Читать книгу Once A Rancher - Linda Lael Miller - Страница 11
ОглавлениеTHE STALLION, CHARCOAL-GRAY with a black mane and tail, was the living definition of the word wild. He stood, majestic, almost a part of the early-morning sunlight blazing around him like an aura, while his harem of mares grazed nearby.
Despite the distance, the animal seemed to know he was being watched; Slater noted the creature’s raised head and direct gaze, the forward slant of his ears, the muscles in his powerful haunches as he readied himself for fight or flight.
Slater gave a low whistle of grudging admiration as he handed the binoculars back to his brother. “That,” he breathed, “is one hell of a horse.”
Drake’s response was a disdainful grunt. “He’s a bold son of a bitch, I’ll say that for him.” He lifted his hat long enough to shove a hand through his hair in a gesture of barely contained frustration. “I was planning on breeding at least one of those mares with that stud Tate Calder bought last year—the black one with the look of a Thoroughbred? I’ve even paid the damn fee.” The hat came off again, and Drake slapped it against one thigh to emphasize his point. With a slight motion of his head, he indicated the stallion, along with the band of prize mares, every one of them either bought and paid for by him, or bred and raised right there on the ranch. “Now, thanks to that thieving bastard out there, I’ll have to shit-can the whole idea.”
Slater suppressed a grin. There were times when it was fine to needle Drake, and times when a misplaced word could have the same general effect as tossing a lighted match into a stand of drought-yellowed grass.
And while Slater enjoyed a good brawl as much as the next man, he didn’t have the energy for that kind of drama. So he nodded slightly in the stallion’s direction and said, “He’s quite a specimen himself, that horse. Bound to sire some mighty respectable foals.”
Drake’s eyes narrowed, but he was calming down. He seemed to be fighting back a grin of his own, although Slater couldn’t be sure. “You think he’s going to bring those mares over to the barn, drop them all neat and tidy, so we can see that they get proper prenatal care? Hell, Showbiz, you’ve been on the road too long if that’s what you’re expecting. Either that, or you’ve been watching too many old Disney movies.”
Slater chuckled, took back the binoculars and scanned the horizon for the stallion and his four-legged admirers. Smiled to himself. The animal had lost interest in his observers by then, and who could blame him, with all those mares at his beck and call?
“You get in touch with the BLM?” Slater asked, lowering the binoculars. He hadn’t watched a Disney flick recently, and while he did spend more time away from home than he wanted to, he belonged to the place as much as Drake did. The ranch was his legacy, too, and his future, in all the ways that counted.
At the mention of the Bureau of Land Management, Drake finally cut loose with a chuckle of his own. “Yes, I called the BLM,” he replied, with terse good humor. “Let’s just say that between the wild donkeys and the mustangs, they’ve got their hands full. In other words, if we’ve lost a few fancy mares, well, in their considered opinion, that’s our problem.”
Slater raised one shoulder in a shrug. “I reckon it is our problem,” he said. “We could get some of the hands together, saddle up and ride out, see how many of those mares we can rope and lead home.”
Drake sighed heavily, shaking his head. “Priorities, brother. We’re missing some calves, too, so just about everybody’s out there trying to track ’em down. Not having much luck, since it hasn’t rained in a while. Whoever or whatever is rustling beef isn’t leaving any kind of trail.” He paused, looking genuinely worried now. “If I had to venture a guess, I’d say we’re dealing with wolves or a big cat. In which case I’ll have to dust off one of my rifles.”
Briefly, Slater rested his left hand on Drake’s shoulder. He knew his brother was feeling bleak. He loved animals, all animals, and he had a rancher’s respect for the natural order of things. To a hungry wolf pack or any other predator, a calf was food, plain and simple. He understood that. Still, it was his job to protect the herd.
“Need any help?” Slater asked quietly. He had about a dozen urgent phone calls to make, and there was paperwork, too, but he’d put it all aside if Drake said the word. He was a filmmaker by trade, but first, last and always, he was a Carson.
A rancher.
But Drake shook his head again. “We’ll take care of it,” he said. Then his mouth formed a tired grin. “You’ve got enough to do back at your office.” He paused, gestured, the motion of his hand taking in the mountains, the range, the broad and poignantly blue Wyoming sky. “This is my office,” he said, with a note of grim pride. “Not perfect when it’s dead cold in the winter and the wind is gusting at sixty miles an hour and hurling snow in your face like shrapnel, or when it’s so hot you feel the heat shimmer up from the ground and your shirt is stuck to your body. But hey, it suits me just like being Mr. Showbiz suits you.”
Slater nodded an agreeable goodbye and walked back toward the house, thinking Drake had a good handle on his place in the world. His brother tackled life head-on and waded right in, got things done.
As for their youngest brother, Mace, he tended to operate by intuition.
Slater smiled when he went up the steps and found his mother watering the plants on the wide front porch. She glanced up and smiled. Blythe Carson was still slim and youthful at seventy, wearing jeans and a loose cotton blouse, and she’d caught back her thick hair in a clip as usual. She had a natural beauty that didn’t require embellishment, but she was like steel under that soft, feminine exterior. Maybe she’d been born resilient, maybe she’d developed the quality after giving birth to three unruly sons, losing the husband she’d loved early on and, finally, inheriting a ranching business she knew little or nothing about.
But if a challenge came her way, she pushed up her sleeves, both literally and figuratively, and dealt with it.
In fact, his mother’s unbendable spirit was a big part of the reason he’d become interested in making historical documentaries. Those stalwart pioneers had so many stories to tell, and she represented, to Slater, anyway, how women had handled the challenges and discomforts of settling the West. It was all about the journey in his films, where you started and where you ended up, and that same strength of character—what country people called “gumption.”
“What’s on your agenda today?” Blythe asked.
“Work,” he said. “I offered to lend Drake a hand out on the range, but he’s got it covered.”
“He’s always got it covered,” she said mildly. “Finds it hard to accept help—like a few other people I could name.”
She was, of course, referring to all three of her sons.
“Hmm. Wonder where we get that particular trait,” he said.
Blythe made a face at him.
He paused before opening the side door to enter the house. “Want to walk over to the winery with me later? You and Mace could give me the tour. I haven’t been over there since you added the new cellar.”
“I’d love that. Call my cell when you’re ready. Better yet, text me.” Not usually demonstrative, Blythe reached out and touched his cheek in a brief, tender gesture of affection. “I’m so glad you’re back.”
Call my cell. Better yet, text me. Slater smiled to himself, remembering how hard it had been to persuade his mother to get a mobile phone in the first place. Now she was adept at high-tech communication. “Sounds like a plan.”
He went into the house and through a foyer with a chandelier that should have been in a museum somewhere. The piece wasn’t original to the house, but went back much further, probably to the turn of the nineteenth century; according to family legend it came from a grand Southern hotel. A beautiful creation of flawless crystal, it seemed incongruous—and yet oddly natural—in a ranch house set among mountains and prairie.
By now such things were part of the landscape to Slater. His family was eclectic, to say the least.
He entered his office, formerly his father’s study. He was comfortable there, among the belongings of generations—polished bookcases and a vast collection of volumes, most of them having some flavor of the Old West. There were classics and plenty of nonfiction, a smattering of epic poetry and high-brow philosophy, but a generous sprinkling of Zane Grey and Louis L’Amour, too.
Slater settled into the old leather chair and booted up his computer. As he’d expected, a slew of emails awaited him, the majority sent by various crew and staff members wrapping up last-minute details on location.
He took care of those first, and it was, as usual, a time-consuming task.
There was a message from the resort concerning the dinner and meeting he had booked that morning, confirming the date he’d chosen—still almost a month out—but it was the second email that really got his attention. He was invited, in a briskly businesslike way, to have dinner the following week with the resort manager—none other than Grace Emery herself—so they could discuss “possible joint endeavors and promotions.”
A slow grin spread across Slater’s face as he considered, just for a moment, a few possible joint endeavors he might be able to suggest.
I’ll be damned, he thought, smiling.
Recalling last night’s brief and testy exchange with her, he marveled at—okay, celebrated—the fact that the lovely Ms. Emery wanted to see him again. For any reason.
Grace had been furious at her stepson, yes, and she’d virtually forced the boy to apologize. But she’d also taken an apparently instant dislike to Slater. Now, all of a sudden, she wanted to talk business? Over dinner?
Since there was no one around to see, Slater punched the air with one fist and muttered, “Yes!”
Ideally, the meeting would be one-on-one. No assistants. No heads of this department or that.
Just Grace and him.
But life was rarely ideal.
Warning himself to rein it in, not to read too much into the unexpected invitation, Slater printed out the confirmation for the other event, his company gathering, filed it and sent the notice to his guests, indicating the time and place—one month from this coming Saturday.
That done, he carefully composed his RSVP to the second get-together.
Of course the email would go straight to Grace’s assistant, someone named Meg, but surely she’d see it, too. He rested his elbows on the desk, that smile still lingering on his mouth, although most of his triumph had subsided, turning into something more fragile, like hope.
He’d sensed, despite the bristling body language and snappy retorts of the night before, that the attraction between him and Grace hadn’t all been on his side.
But maybe he was wrong on that score. Maybe the invitation was exactly what it appeared to be—strictly business.
Slater paused, leaning back in his chair, reflecting. Going by what his brothers had told him about Grace, she’d already given plenty of eager cowboys the brush-off. She was, after all, a busy woman with a demanding job, plus dealing with a troubled teenage boy. While Ryder seemed like an intelligent kid, the smart ones were often the hardest to manage. Throw in a move from one state to another and a career change, and it was no great leap to figure out that romance might not be all that high on Grace Emery’s to-do list.
Come to think of it, getting involved wasn’t really on Slater’s agenda, either. He loved his work, enjoyed dating a wide variety of women, most of whom he met on location, spent as much quality time with his young daughter, Daisy, as possible, and helped his brothers with the ranch and the winery. He figured that was more than enough for one man. And he subscribed to the if-it-ain’t-broke-don’t-fix-it theory. Nope, he wasn’t looking to complicate matters.
Still, some of the best things in life were unplanned.
Like his daughter, Daisy, for instance.
Pensive now, Slater picked up his phone, scrolled down his contact list and hoped he’d catch up with Raine this time around. He’d left two messages already, but his ex-girlfriend, who happened to be the mother of his only child, kept eclectic hours, and her somewhat free-spirited lifestyle often made communication difficult. When she answered, she said with a little laugh, “Well, I guess trouble’s back in town.”
Slater smiled. He’d thought he’d loved Raine, back when they were together, and he knew she’d believed she loved him. And yet they’d always been more friends than lovers. Yes, the sex had been stellar, but they’d both been young and healthy, so it made sense that they’d enjoyed making love. They’d finally realized that they didn’t have what it took to get married and stay that way. “You guess?” he countered mildly, snapping out of his reflective mood. “I’ve sent you a couple of emails and called a few times. Some people would interpret those things as clues to my return.” He spoke in a relaxed tone, used to Raine and her legendary ability to focus on her work, when she chose, to the exclusion of everything and everybody around her—except for their young daughter. “Fortunately, Daisy bothered to get back to me, and we’ve been plotting against you. What are you doing for dinner tonight? I haven’t seen my daughter in two months, if you don’t count that flying visit so I could see her in the school play. And according to Mom, Daisy’s playing softball this summer, so I’ll want to be at as many of her games as I can.” A pause. “Obviously, I have some catching up to do in the father department.”
There was a lilt in Raine’s voice. Predictably, she’d let most of what Slater had said pass. “Dinner?” she echoed. She’d probably been thinking about some project she was working on. “I guess it depends on whether or not Harry’s doing the cooking. Our being available, I mean.”
“Harry is doing the cooking,” Slater confirmed, amused. He’d already worked out an arrangement with the housekeeper. “Unless you’d rather go to a restaurant.”
“And miss one of Harry’s incomparable meals? No way, José.”
He laughed outright, warmed by Raine’s friendship. Their relationship, long over in terms of romance, had been an interesting chapter in his life, an illustration of the old adage that opposites attract. Slater believed in roots, family, tradition, while Raine took a more whimsical approach, but they usually managed to agree on the basics.
Usually.
Slater felt a twinge, remembering. They’d already gone their separate ways, quite peaceably, and been apart for six months or so when Raine had come to see him after a lengthy visit with some New Mexico cousins. She’d been eight months pregnant when she turned up on his doorstep and, while the prospect of becoming a father had brought him up short, once the initial shock was past, he’d been delighted.
Raine was fiercely independent and when she’d discovered she was pregnant she’d never questioned, not for one second, that she wanted the baby. They hadn’t discussed parenthood during their time as a couple, except in the most hypothetical way. Yes, they both liked the idea of having a baby—later. Some vague, undefined later. Maybe that was why she hadn’t informed Slater when she found out, but he’d never once doubted that the child she carried was his.
He’d asked Raine to marry him.
She’d smiled and punched him in the shoulder and said, “Don’t be silly. It wouldn’t work, and we both know it.”
So there’d been no wedding.
And while Slater and Raine had never lived under the same roof, they’d become a sort of family, the three of them. Slater supported Daisy, spent as much time as he could with her, loved her as deeply as any father had ever loved a child. And Raine was equally committed to motherhood.
It was an innovative setup, no denying that, but Slater wouldn’t have changed anything, even if a do-over had been possible.
He’d fought it for a while, had wanted to take the traditional approach. In the end, he knew Raine had been right all along. Daisy was a happy, well-adjusted child. She got excellent grades in school, had numerous friends, was healthy in every way. She had a solid home—two of them, actually—and parents who loved her.
So far, so good.
“Slater?” Raine’s voice was like a friendly poke in the ribs. “Are you still there?”
“I’m still here,” he replied quietly.
“So what’s on the menu? For dinner, I mean? Not that I care, because everything Harry makes is delicious.”
Slater snapped out of his momentary distraction for the second time in two minutes. He grinned. “I have no idea what Harry’s planning to whip up, but she’s cooking it, not me. So are you going to be here or what?”
“We’ll be there,” Raine said. “Usual time?”
“Yeah. You know Harry and her schedules. This place runs like clockwork.”
“We’ll be prompt. The last time I was late, she claimed the dishwasher was broken and made me do up the whole works while she supervised. Remember?”
He did. “Served you right,” he said.
“Never any sympathy,” Raine accused him. “In fact, you laughed.”
Slater had to laugh again, recalling the incident. “I’ve warned you over and over, sugarplum. Punctuality’s important to Harry. Nobody holds up the program and gets away with it.”
“Well,” Raine said, “her one-of-a-kind garlic mashed potatoes are important to me, so let’s hope she’s serving up a batch of those. Daisy and I will be there at six sharp.”
When Slater ended the call, he texted his mother, which seemed ridiculous since they were in the same house, but such were the oddities of modern life.
Ready to go to the vineyard?
The response was almost instantaneous.
I can’t wait to show you the changes we’ve made. Meet you out front.
Slater stood, his thumbs working on the phone’s keyboard.
By the way, Raine and Daisy will be here for dinner tonight.
We’ll keep it short then. I’ll run into town for ice cream as soon as we’re done.
Walking, Slater keyed in a couple of smiley-face icons, followed by:
I was hoping for those lemon bars Harry bakes.
Already on the menu. But Daisy loves chocolate ice cream, and thanks to your brothers, we’re always out of the stuff.
Here’s a concept. Why don’t we discuss this in person?
Blythe immediately replied with an icon of her own, a smiley face sticking out its tongue.
Slater groaned and dropped his smart—or smart-ass—phone into his shirt pocket.
This was going to be a good day, and an even better evening, spent with the women he loved—young, old and in-between.
Raine was still on his mind as he headed for the front of the house. The last time he’d seen her, her shining dark hair bounced around her shoulders, but considering how impulsive she was, she might’ve had it cut short or dyed it green in the interim. She had mischievous hazel eyes and an infectious laugh; it had been that laugh that had caught his attention in the first place, when they’d met at a party a little over a decade ago, the beginning of a six-month affair. A talented graphic artist, Raine also designed websites and had recently done a stunning one for the winery.
His thoughts shifted, once again, to Daisy. From the very beginning, she’d been a member of the Carson clan; they’d instantly embraced her. In fact, they completely spoiled her. There’d been the pony from Uncle Drake, the custom dollhouse from Uncle Mace, the fit-for-a-princess bedroom their mother had designed for the little girl’s frequent visits to the ranch. Slater had finally had to ask them, politely of course, to stop one-upping him all the time.
Yeah, that had worked. The Christmas he’d given Daisy a bicycle, she’d received two more—one from each of her uncles.
But these were small glitches to Slater. Early on, he’d been afraid Raine might decide to leave town, move somewhere far from Mustang Creek to pursue big-city work opportunities, taking Daisy with her. But that fear had been put to rest when he and Raine had signed a joint custody agreement.
He’d bought her a house in town, and she’d established herself as a valued member of the community.
Raine had also been the one to suggest that Daisy take the Carson name.
Slater stepped onto the side porch, really more of a veranda, and saw that his mother was waiting, chatting with one of the hands, who held the reins to two saddled horses. The older man’s eyes lit up in his weathered face, and when Slater got close enough, he received a hearty slap on the back as welcome. If he hadn’t been expecting it, he might have staggered under the blow.
“Slate, good to see you, son.” Red—named after the river—was a true tough-as-nails cowboy, the old-fashioned variety. He was like a human barometer, and Slater didn’t check the forecasts when he was home; he just asked Red, who would squint at the sky and give him an accurate prediction every time. Slater could swear the man had worn the same hat for the past thirty years, but maybe he just liked the style and actually bought a new one now and then.
“Good to be home,” he said, meaning it. “When I come back, I always wonder why I left to begin with.”
“I wonder the same dang thing.” Red patted the neck of one of the horses, a restive bay. “This here is Heckfire,” he told Slater. “I know you miss old Walter, but Drake and I thought you might like this young fella.”
The horse was a sleek beauty with a glossy coat, and he tossed his head against the rein. Slater sensed that it wasn’t so much rebellion as the fact that he wanted to get moving. All this yammering is boring. Let’s run.
There was no question that Slater missed his gelding, a horse that had been a gift from his father. But his four-legged friend had been nearly thirty years old, and when Slater had said goodbye on his last visit, he’d known it was for the final time.
He ran his hand down the length of the horse’s muscled neck and was rewarded with a nicker and an investigative sniff as Red handed over the reins. “He’s a showstopper. But... Heckfire?”
“We call him Heck. The name comes from Drake. Even as a colt, this critter was causing trouble, and we hadn’t named him yet and your brother said, ‘Heck, he’s full of fire.’” Red paused, cleared his throat then glanced at Blythe and blushed. “Well, he didn’t exactly say ‘heck,’” he clarified. “Anyhow, we, uh, adapted the name, and it stuck.”
Blythe rolled her eyes but said nothing. Red was an institution on the ranch; he’d worked for the family longer than Slater had been alive. A widower, the old man had never gotten over his long-dead wife. He still placed flowers on her grave every Sunday afternoon.
Slater merely waited, nodding once, because it was obvious Red had more to say. “You’ll have to teach this stubborn cayuse a few manners,” the old cowboy said, rubbing his grizzled chin and assessing the gelding solemnly.
“You know I like a challenge,” Slater said. “Once he and I come to an understanding, things will be fine.” With a sidelong glance at his mother, he threw in another observation. “Just like women.”
Sure enough, Blythe elbowed him in the ribs. Hard.
Since he’d been prepared for her reaction, Slater barely flinched.
Red chuckled. “Now, there I’ll have to disagree with you, son. No man ever understood a woman. They’re a whole other species.”
Blythe cleared her throat and folded her arms. “Excuse me? I—a woman, as it happens—am standing here listening, or have you two bone-headed males forgotten that?”
“Mrs. Carson, ma’am.” Red touched the brim of his hat, still grinning irreverently, and politely held her horse while she mounted. Slater swung into his old familiar saddle, felt another pang at the loss of Walter, but was pleasantly surprised by the fluid smoothness of the bay’s gait as they cantered down the drive. The old cowhand was right; the horse ignored subtle commands like an irritable teenager, but basically behaved himself. Slater had been around horses since early childhood, and he knew a fine animal when he rode one. He applauded Drake on this particular choice.
They slowed once they reached the first row of vines, which to his admittedly inexpert eye seemed to be doing well. “Mace put in an irrigation system that cost a staggering amount of money,” his mother told him as they walked alongside their horses. “But you know, when it comes to anything with leaves and branches, I trust him. He’s made several trips to the Willamette Valley, visited your uncle in California for hands-on harvest demonstrations several years in a row, and he’s really getting a feel for it. He’s grafted some varieties with surprising success, and if he can produce just the right grape, we might be in a position to stop ordering most of our fruit, like we do now, and produce enough ourselves. Certainly the apple wine he made last year was a big seller on a commercial level, but he’s tried a bit of everything, including cranberry and peach. Plus different varieties of red, from merlot to zinfandel, and whites from chardonnay to Riesling. You name it. He loves experimenting.”
“I’m sure he’s having fun. He’s like a mad scientist,” Slater said. “I still remember when he was in college and he started making his own beer. His apartment looked—and smelled—as if he’d hijacked a still from the hills of Kentucky or something. I went there to visit him once, and he persuaded me, against my better judgment, to take a swig. The stuff tasted okay, but I don’t remember one damn thing about the rest of the night. As I recall, I slept upright in a chair, still fully clothed, and come morning, I had a crick in my neck you wouldn’t believe. I declined to repeat the experience. He thought it was funny.”
Blythe sent him a mischievous grin. “I’ve heard that story a time or two. I hate to be the one to break the news, but he still repeats it.”
“If he values his health, he’d better not do it in front of me.” Slater meant it. Adding insult to injury, he’d awakened with a vicious headache that memorable morning. Worse, he’d felt like seven kinds of fool.
“Ah, there’s nothing like having three boys.” Blythe’s tone was wry.
“Except having a little girl who’s getting to be not so little. Daisy’s ninth birthday is coming up. Any ideas?”
“Yep, but it’s every man for himself, Slater. Both of her uncles have asked me the same question. I didn’t help them, either.”
“I’m her father. That’s different.”
His mother gave him a pointed glance he recognized. Drake and Mace were equally familiar with the expression, no doubt. “Don’t you think it’s time you got married and had a few more children?” she asked. “For Daisy’s sake, of course.”
