He went on, anyway. Flames flickered reflectively on his lightly bearded face, and something distant came into his eyes and his voice.
“There was a woman we both loved. Or at least he thought he loved her — to me, it was something else. Something... base. Something animal. He was a rich man’s son and a far better catch than me, in some ways, anyhow. Still, she rejected his advances and chose me over all his money... and this creature expressed his disappointment by... by forcing himself on her.”
“Please...”
The flames reflected like flowing tears over the stony face. “Her name was Lisette. Pretty name, don’t you think? For a pretty girl. She hanged herself the night before we were to be wed.”
Though the fire was at her back, a chill went through Willa. Again, she said, “Please...”
“I confronted this vile excuse for a human in a Trinidad saloon, the Victory, which you must know of. His name was Leon Packett. Such a man’s name is not worth remembering, but when you kill a man, even a man such as this, it kind of... sticks. He was handsome enough, I suppose, to go along with that wealth, and I think he usually got what he wanted from women, one way or another.”
O’Malley sat forward, and his eyes looked past her into the flames; an intensity had him, and his words built, as if he were witnessing right now the past events he was reporting.
“He was at the bar, and I called him out. He turned toward me quick, and I drew and fired. But... he didn’t have a gun. I thought he did. But he did not. Will you think less of me, Willa, if I tell you, even so, I’m not sorry I did it? But if that was murder, it was an accidental one. Hence, manslaughter.”
“Thirty-year sentence,” Papa said, “and Burt served twenty. Harsh sentence, but the dead man’s family had money, as was said. Slice it any way you like, Burt O’Malley has paid his debt.”
Willa turned toward her sightless father. “Is this what you were hiding from me? The tragic circumstances of Mr. O’Malley’s imprisonment?”
O’Malley did not, at the moment, correct her into calling him Uncle Burt.
“No,” Papa said. “I never concealed from you that Burt here shot a man and went to prison. You knew that much, if not the particulars.”
O’Malley, his mouth smiling but his eyes unblinking, said to her, “The Kansas State Pen at Lansing, to be exact. Had to send me out of state. We still don’t have a prison in New Mexico territory. Mite backward of us, don’t you think?”
The story of how O’Malley came to go to prison had been a confession of sorts. Now it was her father’s turn.
“Daughter,” he said, and this time he was the one on the edge of his rough-hewn chair, the milky eyes on her, “when my good friend here was convicted of that crime, he signed over this ranch to me. Said he could no longer add to the Bar-O’s well-being. Though he asked nothing of me, I told him I would put twenty percent of all our profits away for him yearly. That money has been banked in Denver, under Raymond Parker’s supervision, and has grown to a considerable sum. Enough for Burt to start over and, despite the years stolen from him, still enjoy a share of success in this lifetime.”
Behind her, logs snapped and cracked with flames.
“That seems fair to me,” Willa said after a moment. She shrugged. “I have no argument with... with Uncle Burt receiving his fair share. You needn’t have kept that from me.”
O’Malley, settling back in his chair, flipped a hand. “I understand why your father was circumspect about sharin’ with you his generosity to me. Explaining to you why he was salting away a portion of his hard-earned money for a murderer wasting away in a prison cell...? Well, it would take a mature young woman to make sense of that.”
She nodded, realizing this was a compliment. “I might not have accepted this arrangement so readily in my teens. Certainly as a child, I’d have been bewildered. But I know something of the world now.”
Her father frowned, perhaps wondering whether she was referring to her kidnapping by the late, corrupt sheriff, Harry Gauge, or whether she’d possibly been thinking of the death by gunfire of her fiancé by the new, not at all corrupt sheriff, Caleb York. That she and Caleb had once been courting only made for salt in the wound.
But Willa referred to neither event, though both had certainly played a role in her new, more unsentimental view of things.
“I trust,” O’Malley said to her father, “I’m not overstepping when I say that my intention, or at least my hope, is to buy my way back into the Bar-O. To be your partner again, George.”
Her father said nothing, but his furrowed brow spoke volumes, which O’Malley had no trouble hearing.
“Is there something wrong?” their guest asked, obviously confused. “Considering your... condition, old friend, I would think having me around to help run things might be a boon. Even a blessing.”
Her father remained silent, though he was clearly searching for words.
“Or perhaps,” O’Malley said, eyebrows climbing, “I might suggest another path, considering your...”
He stopped here, but the word blindness was in the air between them.
Then O’Malley went on. “All that money you saved for me, George, has built up into a substantial sum. Perhaps we could reverse things, where I buy you out... including an ongoing, and most handsome, percentage of my profits.”
This line of talk had sat Willa up. Sell the Bar-O?
“I’m afraid, Burt,” her father said gently through a strained smile, “that’s in no way possible. Y’see, I signed the Bar-O over to my daughter a while back, and I doubt she would consider selling.”
Their guest gave her a lopsided smile. “So it’s you I should be doing business with.”
“This is still my father’s ranch,” she said, “in every sense but on paper. And the Bar-O is much larger now. When my fiancé died, I inherited a number of small spreads, all of which touch upon the existing Bar-O property.”
With half a smile, O’Malley said, “Sounds like I might not be able to afford buyin’ the Bar-O at that.”
“But,” Willa said, raising a gentle forefinger, “we might be willing to offer you one of those smaller spreads and to work together as the friendliest of neighbors. How does that sound?”
Nodding, O’Malley said, “Like a reasonable alternative, Willa. Did you have a certain ranch in mind?”
“There are several possibilities. We can ride out and have a look at them tomorrow. You can take your pick as it suits your pocketbook.”
That was fine with O’Malley.
Soon the little group repaired to the dining room and gathered at the heavy, decoratively carved dark-wood Spanish table with matching chairs that her late mother had bought across the border.
Willa played hostess, serving the beef stew and keeping coffee cups filled, while the men reminisced about the early days of the Bar-O, back when Ray Parker was still a roughneck, not a “duded-up Denverite,” as O’Malley put it. The sounds outside of the cowhands getting back and tying up their horses outside the bunkhouse and lining up at the cookhouse provided a muffled backdrop to the meal.
She had served the men and herself some apple cobbler when a knock came to the door, soft but audible. Wordlessly, she rose to answer it.
On the porch was foreman Whit Murphy, a lanky, bowlegged, droopily mustached cowboy of medium build in dusty attire — knotted yellow neck bandana, work shirt, Levi’s, and low-heeled boots. Seeing Willa, he removed his tan high-beamed Carlsbad hat and gave up a shy smile.
“Miz Cullen,” he said, “if I ain’t bargin’ in on supper, might I have a word with your daddy?”