Chapter 11 – Black as Night

They sat at the river, where they'd done most of their growing up, for the rest of the afternoon. Bret told Bart a lot about their childhood, and their mother, until it was almost dark. Bart soaked it all up like a sponge until both were close to exhaustion. "I guess we better head back to town. Doralice is gonna wonder what happened to us."

"Why is he so dead set against us havin' a horse ranch? Is there any good reason for it that you know?" Bart asked his older brother.

"I know that Pappy and Uncle Ben tried cattle ranchin' when they first came to Texas, and they couldn't make a go of it. But why he doesn't want us tryin' to raise horses, I don't know. Why didn't you tell me you'd remembered some of that stuff?"

"I wasn't sure how you'd react. Hell, I wasn't sure how I was reacting. And I didn't know if any of it was true, or if I'd just imagined it."

"You went to Claytonville before Beauregard was born. I remember when we moved over there, you tellin' me about this breeder you met, Phil Somebody, and how he got you to thinkin' about horses. I didn't know you were that determined, that you'd talked to Pappy about it. Is that all he had to say?"

Bart shrugged his shoulders. "I ain't sure. It's all jumbled up, and I can only remember parts of it. But he was against it, that I'm sure of. What about you? What do you think of it now?"

"I think if it was set up right, and we had the right place, it might be worth lookin' in to."

They got back to Little Bend and stopped at Mamacita's to get a bite to eat, then went on to the Little Bend Bar before heading home. Tony Burke was behind the bar, and Bart followed his brother inside without looking up. Something about the place was familiar, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Tony brought them coffee and Bart stared at the bartender. "Do I know him?" he asked Bret once Tony had returned to the bar.

"Sort of."

"Tell me about the place."

Bret chuckled; that could take a lifetime. "We grew up in this saloon. It's the first place either one of us ever played poker against somebody not named Maverick. You were ten years old, I think. Ray Ames was the bartender for thirty years or more, and he was like an uncle to both of us. We went to school with his daughter. It hasn't been too long since Ray retired and moved up north."

"That's what you meant when you said I sorta know Tony."

"Exactly. Tony was in the bank with Cristian the morning Maude's husband got killed. He's a good enough guy. He just ain't Ray."

"This place sure don't compare to Maude's."

"No, it sure don't. But the LB Bar's been here forever, and it'll probably still be here a hundred years from now. Do you remember a saloon girl named Lolly? If I'm right, you were about seventeen when you met her."

Something connected in Bart's head and he had a picture of a dark-headed girl with blue eyes. "I . . . I do remember her. At least enough to see her. Dark hair, bright blue eyes. Was that her?"

Bret nodded. "Yep, that was Lolly. She worked here for a while before she moved."

"Was she important to me?"

"Yeah, she was. She was the first girl . . . well, she was the first."

"I don't remember . . . but I remember her."

Both coffee cups were empty. It was time to go; it was Bart's first day out of bed since he'd been injured and he was worn out. The brothers took their horses to the livery and then walked back to the house; there were still lights on inside. Doralice was on the settee, sipping tea and having a conversation with her precocious four-year-old, who should have been in bed a long time ago.

"See, Beauregard, there was no need for you to wait up. Your father and uncle are home."

"I wasn't going to leave you alone, Mother. Somebody had to be the man of the house."

"I'm sure you did a fine job, Beauregard. Get in bed and I'll be right in," Bret told his nephew.

"Yes, sir," the little boy responded, kissing his mother on the cheek and heading for the bedroom. Once he was out of sight, Bart spoke up.

"Let me go tuck him in."

"Are you sure?" his mother asked.

"Yep. He's my boy, whether I remember him or not."

"Give him a few minutes. Beauregard takes longer than most to get ready for bed."

Five minutes later Bart surprised his first-born son by appearing in the over-crowded bedroom. "What are you doing here?" the child asked.

"I've come to tuck you in."

"Did your memory come back? Are you daddy again?"

"No, son, not yet. But I'm still your father. And I'd like to tuck you in. Is that alright with you?"

"Oh, yes. That would be most acceptable."

Bart tucked the covers in around his most unusual boy, then leaned down and kissed him on the forehead. "Goodnight, Beauregard."

"Goodnight, Father."

Bart pulled the door closed behind him. His heart ached; he could feel the love Beau had for his daddy, and he wanted to be able to return it. Why wouldn't his memories come back? Why did he just have scattered flashes of things?

He felt a sudden stab of pain in the back of his head and ran his fingers along the stitches. When he pulled his hand away if felt sticky, and he knew without seeing it that it was blood. The stitches must have broken open; evidently he did too much too soon. He took a step away from the kitchen and another shot of pain raced through his head. "Bret . . . " was as far as he got before his knees buckled and he felt himself falling. He hit the ground face first and the world went black.