Their arguments usually grew out of opposing opinions - one was right, the other wrong, no gray area. Initially, name-calling would weave its way into their heated discussions. “Sonofabitch” lent itself to be the more popular insult, although, “horse’s ass” ran a close second. A shoving match eventually ensued which led to the first half-hearted punch thrown followed by several more - a few actually connecting with the intended target. The customary tackle to the midsection most often resulted in a wrestling match which either wore itself out or ended after intervention by a third party. Opinions given, energy spent, cold beers shared in town - the anatomy of fighting with his younger brother. Scott sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Johnny and I are the two mountain goats.’
He glanced over his shoulder at his little cousin standing with flushed cheeks, flashing brown eyes and curled fingers forming little cannonballs at her side. The sport of fencing better described his fights with Kinsey. ‘Lunge. Parry. Riposte. Touché.’ Lacking conviction, Scott threw another stone across the road. Why did he find fighting with his brother less exhausting?
His focus returned to Kinsey. “See that fallen log off to the side of the trees?” He gestured with a nod to his left. “I’ll be sitting there to calm down. When you’re ready, you’ll join me to do the same and we can finish our talk.”
Only a few steps were taken before a murmured response was given to his directive. “Bloody hell, I’m not a child.”
Scott paused without turning around. He was certain the whisper wasn’t intended for his ears but it needed to be acknowledged. “Agreed. So, don’t be tempted to act like one.”
Scott’s backside found the log’s accommodations limited. Shifting his weight forward to rest his elbows on his knees helped. While staring at his hands, yet not really seeing them, he caught himself biting his lower lip - an all but conquered habit from his youth.
‘Ye be chewin’ the lip off yer face, ScottyGarrett. The good Lord above won’t be providing ye a new one. It doesn’t grow back, ye know.’ Scott smiled. “Yes, Winifred. I’m well aware of the miracles the Lord will and will not provide. Although, blessing me with one right now would be appreciated.” After a moment or two, it appeared Winnie still had the good Lord’s ear.
The flushed cheeks remained. However, the fists were now neatly folded hands as his cousin sat down beside him. With a poker-straight spine and eyes front, Kinsey’s posture elevated the status of the log to a church pew. Looking at the ground, Scott chose to remain in his current position - that of a young lad in the back of the congregation praying the sermon didn’t reflect on his weekly deeds.
“Do you know what I find difficult, Freckles?” Scott didn’t expect a reply but gave his cousin a moment - in case he was no longer a good guesser. “I find it difficult to trust people.”
Picking up a nearby stick, he continued. “Trusting my grandfather...well...you had first-hand experience with trusting him. It wasn’t so different during my years in Boston. Holding back knowledge of Murdoch” - Scott thought of Julie - “and others. My grandfather’s actions frequently contradict his spoken words. He makes it difficult to trust him.
“My time in the military didn’t allow hesitation on whether to be trusting. As a soldier, I trusted my commanding officer to make the right decisions. I trusted the men in my unit, fighting for the common cause. But then imprisonment changed everything.”
Scott’s stick began to absentmindedly draw in the dirt. “Survival replaced trust. Friends become strangers. I know it was the result of the circumstances we were forced to live under but...trust became difficult.”
“There’s been a young woman or two I thought I could trust. I was wrong.” Scott raised an eyebrow. “Don't ask for details - you're not getting any.”
The dirt doodles ended as the stick was tossed aside. “My father has been the biggest challenge to trust.” Scott briefly squinted at the late morning sun. “I think I make significant strides with him but then he fails to say what should be said, walks away when he needs to stay, disagrees while knowing damn well I’m right…” He gave a sideways glance at his little cousin. “Trusting people can be difficult. I wish I knew what I could say or do for you to trust me.”
Waiting for a reaction dared even Scott’s patience. ‘I should have approached this another way.’
“Trust me.” Kinsey’s tone was one of indifference. “My mother’s ‘trust me’ was the only guidance she felt was necessary. You need to attend this social function, Kinsey. Trust me. Kinsey, go speak with the reporters. Trust me. Wear the red dress, Kinsey. Trust me. It's all right, Kinsey. Go with him. He’s a fine young man. Trust me.” His cousin’s voice caught in her throat. “Don’t rock the boat, Kinsey…”
Sliding closer, he wrapped his arm around her shoulder and closed his eyes.
“Yes, Scott. It’s difficult. Trust me.”
San Joaquin Valley, Lancer Ranch
“Trust men and they will be true to you; treat them greatly and they will show themselves great.” ~ R. W. Emerson
“Understanding my cousin is priceless.” ~ S. G. Lancer
I'm not as poetic as my old friend Emerson, but I certainly have a firmer grasp on reality.
I remember the exact moment Kinsey and I started our perplexing journey to understand each other. She refused to leave the side of a rescued calf. I gave in. Crates and hay bales served as our table and chairs while we ate our supper. We were in the barn dining on green chile enchiladas. I then made it clear she wasn’t spending the night watching over the animal. She finally agreed. That evening we began to understand our stubborn natures and the need for compromise.
Our journey includes learning each other’s views on having rules and wanting independence. Our travels cover Kinsey accepting ‘yes’ means ‘yes,’ no’ means ‘no’ -
Scott paused to let his dimples surface momentarily.
- and ‘maybe’ means ‘no.’ There’s my struggle to fathom women’s rights and change. Over the past few months, we have come to understand our love for the land and our plans for the future. Gaps still remain in our comprehension of each other. However, after today, there are fewer to fill.
This morning, I learned of Kinsey’s mother presenting her daughter like an elegantly wrapped gift to a young man who possessed status but no morals. After the incident, money and gender were the factors on whose words were believed. The young man's statement prevailed.
Scott stopped writing to flex his hand. His tight grasp on the pen created a cramp. He’d never felt a personal need to kill a perfect stranger - until today.
The timing of my father’s letter and Kinsey’s imagination creating the Good Sisters of Mercy in Sacramento were convenient solutions to a mother’s poor choice of priorities and a father’s apathy. Her parents weren’t present as my little cousin boarded a steamer to California.
I find betrayal and abandonment hard to get past. Understanding her hesitation to trust is clearer - the challenge to earn her trust greater.
Murdoch, ready to call a tune, greeted our late arrival back home. Teresa retired for the evening and lately, Johnny’s nights are being spent in town. It takes little guesswork why or what he is doing. I assured Kinsey I would handle the conversation with my father and sent her to bed. The absent protest ‘I’m not a child’ confirmed her exhaustion.
Murdoch is waiting.
I trust he will understand.
~ S.
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