The Bones of Paradise (42 page)

Dulcinea sighed. Both men startled and looked at her. “Is this all a plan to convince me to sign with the gas and oil people?”

Chance smiled and shook his head. “That was my original thought. But you decided to take matters into your hands. You had your cowboy here and the deeds to the ranches with Drum dead. I had to come up with another. How do you like it so far?”

“Things can go back to the way they were,” she said. Graver heard the desperation in her voice. “You can represent my interests. I'll even put you on retainer.”

“I will tell you the rest of the story now so you understand.” He smiled, congenial now, eyes light.

“You see, I dropped a most precious keepsake that night at Wounded Knee.” He looked at Graver. “I met you after the massacre, remember? Your husband, too, Dulcinea. I guess none of us have the high ground here, do we?” He poked Graver in the ribs with his foot.

“I hadn't known exactly where I'd lost it, the locket with the pictures of my beloved parents, not until I was at the trading post on Rosebud last spring, and there was a certain Indian girl there, well, not a girl, rather a young lady named Star, and I happened to spy it around her neck.” He pivoted in the chair, crossed his legs,
leaned his elbow on his knee, and propped his chin in his hand like a schoolboy studying the fire.

“I was surprised, of course, and curious as to how she came by it, but I didn't want to scare her, so I agreed to meet and discuss it. It took three meetings before I was able to ascertain the story—what a relief! She hadn't told a soul. She had been there that night, with the earl and me—witnessed the whole tragic event. Though I wondered at her lack of feeling. I could hardly have worn the keepsake of my mother's murderer, but then, Indians are Indians the world over. In that the earl was correct. Too bad.” Chance shook his head. “Too bad he didn't live to meet her.”

Dulcinea struggled in her chair. “It was you! You killed them!”

He held up a hand. “Please, allow me to finish my story. I've never had the opportunity to share it with anyone, and I'm receiving a certain pleasure from the telling.”

G
raver knew Chance was going to kill them when he was done. He brought his hands to rest under his chin and gnawed again at the edge of the cloth. Even a small tear would weaken it.

“I lured her into the hills, well, took her to a place we could conduct our discussion in private. Can you believe my luck, though? I'd only begun burying her when my horse whinnied and I hid, just as your husband trotted up. Down he swings, walks right over to the girl's body, leaving me no choice at all—I had to shoot him.” He scrubbed his face again with a low moan. “I was ready to convince him to join the oil and gas venture, too. Terrible luck.

“My quiet place turns out to be more like a county fair. Before I can bury the girl and J.B., I see
another
rider coming over the hill in the distance, so I decide there's only so many people a man can kill in one morning before someone hears the shots and brings a bigger gun. I slip away. Then I'm guessing it's you who comes up, Mr. Graver, followed by one of the Bennett boys—Cullen or Hayward? My money's on Hayward, am I right?” He peered at Graver and nodded. “Thought so. Cullen hated his father too much to shoot a man he suspected of killing him.”

Chance stood, pulled out his revolver. “Rose found the necklace. Star's sister. Again, my unbelievable luck.” He paused and waved the gun in the air. “It doesn't really matter. I'll be dealing with her when the time comes. You understand, Graver. A man has experiences in war like no other. You fall through the world and then bang, you're back again!”

He aimed the gun at Graver and shot him in the thigh. Graver's leg went numb first, followed by a stabbing pain, and he gritted his teeth against it.

Dulcinea yelled and jerked against the strips of cloth that held her to the chair. His body was tense with shock and pain as blood pooled on the floor beneath him.

“Now let's chat. You can see the problem with me acting as your lawyer when I'm supposed to be dead. No, I'm afraid it's not going to work. But don't worry, I have another plan.”

“It was you stabbed Drum,” Dulcinea said, her tone flat.

“I tried to persuade him to work with me, but we couldn't come to an agreement, so he had to go. Lucky you.

“I need you to sign your mineral and surface rights over to me, Dulcinea. You won't need them. I've decided to let you keep the land, but I need those rights so we can drill this whole region. Oil and gas. Can you imagine how rich I'll be? If you choose, we'll be married, and I can keep my name clear of any scandal from recent episodes. That's how we'll think of them in years to come, isn't it, my darling?”

Dulcinea struggled to reply, and Graver swung his legs at Chance's chair with the intent to tip it over. Chance sensed the motion and kicked his wounded leg. Graver fought to remain conscious. “Try that again, I'll gut shoot you.”

He turned back to Dulcinea and stroked her bloody cheek with the back of his hand. “You were separated from your husband for so long, I doubt there's any feelings left to be awkward between us, are there?”

She shook her head. “I thought you were dead. I was going to
contact you to sell the rights, but you died.” She looked puzzled. “Who did they bury?”

Chance laughed and shook his head. “Damned if I know. Man stood in front of my buggy as I was leaving after taking care of Drum in the alley, so I ran him down. I'll tell you, getting him out of his clothes, into mine, well, it was no Sunday picnic. I did a fair job, though. Fools buried him as me. And that, my dear, is the luck that always saves me.” He bowed.

“You surprise me,” she said. “How are you going to explain coming back from the dead?”

“Mistakes were made. They buried the wrong man. I need a few weeks unhampered to put all the pieces together. I could disappear for a time, let everyone forget me, then take the signed papers to Denver and work directly with the company from there. No one here the wiser, especially if the last two heirs meet with the kind of violent accidents that seem to plague your family.” Chance cocked his head and raised his brows. “I should be insulted that you imagined this cowboy”—he nodded at Graver—“had the wit to accomplish what I have.”

There was a timid knock on the door, then it pushed open in a burst of wind-driven snow. As if someone was still deciding whether or not to enter, the snow swirled into the room and the candles fluttered.

“Hello?” a timid voice called.

“Come in, for heaven's sake!” Chance shouted.

It was too much coincidence that Rose appeared, snow crusted as Chance shut the door behind her. She must have followed him, Graver thought. Did she think he murdered her sister? He was so light-headed from the blood loss, nothing made much sense.

He struggled, and felt a slight give in the strips around his feet, pulled his legs again and felt the cloth give another few inches. He tried his hands and heard a tiny tear.

“Mr. Graver's uncomfortable, and you need to sit by the fire,
Rose, so why don't you drag him out of the way.” Graver understood that the man was clearing a killing floor.

“He's too heavy,” Rose said. “Help me.”

Chance laughed. “Unlikely. Leave him there. Be careful you don't sit in his blood, though.”

Rose squatted with her back to the fire.

“But first, Rose, I know you've been curious as to what happened to your mother. Just like your sister. It's not enough to survive with you people. You won't let a thing die, will you?”

“You killed my sister,” Rose said, no inflection in her voice, her eyes on the fresh blood that pooled around her.

“It was you people and your Ghost Dance. I'm not going through that whole story again, so yes, I strangled her. Happy?”

He stood over her, hands on his hips. “I never understand why people want every last detail. She's gone.
Finie.
Done.” He chopped at the air with his hands. “Now let me get on with my tale. Please.” He took a deep breath and brushed back his hair. When he began again, his tone was one of exaggerated patience.

“First, you find the locket with the photos of my parents. Yes, I saw Hayward looking at it. Your sister Star paraded it around. I had to put a stop to it. It doesn't want to stay put, though. You have it now?”

Rose clutched the front of her shirt.

“Good. When we've completed our transaction, I'll have it back. There aren't any more of you, are there? I trust Lily will never know what happened to her mother, aunt, and grandmother. I'd hate to have dealings with another of your family. Three's enough.”

His eyes twinkled as he reached into his pocket and brought out a little tanned leather drawstring pouch with what appeared to be a brown button at the bottom. Upon closer inspection, Graver realized with horror that it was a nipple, withered hard as bone. “Do I need a new change purse?” He dangled it in front of Rose, who kept her eyes down.

“Now where's my necklace?” He reached in her calico blouse, but it wasn't around her neck. “Where is it?”

“We have to trade,” she said, her eyes on the pouch now.

Chance pretended to toss it into the fire, and then revealed it was still in his hand. “Just playing with you. I know how much Indians love a trade. Okay, my family for yours.”

She stood and opened her hand to reveal the chain and locket.

He snatched it, and then tossed the pouch in the fire. Rose's shoulders slumped as she watched the flames take the last of her mother's flesh.

“You bastard,” Dulcinea growled.

He frowned. “Not very polite, Mrs. Bennett.”

He opened the locket, clicked it closed, and held the chain up to the light. “You Indians don't like gold, do you? I'm beginning to see your point.” He rubbed his chin. “So much would've been different if I hadn't dropped this twice. Almost as if Mama and Papa wanted me to be punished for what I did.” He slipped the locket in his vest.

Graver heard Chance's voice drop, bemused. He glanced at Dulcinea.

Chance turned to face the others. “It's always an interesting problem, what to do with hostages. You see, you're held by them as much as you hold them. The question is who can let go first. Because that person wins.” He smiled and limped across the room and back, appraising each of them.

“You didn't really think I could marry you, did you?” He stopped beside Dulcinea and lifted her chin with a finger. “I was indulging myself. I do that, especially when I spend too much time alone, as I have of late. If the earl were here, we'd concoct an entertainment with you, but I'm afraid I'm growing weary of this business. As soon as the storm abates, I need to be off. You understand that I can't leave you alive.” He made another circuit of the room, took the time to peer out the window and place an ear to the wall. “Still blowing,” he announced.

Dulcinea said, “I'll sign. If you let us live.” Chance grabbed the knife from the table, sliced through the rags holding her arms, and dragged the chair so she sat before the papers. He uncapped the bottle of ink and handed her the pen, keeping his eye on the other two. Dulcinea dipped the pen, scratched at the edge of the paper he'd used to practice their signatures, dipped and tried again, this time producing ink. He tapped his forefinger, indicating where she should sign, and she leaned over the paper. Despite the wind and crackling fire, the slow scratch of her signature whispered along the cabin walls.

As she finished, and he leaned down to inspect it, Rose sprang to her feet, pounced on his back, and pressed her skinning knife against his throat. They staggered and fell, breaking Dulcinea's chair into pieces. Chance grabbed at Rose's arms, and she steadied the tip of the blade with her left hand, hacking and sawing at his throat as if castrating a bull. Dulcinea flew at him and struck him in the chest to no effect, while his arms flailed and dropped and his struggle against the knife slowed. Then with one last burst, he yanked at Rose's arms, pried one away and loosened the other. Dulcinea hit him in the face with the chair's leg, which only enraged him more. Graver slid closer, drew back his legs, and kicked him in the knee, dropping him, his shirt an apron of blood from the deepening cut as Rose rode his back.

“You can't kill me!” he rasped, a bright bubble at the corner of his mouth.

Rose leaned close and whispered in his ear, “Why not? You're already dead.” Her right hand on the hilt, her left, gloved in red, wrapped around the blade's point, she hauled hard on the knife. There was a pop and a bright hissing spray. “Hestovatohkeo'o,” she murmured as he fell forward into the blooming pool of his own blood.

D
ulcinea sat on the porch with a cup of coffee and her first attempt at doughnuts. The pastry was so heavy it thunked against the saucer after she took a bite.

J.B. was gone, she knew from the shifting gravity of the air, a missing weight, as it was when someone left a room, like a veil torn for an instant, and a sharpness appeared around the objects and people, then slowly dissolved again.

Despite the early blizzard, the winter had been mild with the right amount of snow and then spring rains brought the hills alive again with wildflowers and new grass. She woke early on these fine May mornings to watch her two mares graze with their foals in the pasture. One of the old cottonwoods behind the barn fell when the rains softened the ground in spring and settled across the creek, forming a natural bench at the far end that Hayward would lie on late afternoons when the work was done. The small purple knobs on the mulberry trees offered a fine harvest and a sparrow hopped down a branch a few feet, tested one, then another, and let them drop to the ground where more trees would sprout. In years to come a large grove of mulberry trees would provide pleasure to children and grandchildren, who would take handfuls of ripe berries and smear
their faces and arms and run to show the adults. There would be Bennetts, as well as the families of the men who worked among them. J.B. always said they would prosper, and as she watched her son and Graver work horses that evening, she believed him.

Rose sat beside her on the porch while, in the corral, Graver showed Hayward how to halterbreak a filly without roughness. Her son let Graver rest an arm across his shoulders as they watched the long-legged bay filly gambol about wearing her new halter. When she had finally explained to her son about his grandfather's bargains with both J.B. and her, he took a few days then decided to try to forgive.

Some Horses lifted Lily onto the spotted pony's back and led her up and down the barnyard while Rose smiled at her daughter's cajoling to be turned loose.

“She needs her own horse,” Dulcinea said.

“I'm sure she'll have it, too, with all these men spoiling her,” she said with a laugh. Rose was her friend, the bravest woman she knew. They never spoke of it, what happened at the line shack. Rose's family lived in the foreman's house in the winter, and spent summer in the tipi behind the house.

Rose placed her fingertips on Dulcinea's arm. “I have to go home,” she said. “It's my sister. It's time for her to go home, too.” Her eyes filled, and she bit her lip and looked out across the ranch yard to the hills beyond. “Jerome will come if Lily can stay with you. It won't be long.”

Dulcinea reached over and squeezed her hand. “She'll be so spoiled you'll be sorry,” she said. Then she hesitated, not wanting to make a mistake because she didn't fully understand the Sioux ways, and said, “I hope your sister finds peace on the red road with Wakan Tanka.”

Rose nodded. “She already has.”

They sat in silence as the men finished with the horses, and the hands drifted to their bunkhouse. Rose went to meet her husband and daughter, and Dulcinea stood on the porch, watched as Graver
and Hayward started for the house with the gait of tired, satisfied men who've worked a hard, long day.

Graver had moved into the main house, and slept in the extra room upstairs for now. The past months brought her the strength that was in him, his firm hand under her arm, his back broad enough for the work that lay ahead. He would not replace J.B., but she felt sure he would stand beside him someday.

Dulcinea could not leave this land. She finally understood how the wind out here made a place for itself in your ear, in your mind, and in your heart, stilling your thoughts, making everything you see one vast wholeness: the swan gliding across the silent marsh, the mossy turtles climbing like ancient men out of the water, their claws gripping the soil with great effort to drag themselves despite the tangled water plants that dragged their yellow-scaled legs back, their ragged beaks parted with effort. She couldn't think without the Sand Hills wind hushing the great world around her as she pushed herself into its embrace. Maybe a bad thing never died, as the men were fond of saying, and good lived but for a moment. This was a thing she could accept.

In early November, she had been able to ship cattle and pay the men some of what she owed. They'd made it through the winter, though money was short. She watched as Hayward led J.B.'s chestnut out of the barn. They were teaching the horse to work cattle, and Graver showed her son how to ride in concert with the animal, not against it. She saw that was the way a person must move through the world, while across the hills, the evening fog drifted like an exhaled breath and the peepers began their rhythmic chirring music as the night horses pulled the dark curtain across the sky until they slept and awakened once more, rising like dreamers out of the mist to claim the world again.