Cowboys and Cabernet

He was a slender, handsome man in his midfifties with dark graying hair, mild brown eyes and a carefully trimmed beard. He wore casual brown corduroy slacks, a soft flannel shirt and a tan cardigan with suede elbow patches, and looked like a college professor or a respected artist or sculptor.

In actual fact, though, Don Holden was a businessman, a self-made entrepreneur with one of the most successful privately owned vineyards and wineries in the Napa Valley. He was firm in business dealings, incisive, knowledgeable and tough, well-known throughout the region for his rugged independence and his uncanny instincts for the wine-making business.

But tonight, in the privacy of his own dining room, Don Holden presented a somewhat less confident demeanor than his business colleagues were accustomed to seeing. In fact, the man’s expression was positively timid when he turned away from the window and glanced through the wide Spanish archway leading to the kitchen, then peered anxiously out again into the rainy darkness.

Somewhere nearby a door opened suddenly, admitting a gust of damp air and a cool breath of freshness. Don’s shoulders sagged with relief and he crossed the room quickly, smiling at the damp person who stood dripping in the entrance hall.

The newcomer stripped off a hooded oilskin cape to reveal a slim body in high rubber boots, jeans, denim jacket and faded Oakland A’s baseball cap.

“For God’s sake, get those muddy boots off, girl,” Don said, trying to make his voice gruff, though he couldn’t quite hide the fond smile that tugged at his lips beneath his neat beard. “Look at you. You’re dripping all over the place.”

His daughter pulled off the boots and set them casually on a rubber tray beside the door, then removed her baseball cap to reveal a head of tumbled short brown hair and a face of gamine prettiness. Flushed with cold, dressed in casual clothes, Ruth Holden looked more like a thirteen-year-old than a woman of almost thirty, Don told himself. Her skin was creamy and perfect, just a trace of summer tan remaining, and her eyes were golden brown, warm with affection as she smiled at her father.

“Oh, quit fussing,” Ruth said mildly. “Here I am slaving away all day in the wet and cold, and do I get any appreciation for it? Not a bit.”

“You love it,” Don said, unmoved, leaning in the doorway and watching her. “You’d rather spend the day out there pruning and taking cuttings than doing anything else in the world. You know you’re just doing it for pure enjoyment. It’s still too early for pruning.”

Ruth chuckled and pulled off her denim jacket to reveal a blue plaid shirt buttoned warmly over a white turtleneck. “How come you’re so cranky, Dad?” she asked mildly. “You’re growling just like an old bear.”

Don rolled his eyes and threw a brief eloquent glance over his shoulder, then held out his watch.

Ruth peered at the time and gasped. She covered her mouth with a slim, dirt-smeared hand and gazed at the man in the doorway, her eyes wide and startled.

“Oh, God, I’m sorry,” she murmured contritely. “I honestly had no idea it was getting so late. Is she really mad?” Ruth lowered her voice, glancing down the hallway just as her father had moments before.

Don nodded. “The atmosphere is getting quite tense,” he reported solemnly.

“Oh, my. I’ll just run real quick and wash.” Ruth held up her cold muddy hands for his inspection. “If she comes in, tell her I’ll be back in a flash.”

“Don’t dawdle, then.”

Ruth nodded and hurried off down the hallway while Don moved back into the dining room, grinning privately.

“Well, is she finally home?”

Don sobered hastily and turned to nod at the heavy gray-haired woman who stood in the archway glaring at him. “Yes, Mrs. Ward. She just came in. She’s washing up.”

“Well, about time, I must say. Some people have no consideration at all for some other poor people who have to work all day in the kitchen, trying to make a decent meal that’s practically burned to a crisp now because somebody else decides it’s just not important to come to meals on time.”

Mrs. Ward stood with hands on hips and feet firmly planted, delivering herself of this heavily emphasized and confusing statement with her steely eyes fixed on her employer’s face.

Don nodded again. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Ward. I know it’s inconsiderate of us. We’ll both try to do better in the future.”

There was a charged silence in the room while the big woman lingered angrily in the archway.

“I’m really sorry,” Don repeated with a note of pleading in his voice.

The housekeeper continued to glare at him until she was apparently satisfied that he’d groveled sufficiently. Then she gave a curt nod and vanished down the hallway, her silver head glinting under lighted wall sconces, her ample rear churning indignantly beneath dark green polyester slacks.

Ruth edged hesitantly into the room, still in her jeans and plaid shirt, wearing a pair of casual leather moccasins. But her short hair was brushed till it shone, and she’d taken the time to dab on a bit of lipstick.

“Is she mad?” Ruth whispered.

“Of course,” Don said matter-of-factly. “She says dinner is burned to a crisp.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake. I’m about twenty minutes late, that’s all.” Ruth glared rebelliously down the hallway at the closed kitchen door. “We really shouldn’t let her push us around like this, Dad.”

“You’re right. We really shouldn’t.” Don Holden and his daughter glanced at each other, then exchanged identical grins and rueful chuckles as they seated themselves at the gleaming oak table.

Mrs. Ward had been their housekeeper for the past fourteen years, and the Holdens were still just as terrified of her as they’d been at the start. She lived in a cottage a couple of miles down the road, on a tiny mixed farm of uncertain status with a timid, silent little Mexican who might or might not be her husband. Local gossips speculated endlessly about the mysterious couple, and frequently tried to extract information from the Holdens about their housekeeper.

In fact, Ruth and Don Holden had never even progressed to a first-name basis with this intimidating woman, and they had certainly never learned any intimate details of her private life. She arrived at work every morning on a stately old BMW motorcycle, a beautifully maintained 650 Boxer Twin that glistened like fine jewelry in the morning sun. Mrs. Ward rode, solemn and erect, on this startling conveyance, her steel-framed glasses glittering beneath the face shield on her helmet, her knitting and recipe books tucked away in the leather carrier bags.

She shopped carefully for groceries, worked efficiently all day, kept the big house spotless and served meals so varied and delectable that the Holden table was the envy of the valley.

“But,” as Ruth was occasionally heard to comment wistfully, “she’s not really all that warm.”

Don smiled, remembering, and watched as Mrs. Ward entered with the Wedgwood soup tureen. She set it down heavily in the center of the table, giving Ruth a glance of pointed disapproval, and lifted the lid to send fragrant clouds of steam wafting around the room.

“Probably it’s stone cold and far too thick by now,” Mrs. Ward said with grim emphasis, addressing a spot somewhere just beyond Ruth’s shoulder. “It was perfect about a half hour ago.”

“But it smells wonderful, Mrs. Ward,” Ruth said humbly. “And it must be hot. Just look at all that steam rising from it.”

Mrs. Ward waved the steam away with a heavy, reddened hand and marched out of the room, her shoulders stiff with annoyance.

Ruth glanced after her cautiously, then held out her bowl for Don to fill with the big china ladle. He watched his daughter eating the hot soup, his face troubled as he lifted a silver spoon and dipped into his own bowl.

Don Holden knew that Ruth had suffered through the years from the lack of a mother figure in her life. Don’s wife, Thelma, had died when Ruth was just five, and Don had been so devastated by the loss, and so absorbed in restoring the tumbledown old winery and raising his young daughter that he’d never managed to build another serious relationship.

Sometimes he regretted that omission and wished that he’d provided a woman for Ruth during her growing up. He’d been wrenched with sympathy, years ago, when he noticed how his quiet teenage daughter tried to build a relationship with their forbidding housekeeper, hanging around in the kitchen while Mrs. Ward worked, and even on occasion shyly confiding in her. But then as now, Mrs. Ward had been as full of warmth as a mountain glacier, and just about as inviting.

Don frowned, watching while the housekeeper marched in with two heaped platters of Caesar salad, redolent with garlic and richly studded with croutons and anchovies.

Don looked hungrily at this delicious sight, and found himself, as always, beginning to forgive Mrs. Ward for her bad temper.

“Wonderful. Just wonderful.” Don smiled up at her. “What’s the main course, Mrs. Ward?”

“It’s burned to a crisp,” she said coldly. “Dry as old leather.”

“Yes, but what is it?”

“Baked salmon stuffed with wild rice, mushrooms and chestnuts,” she said over her shoulder as she returned to the kitchen.

Ruth sighed in bliss and dug into her salad with greater intensity.

“Baked salmon,” Don repeated thoughtfully when his salad plate was empty. “What do you think, Ruthie? A nice Chardonnay?”

Ruth nodded abstractedly, chewing appreciatively on the last of the anchovies. “Probably,” she said at last, swallowing and looking up at her father. “Do we have one up here?”