Dreamless

“Now see here, sonny.” The screen door creaked and Mack Coffey tottered forward. “I can have a smoke if I want to. I don’t recall ever giving up that particular pleasure. That’s your notion.”

You don’t recall anything, Jake thought, then hated himself for being mean-spirited. It was wearisome, caring for someone so fragile, someone who could be contrary and combative and confused all at once.

“Dad, it’s chilly out here.” Jake angled up the steps past Lana and clamped a friendly hand on his dad’s arm. He had learned how to finesse his father without hurting Mack’s pride. “Let’s go inside.”

Lana, naturally, followed Jake right through the door.

Jake steered Mack to his familiar rocking recliner by the window, then turned a level gaze on Lana. He was not about to give the woman an inch. “Okay, Lana, tell me what you want. I’ve got some skittish mares down at the barn that I need to tend to. I’ve already wasted half the day as it is.”

Her eyes widened. “Nothing’s wrong with the Andalusians, I hope!”

The Andalusians, prized mares from a province in southern Spain, were Lana Largeant’s bread and butter. The mares had come from Lana’s father’s stock, and at the time of the divorce settlement, Jake had felt lucky, getting Lana to let him keep six Andalusians to breed along with his other Cottonwood Ranch mares, mostly thoroughbreds. In exchange for breeding the mares with his own rare Andalusian stallion, Arrestado, Jake had agreed to let Lana sell every foal that was born from certain mares.

An Andalusian foal could sell for as much as thirty thousand dollars, so neither Jake nor Lana had ended up exactly broke, even after they split their operation. This arrangement had satisfied Lana, tenuously, for the past three years.

For his part, Jake had to bear the enormous overhead of getting Cottonwood Ranch back in the black. His father’s slow deterioration was written all over the books in red. Jake didn’t mind the back-breaking work of training and tending the stock on freezing cold nights and blazing hot days. But Jake felt now, just as he had during their ten-year marriage, that he did the work and Lana got the profits.

“The Andalusians are fine.” Jake tried to sound confident. “Mainly, I don’t want my quarter horses to foal before January first.”

“Of course not! Lord knows, you can’t run a yearling like it was a two-year-old.” Jake wondered if Lana still imagined herself as his ally in the equestrian business. It’s in our blood, she used to coo at him.

In the equestrian world, quarter horses turned one year old on January first, even if they’d just been born twenty-four hours earlier on December thirty-first. Thus, a breeder invariably lost money on any foals born late in the year. At sale, in races, those yearlings competed with horses that were actually a year older. With a horse’s gestation running eleven months, two weeks, the timing was tricky. Jake always managed to keep his mares fertile and cycling through the dark winter, using constant barn lighting and every bit of available southwest sunshine. And he could always count on his two stallions, Arrestado and Pintado, to perform on cue.

By mid-February, babies were on the way. By Valentine’s Day of the next year, Jake had new foals in the barn. By the following winter, the pasture was full of yearlings. Thus, the operation at Cottonwood Ranch renewed itself, year after year, in a cycle of breeding, birth and maturing stock that had garnered praise and prosperity for three generations.

Lana frowned as she went on. “But your mares never foal early. You’re a great horse breeder, Jake—why would they?”

He jerked his head toward the noise in the distance as the ka-rump of the rock crusher echoed over the valley. “Hear that?”

“Yeah, I noticed it when I drove up. What the hell is it? Some kind of oil well operation or something?” To the west of Ten Mile Flats, an occasional oil well dotted the prairie.

“It’s that damn upstart young woman’s machinery!” In a flash Mack’s face went from placid to agitated. He tried to push himself up from his recliner, but Jake stopped him with a calm hand on the shoulder.

“I’m taking care of it, Dad.”

“What young woman?” Lana positioned herself in front of Jake.

Jake could see Lana’s jealousies spiraling up as plainly as antennae.

“That woman up there on that hill.” Mack flipped a weathered, shaky hand in the direction of The Heights.

Jake hooked his thumbs at his belt. “There’s a developer building houses up on the old Sullivan ridge. She’s making a lot of construction noise in the process.”

“The builder is a she?”

“A woman architect. Name’s C. J. McClean.” Jake exhaled a pent-up breath. Why did he feel uneasy all of a sudden? “Calls her operation Dream Builders.”

Lana eyed him, then lit up with a kind of excitement. “I’ve heard of Dream Builders! They run a big ad in the paper every Sunday. And they have TV ads on cable.” She turned her head toward the picture window, gazing in the direction of The Heights. “You want me to tell Daddy to make this woman stop that racket?”

“I said I’m handling it.” Jake’s jaw clenched again. He was going to crack every filling in his mouth before this day was over. The last thing he wanted was Stu Largeant poking around in Cottonwood Ranch business. “You don’t need to get involved.”

“But we are talking about our Andalusians.”

“You can only claim the foals, Lana, and only from Bailadora and Encantadora and—”

“How could I ever—” Lana’s voice grew instantly acid “—forget about that…that devil’s pact we made?”

Like her transparent jealousy, Lana’s temper sprouted as plainly as horns popping out on her forehead. She whirled on the hapless Mack, who, Jake hoped, would have no memory later of the undercurrents that had just been unleashed in the room.

“Just for once, you would think your son could forget his stiff-necked pride and let somebody help him.”

“Jake don’t need Stu Largeant’s kind of help.”

Mack, suddenly alert, suddenly lucid, surprised Jake this way at least once a day. That was the torment of Mack’s disease. Jake could never be sure who was on board. Tough, sensible, loving Mack Coffey, or his withered twin, the frail man who couldn’t remember how to put on his own socks.

Jake intervened. “Lana, look. I’ve already talked to the woman myself. And I’ve talked to my attorney. I will get this settled. In the meantime, I want you to stay out of it.” Jake hated to state it so bluntly, but he knew from long experience that you couldn’t give Lana Largeant any wiggle room or before long she’d be ordering your hired help to run out and fetch her cigarettes.

“All right. If that’s what you want.” Lana snatched a stylish leopard-skin clutch off the couch. “I was hoping to discuss something important with you—about Jayden—but I don’t want to do it when you’re in a bad mood. I’d better get going. Don’t worry, Jake, I won’t interfere with this…C. J. McClean woman.”

Jake nodded, but if he knew Lana, she’d head up to The Heights and have a look at C. J. McClean for herself, no matter what he said. And he knew she would run home and tell her rich daddy the whole story.

She thrust her arms into an oversize black microfiber duster. “Tell Donna not to worry about my change.” She said this to Mack. Then she flew out the door without bothering to pull it shut behind her.

Jake walked over and closed the door with a soft click. He removed his hat and hung it on a nearby coat tree. He gave a soft, mirthless snort of laughter when something occurred to him. Lana’s clothes always gave some kind of clue to her mood. He wondered if the cutesy army getup meant she was gearing up for war. Again.

That’s all he needed, more legal entanglements. Her mention of Jayden had caused a familiar twist of fear in Jake’s gut.

“I wonder what Lana wanted. Did she tell you, Dad?”

But Mack was staring out the window, lost again in the cobwebby world of Alzheimer’s disease. “Who?” he said, and his voice was croaky with fatigue.

“Nobody,” Jake said.

“Where the heck is Donna?” Mack’s gaze was fuzzy as it panned the room.

“At the store. She’ll be back soon.”

“She’d better be.” Mack’s voice cleared and he flicked out his pocket watch in the same crisp manner he always had. “It’s gettin’ on toward lunchtime.”

Jake smiled. That was Mack—in and out.

BY THE TIME JAKE HAD FINISHED an apple and made a couple of business calls, he heard Donna’s Jeep roaring up the drive. Donna Morales bustled in the back door by the kitchen, as was her habit, clumped through the house, and appeared in Jake’s office doorway, out of breath.

“Is she gone?” she huffed.

Jake nodded, frowning.

“I’m sorry, Jake.” Donna pressed a hand to her ample bosom. “But have you ever tried to tell that woman no?”