Ginna Gray - The Ties That Bind

“Yeah,” J.T. agreed in a subdued tone. “After all she’d already been through, she sure didn’t deserve that.”

Swinging his legs over the side, Matt sat on the edge of the bed. “Funny. That possibility never occurred to me. I always assumed she gave me away because she didn’t want me.”

“Deep down, I think we all did,” Zach said quietly. “We were too young to understand anything else.”

Matt thought that over, then nodded and resumed reading.

“‘Dear Lord, what am I going to do? I can’t afford to be sick. My babies need me. On top of that, I have no idea how I’ll pay for the treatment, but without it I’ll surely die. What will become of the boys if that happens? Daddy won’t have them. Even if he would, I don’t want my boys to grow up under his iron-fisted rule or to bear the brunt of his hatred for their father. God help me. And them.

“‘March 6th. I started treatment today. Feel even worse. Nausea is awful.’”

For the next eight months the entries were about the treatment and the ghastly side effects. And her growing financial worries. Within weeks she could no longer work. It was all she could manage to take care of her three toddlers. Left with no alternative, she was forced to go on welfare.

Despite aggressive treatment, her condition continued to worsen, and in December, after nine months of struggle, Colleen accepted the inevitable and wrote of her decision to ask Reverend Clayton help her find homes for her sons.

“‘November 23rd. Reverend Clayton and Mr. Thomas, Aunt Clara’s attorney, are handling the adoptions. I would like to interview the prospective couples myself, but the family court judge will not allow it. Even though these are private adoptions he demands complete anonymity on both sides, and afterward the adoption records will be sealed.

“‘The reverend and Mr. Thomas have tried but they couldn’t find a family willing to take three two-year-olds so it appears the boys will have to go to different couples. Oh, how I hate to think of them being separated. They are not only losing me, but each other, as well. But what choice do I have?

“‘January 10th. Reverend Clayton has selected three couples. I trust his judgment and I’m sure they will all be wonderful parents, but I can’t quite bring myself to commit to them. It shreds my heart just to think about handing my babies over to strangers and never seeing them again. For the boys’ sake, though, I have to stop being selfish. They are typical rambunctious toddlers, and I’m so weak now and in so much pain that I can barely get out of bed some days. I worry that I’m not giving them proper care.

“‘January 15th. Well, I’ve done it. I’ve agreed to the adoptions and signed all the papers. Reverend Clayton had the medallion made and cut, like I asked him, and all the couples have agreed to give them to the boys when they are older. I just hope that someday it will help them find one another again.’”

Matt turned the page, scanned it, then flipped over several more before turning back. “Looks like there’s just one more entry. After that there are just blank pages.”

“Go ahead. Let’s hear it,” J.T. said.

“‘February 24th. Today was the worst day of my life. I gave my babies away. Two social workers came and took them. I cuddled and kissed them for the last time, and I think they knew something was wrong. As they were being carried out they screamed and cried and held their arms out to me, calling ‘Mommie! Mommie!’ It broke my heart. Dear Lord, it hurts. It hurts so much I don’t think I can bear it. I want to die. Without my babies I have nothing to live for. Please, God. Please. Let me die now. Please.’”

Matt exhaled a long sigh and slowly closed the journal. A heavy silence hung in the room.

Colleen Rafferty was dead. The rush of disappointment and grief took Zach by surprise. For Pete’s sake. He had no memories of her. Until he’d seen that photograph he hadn’t even known what she looked like. Why did it bother him so much to learn that she was dead?

“Well, that’s it. Now we know,” J.T. said finally.

Zach gave a little snort. “Yeah. Now we know. For all the good it did us.”

The horse snorted and danced in the narrow chute. His ears lay back flat to his head and his eyes rolled, showing white all around.

“Better watch ’im, Zach. This here’s one mean side-winder,” one of the handler’s cautioned.

Zach nodded, studying the furious bronc with satisfaction. Hellbent was a good draw. Zach knew if he could hang on for the count he’d finish in the money. Maybe even in first place.

Ignoring the canned music and the announcer’s deep baritone blaring from the speakers, the crowd cheering on the contestant in the ring, he kept a wary eye on the fractious animal and eased down from his perch on the side of the chute and into the saddle. Immediately he felt the horse’s muscles bunch. Squeezing his knees tighter, he wound the reins around his left hand.

“Up next in the chute, from Gold Fever, Colorado, is Zach Mahoney.”

A cheer went up, and Hellbent tried to rear, hammering the gate with his hooves.

“Zach is— Whoa! Watch out there, Zach. You got yourself a mean one today.”

Between them, Zach and the handlers subdued the horse, but he felt the animal quiver with rage and knew he was in for a wild ride. He tugged his Stetson down more snugly on his head. Wrapping the reins tighter around his gloved hand, he adjusted his position and paused to gather his focus. When he was ready, he raised his right hand.

The gate flew open and Hellbent leaped out into the arena, eleven hundred pounds of bucking, snorting fury, his massive body arching and twisting and spinning.

Zach’s hat went flying on the third buck. In rhythm with the violent movements, he raked his blunted spurs over the horse’s shoulders and kept his right hand high in the air while his upper body flopped back and forth in the saddle like a rag doll. Every time Hellbent’s front hooves hit the ground Zach felt the jarring impact shoot up his spine all the way to the top of his head.

The crowd in the stands became a blur as the horse spun and pitched and did everything in his power to dislodge him. Never had eight seconds seemed so long. Zach’s thigh muscles began to quiver from the strain of gripping the horse’s flanks, but he gritted his teeth and hung on.

After what seemed like forever, in his peripheral vision he saw a pickup rider move in, and an instant later the horn blared, signaling the end of the ride. Zach grabbed the pickup rider’s arm and shoulder, lunged from the saddle and swung to the ground.

“What a great ride! Let’s give Zach a big hand, folks,” the announcer urged.

While the crowd clapped and cheered and the pickup riders caught Hellbent and led him away, Zach scooped up his hat, gave it three hard knocks against his pant leg to remove the dust, set it back on his head and ambled for the pens, doing his best to not limp. With each step pain shot through his left leg and hip—a nasty little memento from the enraged bull that had given him a toss four days ago. Damn. He was getting too old for this.

Most of the cowboys on the rodeo circuit were in their twenties. Some were even in their teens. Zach’s mouth took on a wry twist. Yeah, and there’s a reason for that, Mahoney, he thought. By age thirty-six they’re either too busted up to compete or they’ve wised up.

Not until Zach reached the exit gate did he allow himself to look over his shoulder and check his score. Yes! The ride had put him in the lead. Not bad for an old man.

By the time he made his way through the clutch of riders and handlers and accepted their congratulations, the last contestant was picking himself up out of the dirt, and Zach knew he’d won the top purse in the bronc riding event. Maybe even Best All Around, as well, but he wouldn’t know that for an hour or so when all the events were over. He’d come back then for the finale, but in the meantime he was going to his RV to apply heat to his aching hip and leg.

After retrieving his saddle and bridle, Zach slung them over his shoulder and headed back to his motor home in the camping area behind the rodeo arena. Halfway there a man in a FedEx uniform intercepted him with an overnight letter.

Zach frowned. Who the devil would be sending him a registered letter? He turned the envelope this way and that, but the return address was too faint to make out in the dim light of the parking lot.

When he stepped into the RV his cell phone was ringing. Zach dumped the saddle and bridle just inside the door, tossed his Stetson on the sofa and snatched it up. “Yeah, Mahoney here.”

“Zach, it’s J.T.”

Surprise darted through him. He hadn’t heard directly from either of his brothers since they’d they parted company in Clear Water, Montana, nine months ago.

No matter how much Kate and Matt’s wife, Maude Ann, might wish otherwise, the brotherly connection just wasn’t there.

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“Have you gotten an overnight letter from the Manning and Manning law firm yet?”

Zach checked out the return address on the envelope he still held. “It just came. I haven’t had a chance to open it yet. How did you know about it?”

“Because Matt and I each received the same letter a couple of hours ago.”

“Oh? What’s going on?”

“You’re not going to believe this. The letters are from Seamus Rafferty’s attorney, Edward Manning, notifying us of the old man’s death and that we’re beneficiaries in his will.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Nope. The old coot passed away yesterday. I called the law firm and talked to Edward Manning. He’s waiting to hear from us before scheduling the funeral so he can allow plenty of time for us to get there.”

“The hell you say. I’m not going to that old devil’s funeral.”

“I understand how you feel. That was Matt’s first reaction. Mine, too. But the Rocking R meant a lot to Colleen. She obviously felt it was our heritage. If Seamus leaves us so much as one square foot of the place, we owe it to her to accept it.”

Zach rubbed the back of his neck and looked up at the ceiling, torn between resentment and a nagging sense of obligation and loyalty to the mother he couldn’t remember. Damn. He didn’t need this.

Although…J.T. did have a point.

He sighed. “All right. I’ll go.”

The January wind swooping down the snowy mountain slopes cut to the bone, causing several people to huddle deeper in their coats and shiver. Gray clouds scudded overhead, heavy with the threat of more snow to come. The dank smell of freshly dug, frozen earth hung in the air. From the nearby stand of pines came the raucous cawing of a raven, and in the valley the cattle lowed mournfully, as though aware of the event taking place in the small family cemetery on the slope above the ranch house.

“Dear Lord, we commit unto your keeping the soul of Seamus Patrick Rafferty.” The minister picked up a handful of dirt and dropped the frozen clods onto the coffin. “Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. May God have mercy on your soul.” Clutching his Bible to his chest, he lowered his head. “Let us pray.”

Reverend Turner’s dolorous voice droned on, but Willa Simmons barely heard him. She was too angry and upset. Refusing to look at the three men standing shoulder to shoulder on the opposite side of the grave, she kept her gaze focused on the casket. They had no right to be there. No right at all.

The sun glinted off one of the coffin’s silver handles, and Willa’s eyes narrowed. Her hands curled into fists. It’s your fault that they’re here. Damn you, Seamus. How could you?