Once A Rancher

“Sure,” Ryder said, plunking down the bag of kibble and opening the top to scoop out the cat’s dinner. “Napoleon Bonaparte started from humble beginnings and became one of the greatest generals the world’s ever known. And he declared himself emperor.” He took the second bowl to the sink and filled it with water. “I think that’s pretty awesome.”

“And there’s a connection between the general and the cat because—”

Ryder headed for the patio doors, bowls in hand, sloshing water on the floor as he moved. “I guess I just liked the story,” he said. “Look at it this way, Grace. I’ve been paying attention in history class.” He used one elbow to open the glass slider. “I told you I was going to try harder, remember?”

Grace’s throat felt tight again. She nodded, watching as Ryder stepped out onto the patio, dropped to a crouch and set the bowls down. He turned his head to meet her eyes.

“I didn’t want to come here,” he reminded her cheerfully. “But now I’m actually starting to like it—a little.”

Grace chuckled.

That was progress, anyway.

“Bonaparte’s a great name,” she said.

She wasn’t sure if Ryder had heard her, not that it mattered. By then, the cat had come slinking across the flagstones on the patio, too scared to get close, but too starved to stay away.

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_bc2ed46f-5a37-5f3d-ad4f-443753ee7d7c)

THE 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?