Neither had he missed her very round mid-section – obviously she was quite a bit along with child.

Broc stood gutted.

It felt as if his very insides had just been torn out, because he knew beyond a doubt now, why he was there.

A bounty.

Asiza… his pregnant wife – his father had come to collect her, or rather… her head.

He felt frozen in space and time, in just those few moments, just those few words, he had severed the ties that bound them. He’d snipped the strings of father and son – Broc stood amazed at how badly it hurt. Perhaps it was because he’d spent most of his life, hurt by his father. Yet, not finding him, there was hope – maybe, even just a shred of hope. Now, all hope was gone.

Broc stood from the desk, “I have much t’do here. Perhaps another time, in twenty or more years, we can do this again,” Broc didn’t know what else to say, “For now, I ask that you leave.”

Carrig hadn’t come that far to simply turn and go. “Come on son, surely you’re aware of who she is! You’re a bounty hunter, like me – I know this is true from your reputation, a damn good one! I – I need that money, I’d be willing to split it with you. She can be easily replaced, hell – there’s a dozen of’em out there. She’ll never know what hit her, all I need… is her head.”

The sore and tender area where the strings had just been cut, was now being cauterized – making it impossible to heal and reattached them again.

“Get off of my land.” Broc forced thru his teeth and tightly pulled lips.

“We – are blood! You’re my son – my only son! I’m your father, she is nothing – a bedwench well used – let me dispose of her.”

“She… is … my …
wife!
” Broc bit out, tears filled his eyes, “Get – off of my land.”

It was Carrig’s turn to stand in shock and horror, “You…” he simply couldn’t believe his claim, “You… who would – tell me you didn’t.” He stood a moment more registering it, “…of all things to do, with all that you have, why would you spoil it – by –
marrying
one – of them!?” He was aghast.

Broc could no longer look at his father, he walked past him to the door of his den, opening it for him, “
Leave
now – don’t ever,
ever
come back here.”

Carrig stood glaring at his son, “All this time, everyone saying how much like me you are – you’re nothing like me –
son
.”

“So right you are –
Carrig
.” Broc spat his name as an insult.

Stepping thru Broc’s home, heading for the door, Carrig’s mind raced with what he would now do - he needed that bounty.

“Make sure, ya’keep walkin’ – get on ya’horse, an’ keep ridin’, off m’land – ya’hear?”

Carrig wasn’t listening, his mind was racing, trying to think of what he needed to do, it would only take a moment to take her head off and ride away. He just needed the opportunity.

Upon Asiza’s return, she found her husband withdrawn, moody. “Has he gone?” she asked. He knew whom she meant, he only nodded in return.

“Look at these,” she held up two large catfish for Fidel to prepare, “Asa is learning how to trap and fish – soon, he’ll be better at it than we are.” She smiled.

He barely responded, his eyes went to the fish and then away. He was somewhere else, off in another world, or time. Suddenly his eyes came back to her, down to her belly, “Stay out o’the woods, keep near th’house within th’village.” He ordered briskly, his brogue was strong. He’d been learning as she learned, and certainly could now speak better. Despite the learning, when something bothered him, or in the height of passion, his brogue returned thick and true. Hearing her husband’s brogue, and they weren’t in bed, meant something troubled him.

“Has something happened that you want me to stay near-…”

“Must ya’always question me!” he snapped, “For once, do as yer told!” He flamed at her and then stormed from their home past Asa, who had come in to show him his catch.

Stunned, their son looked from his departing father back to his mother, “What happened?” He asked.

“Nothing to worry over…come on, let’s get these to Fidel.” Asiza carried on with her day. She didn’t need a lot of clues to know that the visit by his father was no doubt the cause of his sudden mood swing. No clues were needed when the man never looked her in the eyes, she got it.

Her being a Negro was the problem.

She imagined that Broc told him they were married, he had a problem with keeping that to themselves. She would leave him alone for now, but as for staying out of the woods – no – the woods were her true sanctuary. There was no place safer for her than in them. She would give it a few days – but she had snares and traps that must be checked out in the woods, and alongside the steam.

She would not leave an animal to suffer in them because his father had upset him.

For days following that event, Broc sulked and stewed – remaining distant to the point - that Asiza felt he might be having regrets that he married her, and staked so much of his life with her. Her old fears and insecurities began creeping in - just when she thought, all was well.

Certainly, all was not well.

With old habits dying hard, Broc reverted to a loner mentality in dealing with his pain – the old solitary bounty hunter in him rose to the surface. Instead of him sharing his disappointment that came from finally encountering his father, he kept it to himself. Sulking and working it slowly out of his system – he missed all the signs that he was inflicting undue pain on his life partner.

In his man’s mind, all he needed to do was work hard and aggressively on their land until the hurt burned away.

Thus, in the village he made up for time away. He and Boaz worked on the mill and on the black-smithy together to complete them. He was determined before the winter came in once more - homes for others would be up, so that they could move in. This included Boaz and Della’s home. Not for a moment did he see that in his own home, unrest was replacing peace and contentment.

At nightfall, he fell into bed dead tired, so that the time would not be wasted with him tossing and turning over all the time he’d spent mentally and emotionally needing his father’s approval, attention and yes, love and acceptance. Those were things he would never get and neither was winning them from Carrig Whalen worth having. He was angry at himself for actually entertaining a stupid pipe dream of him coming into his life as a changed man, regretting cutting his own son out of his life hoping that he would spend time with him – the rest of his days to help him in this new community.

Broc was surrounded by happy people, while he stewed in misery – feeling sorry for himself. He knew that he had to shake it, but it was easier said than could be done.

He had Asiza, Asa and new child on the way.

He had land galore in Virginia and there in New York.

He had gold left over, that at one time was depleting but now, was back to growing because of investments. He still had his grandfather and grandmother – uncles, aunts, nephews and nieces whom they would visit once their child was born.

He had so much to be happy and grateful for, yet he was allowing one man, to rain on his paradise. Why?

Then something came to him that his grandfather had said to him when as a young man he’d asked, why the English
elites
did the things they did to the Irish, the Scots, the Yorkshiremen. Why, did they starve to death, enslave and massacre their own people. Why after all of that, they sent them out as slave labor to grow riches for them despite the hardship and horror it brought to their lives. Why did they come also to this new soil and begin the cycle all over again. Doing the exact same things in this new land, bringing it with them from England, to inflict the same torture of starvation, massacre and enslavement to the natives of the new land, the Negro and the Indian… why?

His grandfather’s answer had been, “’Cuz like it o’no – dere b’folk evil t’da core – the devil’s own. ‘E wan’t’be like God, t’rule men – all men, t’feel pow’ful – aye – turn on’th’own if th’need – aye – dun’trust’em – no – even ou’own wi’do th’same. Wan’no part’o’em lad – wan’no part.”

In the saw-mill where he, Boaz and a few other men worked - Broc suddenly stood up, as the haze and cloud around him broke. He knew that if his grandfather saw him now, wallowing in self-pity over a man who was obviously like the English elite, he would ask him, “Lad, why?”