Requiem

by Shining Star

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.

This is basically a NICK story that takes place in the library of the Barkley home in Stockton on the evening of the day that Victoria Barkley Wardell is buried. It flashes back briefly to “Out of the Ashes” and “Madness at Mustang Creek”.

“Papa, would you like some milk?” Kate knelt beside his chair and looked up into his face.

“Thank you, no, Kate precious.”

She laid her head against his knee and felt his hand—still strong—caress her hair. “Papa. . .”

“You’re very tired, Kate. Why don’t you go to bed?”

“Won’t you go, too?”

“I’d like to sit here for awhile, if you don’t mind. I’ll be all right.”

“Are you sure? I don’t like to leave you alone.”

He smiled a little. “I’m not alone.”

She rose and kissed him, willing herself not to cry. “All right, Papa. Goodnight. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

She paused at the door of the library and looked back. He sat ramrod straight, despite his eighty years and the burden of grief that weighed him down. His loneliness was permanent—she knew that. Even she couldn’t fill the void in his life—the emptiness of his soul. Mother had taken his heart with her.

“Going up, KatieBee?” Nick caught her on the stairs.

“Yes.”

“Royce already in bed?”

“No, he’s in the library. I tried to—he said he just wants to sit there awhile.” The tears she’d struggled to keep back flowed freely now. “Oh, Nick, he’s so alone!”

Nick took her in his arms and rocked her like a child. “He has you, darlin’.”

“It’s not the same—Mother was his heart. Now that she’s gone, he won’t stay either, and then—oh, Nick, I started life as an orphan, and I’ll soon be one again!”

He let her cry for a few minutes. “You’re Dr. Katherine Barkley Wardell,” he reminded her.

“No, I’m not, Nick—not tonight.”

“Go on to bed, honey. You’re exhausted. I’ll go in and sit with Royce for awhile and try to get him to give it up.”

She kissed his cheek and noticed, with a pang, how gray his hair was becoming. “Thank you, Nick.”

* * * * * * * *

Nick stood in the open door observing the man who had married his mother some twenty-five years earlier. Hard to imagine that he’d disliked and distrusted Royce Wardell then. Hard to realize how much he’d come to admire the man and respect his opinion—even ask his advice on occasion.

“Royce.”

The man stirred but didn’t turn around. “Nick.”

“Mind if I come in and have a drink.”

“Not at all.”

Nick walked to the credenza. “Ya want one?”

“No—yes—some sherry perhaps.”

“Scotch might make ya sleep better.”

The corners of Royce’s mouth turned up. “It might. Scotch then.”

Nick filled two glasses half-full. “It’s been a long day,” he observed, handing one to Royce and sitting down across from him.

“How many people were at the church, do you suppose?”

“Two—three hundred, maybe more.”

“Not too many older folks.”

“No, not too many of them left around here.”

Royce sipped his drink slowly. “Nick, you’ll let me—rest beside her, won’t you?”

“I never thought of anything else.”

“I thought perhaps you might feel that your father—that it wouldn’t be appropriate.”

“Father’s been gone thirty years. I’m older than he ever got to be.” Nick studied the tips of his dress boots stretched in front of him. “And as old as Mother was when she married you.”

“I didn’t realize.”

“I don’t feel old, ya know—but I guess I thought she was—or at least, too old to be thinkin’ about gettin’ married.” He chuckled.

“Yes, I seem to remember that you did have a few objections.”

“Had more’n a few, I can tell ya!”

“But you don’t now?”

Nick sat forward, leaning his elbows on his knees. “We were a good family, Royce, but ya made us better. KatieBee, too.”

The old man brushed his hand across his eyes. “Thank you, Nick.”

“I mean it. Ya gave us—Jarrod, Heath, Gene, and me—lessons in being a father before we were. We watched ya with KatieBee and knew that’s how it was supposed to be—and we’ve all tried to follow your example.”

“She’s a lovely woman, isn’t she? Like her mother.”

“Yeah, she’s like Mother—but she’s like her father, too.”

“I don’t suppose. . .” Royce sipped his drink as if for courage. “I don’t suppose your mother ever shared anything with you about me.”

“I’m not real sure what ya mean, but no—no we never talked about anything personal like that.”

“You must have wondered after that time at Mustang Creek.”

Nick sat back. “Yeah, I wondered, but Mother said to leave it alone. So I did.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter now. It was a long time ago.”

They sipped their scotch in comfortable silence. There was no need for words between them—hadn’t been for a long time. Nick still thought of his father but not as much anymore. In some ways he thought he was more like Royce Wardell than Tom Barkley. Over the years, Royce had gifted all of them with something of himself. To Nick he’d given the example of a man at peace with himself—and Nick could remember when, in those dark days after his father’s death, he hadn’t been a peace with anything.

He’d been so angry—angry at the railroad, of course, but mostly angry with Tom Barkley. It was so like his father to think he could handle every situation. Truth be told, he’d handled most situations that had presented themselves, but with the railroad’s hired guns, he was in over his head.

Nick had thought he had to fill Tom’s boots. Jarrod handled the legalities, but the ranch was Nick’s private province, at least until Heath came. Shifting some of the responsibility to his younger brother had helped—but not much. The anger was still there worse than ever. Not only had Tom Barkley gotten himself killed and left them all behind, but he’d left behind a son he’d never known existed. The family had to deal with that, too.

Now Nick was, as he’d said, older than his father ever got to be. What would Tom Barkley have been like in old age? Nick knew he wouldn’t have been like the man sitting quietly in the chair across the carpet. Royce Wardell was his own man—and Tom—well, Tom would be an anachronism now. He was a man for a time that was long past. Royce was a man who had passed along with time.

“I sat here like this the night after we buried Father,” Nick said suddenly.

“Alone?”

“Yeah. Jarrod was upstairs with Audra and Gene. Mother was in her room. ‘Course, Heath wasn’t here yet.”

“It must have been a difficult time for all of you.”

Nick propped his feet on the long low table that Charlotte had bought to go in front of the settee a few years before. “I didn’t think I’d ever forget everything I was feelin’ that night—but I did. Most of it anyway.”

“Time does that.” Royce drained his glass. “The thing is, I don’t have anymore time.”

Nick didn’t dispute his words. KatieBee was right—without Mother, Royce wouldn’t stay long.

“Do ya remember your father at all?”

“Certainly. I was twelve when he died. I remember him well.”

“Good memories?”

“Most of them. He was away a good deal, you know, preaching here and there. Mother and my brothers and I—one older, two younger—had to keep the farm going. It was a pretty meager existence, and sometimes I used to resent the fact that Father wasn’t there to lend a hand. But he wasn’t a farmer. Even if he’d been there, we’d still have been running things.”

“What made you choose the army?”

“Our nearest neighbor’s brother was a Congressman. He saw something in me—I don’t know what—and recommended me for West Point. It was a way out—a way up.”

“Think you’d have gone on if the war hadn’t come?”

“Yes. It was a difficult life, but I had it a little easier as an officer. Better quarters, better pay—and Catherine followed me wherever I was posted and made a home for the two of us.”

“But the war changed all that.”

“Yes. Yes, it did.” He leaned forward a bit. “It changed me, Nick. I was never the same.”

“Don’t reckon anybody was. War’s a dirty business.”

Royce didn’t seem to hear him. “After Catherine died—the way she died—the raging anger I felt was frightening.”

The word anger hung in the air like a sword suspended by a silk thread.

“I became—an animal.”

In his younger days, Nick would have denied that vehemently, but now he waited.

“An animal.” Royce slumped back in his chair. “By the grace of God—and it was only that, Nick—I came to myself in time.”

“Ya hung up your gun,” Nick murmured more to himself than to the other man.

“I hurled it into the Missouri River and my anger with it. Then I was simply—dead.”

“Did you go to New Orleans then?”

“It wasn’t too long until that opportunity presented itself. I’d thought to earn my living, as I had in the army, but I did more than that. Of course, my brothers did well also. We were able to provide Mother with everything she’d never had. That was important to all of us.” He held out his glass. “A little more, please, Nick.”

Nick poured them both another drink. The whiskey had loosened Royce’s tongue, but perhaps that was a good thing. A man could only keep so much inside.

“When I met Victoria—ah, Nick, it was like a miracle. I’d never known anyone like her before. She was so small, but she filled a room. So feminine and yet she had the strength of a mountain lion. That first evening, holding her in my arms as we danced, I felt life flowing back into my very soul, the soul I thought had withered and died long before. Our circumstances were so similar—violence that had cost us a wife and a husband—but she could still laugh—and so, when I was with her, could I.”

He smiled and nodded to himself. “Ah, Nick, she could laugh with her whole being, couldn’t she?”

“Yeah, she could.”

“She felt it, too—the oneness. It was like a pair of broken scissors coming back together. Almost from the beginning she knew what I was thinking—and feeling. I never had to explain myself to her. We weren’t young lovers—we hadn’t the time to waste on frivolities. When we were sure of our own minds and hearts, we made the decision to marry.” He sighed. “Ah, Nick, I wouldn’t have wanted to miss a single day of my life with her.”

“Ya made her happy, Royce—happier in some ways than Father ever did. I used to watch the two of ya together, and there was somethin’. . .I don’t know. But somethin’. Somethin’ I’d never seen before.”

“Your parents had a good marriage, Nick. You mustn’t doubt that. But it was a different time, a different set of circumstances.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Nick put another log on the fire and returned to the settee, “And then there was KatieBee.”

Royce’s head came up slightly. “Our precious Kate. Victoria knew I wanted her—like I said, she could read my mind. But it seemed preposterous to even consider. We were newly-married—not to mention being past fifty. For my part, I felt it would be unfair to ask her to take on a child—an infant—at that stage of life. But then she said something. . .” Royce smiled at the memory. “She said, There is so much love between us—enough to share.”

“She was right.”

“Kate made us young again. She was the joy of our lives. Of course, her mother was the disciplinarian—I couldn’t bring myself to chastise her for anything, not really. Victoria used to say that sometimes a wooden spoon spoke more clearly than the voice of reason.” His smile broadened. “I talked—but she acted.”

“Whatever ya did must’ve been right. She turned out just fine.”

“All of you turned out to be fine people, Nick. You, Jarrod, Gene, Heath, Audra—I’ve been proud to be associated with you.”

There was another lengthy silence. “I told KatieBee I’d talk ya into goin’ up,” Nick said finally.

“Yes, I should. It’s been a long day.” Royce stood up slowly. “We hadn’t been married very long when Victoria told me that she felt I’d done my grieving for Catherine but that I’d never said goodbye. She was right. She asked Jarrod to see if he could find out where she was buried, and we visited the cemetery together.” He started for the door. “I said goodbye—and we went on. But this time—this time, Nick, I can’t do it. I can’t say goodbye. All I can do is wait to join her.”

Nick frowned. “Royce, what. . .”

The older man paused before stepping out in the hall. “It’s all right, Nick. I know you’ll—you’ll look after Kate for me.”

When he’d gone, Nick went to bank the fire and stood for a moment gazing up at the portrait of Tom Barkley that still hung above the mantle. “Ya built all this,” Nick murmured. “The Barkley Empire. Ya built it—and then ya left it—left us. And now Mother’s gone, too. I wonder. . .” Nick shook his head. “Sometimes I wonder if ya know how it’s all turned out—about Heath—about Mother and Royce.”

He made himself a third drink and sat down again though the room was already growing cool. “I wonder if you’d be as proud of all of us as Royce is, ya know? But then—if ya hadn’t died, maybe we wouldn’t be the same people, any of us. It did something to all of us—changed us, made us tougher maybe. Not Mother though. She almost died, too. It was like she was witherin’ and dyin’ like the roses in her garden. And then there was Heath—we’re a lot alike, ya know. Oh, he’s quiet and don’t yell the way I do—but he’s stubborn like me. Won’t give an inch if he thinks he’s right. You were that way, too, but the thing is—there’s ways of bein’ right and ways of bein’ right.” Nick chuckled. “I was so mad at you about Heath, and now I don’t know how I’d a-survived all these years without him!”

He studied the tips of his Sunday boots that he’d worn for the service and hadn’t taken off yet. “But I gotta tell ya, Father—I gotta tell ya that Royce’s made a difference in our lives, too, and I wonder what you’d think about it.

After ya died—after awhile anyway—Mother got hold of herself and took charge. Kinda like an old she-bear protectin’ her cubs—ya useta say we didn’t need ta be smothered—and I think ya kinda short-changed her. I think ya took away her chance to be who she was.

“But she made up for it, I can tell ya! And we’d all just settled in again when Royce Wardell showed up.” Nick shook his head at the memory. “And then I tried ta be you—tried ta put her back in th’ closet—and she wouldn’t have none of it. And I’m glad—she and Royce had a good life—almost as long as she had with you. And KatieBee—what a little breath of fresh air—more like a whirlwind—she’s been in this family!”

“I never asked ya for advice ‘cuz ya gave it all th’ time anyhow. But Royce—he never said anythin’ ‘less I asked—and I got where I did. Ya sorta looked at one side of things, but Royce, he looks at all of ‘em. Never really told me what ta do—just sort of talked things out with me, and then I’d see it clear as day. First time I sorta felt guilty, ya know? After that—well, I didn’t feel so guilty. Got where I think I was closer to him than any of th’ rest were, and I was th’ one who didn’t want him here to begin with! Even—even punched him one time!”

Nick sat for a moment remembering that first Christmas—how, unprovoked, he’d knocked Royce down in the barn—how the man hadn’t even tried to defend himself—or even been mad at him. But Mother—lord, Mother’d been furious! Chewed his backside worse than she’d ever beat it with the wooden spoon! And then the next morning he’d apologized to Royce, and they’d shaken hands—and things went uphill from there.

And then he thought of Mustang Creek. He’d put his foot in it again with that stupid remark about how Mother was raising KatieBee. She’d been what—eleven or twelve then? And she’d listened to him and for the first and last time in her life gone against her parents. And almost got herself killed.

The memory of that afternoon at Mustang Creek was still clear in Nick’s memory. The gleam of Shad Cressy’s knife. The gun Royce had stuck in his belt, pulled—and then thrown away like it was some foul thing. He, Nick, could’ve killed Cressy, and he would’ve if the man hadn’t just dropped dead in front of them.

Nick thought about pouring himself a fourth drink and rejected the idea. He was already feeling the whiskey. He hadn’t thought about his father in awhile now, and it had made him slightly unsettled. He got to his feet a little unsteadily and went to poke at the log that had flared slightly. Looking up at Tom Barkley’s portrait, he shook his head. “Yeah, ya built all this,” he murmured huskily. “Ya sure did. But I wonder, Father—could ya have held onto it? Things are different now. Heath and I’ve had to make some tough decisions that I’m not sure ya could’ve made.”

He struggled with his conscience for a few seconds, then stepped toward the credenza and helped himself to another drink. He hadn’t been really drunk in years. That was one of the pastimes he’d given up when he married. Charlotte didn’t like it, and he didn’t like upsetting her. But tonight things were different. Tonight he was alone in a way he’d never been before. He’d gotten used to being without his father, but Mother—well, he guessed he’d never really thought about her not being around.

The sound of the door opening made him whirl around. “Heath! What th’ hell. . .”

Heath smiled slightly. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Yeah—yeah, I know. Well, c’mon in. Have a drink.”

“You’ve already had a few, I take it.”

Nick glared at his brother. “’S my own business!”

“Sure it is, Nick. Never said it wasn’t. Ya can bunk at my house t’night if Charlotte kicks ya out.” He crossed the carpet and unstoppered the decanter.

“Was talkin’ ta Royce,” Nick offered as he wove his way back to his chair and fell into it.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Gonna bury him next.”

“Reckon so. Mother was his heart.”

“That’s what KatieBee said, too.”

Heath took the chair Royce had vacated. “Fire’s goin’ out.”

“Wasn’t expectin’ company.”

“And you’re warm enough cozied up to th’ scotch.”

“Damn it, Heath!”

“Mother didn’t like that kinda language, ya know.”

Nick chewed his lip. “First time I ever said anythin’ like that, she beat my backside with th’ wooden spoon. Father said. . .”

“What’d he say, Nick?”

“Said boys naturally picked up language like that.”

“Mother still wear ya out?”

“Every damn time I slipped!”

“Didn’t help much, did it?”

Nick’s chest felt suddenly heavy. “She hadn’t lived here in twenty-five years, but th’ house’s still empty.”

“Know what ya mean.”

“Not too many people left ‘round here who know ya weren’t her son—born to her.”

“Not too many.”

“I think maybe she kinda forgot, too.”

Heath nodded. “Yeah. I sure loved her, Nick.”

“Heath, ya ‘member your Mamma?”

“Not much anymore. Look at her picture sometimes.”

“Ya know I didn’t mean what I said about her when ya first came.”

“Sure, I know, Nick.”

“Ya ever change your mind ‘bout Father? I mean, really change it?”

“Yeah. I know he’d a-come ta help Mamma and me if he’d known.”

“Mother useta say you were more like him in some ways than any of the rest of us.”

“Did she?”

“Ya look like him. . .walk like him. . .sull up like him.”

“Least I don’t tear th’ house down yellin’.”

“Nah—Mother yelled when we were kids. Only way she could make herself heard, I guess.”

“So ya got it from her?”

“I dunno—maybe. She was always tellin’ me ta be quiet.” He downed the rest of his drink and missed the table as he reached to set down the glass.

“Nick, you’re good ‘n drunk now. Want me ta help ya upstairs?”

“Not drunk.”

“Yeah, ya are. Whiskey and memories—strong stuff.” Heath picked up the empty glass and then reached for his brother’s hand. “C’mon, Nick, it’s over.”

Nick’s nodding head jerked up. “Yeah—yeah, that’s th’ problem, Heath. It’s over. All over. Father. . .Mother. . .pretty soon Royce. . .” Tears formed in his dark eyes and spilled over onto the weathered cheeks.

Heath lifted his brother to his feet and steadied him. “Nah, Nick, I was wrong. It’s not over by a long shot. Gonna be Barkleys on this place for another hundred years.” He glanced at the painting of Tom Barkley. “He’d be proud, too.”

The last of the embers sputtered and died. Nick put his face against his brother’s shoulder. “Heath. . .Heath, I. . .”

Heath patted his brother’s back. “Yeah, Nick, I know. I know. Let’s call it a day, huh? Gotta be up early tomorrow.”

Nick straightened and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Ya better b’lieve it, boy! This is a workin’ ranch, ya know!”

THE END