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“I’ll keep you in the loop, don’t worry. Just hang tight for a little while. The party’s still going, but it should be winding down before too long.”
We disconnect, and I watch the large drops of rain coating the outside of my windshield in a glassy sheen. I’m amazed the party didn’t end with the fight, but I guess teenagers are more resilient these days.
I grip the steering wheel, tightening my fists over and over. This is worse than being at school. I can only trust she’s okay, trust she’s not crying or starting to believe bad things about me. I don’t even know what I’m being accused of doing, other than having the wrong last name.
How could I not know about a connection between our families? Has Angel known all this time? Is that why she kept putting off our meeting? I want to be pissed at her, but the tears in her eyes make it impossible.
Turning the key in the ignition, I decide I have to fill this space of time with something. I hit the gas and head in the direction of our family’s estate.
“My goodness, Deacon, it’s almost eleven. What in the world are you doing here? You’ll spoil my beauty rest.”
The kitchen is dim-lit, and she stands on the other side of a dark granite bar from me. Winnie’s hair is in a cream satin turban, and she’s wearing a blue velvet robe. She looks like something out of an old movie.
“It’s Saturday, Win. You can sleep late in the morning.”
“I absolutely cannot. I’m expected to be in our family pew at the Presbyterian church at eleven.” She flicks her hand as if I’m being obtuse and goes to a small wet bar in the opposite corner of the large, updated room. “I would think you might deign to join me sometimes.”
“I’ll see what I can do. First, I need some information.”
“Information?” She wraps her robe tighter around her neck and turns the tap on the small hot water faucet, filling a teacup. I watch as she adds a slice of lemon and returns to me, looking up expectantly. “About what?”
“What’s the connection between Grandpa Dring and Manuel Treviño?”
If I hadn’t been watching her so closely, I might’ve missed the flinch in her eyes. She blinks down, taking a sip of hot water to cover it. “I have no idea who you’re talking about.”
I cross my arms and lean my hip against the granite countertop. “Tell me, Win. Who was Manuel Treviño?”
“Honestly, Deacon. It’s very late, and I’m very tired. I can’t possibly be expected to dig through the forgotten details of your grandfather’s past at this hour.”
“So he is connected to my grandfather’s history?”
“Connected is probably too generous a term.” She takes another sip of hot lemon water. “From what I remember, he was your grandfather’s hired man. He helped with his horses and help
ed him prospect. Carried supplies or whatever those old men did. Honestly, love, I have no idea what all he did for your grandfather. They believed that was men’s business.”
“Did something happen to him?”
She frowns, exhaling deeply and lifting her chin as if the answer is written on the ceiling somewhere. I can’t help looking up as well, and I notice the stained-glass window above the sink is a Thomas Grey quote, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Not the most optimistic sentiment for a prospector.
“Well? Did something happen?” Pushing off the bar, I step a little closer.
“Oh, I remember there was some confusion. Father never talked much about the past. Hell, he never talked much at all. I think the most I heard him say as a child was Heya to a horse once.”
My memory of my grandfather is very faint, but I know this is true. He stood back silently observing us, arms crossed over his chest, jaw set. Once he offered me chewing tobacco, but I was only seven. I didn’t try it.
“What happened, Win?” My voice is calmly urging.
She puts her cup into the sink with a heavy sigh. “What does it matter? It was a million years ago. It’s ancient history.”
“It matters to me.” I reach out and catch her slim upper arm.
Her brows pull together over her blue eyes, and she lifts her elbow, pulling out of my grasp. “It’s the same story with all those people. He was a drunk and a liar, and he tried to make his problems your grandfather’s.”
“I don’t want to hear racist polemics. Tell me what you know.”
“I know he stole from your grandfather. The Treviño man went to jail, so it must have been of some significance. I was just a child at the time.” She exhales heavily. “Anyway, they’re all gone now.”
“Gone where?” I already know the answer to this question, but I’m curious how much she knows.
