Nick’s Story

The Kate Chronicles II

by ShiningStar

Disclaimer: The characters and situations of the TV program "Big Valley" are the creations of Four Star/Republic Pictures and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended by the author. The ideas expressed in this story are copyrighted to the author.

I was unprepared for Nick’s call—though it wasn’t unexpected. The connection was bad, but I could tell that he was having a difficult time holding himself together. “You gotta come home now, KatieBee. Jarrod’s had another stroke. Doc says he’s not gonna make it this time.”

Glancing at the hall clock, I did some quick thinking. “I can get the midnight train. I’ll be there, Nick.”

“Pappy’s dyin’, KatieBee. We need you!”

I knew they needed me. When had I become older than any of them? It was hard to remember—and there wasn’t time to reflect now. Turning away from the telephone, I churned into action the same way I did when an emergency came into the clinic.

It took some doing to cover my classes at the university and my shifts at the clinic, write the note to John’s school that he would be absent indefinitely, give instructions to our housekeeper, and pack for myself and two children, one of them only three. But just after midnight, we were all crammed into a sleeping compartment as the train left Nashville and headed west.

John fell asleep immediately, but Vicky was fretful, and I sat up holding her in my arms. When she drifted off, I lay down, too, but I couldn’t sleep. I kept seeing Jarrod’s face—and Nick’s—in my mind. Jarrod was eighty-one and Nick only four years younger, but I didn’t see them the way they looked now. No, I saw them the way they’d looked when I was growing up—strong, handsome, and completely devoted to me, their unexpected little sister.

I suppose I drifted off, but suddenly I was on the ranch, learning to ride on Maudie. The ground seemed far away from my perch on her broad back, and my bottom lip trembled.

“Now, KatieBee, ol’ Nick’s here, honey. I’m right here holding you—wouldn’t let anything happen to my little KatieBee for anythin’ in the world!”

Maudie began to plod patiently around the corral, rocking me gently almost like Papa did at night. Nick placed my small hands on the saddle horn. “You hold on ta this, honey.”

About the time my lip began to steady, one of the new hands rode into the yard and pulled up hard by the corral. Throwing open the gate, he dashed in. Maudie, startled, nickered and shied slightly. I screamed in terror. Nick snatched me out of the saddle and cradled me in his arms. “It’s okay, honey, you’re okay!”

I was three years old and didn’t understand everything he said to the unfortunate boy, but I understood the yelling. It brought Silas flying out of the house and Ciego out of the barn. Fortunately, Mother and Papa were visiting Jarrod’s family in town, or they’d have been there, too.

“Lord, have mercy, Mr. Nick!” Silas said in his gently authoritative way. “Lord, have mercy!”

Nick never stopped for breath as he continued to berate the poor boy, who was by now quite literally shaking in his boots.

“Senor Nick!” Ciego chided him as he’d done—uselessly—since Nick was a boy himself. “Senor Nick, por favor. . .por favor!”

The yelling continued unabated. Silas came into the corral and took me out of Nick’s arms. “Miss Kate don’t need to hear none o’ that, Mr. Nick.” He started back to the house with me. “Now, Miss Kate, we just go in and have some of Silas’s fresh ginger cookies. Won’t that be fine?”

I’d already forgotten my fear as my mouth watered in anticipation. The last thing I heard from outside, before Silas shut the kitchen door firmly, was Ciego saying, “Senor Nick, what didja your daddy tell ya? What did Mr. Tom tell ya ‘bout yellin’ at the hands?”

I was ensconced at the kitchen table like the princess I was, draped in a clean towel and sated with ginger cookies and milk, when Nick stomped in. Silas didn’t even turn around. “You takes that stompin’ outta here, Mr. Nick. What sorta ‘xample you settin’ for this here little lady? Mr. Royce be mighty upset, and you mother—reckon there’s still a wooden spoon ‘round here!”

I regarded my brother thoughtfully. His yelling never scared me.

“Sorry, Silas,” he mumbled. “You all right, KatieBee?”

I licked the last crumbs from around my small mouth. “Go ride more, Nick?”

He shook his head. “Nah, not today, honey. Tomorrow.”

“You tell that boy out there you sorry, Mr. Nick?” Silas asked sternly.

Nick nodded sheepishly, then took the wet cloth that Silas handed him and washed my face carefully. Untying the cuptowel from around my neck, he gathered me in his arms and headed through the dining room. “Love Nick,” I whispered, already knowing how to melt him.

He cleared his throat. “You don’t ever forget, ol’ Nick’d do anythin’ for his KatieBee.”

I never did.

* * * * * * * *

I finally had time to reflect, during the seemingly interminable trip to Stockton, about how family relationships had changed over the years. Jarrod had his first stroke just before Mother died—I was twenty-six then. He’d come back though. Maybe not all the way, but he was still Pappy, still the head of the family.

Nick was still Nick then, too. He’d been there for me when Mother had died and then Papa scarcely a year later. When John was born, he’d come out to Nashville and strutted around like a proud grandfather—which he would become seven times over. Ten years later, when I found myself newly-widowed and unexpectedly pregnant, he’d been there again.

“I’ll take care of you, KatieBee darlin’,” he repeated. “Ol’ Nick’s here for you all the way.”

My children adored him, and every June when we went to the ranch, he made sure that nothing kept him from spending time with them.

All my brothers had married rather late in life, but they’d produced a total of ten children among them—except for Gene and Lucy who were childless---and, to date—1921—fifteen grandchildren. I didn’t doubt there would be more. The Barkleys would go on for generations.

So when had I noticed Nick slowing down? I hadn’t wanted to see it. I wanted to think of him as he’d always been. The summer of the coyote, for example. Certainly I’d saved his life by shooting the pitiful, rabid creature, but when it was over I’d turned to him for comfort, and he’d provided it in abundance.

That night he’d come to my room. “You all right, honey?” he’d asked gruffly.

“I’m all right, Nick.”

“You did good this mornin’.”

“You taught me good, Nick.”

He ran his hands through his black hair which was, even then, showing some gray. “Guess I did at that.” He sat down on the bed. “You did good—but you had some luck with you, too. Don’t want you to get too fired up about things.”

Fired up was the last thing I was. When the whole thing was over, I’d sat in Papa’s lap, trembling, until I’d fallen asleep.

“Nah, honey, just remember that no matter how good you are, you gotta have some luck, too.”

I looked at him steadily. “Nick, did you ever—kill anybody?”

He dropped his eyes. “Yeah.”

“In the war?”

“Yeah.”

“Not in the war?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Had to.”

“Or they’d have killed you?”

“Yeah.”

“Were you—lucky?”

“Sure, I guess.” He stood up abruptly and walked to the window.

“Do you know why Papa never wears a gun?”

“Do you?”

I shook my head. “I guess he doesn’t like them.”

Nick let out his breath slowly. “That’s right, he doesn’t like them.” He came back to the bed and kissed me. “Sleep good, honey. Nick loves his little KatieBee.”

* * * * * * * *

I knew more now than I had then—specifically, why Papa never wore a gun. But that was another story, and Nick wasn’t Papa.

* * * * * * * *

The very next summer Papa had inherited the ranch at Mustang Creek, and I’d seen still another side to Nick when he accompanied us to Texas to look things over. During that trip, he’d incited my first—and only—rebellion against my parents by telling Mother in my hearing that she ruled me with an iron fist.

Papa assured me later that my personal rebellion hadn’t caused what happened—being kidnapped by Bob Hoover and Nick and Papa almost being killed. It stayed on my mind for a long time though, but Nick and I never discussed it until Mother died.

Papa was taking a nap that afternoon a few days after the funeral. Actually, he was escaping his grief by willing himself into nothingness. It would become a pattern for that last year of his life. I was downstairs in the library trying to write some notes thanking people for the food and flowers they’d brought.

Nick made his usual noisy entrance, poured himself a drink, and sprawled in a chair that he pulled close to the desk. “How’re you doin’, darlin’?”

“Just trying to get these notes finished.”

“Lots of ‘em, huh?”

“Mother had a lot of friends.”

“Yeah, she did.”

I put down the pen. “How are you, Nick?”

“Me? I’m okay.”

“Are you sure?”

He grimaced a little. “Missin’ the Duchess, I guess.”

“We all are. Papa most of all. She was his heart.”

“We had a good talk last night.”

“Did you?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you know what I said is true—he won’t stay long without her.”

“Yeah.”

I pressed my lips together to steel myself against the tears I was only now shedding, having held myself together for Papa in the last few weeks. Nick was on his feet immediately. “I’ll take care of you, KatieBee! Ol’ Nick’s right here for you!”

“I know.”

He kissed me, then went to pour himself another drink and one for me as well. “It’s just sherry,” he said when I hesitated. “And, yeah, I know it’s not th’ proper time of day, but I think you need it. Royce had a few belts himself last night.”

I laughed in spite of myself. “A few belts? Papa? Oh, Nick!”

“Swear ta. . .I swear.” He grinned and sat down again. “You’re a lot like her, you know. You’re a lot like th’ Duchess.”

“How could I help it? She raised me.” I sipped the sherry. “With an iron fist, you always said.”

“Only once—and I shouldn’t have. I was wrong.”

“You, Nick? Wrong?” I teased him gently.

“Yeah, me! Ol’ Nick was dead wrong!”

“What made you say that anyway?” I sat back, the notes forgotten.

“I’m not sure. She always expected so much of you. . .more than she expected from the rest of us, I guess.”

“You mean when you were growing up?”

“Father had the iron fist as far as we were concerned. I don’t think Mother had much say in anything we did.”

“You’re always talking about the wooden spoon.”

“Well, yeah, she used that some—but when it was over, it was over. We never really had to answer to her—only to Father.”

“How did she feel about that?”

“She never talked about it with you?”

I shook my head.

He twisted his mouth. “She didn’t like it. Father treated her—well, he was good to her, you understand. Gave her everything. But he was in charge, and she knew it.”

“He treated her like a child, too, you mean.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“I have a hard time thinking of her allowing that.”

“When he died, she changed. After she got over that first shock, she was stronger than any of us ever thought she could be. She took Audra in hand—and believe me, that was no small task. Audra was spoiled rotten!”

“I never thought so.”

“You came along after Mother got through making her over. And it wasn’t easy—for either one of them.”

“They were very devoted.”

“Audra developed a healthy respect for Mother.”

“The wooden spoon?”

“No, I don’t think Mother ever went after her with it—she was fifteen, after all. I think she made her understand—well, I don’t know what she said or how she said it, but—but, well, Audra turned out all right.”

“Yes, she did. She reminded me a lot of Mother. What about you, Nick?”

He finished his drink and set the glass aside. “Me? I was scared stiff when Father died and all the responsibility for running the ranch fell on top of me! But then...” His face softened. “You know, KatieBee, Mother knew as much about the ranch and all the other businesses as Father did. I couldn’t believe it! I found out in a hurry that I could tell her things. . .oh, she was cagey all right—never out and out told me what to do—but she gave me some pretty damn good advice whenever...”

“She knew everything about Papa’s business, too. I heard him tell her more than once that she had a good mind for figuring things out.”

“She did. Yeah, she did.” He poured himself a third drink.

I hesitated, then plunged in. “Nick, you’ve been drinking a lot this week.”

“I can hold my liquor!” he snapped, then turned around almost sheepishly. “Sorry, honey.”

“Does it help?”

“Maybe.” He set the glass down without even a sip. “Heath and I used to get rip-roaring drunk sometimes. Mother didn’t like it. She didn’t say anything, but we knew.”

“Why did you get drunk?”

“I dunno—for th’ hell of it, I guess. Neither of us was married then.”

I shook my head. “You never really answered my question about why you told Mother that she was raising me with an iron fist.”

“I’m not sure I can, honey.” He sat down and stared out the window in silence for a few minutes. “We were on the train to Mustang Creek. You were bored, and you said something. . .I can’t remember. . .and Mother corrected you. Whatever it was didn’t seem like such a big deal to me, but I opened my big mouth anyway. Later...”

I waited, and when he didn’t go on, I said, “Later, what, Nick?”

“Later, she flew all over me, Told me you belonged to her—and Royce—not to me—and not to Tom Barkley.”

“She said it like that?”

“That was the general idea.”

“I never felt they were too strict—not really. I wasn’t allowed to do many of the things my friends were, but I don’t think I wanted to anyway. Papa and Mother made things so pleasant at home—Mother read aloud and told stories about the ranch before I came—and Papa told stories, too, although he never talked about the War. He taught me to play chess. He said it was good exercise for the mind. And we traveled a lot, too. They never hesitated to take me out of school for a week or two at a time.”

“Maybe—maybe I was jealous,” Nick mumbled.

“Jealous? Of what? Of me?”

He shrugged. “The way you were so close—the three of you.”

“All of you are close—you, Jarrod, Heath, Gene, Audra. And when you were growing up...”

“I was close to Father? Nah, honey, that’s not the way it was. I idolized him. I tagged after him and learned from him, and I always knew he loved me—in his own way. Mother—well, after awhile, I pushed her away. I wanted to be a man—a man like Father—so I didn’t want her pettin’ me and fussin’ over me.”

“Did the others push her away, too?”

He nodded—reluctantly it seemed to me. “Jarrod went away to school, but Gene and Audra—well, I reckon they followed my example.” He made a fist and pounded his knee. “It was a damn bad one, too!”

“So when Mother and Papa married and adopted me, she gave me everything that she rest of you rejected?”

He winced. “Yeah. Yeah, I reckon that’s the way it was.” The pain in his voice hurt me, too.

“I’m sorry, Nick.”

“Me, too, honey.”

“Mother loved you. She loved all of you and was proud of everything you accomplished.”

“Yeah.”

The release I’d denied myself came now in a rush of tears. Nick was on his feet in an instant, cradling me in his arms. “You get it all out now, honey, you hear? All out.”

One more time, he was there for me.

* * * * * * * *

Nick, Heath, and Gene were waiting for us at the Stockton depot. I read in their faces what I didn’t want to know. Nick held me tightly. “Pappy died early this mornin’, honey.” I didn’t want to cry in front of John and Vicky, but I did.

* * * * * * * *

Nick had said that they needed me, but the truth was, I needed them. Though over the years I’d somehow become older than my brothers in some ways, I was still the baby sister. It was all too easy to fall back into that role now.

Trevor took charge for his mother and then told us how she wanted things. Of course, we all agreed. Most of the county turned out for the service at the church, but it was just the family at the cemetery. John stood beside me, holding my arm like the man he’d had to become too soon.

* * * * * * * *

Long after everyone had gone up that night, I found Nick sitting at the desk in the library, his head in his hands. He glanced up at me, his face stricken. “Pappy’s gone, KatieBee. What’re we gonna do without Pappy?”

I crossed the room to stand beside him. “What would he do, Nick?” I nodded in the direction of Tom Barkley’s portrait still hanging above the fireplace.

His head came up again. “Him? Father?”

“That’s who I mean. You’re his son. Mother always said you were more like him than any of the others, even Heath.”

“She did?”

“Yes. So what would he do now, Nick?”

“He’d go on, I guess. He’d take care of business.”

“I think so, too.”

Nick seemed to square his shoulders.

“The Barkleys have never let anything beat them, have they?”

“Nah—not the railroad, not anything.”

“It’s a legacy then.”

“You use a lotta fancy words, KatieBee.”

“So did Jarrod.”

Nick smiled. “He sure did. Had a silver tongue—and not just in the courtroom.”

“And you’re just plain loud.”

“And you’ve got a smart mouth!” he snapped, but I knew he wasn’t really mad at me.

“So you’re going on—we’re all going on.”

Nick rose and walked over to lean on the mantle where he could look up at his father’s portrait. “Sometimes I wonder what he’d have done—I mean about gettin’ older.”

“You haven’t slowed down much.”

“Not plannin’ to either! Hell, reckon I’ll die in th’ saddle!”

My heart turned over. He was probably right. “Well, that’s as good a way to go as any, I suppose,” I said with a lightness that I didn’t feel.

“You bet it is!”

As he turned toward me, the old Nick was back—the Nick I’d always known and loved and depended on.

“It’s late, KatieBee. You oughta be in bed.”

“I’m going. What about you?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll go up.”

The house was silent as we crossed the foyer, and our feet made no sound on the newly-recarpeted stairs. Nick’s stride was steady and purposeful, and I clung to his arm. For that moment, the iron gray hair and the lined, weathered face were gone.

“Night, Sister Sharpshooter,” he murmured as he kissed my forehead outside my door. “Ol’ Nick loves his little KatieBee.”

* * * * * * * *

From the journal of Dr. Katherine Barkley Wardell:

Five years later, at the age of eighty-two, Nick did what he said—died in the saddle—or, rather, having slipped out of it. Heath found him lying face up in the gently-waving grass on the North Ridge—almost as if he’d just lain down to take a nap. He was smiling.

He, like Jarrod, left a legacy of love for the land and sons to work it. There will be Barkleys in Stockton long after I—the youngest—am gone.

My brother Nick gave me my family name—KatieBee—when I was only a few days old. He taught me to ride when I was three and to use a gun better than most men when I was only ten. He gave me his shoulder to lean on more times that I can count.

He was big and loud and often impulsive, but his fierce loyalty to his family was legendary. Jarrod was the wise one, Heath the peacemaker, and Gene the one who was often overlooked. Nick was—well, Nick was simply himself.

Nicholas Jonathan Barkley, son of Tom and Victoria. My big brother Nick.

That says it all.

THE END