Chapter Two

Stunned eyes, both blue and brown, flashed at Lom.

"Don't know no Kerry Cecilia Curry Heyes," answered Curry. He calmed his heart rate and watched his cousin.

"You met her, Lom?" Heyes leaned back in his chair, his look unreadable to anyone but Curry. And Curry saw both curiosity and wariness there.

"Briefly, nice lady."

"She got eyes the color of Kid's, shade lighter? Same coloring, too?" Heyes asked. His tone was starting to sound more confident, but confusion had invaded his eyes and they were darker than chocolate. Lom nodded in ascent.

'Heyes, we know her?" Curry asked sitting forward on his chair, but patient to let his cousin finish his questioning.

Heyes slowly nodded his head yes. "Could be our Aunt Kerry. Left home real suddenly when I was about seven. Just before your fourth birthday," Heyes answered, looking at the memory through his childhood eyes, trying to understand it from an adult perspective. "No one was very happy at your party. She just up and left. Your pa was very angry, I remember." Heyes sat up straighter as if to give himself strength to face the memory. "Seems he was dark angry at her, and not because she left."

Remembering what time had let him forget, Heyes continued, his voice lower, gentler. "Kid, I saw your pa hit your ma that day, knocked her against the wall. Your pa was yelling about Aunt Kerry leaving and it must be your ma's fault and he hit her with the back of his hand. He grabbed her by her hair and pulled her down."

Curry looked at Heyes with so much sadness as that memory returned. Slowly Curry talked about that day. "I remember your ma takin' me to your room, Heyes, and sayin' I was spendin' the night as part of my birthday present. And my sisters were stayin', too. I was happy but looked out the window and saw Pa pulling Ma back toward our farm. I knew he was hurtin' her and started to run after them."

Curry took a deep breath and averted his eyes from Heyes. He had never told Han what really went on in his house when they were growing up. It was his family's secret and shame; why he preferred to stay with Han as much as he could.

"I'd seen him beat her and my sisters many times. Beat me, too. Uncle Arthur stopped me from runnin' after them that night and said to stay there with you. He would go make sure she was all right."

"Didn't know that, Kid. How could I not know that? Thought you shared everything with me then," said Heyes, blaming himself for his blindness as a child, waiting to see if Curry was going to look at him or add anything.

But Curry was silent and frowning, lost in his own memories. Then he looked up at Heyes. "So just who is this Kerry Cecilia Curry Heyes?"

"Not sure where the Heyes comes in, but Aunt Kerry was...is my mother and your father's youngest sister."

Hannibal Heyes paced as he watched Kerry Curry Heyes arrive on horseback with Lom. Unsettled just hearing her name, his mind had tortured him all night with possibilities of what she might say after hearing his cousin's admissions of what had gone on in their home, a home that she had shared. And of what she thought of them. He often wondered what his parents would think of the choices he had made in his life for him and his cousin. He didn't think they'd be pleased.

As prepared as he thought he was to meet her, Heyes was startled when he saw her, glad for the moments before she entered the house to calm himself and his features. She looked like his mother, older of course, but with the dark blue eyes he remembered tucking him in at night. Darker blue than Kid's eyes, her eyes didn't shine with his ma's trusting enthusiasm, her sparkle of life. They reflected a hard-lived life, tired, guarded eyes with a loss of trust. She was short, surely shorter than he remembered his ma. He thought he remembered she was ten years younger than his ma. Grey hair was sprinkled through her light brown hair betraying her age.

Kerry stopped at the top stair of Lom's porch and hesitated before entering, wondering if this was a mistake. Frightened, she realized they were wanted outlaws now. Not the first in their family. She had decided to be brutally honest with her nephews but did not know them well enough to know how they would react. She prayed for them daily, hoping to help them get what they had been working toward so long. With a determination born of life experiences, she closed her eyes, settled her expression, and entered the house smiling confidently.

Lom stepped forward. "Mrs. Heyes, your nephews, Hannibal Heyes and Jedidiah Curry."

"Ma'am," they said in unison, removing their hats. Neither knew what further to say. Neither moved.

Kerry looked at the two grown men in front of her but saw the children she had left so long ago. Tears gathered in her eyes. It had been a long time since she cried at anything.

"It's not ma'am. You always called me Aunt Kerry." She was disappointed at their obvious discomfort.

She sighed but resigned herself. "Well, then just call me Kerry until you feel more comfortable." She walked purposefully by them to the kitchen area. "Is there any tea?"

Lom stepped forward. "Yes, ma'am. I saw in the Governor's office that you preferred tea and stocked some." He started to boil the water for tea. "Boys, you want coffee?"

They sat around the table and evaluated each other.

Kerry spoke first. "I know this must be a shock to you two. I have been following your careers as close as I could. I've a lot to tell you but let me start from the beginning. Some of this is going to be heart wrenching to relive." She hesitated, staring into her tea. It was their eyes that held her heart. The Curry blue of her family was so strong in Jed's eyes that it brought memories of those she had lost in that blue. Hannibal's eyes were the expressive, dark brown of his father, Arthur, and her Alexander. Those blue and brown eyes that had been so innocent when she left held shadows, well-hidden shadows.

"You think you lived it and to some extent you did, but you lived it as children, well-loved children."

"Most of this, I lived. Some, I learned in confidences from my two best friends, Siobhan and Elizabeth, your mothers. Some of this is from letters from friends and family that were sent to us in California. I'll start at the beginning when life changed on the Curry farm." Curry leaned forward in his chair, folding his hands in his lap. Heyes leaned back in his, crossing his legs, giving the impression that he was totally relaxed. Curry knew he wasn't.

"You called my parents Grandpa and Gramma Curry. I am the youngest of their five children, nine years younger than my sister . There were three older brothers, Hugh, Timothy and John Jr and I had a sister, Siobhan. She was your mother, Hannibal and one of my two best friends. My other best friend was your mother, Elizabeth, Jed. They were both older than me but oh did we have fun.

"My pa called my mother his Joanie." Heyes was recalling his childhood.

"Siobhan was her real name; it's an Irish name. Joanie is the English translation."

Heyes nodded his head. He had forgotten but had known that. He could hear his ma's teasing voice, explaining to him why some people called her Siobhan and Pa called her Joanie. She always smiled when she spoke of his pa.

Brought back to the present, he listened as Kerry was talking about John Jr, or Johnny, Kid's pa.

"Johnny Curry was a solemn, dutiful son. As the youngest son, he caused his parents little angst, married very young, started having sons soon after and worked hard on the Curry family farm with his pa and brothers, Hugh and Timothy. But Johnny had never been happy with life, never smiling. He was easy to anger with a violent temper he never learned to control. He always hated the confinement of the farm and as the third son knew he would not inherit the farm, even though his brothers were not married.

"Life changed one spring when Hugh talked him into volunteering with him in the conflict in Texas for three months, only a summer, with promises of comradery, excitement and stories to tell when they returned. The chance for freedom, to get away from the boredom and constraints of farm life, forget his wife and sons, resonated with Johnny. Despite the objections of our parents, Johnny and Hugh took off for Texas in high spirits, promising to return for the fall harvest. Those three months turned into nineteen before Johnny returned home, alone, limping, battered, and silent with an anger growing in him that had started slowly and consumed him from within.

"Our mother, your Gramma Curry, was the first to feel his darkness when drunk he told her of holding his brother, Hugh, while he bled to death on the battlefield. Concerned, she saw no grief in Johnny's story, just acceptance and anger.

"Johnny's dysphoria deepened as he realized he came back to a neglected farm and had to deal with other deaths, besides Hugh. His wife, Mauve, his brother, Tim, and his oldest son, Will, had died of the fever that swept through the area that winter. Timothy was stricken first. Then their son, William, had fallen ill. Mauve had nursed them both until she too caught it and succumbed. Johnny found all three buried in the Curry family plot up a hill from the farmhouse when he returned. Your Grandpa Curry had come down with it, too, but survived. Weakened, he never fully recovered. He was trying to keep the farm going, but it was overwhelming him.

"Silently, Johnny mourned that day by the graves of his wife, son, and brother, drinking until he passed out. The next day he went into town. He drank for two weeks before stumbling back to the farm one night. Without a word to anyone, he got up the next morning and started to rebuild the farm.

From that day forward, Johnny shouldered the burden of the family farm with limited help from his four remaining young sons and his father, John Sr., Grandpa Curry. His resentment that he was left to support his aging parents, two spinster younger sisters, and four sons without a mother fueled his internal anger. Every penny was counted and there was never enough for the continued alcohol Johnny needed each day to get up and toil.

"His older boys, Frank and George, were clever students, but they were getting to an age they could give him some true help and relief on the farm. He ended their schooling and worked them hard in the fields with never a word of encouragement and a box to the ears if they didn't work hard enough. I tutored them at home each night until they got their eighth-grade certificates

"Johnny's sisters, Siobhan and I, helped where we could. Siobhan took in sewing and mending and I assisted the teacher at our local schoolhouse. Doing that, I was allowed to continue my advanced studies with the new Advanced Class Schoolteacher, Arthur Heyes. All our earnings went to Johnny. Every penny. He dismissed his sisters as quiet and mousey burdens, useless except for the money we contributed. That was changing; Siobhan had a beau."