The Bones of Paradise Read Online Free PDF

chair arm, leaned over, and placed it across the wound. “Look like a damn preacher now,” he said. “Sorry, J.B., Jesus,” he hastily amended, his eyes filled.
    â€œThat’s enough,” Higgs whispered as the wet on his grizzled cheeks dripped down to darken the collar of his flannel shirt. “Sorry.” He looked at his scarred hands, the permanently swollen knuckles, the index finger he couldn’t straighten, beset with a trembling that wouldn’t stop as it made its way up his arms, into his chest, his shoulders, and down his legs until he felt like he was about to shake into pieces, but still he held the great sobs within, releasing only the faint hissing sound of boiling water as he wept.
    It was almost seven the next morning when the door opened and shut, waking Higgs to his wife’s light tread. She looked straight toward the kitchen, and thus missed the figure of her husband next to the body of their employer.
    Higgs considered calling her, but she was already banging pots, starting the coffee, firing up the woodstove, humming softly, with the occasional chiding word for her own mistakes. Soon there was beef frying, biscuits rolled, and eggs whipped. She’d stop cooking once she heard. He knew she would. So he kept quiet. The men needed to eat. First and foremost, you fed stock and men.
    The parlor was much the same as it had always been, Bennett being a simple man and his wife, while she’d lived there, not a fussy woman. There was lace on all the chairs and it hung in the windows—though it didn’t do a damn thing to keep out the cold. Rather than newspaper and catalogue pages covering the walls for warmth as in the bunkhouse, the parlor walls were papered with garden flowers and framed pictures of sour-looking people from her family out East. Chicago, was it? Cleveland? Higgscouldn’t remember. Why hadn’t she taken her pictures with her, he wondered. And the kerosene lamp—he looked over, it had long since burned out—with the big pink cabbage roses on the two globes. He understood about the furniture—except maybe the little table between the two hulking pieces. The table’s rich, dark finish glowed from the beeswax Vera rubbed into the wood.
    But the rest of the stuff—even the piano covered with that tasseled scarf—why hadn’t she shipped it home? Unless she planned on coming back or came from a place with things twice this good. He glanced at Bennett. That was probably it. It was sixteen years ago when that bad spell of luck came along and they damn near lost the place the first time. Cattle got screwworm, blackleg, scours, and every other damn thing they could think of, horses colicked or broke legs, and it stopped raining. Grass didn’t green in spring. They were bleeding money and stock, J.B. told him. But in the middle of it Bennett and his wife went off for a month, then came home, a load of furniture and junk in a wagon behind theirs. Within a couple of months they were buying stock to replace what they’d lost and eating store-bought food when the garden died. The younger son was born six months later.
    As other spreads went under, Bennett’s thrived, with enough money to buy surrounding land at rock-bottom prices. It didn’t take a schoolteacher to figure out the arithmetic. Even after the past years of drought proved almost fatal for the ranch, these days any number of men nursed a healthy dose of envy and dislike for Bennett. What would happen to Hayward now? At fifteen he still acted the boy, no hand at all with the stock and a joke to the men. Damn Bennett for getting himself kilt. Higgs sought the end of his mustache and brought it to the corner of his mouth to chew, a habit he’d developed of late since he gave up whiskey and tobacco for his wife.
    He thought again of the boy asleep upstairs. He sighed and rose, straightened stiffly and held the small of his back until the grabbingpain