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She blushed. She’d been doing that all through the meal. It was almost a relief when Grange went out to check the livestock.
“Yes,” she said. “I was shocked that he asked me. I’ll bet Gracie had her husband goad him into it, though,” she added sadly. “I’m sure he said already that he wasn’t going.”
“I’m glad he is,” Ed said. His face was solemn as he took a sip of coffee. “Rumor is that his group is leaving with Emilio Machado very soon. Revolution is never pretty.”
“So soon?” she blurted out. She knew about the mission. There were no secrets in small towns. Besides, Rick Marquez, whose adopted mother Barbara ran the Jacobsville café, had turned out to be General Machado’s son.
“Yes,” her father replied.
“He’ll die.”
“No, he won’t,” he said, and smiled. “Winslow was a major in the army. He served in spec ops in Iraq and he came home. He’ll be fine.”
“You think so. Really?”
“Really.”
She sighed. “Why do people fight?”
His eyes had a faraway expression. “Sometimes for stupid reasons. Sometimes for really patriotic ones. In this case,” he added, glancing at her, “to stop a dictator from having people shot in their own homes for questioning his policies.”
“Good heavens!”
He nodded. “General Machado had a democratic government, with handpicked heads of departments. He toured his country, talked to his people to see what their needs were. He set up committees, had representatives from indigenous groups on his council, even worked with neighboring countries to set up free-trade agreements that would benefit the region.” He shook his head. “So he goes to another country to talk about one of those agreements, and while he’s away, this serpent brings in his political cronies, has them put in charge of the military and overthrows the government.”
“Nice guy,” she said sarcastically.
“The general’s right-hand man, too, his political chief, Arturo Sapara,” Ed continued. “Sapara takes over the government then he closes down the television and radio stations and puts a representative in each newspaper office to report directly to him. He controls all the mass media. He puts cameras everywhere and spies on the people. Somebody says, anyone he doesn’t like … they disappear, like two internationally known college professors disappeared a few months ago.”
“Ouch.”
“People think things like that can’t happen to them.” He sighed. “They can happen anywhere that the public turns a blind eye to injustice.”
“I didn’t realize it was that bad.”
“Machado says he’s not going to stand by and let the work he put into that democracy go down the drain. It’s taken him months to mount a counteroffensive, but he’s got the men and the money now, and he’s going to act.”
“I hope he wins.” She grimaced. “I just don’t want Grange to die.”
He chuckled. “You underestimate that young man,” he assured her. “He’s like a cat. He’s got nine lives. And he thinks outside the box, which is what makes him so invaluable to Machado. Example,” he added, his eyes twinkling as he warmed to his subject, “North Africa in the early days of the North African campaign in World War II. The commanding German field marshal, Rommel, had only a handful of troops compared to the British. But he wanted them to think he had more. So he had his men march through town in a parade, go around the corner and march through again several times to give the appearance of numbers. He also had huge fans, aircraft engines, hooked up behind trucks to blow up the desert sand and make his column appear larger than it really was. By using such tricks, he psyched out the opposition for a long time. That’s what I call thinking outside the box.”
“Wow. I never heard of that German officer.”
He gave her a blank stare. “Excuse me? Didn’t you study about World War II in school?”
“Sure. We learned about this general called Eisenhower who later became president. Oh, and this guy Churchill who was the leader in England.”
“What about Montgomery? Patton?”
She blinked. “Who were they?”
He finished his coffee and got up from the table. “I’ll quote George Santayana, a Harvard professor. ‘Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.’ And for the record, high school history needs retooling!”
“Modern history.” She made a face. “A lot of dates and insignificant facts.”
“The stuff of legends.”
“If you say so.”
He glared at her, grimaced and gave up. “We’re leaving the world in the hands of shallow thinkers when we old ones die.”
“I am not a shallow thinker,” she protested. “I just don’t like history.”
He cocked his head. “Grange does.”
She averted her eyes. “Does he?”
“Military history, especially. We have running debates on it.”
She shrugged. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to check it out on Google.”
“There are books in the bookcase,” he said, aghast. “Real, honest to goodness books!”
“Dead trees,” she muttered. “Kill a tree to make a book, when there are perfectly good ebooks for sale all over the web.”
He threw up his hands. “I’m leaving. Next you’ll be telling me that you agree with all the bookstore and library closings all over the country.”
She hesitated. “I think it’s very sad,” she said unexpectedly. “A lot of people can’t afford to buy books, even used ones. So the library has all that knowledge available for free. What are people going to do when they don’t have any way to learn things except in school?”
He came back and hugged her. “Now I know you’re really my daughter.” He chuckled.
She grinned. “Aw, shucks.” She lowered her head and scuffed her toe on the floor. “Twarn’t nothing,” she drawled.
He laughed and went away.
“Pie?” she called after him.
“Wait an hour or so until dinner has time to settle!” he called back.
“Okay.”
She heated up a cup of coffee and carried it through the house, out the back door and into the barn. Grange was sitting out there in an old cane-bottom wooden chair with a prize heifer that was calving for the first time. He wouldn’t admit it, but he was attached to the Santa Gertrudis first-time mother, whom he called Bossie. She was having a hard time.
“Damned big bull that sired this calf,” he muttered, accepting the coffee with a grateful smile. “If I’d known who the sire was, I’d never have let Tom Hayes sell me this pregnant heifer.”
She grimaced. She knew about birth weight ratios. A first-time mother needed a small calf. The herd sire who bred this one was huge, which meant a much higher birth weight than was recommended. It would endanger the mother.
“I hope she’ll do okay.”
“She will, if I have to have the vet come out here and sit with her all night and pay him.”
She laughed. “Dr. Bentley Rydel would do it for free. He loves animals.”
“Good thing. His brother-in-law sure is one. An animal, I mean.”
“You really have it in for mercenaries, don’t you?” she asked, curious.
“Not all of them,” he replied. “Eb Scott’s bunch is a notch above the rest. But Kell Drake, Rydel’s brother-in-law, was a career military man and he threw it all up to go off searching for adventure in, of all places, Africa!”
“Is Africa worse than South America?” she asked, making a point.
“Much worse, because you have so damned many factions trying to get a foothold there,” he replied. “Most of the aid that’s sent never reaches the starving masses, it goes to sale for the highest bidder and the money goes in some warlord’s pocket.” He shook his head. “Guns don’t really solve problems, you know. But neither does diplomacy when you have two religions slugging it out in the same region, plus class warfare, tribal conflicts, greedy corporations …”
“Is there anybody you like?” she asked pointedly.
“George Patton.”
She laughed, remembering her father had mentioned the name. “Who’s he?”
His eyes almost popped.
“Well, I’m young,” she muttered. “You can’t expect me to know everything.”
He drew in a long breath. She was. Very young. It made him uncomfortable. “He was a famous general in World War II. He served in several theaters of operations for the Allies, predominantly the North African and European campaigns.”
“Oh, that Patton!” she exclaimed. “My dad was telling me about a German general named Rommel in North Africa. Then there was this movie I watched … did Patton really do those things?”
He chuckled. “Some of them. I went through West Point with a distant cousin of his.”
“Neat!”
He finished the coffee. “You should go back in. It’s getting cold.”
She took the cup from his outstretched hand. “It is.”
“Thanks for the coffee.”
She shrugged. “Welcome.” She glanced at the heifer, who was staring at them with wide brown eyes. “I hope Bossie does okay.”
He smiled. “Me, too. Thanks.”
She nodded, smiled and left him there.
The next morning, the veterinarian’s truck was sitting at the barn. Before she even started breakfast, Peg ran out the back door and down to the barn. She’d worried about the mother cow all night.
Grange was leaning against a post, talking to the vet. They both turned when she walked in.
“Well?” she asked a little hesitantly, because she was concerned.
Grange smiled. “Bull calf. Mother and baby doing fine.”
She let out a sigh. “Thank goodness!”
Grange grinned at her obvious relief.
“If you’d like to stay for breakfast,” she told the vet, “I’m making biscuits and fresh sausage and eggs. We have hens and he—” she pointed at Grange “—bought us a freezer full of pork sausage and ribs and loins.” She grinned. “We’re rich!”
They both laughed.
“You’re very welcome to stay,” Grange told him. “She cooks plenty. And she’s a good cook.”
Peg blushed. Her eyes sparkled. “Nice to be appreciated.”
“In that case, I’d love to join you, thanks.”
“I’ll get busy.” She ran all the way back to the house. Grange liked her cooking. She could have floated.
2
“What’s your brother-in-law up to these days?” Grange asked their guest.
He got a droll look in reply. “Kell Drake always changes the subject when I ask. But he and one of his cronies were reportedly up to their ears in some project in South Africa that involves guns. I don’t bother to ask,” Bentley Rydel added when Grange started another question. “It’s a waste of breath. He was working on something with Rourke, but I hear he’s going overseas with you,” he added with a pointed look.
“Rourke,” Grange sighed, shaking his head. “Now there’s a piece of work.”
“Who’s Rourke?” Peg wanted to know.
“Somebody you don’t even need to meet,” Grange told her firmly. “He’s a …”
“Please.” Bentley held up his hand, chuckling. “There’s a lady present.”
“You’re right,” Grange agreed, sipping coffee, with a smile in Peg’s direction.
Peg laughed.
“Well, Rourke’s in a class all his own,” Grange continued. “Even our police chief in Jacobsville, Cash Grier, avoids him, and Grier’s worked with some scoundrels in his time. Word is,” he added, “that Kilraven, who used to work for some federal agency undercover in Grier’s department, almost came to blows with Rourke over the woman he married.”
“A ladies’ man, is he?” Ed asked.
“Hard to say,” Grange replied. “He thinks he is.”
“He’s definitely got the connections,” Bentley mused. “Rumor has it that he’s the illegitimate son of billionaire K.C. Kantor, who was once at the forefront of most conflicts in the African states.”
“I’ve read about him,” Ed replied. “A fascinating man.”
“He never married. They say he was in love with a woman who became a nun. He has a godchild who married into a rich Wyoming ranching family.”
“Well!” Ed exclaimed. “The things you learn about people!”
