“No. Only my ma. I almost wish he had, to spare her some misery. How she put up with it, I will never know.”
“Are they still together?”
“My pa died when I was twelve. He was on his way home one night, drunk as usual, and someone stabbed him to death in the alley behind our house. Stabbed him twenty-seven times.”
“Mercy me. Did they catch who did it?”
“No.” If they had, I wouldn’t be sitting there. I’d warned him to leave Ma lone. I’d told him that I could not stand him hurting her. And what did he do? Pa had ruffled my hair and said I had it backwards, that kids did not tell their parents what to do, that the parents tell the kids. He went on and on about how I was too young to understand, and how I should not meddle in what grown-ups did. The very next night, he beat her. The worst beating ever. He split her ear and broke her nose and knocked a tooth out. Afterward, I could hear him snore, and her cry and cry and cry until she cried herself to sleep. I made myself a promise it would never happen again.
Pa always came by the alley. His favorite watering hole was at the end of the block, and he would cut through to our back door. I had taken the big carving knife from our kitchen and waited for him behind some barrels. He came staggering along, muttering to himself. When I jumped out, it startled him. “I don’t have any money!” he cried. Then he saw it was me.
“What the hell are you doing out here, boy?”
“You’re not to hurt Ma anymore” was my reply. I can still remember the smooth feel of the knife handle, and how the blood roared in my veins.
“We’ve been all through that. Get home.” Pa lumbered forward and swatted at me with the back of his hand.
Skipping aside, I crouched and held the knife out. “Stop where you are, Pa.”
“What’s that you’ve got there?” he demanded. In his befuddled state it was a few seconds before he swore and snarled, “You dare pull a knife on me? On your own flesh and blood?”
“One of these days you could kill her.”
Pa’s cheeks puffed out and he sputtered, “She put you up to this, didn’t she? Sending my own son against me.”
“It was my idea, not hers.”
But Pa was not listening. He was working himself into a rage. “It’s just like her. The bitch! I try and try, but all she does is nag and gripe and wear me down. But even that’s not enough.”
“She didn’t send me, Pa.”
“Don’t lie. It won’t do any good trying to protect her. You think I’ve hurt her before? You haven’t seen nothing yet.”
“Don’t talk that way. Please.”
Pa swatted at me again, but I was too nimble. “Stand still, you blamed grasshopper. Take your medicine like a man.”
“I mean it, Pa.”
“Out of my way, I say!”
I skipped backward and tripped over my own feet. The next I knew, he had me by the front of the shirt and shook me so hard, my teeth crunched. He cast me down like a used rag and stepped over me, his big fists clenched.
“Now for your ma.”
To this day I do not remember jumping on his back. I vaguely recollect having one arm around his neck and stabbing with the other, again and again and again and again, until I was so exhausted I could not lift my arm. I became aware of him on his belly, of me on top, of the damp, sticky feel of his blood on my hands and my clothes. I don’t recall how I got home. Ma undressed me and threw my clothes in the fireplace; that part I do remember. I remember her putting me in bed, and later, the knock on the door and the voices.
Ma knew. She had to know. But she did not tell them. At the funeral she held me close, her fingers digging into my shoulders. Thereafter, late at night, I would hear her sob and sniffle. I thought she was crying for my pa, but maybe she wasn’t. She became sad all the time. She never smiled. She would not eat. Gradually she wasted away until winter felled her with chills and fever, and by spring I did not have any parents at all.
“Reverend Storm? Are you listening?”
I snapped back to the here and now and realized we were near the ranch. I had not thought about my pa in a long time. I try not to. It’s hell when the first man you ever killed is your own father. “Sorry, ma’am. My mind wandered.”
“I inquired as to which denomination you belong to.”
Damn me for a fool. No one ever asked that before. “Denomination?” I stalled.
“Yes. Are you Baptist, Methodist, Lutheran, what? Not that it makes much difference. Their beliefs are a lot alike, aren’t they? Although I do hear that some denominations let their ministers marry and some don’t.”
I looked at her. No, it couldn’t be, I told myself. But she had me in a pickle if I picked one she knew more about than I did, which wouldn’t take much knowing. Then I remembered a real parson I met once. “I’m Presbyterian, Miss Modine.”
“What a coincidence! So am I.”
I wanted to rip out my tongue and stomp it to death. “You don’t say.”
“Which group do you belong to?”
This was getting worse by the second. I clutched at a straw she had unwittingly offered. “Does it make much of a difference?”
“No, I guess it really doesn’t. Not to me, anyway. But the Old School and New School have been at odds with each other since before the Civil War. I never have approved of slavery, so I must be New School.”
I was foundering in water over my head. The best I could do was say, “It’s a shame we can’t all live in peace and harmony.”
Calista put her hand on my arm and smiled the sweetest of smiles. “If only everyone believed as you do, this world would be a wonderful place.”
I had wriggled off the hook, but I was wary as I guided the team past a corral and stable to the broad porch that fronted the main house. Our dust had been seen from a ways off, so our hosts were out to greet us.
Gertrude Tanner wore another splendid dress and had done things with her hair that softened the hard lines of her face. But she could not do anything about her eyes, which were the eyes of a bird of prey.
Lloyd Tanner was not what I expected. He was short, for one thing, with shoulders that drooped, a wispy mustache, and lackluster blue eyes. Shaking his hand was like shaking a towel. He had no more vitality than a corpse.
The son was another matter. Phil Tanner was as tall as his mother and had the same hard features. His mouth was not so much a mouth as a slit. When he shook my hand he tried to crush my fingers, but I gave as good as I got and he looked down in surprise. Right then I took a dislike to him, but I reminded myself that business was one thing and my personal likes another and I must not mix the two.
“Reverend Storm, you honor us,” Gertrude sparkled, linking her arm with mine. “You must be thirsty after your long ride. Come inside. I will have the maid bring refreshments.”
Not many ranchers’ wives had maids. As a general rule, the wives are usually as hardy as their husbands and do the cooking and housework themselves. That Gertrude did not said a lot about Gertrude.
The house was not what I expected, either. Most ranchers were content with enough creature comforts to get by. The Tanners smothered themselves in plush carpet, mahogany furniture, crystal lamps, and the like. Walking into their home was like walking into the finest mansion. They had spared no expense. It made me wonder where the money came from. Savvy ranchers could reap high profits, but Tanner would need a spread five times the size of his to account for so lavish a spending spree.
The parlor was as grand as that of a fancy sporting house I had been to last year in Denver. I practically sank into the cushions on the settee. I remembered to remove my hat and balanced it on my knee.
Gertrude roosted in a straight-backed chair across from me. She gestured, and a maid came out of nowhere, a homely thing in her middle years who stood at attention as if she were a soldier in the army. Gertrude fired off several commands. The maid nodded and hastened out.
Lloyd crossed his legs, then uncrossed them, then crossed them again. “I must say it is an honor to have
