“Figures.” Caleb leaned on the wall and bent one knee, wedging his boot heel against the clapboard. “She didn’t leave you anything, did she?”
Trust Caleb to ask that first. He was the one who usually planned their petty thieveries and moneymaking schemes; there was always some little trinket he coveted, some luxury he just had to have, and his father damned sure wouldn’t give him the cash. Marshall Smith was as tightfisted as they came, at least with his own family. The whole town knew that Mrs. Smith and her son lived like the poorest Mexicans, while the marshall spent what he earned on himself and the pretty puta he kept in a house at the edge of town.
Sometimes Sim wondered if he was better off than Caleb. At least Evelyn hadn’t lectured him about the devil and hellfire all day and night like Mrs. Smith. Sim didn’t have his friend’s big dreams for the future, so he wasn’t disappointed. The only thing he had ever really wanted was forever beyond his reach.
Unless he could find his father.
“You better get to the Rose and make sure your ma didn’t leave anything, or one of the other girls’ll steal it for sure,” Caleb said, kicking the wall. “You have the right to take whatever she had.”
A few rags of clothes too big for a wasted body, paint to hide sunken cheeks, a handful of cheap costume jewelry. Sim wanted none of it. But he would go anyway, to make sure Ma had a decent burial. If she hadn’t saved enough, he would find the money somewhere.
His nose started to run from the effort of holding back the tears. He pulled out a handkerchief with the uneven initials stitched into the threadbare linen—S.W.K. Simeon Wartrace Kavanagh. Ma had sewn the cloth for him two Christmases ago, when she was feeling uncommonly charitable.
He shoved the handkerchief back in his waistcoat. Ma was better off dead than suffering. He’d wished her gone often enough. Hated her more than half the time. Hated what she was and what she could never be.
“Hey,” Caleb said. “I’ll make sure you get what’s coming to you, don’t worry. The ladies know me.” He slapped Sim’s shoulder. “Now you don’t have her to drag you down, you’re free. You can leave this stinking town. We can both get out of here and do all that stuff we talked about.”
“Finding lost mines and buried treasure?” Sim said. The words cracked shamefully.
“Hell, that’s only the beginning. We’ll both be rich before we hit twenty. I swear to you, brother, they’ll all remember our names.”
Caleb would make sure they remembered his. If he couldn’t force his father to pay attention to his misdemeanors around town—broken windows and pilfered store goods, mischief grudgingly permitted the marshall’s son—then he would find some other way of getting the kind of life he wanted. He would never be like his ma, trying to ignore humiliation and poverty by believing worldly goods were the paving stones to hell.
No, Caleb would take everything he could beg, borrow or steal, and he’d never look back.
“C’mon,” Caleb said, pulling at Sim’s faded flannel shirt. “Let’s go put the old bitch in her grave.”
Sim stiffened. “Don’t,” he said softly. “Don’t call her that again, Caleb.”
“Or what?” Caleb laughed. “You remember when we met? You were bawling behind the livery stable because your ma beat you and called you her ruination. She said she’d wished she’d gotten rid of you before you were born.”
“You think I don’t remember?”
“I cried once, when I was six and Ma took a belt to my back to whup the demons out of me. I used it all up then. You still have a little left in you, Sim. Get rid of it. Now the War’s over, there’s fortunes to be made in New Mexico and Arizona Territory. We got to find them lost Spanish mines and Aztec gold before someone beats us to it.” He slapped Sim’s shoulder. “We’re getting the hell out of this town, and we ain’t coming back.”
“There’s something I got to do first.”
“Go find your daddy?”
Sim acted without thinking, seizing the front of Caleb’s shirt. “What do you know about him?”
“I told you, the ladies like me.” Caleb shrugged him off. “Frank MacLean. One of the richest cattlemen in Palo Pinto county. I’m sure he’s just rarin’ to acknowledge his long-lost bastard son—if you really are his son.”
Sim backed away, striking the wall behind him instead of hitting Caleb. “Ma told me to find him. It was one of the last things she said to me. She wouldn’t have lied.”
“Then go. I ain’t gonna stop you. Maybe I’ll even wait around ’til you get some sense knocked into that hard head of yours.”
“Don’t do me any favors.”
“Hey.” Caleb grabbed Sim behind his neck and shook him like a newborn pup. He turned up Sim’s palm to display the lumpy scar made six years ago with a dull knife and an oath meant to last for eternity. “We’re blood brothers. Nothing can change that. So you do what you gotta do, and then we’ll light out of this town so fast even the dust’ll catch fire.”
Sim almost smiled. Caleb was good at painting pictures with his words, making Sim believe anything was possible. Even a whore’s son becoming one of the great MacLeans.
“I gotta go,” Sim said. “If I don’t come back, you’ll know my pa took me in.”
“Or you’re dead,” Caleb said, only half joking. “If they kill you, I’ll avenge you right proper, don’t worry about that.”
Sim pulled his hat brim lower over his eyes. “Why would they kill me?”
But Caleb didn’t have to answer. The MacLeans were rich, and also ruthless in protecting their property and their name. Frank MacLean had never come to see Evelyn after Sim was born. He could snuff out an inconvenient trespasser without attracting the slightest notice from anyone purporting to uphold the law.
Deliberately Sim rolled a cigarette, taking special care with the precious tobacco. Caleb lit it for him and rolled his own. They smoked together in silence. Sim crushed the butt under his boot and set off for the undertaker’s. Caleb went his own way, but Sim knew all he had to do was whistle and Caleb would be there, right at his side.
If Frank MacLean accepted his bastard son, Sim would try to bring Caleb in with him. Sim had never believed in fate, but he knew there were only two ways his life could go. If he didn’t find a place with his father’s family, Caleb would set the course for both of them.
Sim shivered in the afternoon heat and almost crossed himself the way his mother had taught him when he was very young. He didn’t think there were saints or angels in heaven who listened to the prayers of people like him. He wouldn’t try to pray for himself. But there was no one else to pray for her, and so he would go to the church and light a candle and pretend someone could hear him.
“Hey, kid!” Charlie shouted from the boardwalk of the Cock ’n’ Bull Saloon across the street. “She used to be a good lay, your mama.” He lifted the bottle in his hand. “Here’s to all the whores in Texas. May they never—”
He broke off as Sim turned on his heel and strode toward the saloon. His hand slapped at his hip for the gun that wasn’t there, but his expression was weapon enough. Charlie squealed and stumbled through the swinging doors.
Sim’s fingers curled around the invisible butt of his imaginary pistol. He couldn’t afford a gun. Caleb said he had something about him that worked just as well as a loaded six-shooter for scaring people off—when he chose to use it.
He went to the undertaker’s and found that his mother’s “friends” at the Rose had paid for her coffin and burial. He didn’t go to the whorehouse. He had Evelyn’s handkerchief, and that was the only memory of her he wanted to keep.
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