As they worked, they spoke a foreign language that Bellamy chattered just as fluently. Then they came for the tree and hoisted it into their arms. It would have taken at least a half-dozen normal-sized men to lift it, but the two managed fine on their own.
Once the tree was secure, Bellamy clapped. This in turn, excited all the others in attendance to do so, too.
Isabel did.
John didn't. His glare lay hard on Bellamy.
"What's the matter with you?" she asked in a whisper.
Through a frown, he grated, "I don't like this guy."
"Why not? He seems so kindly."
"Kindly my butt. This is a circus. All we need is the fat lady."
At that moment, an ample-waisted woman with ash gray hair wearing spectacles and an apron over her dress appeared behind Bellamy. "Papa, are you ready for the trimmings?" John raised his hands in resignation. "There you go. This is a farce. It's a damn joke."
He began to walk away, and as much as Isabel wanted to stay, she felt she should go after John.
Pushing her way through the crowd, she caught up with him as he stalked down the middle of Main Street.
"Forget it, Isabel. The jig's up. Bellamy's a crackpot With a mashy club."
"With a what?
"Mashy golf club. I've played the game before. This guy's brain is just as mashy as that club he's holding. The old bird has been duffing balls at me."
Isabel had to walk fast to keep up with John. "Him? Really... I don't think he'd hit you on purpose. He looks so... harmless."
"Harmless as a busted pump rod."
"But what if he really does have money he's giving away?" she reasoned. "We can't risk somebody else getting it."
He stopped and faced her. "Isabel. There is no money. The guy's flat busted after the renovations he made on that house. This contest is a fake."
She understood why John was skeptical. Deep down she had her doubts as well. But there was something about Bellamy's eyes: the crinkling blue with tines in the corners; the warm depths; the merry cheeks; the way his tummy sort of shook when he laughed.
"You have to want him to be real," she said with firm conviction. "Bellamy Nicklaus's contest is all we have."
John pointed his forefinger toward the direction of the house on Ninth and Mill. "That guy reminds me of somebody."
"Me, too," she conceded. "But I can't put my finger on it."
"Yeah... like somebody I knew when I was a kid or something."
"Right..."
Rubbing the stubble at his jaw, he pondered aloud, "A lot of land swindlers in Texas when I was growing up. Could be he's one of them and this is his new scam. Holly berry contests."
"I doubt that. I grew up in Los Angeles, and I'm sure I know him. I think my mother and father showed me his picture... but I can't remember why."
"Too bad Limonero doesn't have a telephone. You could call them and ask them who this Bellamy is."
Unexpected tears filled her eyes. "My dad died some ten years ago. And my mother's been with him for three."
John let out his breath and laid a comforting hand on Isabel's shoulder. "Isabel... I'm sorry."
"You didn't know." She blinked her eyes, thinking her mother hadn't lived to see her become divorced. The shock of such a thing would have wounded her --even though Isabel had been deserted by her husband. Her mother had old values and old ideals. To her, marriage was forever no matter what
Isabel was no longer a romantic woman. But that didn't mean she'd given up on love. She was hopeful that maybe one day she'd meet somebody... and he'd be everything her husband hadn't been.
Giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze, John lowered his arm. "Okay. We'll keep collecting the berries."
Gratitude made her smile bright.
John added, "But if Bellamy doesn't put up, I'm having the sheriff lock him behind bars."
"He'll make good on his word. I know it."
"All right. Pack for overnight. We're leaving for Foster's Hideout just as soon as we water those lemon trees of yours."
The hair on the back of John's neck still prickled as they rode through the narrow canyon. Bellamy Nicklaus had gotten to him, had unraveled him right out of his skin and muscles... had stared at him down to his bones.
John knew him.
And Bellamy had sorely disappointed him in the past.
But what exactly that past was... John couldn't be sure. It was too vague. Too cloudy. But he kept seeing a scene play out in his head.
He'd been about five or six. It was Christmas morning. His dad hadn't come home the night before, and he must have promised his mother because she'd kept a vigil at the window. That's where he and Tom had found her when they'd come down to see what was under the tree.
Nothing.
His mother had tried to make up for it by baking them special gingerbread cookies for breakfast. Then his father had finally come through the door and his parents had argued a long while; afterward, Dad had stormed outside and gone into the barn.
It was then John stopped believing that penny whistles and wind-up dancing bears and pull toys came from some magical being. They were from his dad. And his dad had drunk their gift money at the Lucky Spot bar. From then on, John had known Christmas was for dreamers.
As he nudged his horse onward, John reflected on the years after that winter day. He'd changed. Rather than being an optimist like his brother, he'd turned into a bitter young man. From then on, he knew he could never count on anyone but himself. Discovering he had a talent for a divining rod, John would make a little money from time to time.
Mostly he worked the fields with his father, giving his elder no more than a few words when necessary. He hated having the plow strapped on him, so much that one day he'd said he'd had enough and had never gotten behind one again.