Author's Note: Home is where the heart is. – Pliny the Elder
Disclaimer: I don't own any of this, except in the sense that love is ownership.
The Modoc stopped on the outskirts of Corning, California, so her master could read its freshly painted sign: 'Welcome to Corning, your new hometown."
Heath considered. It made him feel hopeful, that sign. Or maybe he was just crazy. "Whaddya think, girl?" he asked the mare. "You think we should stop here?"
The mare blew out a breath of assent and nodded her head. She was tired and wanted to rest. Heath laughed at himself a little, but obligingly led her at a gentle walk into town.
Within an hour, he had decided he liked the town as much as he liked its motto. It was built around a central plaza, the way many Mexican towns were, but with the broad streets and wooden buildings of an American town. It boasted two general stores, a church, hotel, livery stable, sheriff's office, assay office, two cafés, and three saloons.
A child smiled at him in the street. "Welcome to Corning, mister."
"Howdy," he replied.
The little girl's mother appeared at the door of one of the stores. Heath braced himself to hear the inevitable warning against speaking to strangers, but instead she asked, "You new in town?"
"Yes'm," he admitted.
"I'm glad you're here," she said. "Henry's Café has the best food in town."
Heath wondered in amusement if he looked especially hungry. "Thank you kindly, ma'am."
She nodded pleasantly before proceeding on her way.
"Laid out to a plan it was," the café owner advised his new customer, "by a real smart fella from back east. Trained in the office of Richard Morris Hunt."
"That right?" Heath asked politely, after swallowing a mouthful of food. He had never heard of this Hunt fella, but the chow was good, and the price reasonable, so he was willing to listen to whatever 'Henry' cared to say.
"Shore is." The man smiled happily. "Bet you'd be real happy, was you to settle here."
Heath couldn't help but return the man's smile. "Think I'd be as happy as what you are?" he teased.
"I'm just shore you would be, young fella. What'd you say your name was?"
In that moment, Heath decided: he would make Corning his hometown: the place where his new life would begin. "My name's Heath," he said.
It was going to work! Jarrod had been so afraid, but the bill to save the homesteads had gotten out of committee, and he was certain they had enough votes on the floor for it pass.
He had met with the governor, lest the railroad try to pressure the man into a veto. He'd agreed the homesteaders were in the right, so no worries there.
Victory would be sweet.
Sweeter than the relief he'd felt when Handy Random had killed the man who had killed Father.
"We're going to win, Father," he thought, "Finally, we're going to beat that iron monster."
It wouldn't bring Father back, but it would make his death mean more.
Jarrod, Nicholas, Eugene, and Audra.
The names sang in Heath's head. He was younger than Jarrod and Nicholas, but older than Eugene and Audra. Surrounded by siblings. He would have fit right in the middle, the other members of his family defining his place, just as Murphy had always claimed a family did.
Right in the middle… brothers and a sister. Heath thought of the families he'd worked for, the children fighting, or playing, or working together, caring for each other. It would be good to be a part of that. The rough and tumble love of a family.
Jarrod, Nicholas, Heath, Eugene, and Audra Barkley.
But he was forgetting Victoria.
He tossed restlessly on his bunk. He needed to forget about the Barkleys.
He would never be a part of his father's family, because his father's wife was still alive.
Victoria Barkley.
He felt, instinctively, that Momma had known. She must have known Mr. Barkley was married and had children, and kept his name a secret from Heath in order to protect them.
And she had been right, because they had the prior claim… Victoria had been married to Mr. Barkley, and Momma… hadn't been.
And that meant everything.
Heath stared out the window at the sickle moon. He needed to sleep. His idiotic moping wouldn't help him bring the hay in tomorrow. He groaned softly, careful not to wake the other men. He should be grateful. He knew he was lucky to find anything at this time of year. And he liked the friendly town.
He just wished he could be bringing in the hay on his own family's ranch, instead of working for strangers.
You can't win them all.
You win some; you lose some. They had won the battle, but lost the war. Jordan had gotten to the governor.
Vetoed. The bitterness of gall filled Jarrod's mouth and his mind.
He hated losing. It was a terrible failing of his, Mother had always said. "A gentleman knows how to lose with grace." He didn't want to be graceful. It wasn't right for those families to lose their land. They had bought it, worked it, sweated over it, dreamed about it.
"A man who doesn't know how to lose," Father would have said, "doesn't deserve to win." The homesteaders did deserve to win.
And Jarrod and his family had lost enough to the railroads: they had lost Father. Jarrod wouldn't willingly surrender anything else to the maws of the iron giant.
The burden of being head of the family rested uneasily on the lawyer's shoulders, and whose fault was that but the railroads'? Six years… six years Father had been gone, and Jarrod still missed him terribly. But life had to go on. At least he wasn't alone. Mother often took an interest in business, and Nick actually ran the ranch himself.
Nick. Good old Nick. "Show me a good loser," Brother Nick would say, "and I'll show you a loser." Jarrod smiled. It was good to have brothers.
Somehow, some way, he would beat that train. He knew they'd win in the end, because right was on their side. But what the next step was... he didn't know. He just… didn't know.
But he couldn't forget them.
Corning was a nice town, but there was nothing holding him there except his job. By the end of July, Heath had decided that it was fortunate he'd only been hired for the seasonal job of hay waddy. It gave him an excuse.
"What will you do now?" the foreman asked, as he paid off this last of the season's hay hands.
The young man shrugged. "Same as anyone. Find another ranch; ask for work."
The foreman's brow creased in concern. "I don't know what you'll find before round-up."
After a pause, Heath said, "There's a place I've been thinking I might try… where I have relatives."
"That's a good idea," his former boss agreed. "You're a good worker. You'd be an asset to any spread." He handed over a folded paper, and Heath realized it was a reference letter.
"Thanks," he said.
"You're welcome."
After all, Heath thought, as he headed out toward Stockton on the Modoc, how could it hurt if he just went to see them? They wouldn't have to know. He could go, and ask for a job, and if the answer was no, well, at least he'd have seen his father's ranch, and maybe one of his brothers…. and if they said yes, maybe he would get to see them all. Get to know them, even.
What would it be like to work for his family? Were they good bosses? Would he be able to please them? Would they keep him on? His fantasies started to get up a head of steam. And someday maybe they'd discover that their faithful old retainer was really— He stopped himself abruptly. How could they discover it unless he told them? And he couldn't tell them. He tried to imagine himself in their shoes, in the shoes of this Victoria Barkley, who was no kin of his, who was a lady who'd been done an unforgivable wrong.
Mr. Barkley was her husband. Their father. They had the right, not Heath.
He shouldn't be doing this.
He should ride in the opposite direction. Leave them alone. His presence would only bring them grief.
Your heritage will be their despair.
No. He wouldn't let that happen. He wasn't that selfish. He would never do anything to hurt them. Any of them.
I won't tell them, Heath promised. Not ever. Please, I just want to see them. Even if it's only once, even if they send me packing right from the get-go. Please… He wondered who he was begging.
He took a deep breath. It's just another ranch. Just another job. I'm a good worker. Like the foreman said, I'd be an asset to any spread.
Please.
