San Joaquin Valley
Lancer Ranch
We acquire the strength we have overcome ~ RWE
Indeed, Mr. Emerson, you are correct. Our family proved it today and will continue to do so in the days ahead.
Scott pinched the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes and leaned back on the headboard. Days ahead? Hell. More like weeks. Months.
Forever.
It was late. Or early. It depended on one’s perspective. Either way, the pocket watch displayed two in the morning. An itch to write had insisted Scott sit on his bed with legs stretched out and an open journal in his lap. Now with his thoughts stuck in a bog while staring at chicken scratch, the flow of finding the right words moved like molasses.
Kinsey.
Scott had checked in on the young lady one more time before retiring to his room. As her door knob turned, he’d been certain of finding an empty bed and a missing travel bag. Relief to spy her unmoved released his held breath.
The pencil touched a line.
I pray my little cousin’s nightmares will cease with Yarra’s death and the knowledge he can never hurt her again. This long journey for her has hopefully come to an end - an ending my father helped write.
As it should be when one thought about it. Murdoch initiated Kinsey’s last chapter toward sundering her past. Why shouldn’t he have a hand in deciding its final sentence?
Eyes lowered to half-mast and drifted from the journal page to the flecks of pink on his hand.
Johnny.
Rhythmic snoring seesawed down the hallway. Scott pictured his younger brother sprawled out on the bed, face down, fully dressed, covered in paint, smelling of sweat and not giving a damn.
The pencil continued.
My brother’s range of reactions to Kinsey’s rape swung like a pendulum. An initial shock can bring out the worst in a man. Johnny and I are no exceptions. A brother’s bond can bring out the best in a man. Johnny and I are no exceptions.
********
“Boss!”
Startled, Scott sat upright and swung his legs over the side of bed - causing his journal to briefly take flight before skidding across the floor.
“Boss!”
The annoying squawk came from outside. Scott squinted at the bright sun invading his brain as it beamed through the open bedroom window. “Jelly?”
“Yer never gonna believe what yer gonna be lookin’ at, no sir. That chicken coop has done turned back to the color of a female’s hair ribbon.”
Falling backwards on his feather mattress, Scott stared at the ceiling. “Jelly.”
********
A quick stop at his cousin’s room treated Scott’s curiosity to a neatly made bed and travel cases still stacked in a corner. However, a concerned eyebrow raised when observing her absence at the breakfast table.
Pouring a mug of coffee in hopes of clearing the last few wisps of sleepy fog, Scott sat down to play catch-up with the current conversation. Correction. A conversation involved one or more persons talking. The present vocal onslaught was a Whiskered Curmudgeon Rant.
“Someone around here thinks they’re pretty funny. Repaintin’ that chicken coop pink. Havin’ no respect for a man’s property. Hooligan! Whoever done it musta stayed up half the night with a hoot owl.”
Scott’s paint splattered hands encircled his coffee cup while Johnny ran fingers through speckled pink dark hair. At the head of the table, Murdoch’s expression of tolerance sharply contrasted with Teresa’s icy stare aimed at the oblivious breakfast orator.
“And who’s not sittin’ here right now? I’ll tell ya who. The little sassy mouth spoutin’ her views on ladies SUFF-er-age and women in-de-PEND-dance. Where’s she? I’ll tell you where that little troublemaker is right now. Down by the creek scrubbin’ paint off her hands.”
Teresa’s chair scraped across the floor as she abruptly stood. “Jelly Hoskins!” Reaching across the table, she snatched up the honking goose’s plate. “You talk too much.” Teresa and Jelly’s half-eaten breakfast headed toward the kitchen.
Murdoch rose and relieved the hired hand of his coffee mug. “Agreed.” The Lancer patriarch shadowed the path of his ward.
“Hey now. Wait just a darn minute.” A whiskered chin jutted indignantly. “I wasn’t finished.”
“Well, sir.” Johnny stood and delivered a slap to Hoskins’ shoulder. “I beg to differ.” A donned hat shaded a wink and a grin. “Meet you outside, brother. I’ll saddle the horses. Take your time.”
Jelly’s attention landed on his remaining breakfast companion. “I suppose you got some snappy o-pinion on what I was sayin’.”
Standing, Scott snagged a couple biscuits. “Sorry, Jelly. I wasn’t paying attention. You were talking?
********
“Maria, have you seen Kinsey?” Never getting a chance to pose the question at breakfast, Scott now relied on the only person standing in the kitchen as he made his way outside.
“The little huérfana left for an early ride. I tried to stop her. She said not to worry.” The woman waved a wooden spoon in the air for emphasis. “I worry.”
Huérfana. Maria’s customary reference to Kinsey’s appearance when she wore her riding attire of worn pants, a frayed jacket, scuffed boots and Scott’s old hat. With a smile, Scott kissed the top of Maria’s head. “I’ll find her. I'll scold her. I’ll send her home. Will that ease your worry?”
The wooden spoon landed in a pot. “Sí.”
The morning progressed with ranch chores gradually being checked off the list. Whenever the tasks involved riding beyond the hacienda grounds, Scott’s watchful eye would scan riverbanks and tree lines for the missing huérfana. However, by lunchtime and no Kinsey, the possibilities of the girl’s location had narrowed considerably.
“You are fixing sandwiches?” With a judgmental eye, Maria surveyed Scott’s ability to assemble slices of bread and beef.
“I am.” A knife dipped into the mustard jar.
“The little one is home?”
“Ah, soon.” Two pieces of brown wrapping paper were retrieved from the pantry. “I think I know where she is.”
“I worry.”
“You do.”
Maria pointed to her empty glass pitcher next to Scott’s canteen. “You took the last of the lemonade.”
“I did.”
A wooden spoon tapped on the table as paper neatly folded around the sandwiches. “And so you are bringing her lunch.”
“I am.” Scott grinned as he slid his creations into a saddlebag. “What if I send Kinsey to the kitchen the moment she’s home? Will that ease your worry?”
The wooden spoon made a final smack on the tabletop. “Sí.”
********
Visiting the large oak tree had always been a contention between the cousins. Scott insisted it was too far out from the ranch for her to ride. Kinsey insisted it wasn’t. Even after Murdoch made it abundantly clear he agreed with his oldest son, the young lady would continue her treks to the oak. Scott never lapsed with his reprimands. Kinsey never faltered from her muleness.
Double looping Boots’ reins to a small sapling where Buck also grazed, Scott slung the saddlebags over his shoulder, grabbed the canteen and strode toward the shade of the oak tree.
Perhaps this can be the first small step in returning to normal.
Jane Stanford’s tall cedar came to a halt in front of the seated little seedling to recite the opening line of an all-too-familiar one act play. “How many times has Murdoch told you not to ride out this far?”
“Once.”
“And how many times have I told you not to ride out this far?”
“I’ve lost count.”
“The struggle to balance our ledger continues.”
“If you sit in the sun you don’t ask for trouble or worry about what possibly might happen. Benjamin Franklin.”
Scott rolled his eyes. Kinsey had yet to quote Franklin accurately. “You’re sitting in the shade.”
“Details.”
Settling down beside his cousin, sandwiches were retrieved from the saddle bag. “Here. Eat your lunch, oh great philosopher.”
Between bites of bread, beef and dripping mustard, insights continued.
“Did you know -” Kinsey licked a drop of yellow condiment from her finger. “Australia has no oak trees?”
A pause was taken to chew, swallow and then question. “Are you sure about that, Freckles?”
“Honestly, Scott.” Slight exasperation filtered through a bite of sandwich. “I lived there most of my life. Of course, I’m sure… I mean… I’m mostly sure.”
“Right.” A smile finished off the first half of the sandwich and started on the second.
“Oh, there’s one or two scrawny specimens people call oak trees… but they’re not. Not like this one.” Kinsey gazed upward at the tree’s massive presence. “It’s why I like to come here. I can’t spy one bloody thing in these surroundings which reminds me of Melbourne.”
Scott reached for the lemonade and passed it to his lunch companion. “I understand.” Glancing around, he realized there wasn’t one damn thing here that reminded him of Boston. Perhaps he needed to recalculate how far this tree really was from the ranch.
“I’m glad he’s dead.” Kinsey rested her head on Scott’s shoulder. “Am I wrong to feel this way?”
“No, little one. You have every right to feel glad. You have every right to say it out loud.” Scott’s hand gathered up Kinsey’s - giving it a reassuring squeeze. “It’s done. He’s gone. He can’t hurt you. No one will ever hurt you like that again. I won’t allow it.”
With lengthened shadows, eaten sandwiches and an empty canteen, it was time to return home. Watching his cousin untie her horse, Scott followed suit with Boots. “By the way, speak with Maria as soon as you get back.”
“Oh?” The little huérfana swung up into her saddle..
“She worries.” Scott mounted his horse with a grin. A wooden spoon in the hand of a worried Maria proved lethal.
“Thomas Yarra didn’t drink.” Kinsey’s simple statement fell from the sky like a brick.
“What?” The wooden spoon-inspired grin dissolved.
“Thomas didn’t approve of alcohol. He said it dulled his mind. And he needed to be in complete control of everything… and everybody.”
Scott watched a passing cloud rob the oak tree of its shadow. The Pinkerton Agency didn’t make one mistake - they made two.