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  Matt figured he’d never know the truth of what happened between his parents that caused Pa to be so uncomfortable at the house. But he didn’t mind a lick that Pa stayed at a hotel when he came to visit. That was especially true tonight. The idea that Pa didn’t seem to think he had the sand and the wits for college made Matt boil with anger.

  At home, he plopped down at the kitchen table with his schoolbooks and stared blankly out the window at the dark, moonless night. Once again he got angry at Ma for dying and leaving him alone, and then the tears came.

  15

  Two weeks before the start of spring works, Patrick, Matt, and Evangelina met in chambers with Alan Lipscomb and Judge Horace Van Patten. In chronic pain from gout and with a highly publicized murder case about to go to trial, Van Patten had no desire to waste time going over the details of what was clearly a legitimate request by a responsible, law-abiding father to assume control of a minor child’s rather considerable trust.

  Spectacles perched on his nose, Van Patten quickly satisfied himself that the new trust document honored the intent and purpose of the original document drawn up for the boy’s mother before her death. He looked up and smiled at Lipscomb and his clients, who stood silently at the front of his desk, and let his gaze fall on young Matthew Kerney, a fine-looking lad indeed.

  “Do you plan to graduate from high school and continue on to college as your mother wished?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir, I do,” Matt replied. “I’m to graduate next year and start college in the fall.”

  Van Patten beamed with approval. “Excellent.” He signed the petition with a flourish, handed the documents to Lipscomb, and smiled at Patrick Kerney. “You’ve a son to be proud of, Mr. Kerney.”

  “He’s a good boy,” Patrick replied with a nod.

  “Thank you, Judge,” Lipscomb said as he tucked the documents away.

  “Yes, yes,” Van Patten said, distracted by his bailiff, who signaled from the private entrance to the courtroom that all parties had convened to present their pretrial motions.

  Outside the courthouse, Patrick and Lipscomb departed for the lawyer’s office, while Matt and Evangelina went to get Johnny, who was happily being looked after by Guadalupe. On the way, Evangelina urged Matt to come to the ranch for spring works.

  “I hadn’t planned on it,” Matt replied as they strolled along. “I’ve got studying to do for exams.”

  Evangelina stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Por favor, come. Your tía Teresa will be visiting and I promised her you’d be there. She insists we are going to have a fiesta.”

  “Does Pa know about this?”

  Evangelina nodded. “He tried to say no, but Teresa wouldn’t hear of it. She is bringing my parents, some cousins, and a few of the little ones to play with Johnny. He gets so lonely with no other children around.”

  Matt searched Evangelina’s sad face. “And you?”

  “Sí, me también,” Evangelina admitted with a cheerless smile. “We have few visitors at the ranch, and many times when he goes to town he leaves us behind.”

  “He’s a thickheaded old man who only cares about himself,” Matt blurted, still stung by Pa’s insinuation that he might not be smart enough to succeed in college. The barb stuck in him like a cactus thorn.

  “You will come, por favor?” Evangelina pleaded without uttering one word in defense of her husband.

  Matt nodded. “For you, Johnny, and Tía Teresa, I will.” He pulled her along by the arm. “Let’s get Johnny and go to the drugstore for a soda pop.”

  “I have no money,” Evangelina said apologetically.

  “It’s my treat,” Matt replied, jingling the coins in his pocket.

  Evangelina smiled. “I am so happy Johnny has you for a brother.”

  “Come on, let’s get the little rascal,” Matt said, hurrying her along.

  ***

  Anticipating that Judge Van Patten would approve Kerney’s petition, Lipscomb had arranged a meeting at the bank that held the trust fund assets on deposit. The bank president and majority stockholder, Edgar Worrell, late of Chicago, Illinois, had poured a great deal of his wealth into the institution. A former member of the Chicago Board of Trade, Worrell had made his fortune during the Great War buying and selling grain commodities. He’d relocated to Las Cruces two years ago and quickly built a reputation as the banker to see for the most profitable ways to make money in the booming stock and real estate markets. Lipscomb had recently been appointed to the board of directors by Worrell and served as legal counsel.

  A man with a thin face, long neck, and thick eyebrows, Worrell was a confirmed Anglophile who had adopted a formal Victorian manner that suited his status as a successful financier. He greeted Lipscomb and Kerney with a warm smile as he ushered them into comfortable office chairs.

  “By your presence here, gentlemen, am I to assume the petition to administer the trust has been granted by the court?” he asked in a flat midwestern accent.

  “Yes, indeed,” Lipscomb replied as he presented the document to Worrell for his inspection.

  “Excellent,” Worrell commented as he scanned through the petition and set it aside. He removed a file from a desk drawer and handed it to Patrick. “Here are the financials for your perusal, Mr. Kerney. You’ll find a summary report on top. Please note the trust grew twenty percent in the eighteen months since your predecessor, Wallace Hale, transferred the account to us. We would very much like you to consider keeping the trust with us.”

  “It says here in the summary some property got sold,” Patrick said, reading the summary. “Why was that?”

  “We felt the annual income from the agricultural land under lease was simply too inconsequential to justify retaining it in the trust portfolio. Mr. Hale agreed. He liquidated the asset and used the proceeds to buy a sizable block of stock on margin that continues to perform quite well both in terms of share value and strong earnings. That transaction alone generated over fifteen percent of the net worth increase in the trust.”

  “That makes sense, I reckon,” Patrick said. “But I personally don’t cotton to the notion of selling a good piece of land.”

  Worrell smiled appreciatively. “I understand your point of view completely.”

  Patrick ran a finger down the summary page. “I didn’t know there were any mortgages on the rental houses.”

  Worrell smiled. “Only two that were recently taken out by Mr. Hale and are serviced by us. The proceeds have yet to be disbursed and are in an interest-bearing savings account. Wallace intended to use the funds to make additional investments in the stock market. You’ll notice that the rental income on both properties slightly exceeds the monthly mortgage payments.”

  “I’m not sure I like the idea of borrowing against property when there’s no real need for it.”

  Worrell nodded agreeably. “A worthy sentiment I fully share, but in this case the risk is at most negligible and the rewards substantial.”

  “I’ll need to study on this more,” Patrick said, tapping the file with his finger.

  “Of course,” Worrell said as he slid a paper across the desk to Patrick. “If you’ll sign this authorization, you will have immediate access to the funds in the accounts. Feel free to consult with Mr. Lipscomb or myself should you have any financial questions or wish our guidance.”

  “I’ll do that,” Patrick said as he signed the form.

  “Do you require any immediate cash?” Worrell asked as he retrieved the form.

  “I surely do,” Patrick replied.

  ***

  Matt returned to the Double K two days before Tía Teresa and the others were due to arrive. He found Pa in a foul mood about the fiesta soon to be foisted on him, and Evangelina cleaning every nook and cranny of the house to avoid him and to get ready for her guests. The two weren’t talking, and when Pa sulked back silently from his after-dinner chores
he went straight for the whiskey bottle.

  While Evangelina was off putting Johnny to bed, Matt sat with Pa in the living room watching him sip his whiskey.

  “When did you start drinking again?” Matt asked.

  Pa scowled at him from behind his desk and put the glass down. “Don’t get your back up about something that ain’t your business,” he snapped.

  “You haven’t told me anything about my trust account,” Matt replied, skirting the issue, thinking he didn’t care if the old man drank himself to death.

  “Old Wallace Hale did right by you,” Pa replied. “There’s enough money to get you through high school and then some. Hell, you might just be better off than me when you turn eighteen.”

  Matt almost said that would be okay with him but thought better of it. Instead, he asked, “How come you’re mad at Evangelina?”

  “Never ask a man about his personal troubles with his wife,” Pa retorted. “It ain’t polite.”

  “Because I’m part of this family, I can ask,” Matt countered.

  Pa shook his head in disgust. “I swear I should take a switch to you. Tomorrow at first light, be ready to ride. We need to fix the windmill at the north canyon. It’s been broke since last fall, but with no cattle to water I haven’t bothered with it until now.”

  Matt, eager to avoid any further clashes with Pa, allowed he needed to look after Patches and his tack if he was to be in the saddle most of tomorrow. He left Pa to his whiskey and at the pasture fence he whistled for his pony. In the soft light of dusk he watched Patches come to him at a fast trot, head high, tail in the air. Just the sight of him took away the disagreeableness of being with Pa.

  Matt opened the gate and Patches pranced through. Fearing his schoolwork wouldn’t give him time to care for him, Matt had left Patches behind at the ranch after fall works. He silently vowed not to do that again.

  “Miss me, old boy?” Matt asked, rubbing the pony’s nose.

  Patches snorted a reply.

  “I missed you too,” Matt said. “Come along to the barn and I’ll give you a good brushing.”

  In an empty stall, Matt brushed Patches down, prettied up his mane and tail with a comb, checked his mouth and teeth, and cleaned his hooves.

  “You’ve been lazing around,” he chided as he ran a hand over Patches’ belly. “Not getting enough exercise. We’ll fix that tomorrow.”

  Patches nodded.

  “I’m fifteen soon. Three more years and we’ll be done with all this,” Matt whispered. “Ain’t too long now,” he added wistfully.

  He left Patches in the stall and by lamplight spent some time cleaning his saddle in the tack room. Finished, he doused the lamp and hung it on a hook by the open barn door. A half-moon hanging over the Sacramentos gently illuminated the dark and quiet house. As he climbed the stairs to the veranda, the thought struck him that the only time there was ever any peace at the Double K happened at night, by accident, when people were sleeping—and maybe not even then.

  ***

  When Pa concentrated on work and wasn’t fuming about this or that, he was tolerable to be around. Matt studiously avoided topics he knew would set him off, which kept things calm right up to the time Tía Teresa and her entourage appeared, spreading laughter, conversation, and good cheer. It threw Pa into such a funk, he grumbled his greetings and stomped off, not to be seen again until folks had settled in.

  When the women got busy in the kitchen, Flaviano, Miguel, and Miguel’s older brother, Juan, tracked Pa down in the barn with a bottle of liquor and enticed him to stop hiding.

  The whiskey improved Pa’s disposition enough that he did a fair job as host over dinner, snapping only once at Evangelina for not making his favorite empanadas for dessert. Silence around the table and Teresa’s fierce look of disapproval stopped him from voicing any further criticism. Matt wiped his face on a napkin to hide a smile.

  After dinner the first storm of the year chased the party into the barn. Bolts of lightning flashed across the San Andres, thunder rumbled and roared, and big, wind-driven raindrops pelted the ground. For a time everyone stood in the open barn door, silently mesmerized by the sight, faces turned skyward, breathing in the sweet scent of rain, listening to the rat-tat drumming on the roof.

  When the downpour slackened a bit, the men moved the wagon out of the barn and stacked the hay in empty stalls while the women swept the dirt floor clean. Miguel hoisted Matt on his shoulders to hang lamps from the rafters, and under the flickering lights the music began, accompanied by the crescendo of the deepening storm.

  Everyone danced, even the little ones, who twirled around the legs of their parents. Johnny did an improvised jig with Miguel’s daughter, Carmelia, who was trying to keep him off her toes. Tía Teresa gracefully swirled in the arms her oldest son, Juan. Even Pa had an arm wrapped around Evangelina as they took a turn around the floor. Matt didn’t see one unsmiling face. It was as if the storm had brought along with it a magic concoction of merriment.

  The fiesta didn’t stop until the storm ended. Under a clearing sky in half-moon light, the ground was muddy, puddles filled wagon-wheel ruts, rainwater dripped off the sloped veranda roof, and the bone-dry empty streambed that coursed through the horse pasture from the high country roared full throated with water.

  Except for Pa, folks hugged, said good night, and went off to bed. After his dance with Evangelina, he’d retreated to his whiskey, loitered for a few minutes, and then snuck away. Before turning in, Matt checked Pa’s bedroom, but he wasn’t there.

  ***

  Teresa retired to the casita pleased with the success of the fiesta but deeply worried about Evangelina. Patrick had destroyed one marriage and was on a path to ruin another. He was a drunk who neither liked nor respected Evangelina and who seemed to care not a speck for their son, Juan Ignacio.

  The reality of Evangelina’s situation made Teresa shiver. How horrible to live that way. Yet, she knew of other women in similar circumstances who stayed and endured ill treatment by cruel men. Was Evangelina one of those women unable to break away? If so, what would become of Juan Ignacio? Teresa couldn’t abide the notion of her grandnephew growing up in such misery.

  Or was Evangelina like Emma? She wasn’t sure. In recent conversations with her, not a bad word had passed between them about Patrick or her marriage. If she had the strength and desire to leave him, Teresa had yet to see it. And if she encouraged Evangelina to rid herself of Patrick, would Flaviano, who considered his daughter’s marriage to Patrick a godsend, ever speak to her again? Without hesitating, Teresa shrugged off that trifling concern. Flaviano’s disapproval mattered little compared to saving mother and son from a life of constant sorrow.

  It came to her as she slipped out of her dress and prepared for bed that if Evangelina lacked the nerve to leave Patrick, perhaps Juan Ignacio could be saved. He could live with her, see his cousins every day, go to school, attend church, and have a normal life. Surely, Evangelina would see the wisdom to such a plan and be willing to consider making such a difficult but necessary sacrifice for the sake of the boy.

  She brushed her hair in the mirror, the dim lamplight nicely softening the wrinkles and creases of her face, and slipped into her nightgown just as a soft knock came at the door. She peeked out to see Evangelina about to turn away.

  “Venga,” she said, opening the door wide.

  “No,” Evangelina said nervously, “you are in your camisón and ready for bed.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Teresa said as she took Evangelina by the hand and brought her inside. “I have been thinking about you and hoping we would have a chance to talk again, like we did at Christmastime.”

  “You were so kind to me,” Evangelina said in a weepy voice, as though it had been an uncommon event.

  Convinced that it was exactly that, Teresa said, “Come sit with me.” She patted the settee in the small sitting
room and waited for Evangelina to join her before continuing. “Have I told you I spent the first year of my married life living right here in this casita?”

  Evangelina nodded.

  “Of course I have,” Teresa said with a smile. “I’m becoming a forgetful old woman.”

  “Oh, no, Tía, there is nothing old about you.”

  “Not in my heart, I suppose,” Teresa replied. “Did you see how happy Juan Ignacio was tonight, playing with his cousins and dancing with Carmelia? What a joy it was to see. It made me wonder if you might let him come home and stay with me for a while. It would be good for both of us, I think.”

  Evangelina began to sob.

  “What is it?”

  “I have nothing here,” she gasped. “No life is worth living with a man who doesn’t care. I would be better off as a servant in town working for room, board, and a few dollars a month. At least I’d feel alive.”

  “He gives you none of the money Emma arranged to have you paid?”

  Evangelina shook her head. “Not since we married. And now he controls all of Matt’s money she left for him. He had us stand before a judge to make it legal. Although Father Morales said I must, I cannot live like this. He cares not for me or for Juan Ignacio. Not even Matthew matters to him.”

  “Does he beat you?”

  “Only with words and looks, never with his hand.”

  “You must leave him.”

  She wiped tears from her cheeks. “I have nowhere to go.”

  “You and Juan Ignacio will live with me. That will make me very happy.”

  “My father will be furious with me,” she replied with a sniffle.

  “Only for a little while,” Teresa said as she wrapped her arms around Evangelina. “I had feared you would not be strong enough to do this. How I’ve misjudged you.”