Hot. There would be no disagreeing with Johnny’s opinion of the ride to and from the mission. Not a mile traveled from the ranch and already Scott felt the sun’s rays toasting his shoulder blades.
Unfortunately, the sun’s warmth was failing to reach his cousin’s outward acceptance of her driver’s scolding regarding the expressed views of the day’s agenda. The chatterbox magpie his brother described had evaporated along with the early morning cool air. Left in its place - a young lady with a jaw locked tighter than a Boston clam’s arse at high tide.
When dealing with a sullen little brother, Scott relied on two key elements for success: patience and the all-important prop.
A cold beer worked nicely.
Sip. Swallow. Sip. Wait.
A fishing pole came in handy at times.
Cast. Catch. Cast. Wait.
An imported cigar never failed.
Puff. Pause. Puff. Wait.
Eventually, two or three words opened the door wide enough for other words to follow. Words gathered into sentences which, in time, invited a conversation to pull up a chair and stay awhile. Yes, with his little brother it took some planning and a cartload of patience.
However…
Maneuvering through the maze of Johnny's Cimmerian moods proved to be an easy task when compared to conquering the labyrinth of Kinsey’s temperament. Her tight-lipped, monastic silence mocked the endurance of Scott’s serene, saint-inspired forbearance. Generally, he enjoyed the peace and quiet while his cousin stewed, but there were times he didn't have the luxury of waiting out the storm. These situations, like today, initiated a different strategy - one of an innocent unawareness - taunting to be ignored in a lop-sided conversation.
“This is good, Freckles - us having time to spend together - talking. Good, indeed. Although, I must admit...there was a moment I didn't think we’d have the opportunity to share this beautiful day...together...talking. Convincing Johnny to stay behind took quite the effort.”
The bush crickets begged Scott to elaborate.
“My brother’s strong reluctance to surrender the weekly venture to Sister Rosa’s set me back a step or two but he finally gave in. Surprising...yet, commendable he takes his escort role rather seriously.”
Clip-clop of horse hooves applauded Johnny’s dedication.
“Be certain to thank him when we return to the ranch this afternoon. Although, knowing your fine grasp of proper etiquette, you no doubt have conveyed sincere gratitude a hundredfold. My apologies for thinking otherwise.”
Scott’s offered olive branch impressed a passing cloud.
“So...what shall we talk about? Transcendentalism emphasizing subjective intuition or objective empiricism?
Buzzing horseflies felt strongly both ways.
“I believe it was Emerson who once said -”
“Honestly, Scott! Can you please explain to me why your father is so bloody stubborn?”
A squirrel chattered its congratulations on achieving a two-way conversation.
“Oh.” Pushing back his hat revealed Scott’s cocked eyebrow of apperception. “You prefer a philosophical discussion. Why didn't you say so?”
“I know what you’re attempting to do, Scott Garrett. You're trying to make me smile.”
“Skipping over philosophy and tackling psychology - excellent! I recently read a brief article titled Free Will penned by William James - Harvard graduate - Class of ‘69. Did you know James is Emerson’s godson?”
“You, sir, are insufferable.”
“I believe we’ve discussed my insufferability on several occasions. There’s really nothing left to say on the subject.”
“Bullocks.”
“I stand corrected.”
A dip of her chin and a turn of the head confirmed the sought-after smile from his cousin had arrived. Detecting a clear path out of the labyrinth, Scott readjusted his hat to shade his eyes from the climbing sun and continued. “Why is Murdoch Lancer so bloody stubborn? By God, Kinsey Rose, we may need a few of those philosophers and psychologists for a consultation before we can answer that one.”
“Lait et eau.”
Scott frowned as he struggled to recall what snippets of the French language he’d studied for his trip to Paris. “Milk and water?”
“My father. Milk and water.” Kinsey propped her feet on the wagon’s buckboard and sat back. “Always saying yes - always giving in. But your father…”
It took a moment for him to find the two words needed. “Brique et mortier.” A slight nod of agreement. “Well now, young lady, it appears we won’t require the services of those psychiatrists and philosophers after all.”
Kinsey’s Poker Face. It’s what Scott called the distant, far-off look his cousin would display at a drop of a hat. The expression made it damn near impossible to know what she was thinking. Seeing it now brought concern he was stumbling back into the labyrinth. “Look, honey, I know traveling to the mission is the very last thing you want to do each week. I understand. Helping Sister Rosa is a consequence for your poor choices and that’s what you need to understand. These trips won’t last forever.”
“Yes, of course.” A quick sigh and Kinsey returned to the present. “It is a beautiful day, isn’t it?”
Finally, the sun’s rays had reached his passenger. Overhead, a flock of crows cheered.
*******
If Scott’s memory served him correctly, Johnny’s herd leaned more toward a flock of children. Granted, The Virgen de Guadalupe Mission did have more than its share of orphans. Sister Rosa’s flock consisted of a mishmash of ages and ethnicities - mostly Indian - all with one common thread - the need for a nurturing, safe environment. Spying the young welcoming committee rushing to greet them, perhaps his brother’s description was more accurate. The mission’s population had grown.
Scott jumped down from the wagon to be immediately surrounded by a pool of broken English dialects. Observing Sister Rosa failing to navigate through her own personal maze of little people, he laughed and shouted. “Moses had less of a challenge parting the Red Sea! Wait there! We’ll come to you!” The nun smiled, nodded, and prayed toward the heavens.
“It’s a good thing you’re tall.” Still sitting on the wagon bench, Kinsey looked down - grinning.
“It’s a better thing you’re short.” Arms were extended. “Now, come here and act like a sack of grain.” With his cousin over his shoulder, Scott waded through Guadalupe’s Red Sea of enthusiastic children.
“Everyone!” Sister Rosa clapped her hands five times in a short rhythmic pattern. In unison, little hands repeated the pattern and mouths fell silent. “My goodness! The good Lord above has his fingers in ears with all this noise.” A few giggles were heard as the sack of grain returned to solid ground. “Mr. Scott, a surprise and delight to see your face.” Placing her hand under Kinsey’s chin - “And always a blessing to see you, my child.”
With a nod of respect, Scott removed his hat. “The pleasure is ours, Sister. My father sends his best and -” The dusty hat became a pointer gesturing toward the buckboard. “A few supplies for the mission.”
“Knowing Lancer generosity I’m certain it’s more than a few.” Addressing their gathered audience, Sister Rosa began to dish out directives. “Miguel and Daniel - you’ll be kind enough to unload the wagon. Leticia, please show them where items should be stored. Who are the mural’s artists?” Several small hands floated above the group. “Yes. Stand here - next to Miss Kinsey. Now - our gardeners - where are you? Should you be standing here? No. You should be standing in a garden. Sister Angela is waiting.”
Scott leaned over the nun’s shoulder and whispered in her ear. “Can you come and organize our next cattle drive?”
Kinsey corralled her budding artists as Sister Rosa continued to divide and conquer. With the wagon being unloaded, the day’s driver looked around - trying to decide where to go. Always a supporter of the arts, Scott decided to join his cousin.
“What do you think you’re doing?” The mission’s Da Vinci halted her entourage with a raised hand to question the presence of their uninvited guest.
“I thought I'd tag along to admire the progress of your mural.”
Taking the stance of an impenetrable granite wall, Kinsey rejected the suggestion. “Absolutely not.”
Two little girls from the group stepped forward to stand behind their steadfast leader and mimicked her defiant stand. Scott’s frown hid a chuckle. “And why not, may I ask?”
“Every great work of art has an official unveiling. We will see to it your name is added to the gala’s invitation list. Sir, you should know better. Honestly!”
Two high-pitched “honestly”s chimed in while other small heads bobbed in agreement.
The younger cousin’s tsk-tsk admonished his ignorance before executing a perfectly timed about-face. Two more tiny “tsk-tsk”s with wagging fingers followed suit. As the painting troop marched toward the classroom, Scott smiled at the sight of the two wee lasses rushing up to hold Kinsey’s hands. And there goes the next generation of the women's rights movement.
“Ah, it appears you’ve been cast out. Let me guide you to the light and a comforting cup of tea.” Sister Rosa steered Scott's lost soul toward the mission.
The room they entered had modest furnishings and amenities present. “When away, Father Andrew is kind enough to offer his quarters as a quiet sanctuary for guests.” Sister Rosa motioned toward a tea service placed on a small table with two chairs. “Shall we?”
Scott hung his hat on an empty hook by the door and waited for the sister to settle into her chair before seating himself. Forethought had been given to the pot of freshly brewed tea. Her hospitality wasn’t a spontaneous gesture. Accepting his cup, he paused to allow Sister Rosa the first sip and then sampled his own. “Excellent.”
“Ah, the best compliment a serving of tea could receive from a Bostonian.”
Dimples tickled the corners of Scott’s mouth. When it comes to knowing someone, not much gets past her.
“I have a confession to make.” A sheepish expression guided the sister’s teacup back to its saucer.
“A confession? So this is the reason for our morning tea? I’m taking Father Andrew’s place.”
“Father Scott. Yes. Your gentle, spiritual nature would serve the priesthood well.”
“Ah, the best compliment a Bostonian could receive from a pious woman.” A smirk hid behind his teacup. Obviously, word on the number of times Father Scott was responsible for replacing Henry’s saloon mirror had not reached Sister Rosa’s ears.
“Although, the mirrors in the Vatican would need to be moved to storage.”
For the second time that day, Scott stood corrected. A cleared throat hoped to redirect the conversation. “You mentioned a confession…”
“Yes.” Sister Rosa’s folded hands rested in her lap. “I’m afraid I couldn’t continue with your father’s ruse regarding Kinsey’s fate if her behavior didn’t improve. Her first day here I informed the girl she would not be shipped off to the Good Sisters of Mercy in Sacramento. Perhaps it was wrong, but I simply couldn’t continue the austere persona required for the role. At the mission, Sister Margaret is the one adept at fulfilling any stern requirements when needed.”
“Sister Rosa, you’re absolved from any wrong-doing. I’ve met Sister Margaret and I believe she’s been on this Earth longer than most - giving her the unfair advantage of time to fine-tune her sternness.” Scott’s smirk was no longer in hiding as he watched his tea party companion lean in.
“Be careful in expressing your opinion. Sister Margaret has a ruler hidden under her habit.”
“Good to know.” Replacing his own teacup to its saucer, Scott continued Sister Rosa’s exoneration. “My cousin is a bright young lady. The unnecessary travel bag to Sacramento would have come to light quickly. She’s also very astute so the appearance of my father still calling the tune is safe. My dear woman, consider yourself forgiven.”
“I’m certain your father believes more chores are being assigned as her punishment but, in truth, Kinsey and I have enjoyed long afternoon talks. Sometimes, words - not work - will heal a wayward child.”
“Agreed.” Scott retrieved his cup to finish his drink.
“Of course, my heart soared when Kinsey commented she would continue her weekly visits long after Murdoch Lancer decides she’s learned her lesson.”
The teacup hovered in the air above its saucer. “Excuse me?”
“She’s grown quite fond of the children and the work we do here.”
Well, now. Scott set his cup down. Kinsey Rose Furlong has been fooling not only my father but the rest of the family...perhaps on more than one occasion. “Tell me, Sister, during these afternoon talks, has my cousin made mention of a gentleman by the name of Seth Westcott?”
The nun smiled and refilled the china cups.