Chapter 8
Beau Ferris had been ready since dawn.
He had shaved twice, put on the gray shirt Lydia laid out for him, and walked through the rooms touching things to see them as a stranger would.
The parlor curtains were straight. The hall mirror had no spots.
The kitchen smelled of bread; Lydia had got up before him and put a loaf in.
On the dresser stood a small jar with two sprigs of new green Lydia had cut from somewhere in the yard.
The train was due at two. They would ride in together at one. He had counted the hours since six in the morning.
"You'll wear a hole in that floor," Lydia said.
"I'm not pacing."
"Pa."
"I'm walking from one end of the house to the other to inspect it."
“That’s still pacing."
"All right."
He sat down at the kitchen table. He sat down because she had asked, and because she had a way of asking that made it the right thing to do.
She was wearing the blue dress that had been her mother's, taken in at the waist now twice by Mrs. Letts.
She had braided her hair herself this morning, and the braid was not even, and he had not pointed it out.
"Don't be too quiet at the station," she said. "She'll think you don't like her."
"I'm a quiet person."
"You're quieter when you're nervous."
"I'm not nervous."
“Of course you’re nervous."
She was right. He drank a cup of coffee that had gone cool.
He set it down. He looked at the loaf in the pan, and at the jar with the sprigs, and at the back of his daughter's neck where the braid lay askew, and a private gratitude moved through him.
Whatever a man had to be in this life, he was a man who had this kitchen and this girl in it, and that was more than most.
Then the horses came up the lane.
He heard them before Lydia did. Two horses, riding steady. He stood up. Lydia turned her head.
"Pa?"
"Stay here."
"Pa, who is it?"
"Stay here, Lyddie."
She didn't stay. She came to the doorway and stood behind him as he opened the front door, and they both looked out across the dooryard at two men dismounting at the rail.
The one in front was thin, in a dark coat, with a leather case and a hat he removed at once. The one behind was broader, in a vest with a tin star. The star was not the star of Beau's county.
"Mr. Ferris?"
"That's me."
"My name is Lewis Colt. I'm a lawyer practicing in Listwood, Arizona Territory. This is Deputy Saville, of the same town. I wonder if we might come inside."
"What's it about?"
"It would be better inside."
"Tell me here."
Mr. Colt looked at Mr. Saville. Mr. Saville looked at the porch boards. Mr. Colt drew a breath and let it out.
"It concerns your brother," he said. "Hudson Ferris."
The morning went very still. Behind Beau, Lydia made a sound he would remember the rest of his life. He didn't turn to her. He couldn't yet turn to her.
"Inside," he said.
He let them through. He led them to the parlor, the room with the straight curtains and the dresser with the sprigs. He didn't sit. Mr. Colt set his case on a chair and undid the buckle, and from the case took out two folded papers, and laid them on the small table in the middle of the room.
"Say it."
"Your brother was killed four days ago in the course of an altercation at the Listwood sheriff's office. Sheriff Overn was obliged to discharge his weapon. I'm sorry to bring this news."
The word killed sat in the room. Beau set his hand flat on the back of a chair and pressed until the wood bit into his palm.
He did not look at Lydia, who had come as far as the doorway and stopped there.
He did not look at the deputy, whose face was carefully blank.
He looked at the papers on the small table.
"Show me the documents."
Mr. Colt unfolded the first. He laid it square. He turned it to face Beau.
"This is an agreement your brother signed in the saloon on the night of the twelfth.
It was witnessed by two parties. It transfers his share of your ranch to those parties in settlement of a debt incurred at cards.
The second paper, here, is your brother's countersigned waiver of any right to dispute the agreement in court. "
Beau looked, then looked again. He read the names and the date, his brother's signature with its trembling i and dragged tail, then the figure on the second paper.
"He didn't have a share to sign."
"He had. The deed records his interest in the ranch as a quarter share, registered with the Prosperity county clerk eleven years ago, in payment for his contribution from a previous gain. We have looked it up. Your brother held a quarter share. Your brother signed it over."
"He didn't have the right. We owned it together. There was no division, we just ow…”
Beau stopped talking. It had been their agreement. His and Hudson’s. Not a legal one.
"He had the right. He had a quarter share"
"Of my ranch."
"You have one week, Mr. Ferris, to make good in cash for the sum on that paper. If you cannot, the share transfers, and we will return with the buyer for an arrangement on the running of the property. Those are your options."
The room didn't move.
Behind him, Lydia was crying without sound. He could hear her breath catch. His hand tightened on the chair back until he heard the wood flex. He didn't turn.
"Get out," he said.
"You have one week."
"Get out."
Mr. Colt nodded. He gathered his papers, slowly, and folded them, and put them in the case, and buckled the case. Mr. Saville moved first, holding his hat. Mr. Colt followed. At the door, Mr. Colt paused.
"My sympathy for your brother."
Beau didn't answer.