Backlands Page 2

  At the grocer’s she stomped her feet to shake off the wet snow as Sam Miller came round the counter smiling broadly in greeting, his round cheeks bright pink as always.

  “Why, Emma, you’re up and about,” he said jovially.

  “And feeling fit as a fiddle,” Emma replied.

  “That sure is good to hear. What all do you need this morning?”

  Emma opened her purse. “I came to pay my bill and set aside a few things to pick up later for dinner.”

  “Happy to oblige,” Sam replied as he slipped behind the counter and reached for the account book he kept on a shelf beneath the shiny, nickel-plated cash register. After he read off the amount Emma owed, he studied her carefully as she counted out bills and coins from her purse. She seemed smaller, swallowed up in her heavy winter coat, and her features, while still attractive, were sunken. She looked frail and worn in spite of her good humor.

  Sam counted the money, rang it up on the cash register, and then helped Emma pick out what she needed to fix Matthew an extra-special dinner.

  “No need to stop back by,” he said as he wrapped up a freshly dressed chicken, several baking potatoes, and the fixings for a peach pie. “I’ll have my boy bring the groceries by your house around the noon hour.”

  Emma smiled brightly. “Thank you, Sam. That will be perfect.”

  “You take care not to stay out in the cold for long,” Sam said with concern as he entered Emma’s purchases in his account book. Through the large plate-glass window, snow was blowing hard down Main Street again.

  Emma laughed as she turned toward the door. “Don’t you worry about me, Sam Miller. The bank is just a few steps away.”

  Sam watched Emma pass by the store’s front window. Most everybody in town knew she was likely to die soon from a bad heart, and it was a damn shame. She’d suffered hardships, especially her divorce and the loss of CJ in the war, came through it all with spunk and spirit, and made a good life for herself and young Matt. As far as Sam was concerned, Emma Kerney deserved a far better hand than the one fate had dealt.

  ***

  As a single young man, Henry Bowman had come to Las Cruces with his widowed father, George, after making a sizable amount of money selling tractors door-to-door to farmers across the upper Midwest during the closing years of the old century. Almost immediately upon their arrival, father and son bought majority shares in a struggling bank and quickly turned it into a successful enterprise by attracting both Mexican and Anglo merchants with attractive loan rates and personal service. With George Bowman’s death five years ago, Henry took over as bank president and doubled the loan department staff to keep pace with the burgeoning real estate market. Initially, he’d moved into his father’s old office without changing a thing other than placing a framed photograph of his dad on the wall above the tall wooden cabinet that held the files of the bank’s most important clients. From his perch, George gazed down on his son and his clients with the look of a man who knew the value of a dollar and the importance of hard work.

  Although the office furnishings were out-of-date, Henry liked the old-fashioned, ornate breakfront bookcase; the large writing desk, which held an inkstand and postal scale, placed there solely for ornamentation; and the two high-backed chairs for clients, which fronted the desk. His only concessions to change were a comfortable new solid oak revolving desk chair on casters and a mahogany standing coatrack conveniently placed next to the office door.

  He rose quickly when Emma Kerney stepped into his office, helped her out of her coat, and ushered her to one of the high-backed chairs in front of his wide desk, where he joined her, scooting his chair sideways a bit to have a better look at her. In the two months since he’d last seen her, Emma’s pretty blue eyes had grown paler, her face more aged, and her cheeks hollow. A woman with a small frame and long legs that made her seem taller than she really was, she now had a slight bend to her once perfect carriage.

  Emma had enchanted Henry Bowman from the day they had first met almost twenty years ago, and the feeling hadn’t changed one iota since. Although he’d never spoken of it to her, he felt certain that she knew.

  “It’s good to see you,” he said with a smile.

  “It’s good to see you as well, Henry,” Emma replied.

  Over the years, Henry had become portly as a result of sitting behind a desk, and a moon-shaped bald spot had spread over the top of his head. He was a sincere, serious-minded man not given to lightheartedness or small talk.

  “How is your family?” Emma asked.

  “Everyone is fine,” Henry replied.

  “Give Martha my best,” Emma said.

  “Of course,” Henry said, eager to move the conversation off the subject of his wife, whom Emma always made a point to mention. “I’m glad you stopped by. An interesting and profitable offer has been tendered on two of your commercial lots just west of the city limits. But before we discuss that, how are you feeling?”

  Emma laughed. “First Sam Miller and now you. Seems everyone is concerned about my health. I’m fine today.”

  Henry shook his head sternly in rebuke. “Every soul in town who knows you knows how sick you’ve been with your heart condition. So again I ask: How are you?”

  Emma paused. Over the years Henry had been a trusted adviser who had never pried into her personal life. When she was carrying CJ, he’d suggested it would be smarter to buy a house rather than rent while she lived in town during her pregnancy. After her divorce, he’d guided her into some wise investments and profitable opportunities. He deserved an honest answer.

  “You’re very kind to be concerned,” she said, holding up a hand to stem a look of remonstration forming on Henry’s face. “Today, honestly, I’m feeling much better, but I don’t know how long that will last. Not long, I think, and my doctor agrees. He’s told me time and again that any one of a number of things can kill me and that it’s a miracle I’ve survived as long as I have. So let’s talk business, instead of worrying about my ailments. I want to make sure there’s enough money to see Matthew through after I’m gone.”

  “It’s hard to imagine your passing,” Henry said glumly. “Not a pleasant notion to consider at all.”

  Emma smiled. “Now, don’t get all soppy on me, Henry. There’s nothing to be done, no good reason for me to complain about it, and no need to be downcast. When I do go, I’d like it to be as quick as possible. The idea of being a helpless, bedridden invalid mortifies me. Now, tell me about the offer on my lots that you mentioned.”

  Henry composed himself, nodded, rose, and went to his desk. “In a moment. Have you put your legal matters in order?”

  “I thought first I’d speak with you about finances and then visit with Wallace Hale.”

  “That’s very wise.” Henry reached for the telephone. “Let’s see if Wallace can meet with us within the hour. By then we should know exactly how much your estate will be able to provide for Matthew’s care, and he can advise you on the best way to legally ensure it will serve Matthew’s needs only.”

  Emma adjusted herself in the chair. “That’s exactly what I want. Please call him.”

  Henry placed the call, confirmed that Wallace Claiborne Hale would join them shortly, fetched Emma’s file from his locked cabinet behind the desk, settled into his chair, and read aloud the particulars of the offer on the lots. When he finished, he suggested that the interested party might be willing to pay ten percent more than the asking price. If so, the net profit would be almost quadruple what Emma had paid for the land four years ago.

  “The buyer wants to close quickly,” he added. “Shall I approach him with a counteroffer?”

  Emma nodded her agreement. “The timing couldn’t be better.”

  “I’ll see to it,” Henry promised.

  “With this sale and the income from my remaining properties, is there sufficient annual income to see Matthew thro
ugh for at least the next ten years?”

  Henry opened Emma’s file, slid his chair in front of the adding machine at the corner of the desk, and began paging through documents, entering numbers. Emma Kerney owned three houses that were rented out, eighty acres of pasture near the river leased to a dairy farmer, two additional vacant commercial lots, and her home on Griggs Avenue. He ran a total of the projected annual income and deducted a reserve for taxes, upkeep, repairs, loss of rental income, and trust administration fees.

  “I’m assuming you would want to sell the remaining commercial parcels and put the money into Matthew’s trust,” he proposed. “It could be used to make up any shortfalls in income that occur, and the balance will continue to earn interest.”

  “Should I do that now?”

  “It might be best. The interested buyer plans on building an automobile dealership and a large garage on the lots. Once the sale goes through, I know several speculators who will be very interested in the remaining parcels at the same if not a slighter higher price.”

  “Sell them as soon as you can,” Emma said.

  “What about your home?” Henry asked. “Sell it also when the time comes?”

  Emma’s eyes widened at the unhappy thought, and she paused momentarily. “I’d like Matthew to keep it, if possible. After all, it’s his home too. He can sell it when he’s grown, if he has a mind to.”

  “Very well.” He put the papers carefully back in order and closed the file. “Taking into account expenses, there’s enough to provide Matthew an annual income of fifteen hundred dollars.”

  “Over the next ten years?” Emma asked, relieved to hear that her investments would yield enough to adequately support a whole family, not just a single person.

  “Yes, but I’m assuming we’ll have rent going into the trust from the Griggs Avenue property. Matthew can’t live there alone after your passing, and there are no relatives to care for him other than his father.”

  Emma leaned forward and fixed Henry Bowman with an intent gaze. “After I’m gone, Patrick Kerney must have no rights to Matthew’s inheritance or how the trust is to be used on his behalf. He can be a father to his son, if that’s at all possible, but have no say-so about the money. Promise me that.”

  “I understand,” Henry said soothingly. “But it could very well become contentious even with proper legal safeguards in place. That’s what lawyers are for.”

  Emma bit her lip.

  “What is it?” Henry asked.

  Emma shook her head. She wanted to say how badly she wished for ten more years to raise Matthew, but it would only sound self-pitying. “Nothing,” she said brightly.

  A knock at the door and the announcement by Henry’s clerk that Wallace Claiborne Hale had arrived saved Emma from further questioning. The clerk stood aside and Hale filled the open doorway, his curly hair damp with wet snow, the overcoat draped on his arm dripping snowmelt on the polished wood floor.

  “It’s a blizzard out there like I’ve not seen before,” he announced in his booming courtroom baritone, smiling broadly at Emma. “You must allow me to drive you home after our meeting.”

  “Thank you,” Emma said. “That would be very nice.”

  “Very thoughtful of you, Wallace,” Henry chimed in, unhappy with himself for not having offered to do the same sooner.

  Wallace Hale nodded in agreement as he sat next to Emma. “It will be my pleasure.” A tall man with a thin frame and long legs, Hale had a narrow nose and thick, bushy eyebrows. He studied Emma’s face. “I hope that seeing you up and about means that you are recovered from your illness.”

  “Not entirely,” Emma replied.

  Wallace smiled knowingly. “I thought not. Otherwise there would be no rush for the three of us to meet.” He turned to Henry Bowman. “What is the issue I am here to address?”

  “We have agreed upon a trust plan for Matthew that should carry him comfortably through ten years after Emma’s death. She wants Matthew’s father to be barred from access to the trust.”

  Wallace leaned back. “That is certainly possible, simply by appointing someone other than Patrick as the trust administrator with the power of attorney to use the funds on Matthew’s behalf within a specified scope of authorized expenditures. I can have a draft prepared within a few days.”

  He paused and waved a cautionary finger. “However, remember that as the surviving parent, Patrick Kerney will have full legal rights to raise Matthew as he sees fit. If he finds himself at odds with the conditions of the trust, he might hire a lawyer to contest it before a judge.”

  “Can’t it be made ironclad?” Emma asked.

  “Few marital and family legal issues are that clear-cut and tidy,” Wallace replied. “As a result, courts and judges have traditionally more leeway when deciding upon matters pertaining to minors. I will promise you a trust document that legally meets your need to provide for Matthew according to your wishes, but I cannot guarantee the outcome of any future challenges brought to it in a court of law.”

  “This is not what I was hoping for.”

  Wallace smiled sympathetically. “Of course it isn’t. But remember, your ex-husband has a good reputation as a rancher, businessman, and law-abiding citizen, which means mounting a challenge against the trust might succeed if he can convince a judge it would be in Matthew’s best interest to do so.”

  Emma bit her lip. “Make it as difficult for Patrick as possible.”

  Wallace nodded. “It’s too bad your ex-husband hasn’t had any serious run-ins with the law. The court wouldn’t look kindly upon that.”

  “I think maybe he did as a young man,” Emma said.

  Wallace raised his eyebrows. “Do you have specifics?”

  Emma shook her head. “He never talked about it. That’s no help, is it?”

  “No,” Wallace said as he checked his watch and stood. “I’m due to meet with a judge shortly. Let me get you home, if you don’t mind my rush.”

  “Not at all,” Emma said as Henry hurried to get her coat.

  “We’ll have something for you to review by the end of the week,” Wallace said. “Think about whom you’d like to be a trust administrator.”

  Emma smiled at the men. “Both of you will do nicely, if you’re agreeable. That way I’ll be sure Matthew will be well looked after.”

  “As you wish,” both men said simultaneously.

  ***

  It was still snowing lightly when school got out. The heavy, wet stuff was perfect for making snowballs, so Matthew, Jimmy Potter, and Joe Pete Johnson battled their way against a gang of four older boys all the way to Main Street, until they broke off the fight and ducked inside Sam Miller’s store, laughing and red-faced, where Matt bought a round of hard candy with some of the money Ma had given him that morning.

  The three boys lived in the same neighborhood and had been friends forever. Jimmy was the bravest, Joe Pete the toughest, and Matt the smartest and the tallest, towering a good two inches above his pals. Because of that and his somewhat serious nature, most folks pegged him as older.

  On the chance they might get waylaid, they waited until the four older boys were nowhere to be seen before splitting up. As Matt was leaving the store, Mr. Miller told him that his ma had been in earlier to buy the fixings for a special dinner she had planned for tonight.

  “I was glad to see her out and about,” Mr. Miller added.

  “Me too,” Matt replied with a big grin. “What’s she fixing?”

  Mr. Miller shook his head. “I’m not telling. You need to get on home to find that out.”

  “I will.”

  Hearing that Ma was still feeling better gave Matt a powerful good feeling. Maybe things could get back to normal again. Still grinning, he ducked into the drugstore, hoping to find the book he’d secreted at the bottom of the used-book bin under a thick volume of famous quotes by f
amous people. With Flintlock and Fife: A Tale of the French and Indian Wars was still there. He paid a dime for it and started home, eager to read it and find out what Ma had planned for dinner.

  Although he was good at all his subjects in school, Matt loved reading best. Happily, the book report due in two weeks could be on any subject he wanted to write about, and With Flintlock and Fife was just the kind of story Matt liked: brave soldiers fighting for a worthy cause, just like his brother, CJ, had done in the Great War.

  In his dresser, carefully wrapped in a leather pouch, Matt kept CJ’s medals, which the army had sent home to Ma months after his death in France. The Victory Medal had a silver star for gallantry and the Meuse-Argonne battle clasp on the ribbon. The other medal was the Croix de Guerre, from the French government, awarded for feats of arms.

  CJ had been a war hero. Just about everybody in Las Cruces knew the story of how he’d run away from home, lied about his age, and became the youngest sergeant in his regiment before shipping overseas. It always filled Matt with pride and sadness whenever folks talked about his brother. He intended to be a soldier like CJ when he grew up, but he knew better than to say anything to Ma, who would surely give him what for about it.

  At home, although keen to learn what Ma was fixing for dinner, he checked on Patches first, laid down fresh straw, broke the ice on the water trough, and fed him a bucketful of oats. After dinner he’d muck out the stall before starting in on his homework.

  He stepped inside and shucked his coat. The delicious smell of a roasting chicken made his mouth water and his stomach grumble. He called out to Ma but got no answer. She wasn’t in the kitchen, but a fresh-baked, delicious-looking peach pie sat on the table. A slice had been cut out and left on a plate as a snack. He wolfed it down and looked for her in the sitting room and her bedroom. With his heart thumping with worry he called out to her again and knocked hard on the closed bathroom door.

  “Ma, are you in there?” he asked, his voice rising.