Redeeming the Rancher (Meier Ranch Brothers 2)

“Yeah.”

“We’re sure goin’ to miss you around here. Elevatin’ the discussion to a more cultured level. Before you, it was all bathroom humor and teenage pranks.”

“What about Mona and January?”

“Who I’m talkin’ ‘bout.” Willie laughed, a gurgling, full-bodied release, contagious in nature.

Livie sampled a smile, for perhaps the first time in weeks. It felt strange, like something other people did.

“Where is this Renaissance piece comin’ to our little town?”

Livie had been minutes away from unscrewing the clamps, releasing the pipe fittings on the armature, and breaking down the sections for transport. Now, she was glad for her morose delay. She took Willie’s hand and led him to her sculpture.

“It has about five layers of latex rubber and a plaster resin for protection painted on. Some of the detailing will be lost,” she explained, “But you’ll get the idea.”

Willie extended his shaky hand. At less than a meter away from the serviceman’s arm, he made gentle contact with the splay of his fingers then bumped and glided them along in several directions before his other hand joined the excavation. She appreciated the contrast of his hands to the cream-colored mold, dark to light, grizzled to smooth.

Livie sat on a nearby hay bale. She wanted to give him space and time. Remarkable how very much alike they were in technique and curiosity. Every so often, he asked a question, rhetorical in nature.

“Well, now, what the hell is this?”

“Marines don’t wear patches on their combat uniform?”

“What’re you trying to say here, girl?”

“Ah, this fella’s got some size on him.”

Some weren’t even true questions, but they were welcome, all the same. It was like having a live mic attached to the finished statue and picking up sound byes and reactions from passers-by. At the back piece, Willie lingered, paying special tactile attention to two little girls parading behind the Marine, under the canopy of the Stars and Stripes.

“Children,” he said. “Girls.”

“Yes. Their story will be included on a plaque from the Historical Society. My gift to the town.”

Willie pulled his hands away from the sculpture, close to his heart, and squeezed them closed. He grew strangely silent.

Livie’s heart leapt from her chest. She bolted to his side. “Willie? Are you okay?”

He didn’t answer. His face was stone, his eyes glazed and distant. Horrible scenarios flashed through her brain: heart attack, stroke, temporary dementia.

“Willie, speak to me.”

His chin trembled. “Their names?”

Livie reeled herself back from thinking the worst. His color was good. He stood tall. And, quite possibly, he was crying.

S

he glanced at the two girls as if seeing them with new eyes. Her brain did the math. Willie was seventy-six. In the 1960s, he would have been a young man the right age to have…

“Oh my God,” Livie said, more to herself. Black men were not a dime a dozen in Close Call, Texas. All this time, she had been as blind as he. “Augusta and Mildred were your daughters.”

It’s a family marker from the days of segregation. Two beautiful girls’ lives cut short simply because they wanted a drink of water on a hot Texas afternoon. Darkest day in Close Call’s history.

She waited for confirmation, unable to draw air.

Willie nodded, his movement barely perceptible.

“I didn’t know…” How would she, unless she had let Wes see her sketches or unless the Meiers brought up Willie’s history? Resurrecting pain from the past was something people like her did to exploit and manufacture human emotion, not something that those who considered him family would have done. “Oh, God, Willie…if I had known…”