“I’ll get the papers now,” the judge said. His face wore a peculiar expression like he struggled not to laugh, as if he’d just seen the mouse swallow the cat whole.
“Please hurry,” Dulcinea said.
Hayward straightened off the wall and seemed to grow several inches in his outrage. “What the hell is this, Mother?” He grabbed her shoulder, yanked her to face him.
She looked at him but held her tongue until he released her. “Go run the ranches. This marriage means we have a clear title, son, don’t you see? Your father wanted you to have the land.” Her cheeks burned pink under his glare. “We can talk later.”
“No. No, we won’t.” Hayward’s mouth twisted and white foam appeared in the corners. He merely stared at the tableau of the widow bride, the hired man, and the old tyrant who finally closed his eyes.
He looked at his mother. He hadn’t seen this coming and didn’t have a name for it. If the old man pulled through—He grimaced. Didn’t have a name for that either. He looked at the woman he’d recently vowed to protect and realized he didn’t understand her at all and had completely underestimated her. He wouldn’t be surprised if she lay down on the bed right there and then and took the old man in her arms. The hated old bastard, her new husband.
Hayward pulled on his hat and walked away, and didn’t turn when she called him back. Cullen had been right about her the whole time.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Drum died at dawn after their wedding night, as if mocking all marriage for all time, except no, that was her. Dulcinea sat by his side, held his hand, and restrained him when he tried to rise at the end, reaching with his other hand as if to stop some vision. He cried out a name, Wilke, and a horrified expression crossed his face. He tried to speak, his throat clogged with blood, and still she held on, refusing to let him flee. “You’re mine now,” she whispered so Graver and the doctor standing at the foot of the bed could not hear. “I’ve got it all now.”
Drum shook his head and slapped the bed with his other hand as if to signal, but it meant nothing. He began to choke, then finally drowned in his own bright blood. When Dulcinea left, clutching the marriage certificate, instead of the triumph she’d expected, she felt burdened by a terrible sense of waste. Graver was right. This dreaming land had killed them all. It didn’t stop her, though. After sitting with the dead man until midmorning, she sent word to the judge, Stillhart, and Rivers to meet her at the hotel. She had made up her mind about the oil and gas leases.
She turned to Graver, who lingered in the corner of the room, a watchful expression in his eyes, and motioned him outside, leaving Drum Bennett without a backward glance. The old bastard had finally given her family a future.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said as soon as the door to the doctor’s house closed on them.
Graver put on his hat and crossed his arms, staring at the dusty toes of his boots.
“I did it for my son. Drum would have taken it all and corrupted Hayward in the process. You know what he was like.” When she met with silence, she put a hand on his arm. “I couldn’t give him another son. I couldn’t let him take everything J.B. and I worked for, and he would have. You know he would have. He was going to sell us out, too. Everything can go back to the way it was now . . .” Her voice fell and she dropped her hand. “What passed between us, what we did in the stable, I—It’s too soon. I want, I hope—” She stopped when he shrugged and turned to walk away.
“I’m not finished!” She almost stamped her foot she was so tired.
“I need to round up the hands and get back to work, ma’am.” There was no inflection in his tone. Neither he nor her son understood or forgave her. She bit her lip to keep from crying out and begging him to stay. Across the street she saw the judge and Rivers enter the hotel. She had to take care of business now. She’d finish this later.
She knew what they thought, it was written on their faces, the bright, expectant eyes and smiles despite Drum’s passing. She let them sit, hands folded like expectant schoolchildren anticipating cookies, and looked down at her white silk shirt, dotted with Drum’s blood, noting the dark constellations like a reversed sky.
“I’ve made up my mind,” she announced. They nodded, and Stillhart pushed the contract toward her while Rivers uncapped his pen and laid it next to the papers, in charge now that Chance was dead. The men seemed to have little reaction to his passing. She realized that he had no allies or friends among them. It was just as he’d described when they first met: no one in town wanted to know him. Thinking back, she’d always felt Chance had other irons in the fire, plans she might not like or approve of, as if he were steering her in his own secret direction. She never trusted him, and she sensed these men didn’t either. He was a stranger passing through. No past and no future. It was likely that in a few years, no one would remember he was ever here. She looked at the men before her, men she would spend the rest of her life dealing with in one way or another. They needed to understand each other.
“You know J.B. loved the Sand Hills.” The men nodded eagerly, as if anything she said now would sound perfect to their ears. “I’ve grown to love them, too. Yet I know how terribly difficult it is to live here. I’ve lost my husband and son, and now Drum—” They murmured their condolences, and it sent a small tremble through her clenched jaw because truth be told, she had lost something with his passing.
She picked up the contract, pretended to read, then dropped it on the table and stood. “I’m not signing anything. J.B. wouldn’t want this, and before he died Drum told me he no longer agreed with it.”
“We’ll sue!” Rivers said, and Stillhart swore under his breath.
“Oh, I think my father still has enough connections to stop you in court, don’t you? Besides, I’m a widow and I’ve lost a son and two husbands. You’re going to steal my land, too?”
As she left, she patted each man on the shoulder to reassure him of her continued goodwill.
Dulcinea didn’t allow the tears until after dark, halfway to the ranch with Rose, who was waiting for her in the stable when she left the hotel. The soft thudding rhythm of the loping horses muffled her sobs and Rose kept her eyes on the road in front of them. In her heart, she knew she could only give in to the overwhelming sadness this one time. The ranch and her son required too much from her now. As they approached the valley, the two women halted on the last hill as they had four months before when she had rushed home following J.B.’s death. She shook her head at how ignorant she’d been. She’d had no idea how great her losses could become. She turned to Rose.
“You know why I married Drum?” she asked.
Rose patted her horse and gave it rein to graze. “Figured it was to hold the land in your name.”
Dulcinea felt a pang at her words. What could she do, give it back to the Sioux? She and J.B. had talked about who owned the hills, and they’d never solved it either.
“We aren’t any closer to finding the murderer,” she said. The stallion pulled at the reins and tried to grab a mouthful of grass. She let out more slack.
“Maybe he’s already dead.”
Dulcinea glanced at her friend. Did she mean Drum or Cullen? “Percival Chance?”
Rose shrugged.