I patted the pocket of the mink coat. “I never go out without my flashlight.”
Susan was all charm. “Leon, this is Ms. Loy, a dear friend”—she gave me a quick wink of one eye—“who’s visiting over Christmas.”
“Pleased to meet you, Miz Loy.” Leon ducked his head in my direction. He took our coats and hung them from a wooden coat tree near the door.
A yellow-and-blue macaw in a bronze cage next to a worn leather couch spoke in a cracked falsetto. “Christmas is the merriest time of the year.” He whistled a bar of “Jingle Bells.”
“Oh, you’re a handsome fellow.” Susan was admiring.
“Ladies, this is Archibald. You hush now, Archie.”
The macaw lifted his wings. “Speak when spoken to.”
Leon spread an apologetic hand. “I’m afraid Archie’s manners are rusty. We’re two old bachelors together.”
Archie chattered while Leon brought coffee in ceramic mugs and a plate of homemade peanut butter cookies. He served one to Archie, who munched in satisfaction.
Susan and I sat on the couch and Leon sat in an old and obviously comfortable easy chair with its back to the stairs.
Susan put down the coffee mug. “I came tonight”—her tone was sober, her look questioning—“to ask for your help.”
Leon leaned forward, planted gnarled hands on the knees of his faded Levi’s. “You tell me what you want, Miz Flynn. It’s as good as done.”
The parrot watched us with bright dark eyes. Leon’s living room was small but neat as a workman’s toolbox, magazines in a red wooden rack, the maple side table by the leather couch empty except for a branding-iron lamp. A worn Bible lay open on a shiny maple table next to Leon’s chair. A pair of glasses rested on the pages.
Susan opened her purse and retrieved the letter. She pulled out the sheet and handed it to Leon. “Please read this.”
Leon picked up the glasses from atop the Bible. He adjusted them on his beaked nose and painstakingly read, his lips silently forming the words. He looked at Susan and tapped the top of the sheet. “This here says it’s your will.”
Susan nodded. “I wrote it tonight and I want you to witness it for me when I sign it. Will you do that?”
“Sure enough.” But his face was puzzled. “You always handled everything right well, Miz Flynn. The ranch and the oil leases and the bank. I’ve heard people can write out what they want done with their things and the court will see to it. But Miz Welch, who lives over Tecumseh way, got crossways with her daughter and wrote out a paper leaving her place to a slick-talking lease broker and the judge he said there was undue influence and her daughter got everything. Seems like in today’s world”—he picked his words carefully—“everybody’s mighty big on doing things by the book. I’ll be glad to sign whatever you want, but I’m thinking you maybe ought to get a lawyer to fix it up right. Put it into one of those computers.”
Susan reached out and squeezed his arm. “Don’t worry, Leon. My lawyer will see to everything. And besides,” she laughed, “I’m not disinheriting family like Mrs. Welch. Instead, everything will go to my grandson.”
“Yes’m.” He nodded in approval. “That’s the way it should be. Let me see.” He placed the sheet on the table and patted the pocket of his flannel shirt. “I got a pen somewhere.”
Susan opened her purse. She pulled out a gold-plated pen. She cut her eyes toward me in amused acknowledgment and murmured, “Everything as needed.” She came to her feet, lithe and youthful, and moved to the little maple side table. She bent down to sign and date the will, then pushed the paper to Leon. Susan watched as he carefully wrote his name. “Please put the date, too.”
As Leon finished, tension drained from Susan. “Thank you, Leon.” When she held the precious paper, her smile was tremulous. “We have to go now, but I will always be grateful for your help.”
He looked embarrassed. “Anytime I can help, Miz Flynn, you just tell me.” He brought our coats and once again we were at his front door. He held it open.
I stepped outside first. Susan followed, then turned. “Merry Christmas, Leon.”
“Merry Christmas, Miz Flynn.”
Archibald chimed in. “And a Merry Christmas was had by all.”
Susan hesitated, then spoke in a rush. “Leon, please teach Keith how to ride and fish for crappie and hunt deer. Show him all the places we love on the ranch. Take him out to the tanks and let him smell oil.”
Nothing smells finer to an Oklahoman than sweet crude.
Susan’s eyes were shiny. “Tell Wade Farrell I asked you.”
There was longing and sadness in Leon’s voice. “I wish I could, Miz Flynn. That’ll be up to Tucker, I guess.”
Susan looked away. Her voice was uncertain. “Tucker may not want to stay on Burnt Creek.”
Leon’s face folded into a frown. He started to speak, stopped, cleared his throat. “If Tucker leaves the ranch, I’ll be there for Mitch’s boy.”
She didn’t look up as she swung to give him a quick hug. She ducked her head and hurried from the porch.
I knew she ran because she didn’t want Leon to see her tears. This was her final farewell, farewell to a life she had loved.
Leon lifted a hand, took a step after her, then stopped. His mouth opened. Closed. He shook his head. He turned and opened the screen door. “Burnt Creek…” His voice was gruff with an undertone of anger. The door closed behind him.
As I walked to the car, I carried a clear picture of his face, an honest face, grieved and forlorn.
I opened the driver’s seat. The interior light flashed on. Lying in the driver’s seat was Susan’s letter. I picked up the envelope, saw that it was sealed now as well as stamped.
The passenger seat was empty.
“Susan?”
Suddenly I knew I was alone. Susan’s task was done. Death after Life doth greatly please. She was free now, no longer tethered to earth. Before too long I would be home in Heaven and Susan would be there, vigorous and happy, reunited with those she had loved.
I tucked the letter in the pocket of my coat and slid behind the wheel. I didn’t glance again at the passenger seat. I would never again while on earth hear Susan’s light, clear voice or see her kind eyes and quick smile.
“Godspeed.” I turned the key and moved the gear to D. I drove down the dark road and, to be honest, heaved a sigh of relief. I’d embarked on a perilous and forbidden path and was exceedingly fortunate that my gamble had succeeded. Perhaps Wiggins, occupied in Tumbulgum, would never know that I’d once again succumbed to impulse. Certainly I had the greatest respect for Precept Two and had ignored its stricture only because I felt I had no choice.
I turned onto the main road.
Ends justifying means rarely received plaudits, but in this instance everything had worked out well and surely that was a mitigating circumstance. However, I suspected I would be climbing aboard the Rescue Express as soon as I returned Jake’s car. Perhaps she’d never notice that scrape on the left rear fender. I’d hoped to stay through Christmas—was there anything lovelier than the peal of bells at the midnight service?—but it looked as though my work was done. Keith was authenticated as Mitch’s son and was now officially Susan’s heir. I would go by the post office and drop the letter in the slot.
I reached the top of Persimmon Hill. Here the road ran straight and true, swooping down at a steep angle. Adelaide teenagers, not to mention some adults, were sometimes tempted to put the pedal to the metal.
I rolled down the windows, felt the flood of cold air. Why not?
“Yee-hah!” The wind blew my hair, rushing past loud as the wings of a Mississippi kite. I felt as one with the bucketing car, exhilarated, adrenaline rushing, the headlights’ twin beams flashing through the night, fast as a black skimmer snatching fish from a Gulf wave.
“Bailey Ruth!” Wiggins’s stentorian shout shook me.